RIGHT, just so as you're in no doubt - I cannot stand rugby union.
You'll notice it's the 'union' code of the sport that's the key thing here.
The league version is pretty much faultless, one of the best sports to watch on TV, and - even though I never got a chance to at school - I reckon it must be an absolutely fantastic game to play.
League is so straightforward - six goes to attempt to score a try; if not you turn over possession. Not unlike another of my favourite sports, American Football, where you get four goes to attempt to move the ball 10 yards further into your opponents' territory and eventually kick a field goal or score a touchdown. Failure to move the ball without scoring means possession is turned over.
Now we come to rugby union... does anyone have a clue WTF is going on apart from the fact they're all trying to beat the living daylights out of each other before the referee awards a penalty which mystifies both sets of players, the fans in the stadium and those watching on TV - as well as the expert pundits?
Well, never mind, it's all part of the game which these days is to ensure your side earns enough penalties to overcome the opposition by booting the ball between the sticks without any defender having the chance to block the kick (unlike a field goal in American Football).
I am certain that after practice, anyone with a decent kicking leg and an eye for distance could boot a ball between two uprights without anyone bearing down on them in an attempt to stop them.
Sadly, and to its terrible detriment, the union code of the game has become almost totally reliant on the kicking game and penalties.
Great tries are so rare from open play, they still show Gareth Edwards's truly brilliant effort for the Barbarians against the All Blacks as the perfect example of how to score a try - and that was 40 years ago.
Which, I think, was the last time anyone scored a try in rugby union...
And now we come to the Lions Tour... Anyone who has Sky Sports or listens to TALKSport will know that there can't be any major football events happening this summer as this bloody visit to Australia has been plugged for the best part of six months.
I've ranted on this before on Facebook and now Twitter, and I'm ranting again here in my blog - THE AUSSIES DO NOT GIVE A DAMN ABOUT RUGBY UNION!!!
It's not even the fourth most popular sport in a country that has a population barely more than the sum total of the UK's five biggest cities. Aussie Rules, Rugby LEAGUE, Soccer and Cricket always lead the way Down Under.
So if the best players from England, Scotland, Wales and Ireland - as the Lions purport to be - cannot defeat Australia whose real rugby allegiance is with the League version, then it's a pretty poor show indeed.
A lot, nay all of this hullabaloo over the Lions' trip is class-orientated. It's a public school sport, don't forget - 'rugger' - where if you were to suggest playing the league version you'd be laughed out of the dorm.
It's always been the same with union. I can distinctly remember as a child listening to Sports Report on the good ol' BBC Radio 2 on a Saturday in the late 1970s and early 1980s awaiting to hear the report of Liverpool's latest victims on their way to another championship only being told that the football reports would come later as there had been an important match at Murrayfield, the Arms Park or Twickers.
It was the fact rugby union came first in the pecking order - even above the nation's number one sport. And it's still the case today. Rugby union reports dominate the airwaves around 6 Nations time even though a huge majority of the UK could not give a damn about it. But, we're force-fed the news of an exciting 6-3 game in which no tries were scored but three penalties landed in a contest for the purists - in other words, a load of rubbish that anyone watching with minor interest would have switched over to watch the test card.
Yes, bring back the test card!!!
So, just to round off my rant. No, I really couldn't care less if the Lions win, lose or draw in Australia. I won't be able to avoid it, working as I do on the sportsdesk.
I'm just looking forward to when the first little indiscretion happens when some player or other is caught on CCTV in a shop doorway snogging someone other than his wife or a half-cut star is punished for attempting to leap from a ferry to the dockside only to miss his target or someone, now, stay with me here, actually scores a try. The first two are dead certs, the other, well, what do you think?
Thursday, 30 May 2013
Monday, 8 April 2013
Speaking ill of the dead
I KNOW, I know, it's one of those taboo subjects.
When someone shuffles off this mortal coil, the general consensus is not to talk or write about that person without sympathetic feelings, whether you liked them or not.
Throughout my life, to the best of my knowledge, I have adhered to that moral guideline.
Today, I'm making an exception.
She may have been approaching 90 years on this planet and has not delivered a speech from a position of power since the late autumn of 1990.
But Margaret Hilda Roberts - or as we all knew her in those appalling times for this country, Maggie Thatcher - is no more.
And I, for one, am celebrating her passing today.
It's not for some sick, perverted reason that I am happy she is no longer with us.
I am simply thinking of the way she masterminded the destruction of this country in the 1980s wrecking families' lives across the length and breadth of the United Kingdom - indeed, creating a disunited kingdom.
From the shipyards on our coasts to the car plants in our big cities to our steelworks and mining communities, her policies condemned millions and millions of people, transforming their lives for the worst.
I was still in my final year at St Gregory's Junior School in Lydiate when she first entered Downing Street in May, 1979.
By the time she had departed in November, 1990, I had completed my years in high school, my degree and was a couple of months into my post-graduate journalism course in Preston.
So, in many ways, my knowledge of politics - left, right, and those irksome fence-sitters, developed over the years she was in office.
There was something about her I could never take to - her hideous, manipulated voice for a start - that forever sounded as if she was talking down to you - which, of course, she was.
And when I later saw that often-repeated footage of her delivering some of those words of St Francis of Assisi on the steps of Number 10 on that first day she became Prime Minister, it made my blood curdle. How she ever had the gall to use some of his wonderful prayer was beyond me.
Mind you, she didn't care who she pissed off - getting her own way was everything to her and the more enemies she made - and she made more than a ton - the more determined she seemed to become.
Even within her own Cabinet she made enemies - anyone remember Michael Heseltine and the infamous Westland affair for a start?
As with all Tories, it's foreign policy - and in particular the question of Europe - that did for her politically in the end.
Geoffrey Howe's famous speech in the Commons during that unforgettable November undid the ropes that were holding the bells back and within days the death knell was clanging and she was gone, driven with tears in her eyes out of Downing Street.
It was a joyful time for all left-leaning people like me and I can still recall to this day the celebratory party in Preston's Old Black Bull pub where the Boddington's flowed freely as we celebrated her political departure.
Today, it's been her final departure from this life and I'm certainly not going to apologise for raising a glass of red wine this evening to mark that.
For destroying the lives of countless millions of people in this country - and, as Crass sang, for the being the mother of a thousand dead in the Falklands - I'd be very happy to be joining those people lining up to tramp the dirt down on her grave (in the words of Elvis Costello's great song).
The problem is, I think I'd be ready to be drawing my old age pension by the time I'd got to the front of the queue... Mind you, I think it would be worth it.
When someone shuffles off this mortal coil, the general consensus is not to talk or write about that person without sympathetic feelings, whether you liked them or not.
Throughout my life, to the best of my knowledge, I have adhered to that moral guideline.
Today, I'm making an exception.
She may have been approaching 90 years on this planet and has not delivered a speech from a position of power since the late autumn of 1990.
But Margaret Hilda Roberts - or as we all knew her in those appalling times for this country, Maggie Thatcher - is no more.
And I, for one, am celebrating her passing today.
It's not for some sick, perverted reason that I am happy she is no longer with us.
I am simply thinking of the way she masterminded the destruction of this country in the 1980s wrecking families' lives across the length and breadth of the United Kingdom - indeed, creating a disunited kingdom.
From the shipyards on our coasts to the car plants in our big cities to our steelworks and mining communities, her policies condemned millions and millions of people, transforming their lives for the worst.
I was still in my final year at St Gregory's Junior School in Lydiate when she first entered Downing Street in May, 1979.
By the time she had departed in November, 1990, I had completed my years in high school, my degree and was a couple of months into my post-graduate journalism course in Preston.
So, in many ways, my knowledge of politics - left, right, and those irksome fence-sitters, developed over the years she was in office.
There was something about her I could never take to - her hideous, manipulated voice for a start - that forever sounded as if she was talking down to you - which, of course, she was.
And when I later saw that often-repeated footage of her delivering some of those words of St Francis of Assisi on the steps of Number 10 on that first day she became Prime Minister, it made my blood curdle. How she ever had the gall to use some of his wonderful prayer was beyond me.
Mind you, she didn't care who she pissed off - getting her own way was everything to her and the more enemies she made - and she made more than a ton - the more determined she seemed to become.
Even within her own Cabinet she made enemies - anyone remember Michael Heseltine and the infamous Westland affair for a start?
As with all Tories, it's foreign policy - and in particular the question of Europe - that did for her politically in the end.
Geoffrey Howe's famous speech in the Commons during that unforgettable November undid the ropes that were holding the bells back and within days the death knell was clanging and she was gone, driven with tears in her eyes out of Downing Street.
It was a joyful time for all left-leaning people like me and I can still recall to this day the celebratory party in Preston's Old Black Bull pub where the Boddington's flowed freely as we celebrated her political departure.
Today, it's been her final departure from this life and I'm certainly not going to apologise for raising a glass of red wine this evening to mark that.
For destroying the lives of countless millions of people in this country - and, as Crass sang, for the being the mother of a thousand dead in the Falklands - I'd be very happy to be joining those people lining up to tramp the dirt down on her grave (in the words of Elvis Costello's great song).
The problem is, I think I'd be ready to be drawing my old age pension by the time I'd got to the front of the queue... Mind you, I think it would be worth it.
Sunday, 31 March 2013
Play Ball!!!
SO, after Miguel Cabrera was struck out by Sergio Romo ending the 2012 Fall Classic in favour of the San Francisco Giants over the Detroit Tigers last October, the 2013 Major League Baseball season is set to begin tonight over in the Lone Star State of Texas.
Most of you who know yours truly will be acutely aware that of all the sports I follow, baseball is king of the hill for me.
And for that, I have my Dad to be eternally grateful to.
It was when he was growing up in Liverpool in the late 1940s and early 1950s that he became hooked on America's National Pastime. US servicemen stationed in this part of the world after the Second World War often played the game against local sides. Baseball had been popular in the city during the 1930s and I think I'm right in saying Everton FC legend Dixie Dean once played in a game.
Well, my Dad enjoyed watching the contests locally and began tuning into the Armed Forces Radio network which regularly broadcast games from the United States of an evening from April to October. In those days, before the real advent of floodlight evening encounters, games were in the afternoon on the East Coast so would start around 5pm/6pm and be done and dusted by 10pm UK time at the latest.
Baseball, like cricket, is almost tailor-made for radio and during the 1950s he first began to follow the fortunes of the Brooklyn Dodgers before becoming a fan of the Boston Red Sox.
As a very small child I always knew my Dad loved baseball. Where most children had a cricket set (of course, I did) I was also aware of a strange, tanned over-large glove. There was only one that was way too big for my left hand, and for some reason I couldn't quite understand, it seemed to be without a pair. There was also a very heavy wooden stick that I had difficulty picking up and a hard, white, leather ball with a wonderfully-intricate stitched red seam.
In addition, my Dad's Father was a superbly-talented artist in his own right and had created a framed poem of something to to with baseball called Casey At The Bat.
These were strong and dominant images of my childhood so when I became a little older I began to appreciate why my Dad was an enthusiast for baseball.
It was the mid-1980s when I really began to follow the sport Stateside and became a supporter of the San Diego Padres - a completely unfashionable ballclub then, as they are now. Ask any average sports fan on this side of the Pond to identify some Major League Baseball franchises and they'll doubtless name the usual suspects - Yankees, Red Sox, Cubs, Dodgers, Giants, Cardinals. And then they might start to struggle. There's a very good chance they'd never have heard of my team.
Well, the Padres had a very good outfit in the mid-1980s reaching the 1984 World Series which they lost in five games to the powerful Detroit Tigers. Fourteen years later, they were back in their second-ever Fall Classic but this time lost in four straight games to the Yankees.
And that's it when it comes to the history of the San Diego Padres in World Series appearances. So what you can certainly deduce from my support for the team is I am in no way a 'glory-hunter'.
In many ways, though, baseball is much more than World Series triumphs. The game itself is simply wonderful as it pitches - literally - a confrontation between a man on a mound of earth exactly 60ft 6in from home plate where another man is brandishing a rounded bat with the hope of hitting whatever delivery the pitcher hurls his way. If he makes contact successfully 300 times in every 1000, he'll be regarded as a great batter. And that gives you an idea of how incredibly difficult that particular task is.
When all is said and done, like my Dad I simply love the game of baseball. I cannot think of another sport where the balance of fortune between success and failure is located on a knife-edge as thin as this. One pitch could mean a strikeout or a home run - it's that fine a situation.
I don't expect for one minute I'll convert all of you into baseball followers simply by reading this blog. But maybe, just maybe, you might understand my real enthusiasm for this fabulous sport.
I'm thrilled that my eldest son, Matthew, is continuing the family tradition and has nailed his colours north of the 49th Parallel and is fervently following the fortunes of the Toronto Blue Jays.
So with my Dad's Red Sox, Matthew's Blue Jays and my Padres, we'll all set again for what is sure to be another magical season of Major League Baseball.
Play Ball!!!
Most of you who know yours truly will be acutely aware that of all the sports I follow, baseball is king of the hill for me.
And for that, I have my Dad to be eternally grateful to.
It was when he was growing up in Liverpool in the late 1940s and early 1950s that he became hooked on America's National Pastime. US servicemen stationed in this part of the world after the Second World War often played the game against local sides. Baseball had been popular in the city during the 1930s and I think I'm right in saying Everton FC legend Dixie Dean once played in a game.
Well, my Dad enjoyed watching the contests locally and began tuning into the Armed Forces Radio network which regularly broadcast games from the United States of an evening from April to October. In those days, before the real advent of floodlight evening encounters, games were in the afternoon on the East Coast so would start around 5pm/6pm and be done and dusted by 10pm UK time at the latest.
Baseball, like cricket, is almost tailor-made for radio and during the 1950s he first began to follow the fortunes of the Brooklyn Dodgers before becoming a fan of the Boston Red Sox.
As a very small child I always knew my Dad loved baseball. Where most children had a cricket set (of course, I did) I was also aware of a strange, tanned over-large glove. There was only one that was way too big for my left hand, and for some reason I couldn't quite understand, it seemed to be without a pair. There was also a very heavy wooden stick that I had difficulty picking up and a hard, white, leather ball with a wonderfully-intricate stitched red seam.
In addition, my Dad's Father was a superbly-talented artist in his own right and had created a framed poem of something to to with baseball called Casey At The Bat.
These were strong and dominant images of my childhood so when I became a little older I began to appreciate why my Dad was an enthusiast for baseball.
It was the mid-1980s when I really began to follow the sport Stateside and became a supporter of the San Diego Padres - a completely unfashionable ballclub then, as they are now. Ask any average sports fan on this side of the Pond to identify some Major League Baseball franchises and they'll doubtless name the usual suspects - Yankees, Red Sox, Cubs, Dodgers, Giants, Cardinals. And then they might start to struggle. There's a very good chance they'd never have heard of my team.
Well, the Padres had a very good outfit in the mid-1980s reaching the 1984 World Series which they lost in five games to the powerful Detroit Tigers. Fourteen years later, they were back in their second-ever Fall Classic but this time lost in four straight games to the Yankees.
And that's it when it comes to the history of the San Diego Padres in World Series appearances. So what you can certainly deduce from my support for the team is I am in no way a 'glory-hunter'.
In many ways, though, baseball is much more than World Series triumphs. The game itself is simply wonderful as it pitches - literally - a confrontation between a man on a mound of earth exactly 60ft 6in from home plate where another man is brandishing a rounded bat with the hope of hitting whatever delivery the pitcher hurls his way. If he makes contact successfully 300 times in every 1000, he'll be regarded as a great batter. And that gives you an idea of how incredibly difficult that particular task is.
When all is said and done, like my Dad I simply love the game of baseball. I cannot think of another sport where the balance of fortune between success and failure is located on a knife-edge as thin as this. One pitch could mean a strikeout or a home run - it's that fine a situation.
I don't expect for one minute I'll convert all of you into baseball followers simply by reading this blog. But maybe, just maybe, you might understand my real enthusiasm for this fabulous sport.
I'm thrilled that my eldest son, Matthew, is continuing the family tradition and has nailed his colours north of the 49th Parallel and is fervently following the fortunes of the Toronto Blue Jays.
So with my Dad's Red Sox, Matthew's Blue Jays and my Padres, we'll all set again for what is sure to be another magical season of Major League Baseball.
Play Ball!!!
Thursday, 14 March 2013
You gotta have faith...
THE appointment yesterday of Jorge Mario Bergoglio as the new Bishop of Rome, and, er the new head of 1.2 billion Roman Catholics around the planet as Pope Francis I, seems like a timely moment for me to open up about my faith.
I was baptised into a split Christian family. My Dad was a non-Church-going Protestant while my Mum was Roman Catholic. It was to her side of Christianity that I was brought up.
So, of course, when I became of an age it was Mass every Sunday morning, the Holy Days of Obligation (which in those days meant a day off school) and attending the big events in the Catholic Church's calendar.
I also went to Confession - several times between the ages of about 10 and 13 - until I called it quits entering my early teens.
I regularly attended Mass as a teenager but lessened as I approached my 20s. By the time I had reached my 30s I was attending about a dozen times per year, obviously on Easter Sunday and Christmas Day.
And now I'm into my mid-40s, that pretty much is still the picture with me and Mass. There have been a number of special Church services I have attended outside Sunday Mass, notably when Matthew made his First Holy Communion and was Confirmed. Both were joyous occasions.
What you must not deduce from my slackening off from attending Mass over all those years is any hint that my faith is waning. Far from it.
One of the things that both irks and intrigues me about people who profess to be atheists is their complete knowledge that there DEFINITELY is no God. Presumably, all have undeniable proof that this is the case, an open and shut case that requires no further investigation. I'd love to know HOW they know that.
It would hardly have been a 'Road To Damascus' moment for them, but I'd still like to know from them their undeniable evidence that shows they are 100% right and EVERYONE else who has faith in a God of whatever religion they follow is 100% wrong.
The fact is, atheists DON'T know for certain; and likewise, believers like myself DON'T know for certain either.
But this is where faith comes into play. Some 2000 or so years ago, a man who I believe was someone extraordinarily special, once said: "Happy are those who have not seen, and yet believe."
In the madness that my life often is juggling all the daily worries and woes, having that safety net of faith is something I could never do without.
There's a marvellous simple story called Footprints that I'm sure many of you know. I carry that round with me every day as its words are of a tremendous comfort. Its conclusion bears repeating:
"Lord, you said that once I decided to follow you, you'd walk with me all the way. But I have noticed that during the most troublesome times in my life, there is only one set of footprints. I don't understand why when I needed you most you would leave me."
The Lord replied: "My precious, precious child, I love you and I would never leave you. During your times of trial and suffering, when you see only one set of footprints, it was then that I carried you."
The election of the new Pontiff, in conclusion, won't change me at all when it comes to my faith. That will remain intact and won't be affected by whoever is in charge at the Vatican. Because even he, like me, will have to answer to someone higher one day... I hope and pray...
I was baptised into a split Christian family. My Dad was a non-Church-going Protestant while my Mum was Roman Catholic. It was to her side of Christianity that I was brought up.
So, of course, when I became of an age it was Mass every Sunday morning, the Holy Days of Obligation (which in those days meant a day off school) and attending the big events in the Catholic Church's calendar.
I also went to Confession - several times between the ages of about 10 and 13 - until I called it quits entering my early teens.
I regularly attended Mass as a teenager but lessened as I approached my 20s. By the time I had reached my 30s I was attending about a dozen times per year, obviously on Easter Sunday and Christmas Day.
And now I'm into my mid-40s, that pretty much is still the picture with me and Mass. There have been a number of special Church services I have attended outside Sunday Mass, notably when Matthew made his First Holy Communion and was Confirmed. Both were joyous occasions.
What you must not deduce from my slackening off from attending Mass over all those years is any hint that my faith is waning. Far from it.
One of the things that both irks and intrigues me about people who profess to be atheists is their complete knowledge that there DEFINITELY is no God. Presumably, all have undeniable proof that this is the case, an open and shut case that requires no further investigation. I'd love to know HOW they know that.
It would hardly have been a 'Road To Damascus' moment for them, but I'd still like to know from them their undeniable evidence that shows they are 100% right and EVERYONE else who has faith in a God of whatever religion they follow is 100% wrong.
The fact is, atheists DON'T know for certain; and likewise, believers like myself DON'T know for certain either.
But this is where faith comes into play. Some 2000 or so years ago, a man who I believe was someone extraordinarily special, once said: "Happy are those who have not seen, and yet believe."
In the madness that my life often is juggling all the daily worries and woes, having that safety net of faith is something I could never do without.
There's a marvellous simple story called Footprints that I'm sure many of you know. I carry that round with me every day as its words are of a tremendous comfort. Its conclusion bears repeating:
"Lord, you said that once I decided to follow you, you'd walk with me all the way. But I have noticed that during the most troublesome times in my life, there is only one set of footprints. I don't understand why when I needed you most you would leave me."
The Lord replied: "My precious, precious child, I love you and I would never leave you. During your times of trial and suffering, when you see only one set of footprints, it was then that I carried you."
The election of the new Pontiff, in conclusion, won't change me at all when it comes to my faith. That will remain intact and won't be affected by whoever is in charge at the Vatican. Because even he, like me, will have to answer to someone higher one day... I hope and pray...
Tuesday, 5 March 2013
Time to recall that quiet man from the North East...
REMEMBER Bob Paisley? Obviously to football followers of a certain vintage - and particularly fans of Liverpool Football Club - it's a daft question.
He was the man who had the unenviable task of stepping into the role that had been held all the way from the winter of 1959 through to the high summer of 1974 by club legend Bill Shankly.
That celebrated son of Glenbuck helped pull the club up from its lowest ebb as a Second Division side to see it become a domestic and European powerhouse.
Shankly won many things as Liverpool boss - not least leading the team to its first FA Cup triumph in 1965 and breaking its European trophy duck when the UEFA Cup was won in 1973. In my view, he is the single most important man in the entire history of Liverpool Football Club.
It was some act for Paisley to follow - and boy, did he do it in style, all with a quiet professionalism that, given today's histrionics from some managers in particular, should be viewed as a breath of fresh air.
I cannot ever recall Paisley being brought before the football authorities with cases to answer for things he might have said during a game.
On the field, the teams Paisley managed were simply sensational and his record still stands the test of time.
Perhaps Sky Sports might like to take note of the fact he remains the only British football manager to lead a team to three European Cups.
Those trophies were achieved in an incredible spell of nine season at the Anfield helm. Six of those saw the Reds win the First Division title. Of the other three seasons, they finished runners-up by two points in his first campaign to Brian Clough's Derby County and by seven points in 1977-78 to Nottingham Forest, again Old Big 'Ead having the upper hand. His 'worst' league campaign came in 1980-81 when the Reds finished fifth, nine points behind Aston Villa. Remember, all these seasons were in the days when a win was just two points.
Having written all that, those 'barren' league years did reap a European Cup - Paisley's second - in 1977-78 and both a European Cup and the club's first-ever League Cup in season 1980-81.
His six league titles won in those nine remarkable seasons saw the Reds win the crown ahead of QPR, Manchester City, Nottingham Forest, Manchester United, Ipswich Town and Watford.
The last one - 1982-83 - saw the Reds run away with the top flight and they ended up winning it by a massive 11 points. They also added another League Cup for good measure.
All of which leads me to come to the not unreasonable conclusion that given the short amount of time he was in the post and amount of silverware won in that time, Paisley has to be regarded as the most successful manager in Liverpool's history and, indeed, British football history.
Yes, Ferguson's record is tremendous - but then he has been there more than a quarter-of-a-century and you would naturally expect silverware to follow. Otherwise, he would not have remained in the post given the magnitude of the club.
But as things stand, he still trails the man from Hetton-le-Hole in European Cups - and I for one hope that will forever be the case.
I'll leave the final word with the great man himself talking about managing the club:
"I said that when I took over that I would settle for a drop of Bell's once a month, a big bottle at the end of the season and a ride round the city in an open top bus!"
Rest In Peace, Sir Bob. Your record is still secure.
He was the man who had the unenviable task of stepping into the role that had been held all the way from the winter of 1959 through to the high summer of 1974 by club legend Bill Shankly.
That celebrated son of Glenbuck helped pull the club up from its lowest ebb as a Second Division side to see it become a domestic and European powerhouse.
Shankly won many things as Liverpool boss - not least leading the team to its first FA Cup triumph in 1965 and breaking its European trophy duck when the UEFA Cup was won in 1973. In my view, he is the single most important man in the entire history of Liverpool Football Club.
It was some act for Paisley to follow - and boy, did he do it in style, all with a quiet professionalism that, given today's histrionics from some managers in particular, should be viewed as a breath of fresh air.
I cannot ever recall Paisley being brought before the football authorities with cases to answer for things he might have said during a game.
On the field, the teams Paisley managed were simply sensational and his record still stands the test of time.
Perhaps Sky Sports might like to take note of the fact he remains the only British football manager to lead a team to three European Cups.
Those trophies were achieved in an incredible spell of nine season at the Anfield helm. Six of those saw the Reds win the First Division title. Of the other three seasons, they finished runners-up by two points in his first campaign to Brian Clough's Derby County and by seven points in 1977-78 to Nottingham Forest, again Old Big 'Ead having the upper hand. His 'worst' league campaign came in 1980-81 when the Reds finished fifth, nine points behind Aston Villa. Remember, all these seasons were in the days when a win was just two points.
Having written all that, those 'barren' league years did reap a European Cup - Paisley's second - in 1977-78 and both a European Cup and the club's first-ever League Cup in season 1980-81.
His six league titles won in those nine remarkable seasons saw the Reds win the crown ahead of QPR, Manchester City, Nottingham Forest, Manchester United, Ipswich Town and Watford.
The last one - 1982-83 - saw the Reds run away with the top flight and they ended up winning it by a massive 11 points. They also added another League Cup for good measure.
All of which leads me to come to the not unreasonable conclusion that given the short amount of time he was in the post and amount of silverware won in that time, Paisley has to be regarded as the most successful manager in Liverpool's history and, indeed, British football history.
Yes, Ferguson's record is tremendous - but then he has been there more than a quarter-of-a-century and you would naturally expect silverware to follow. Otherwise, he would not have remained in the post given the magnitude of the club.
But as things stand, he still trails the man from Hetton-le-Hole in European Cups - and I for one hope that will forever be the case.
I'll leave the final word with the great man himself talking about managing the club:
"I said that when I took over that I would settle for a drop of Bell's once a month, a big bottle at the end of the season and a ride round the city in an open top bus!"
Rest In Peace, Sir Bob. Your record is still secure.
Monday, 11 February 2013
Just one of those games...
FOOTBALL will forever and a day throw up games such as the one witnessed at Anfield this evening.
Such is the nature of this sport that the best team over the 90 minutes are not guaranteed to be rewarded with a victory.
When Steven Gerrard saw his well-placed spot-kick pushed away by the imperious Ben Foster in front of The Kop with 13 minutes to go, the writing was on the wall.
And it hardly came as a shock to me when first Gareth McAuley headed in from a corner a few minutes later before Romelu Lukaku tagged on a second for the Baggies as we chased to try and pinch a point from a match where we should have had all three.
It certainly wasn't for the want of trying; this was no gutless effort that the debacle against Aston Villa most certainly was in the run-up to the festive season.
Some 14 efforts on target from a total count of 23, plus 13 corners shows this was a side intent on attacking throughout the contest.
But in West Bromwich Albion goalkeeper Foster, we came up against a player who was having one of those "tell the grandchildren" matches.
His stops from Gerrard - twice (including the penalty) - and one from Jordan Henderson's cute flick from a brilliant move created down the right flank were simply incredible.
Just like John Ruddy and Michael Vorm last season at Anfield, Foster produced a string of stops that rightfully earned him the man-of-the-match accolade.
And that tells you everything about tonight's contest. When the opposition goalkeeper is handed that honour, you absolutely know it's been one of those games.
I thought Brendan Rodgers got it spot-on in his post-match comments. He was right - the players did try their best and he certainly couldn't fault them for effort.
I avoided the moan-ins because listening to to the knee-jerk jerks is really a waste of your life.
So two super displays against Arsenal and Manchester City that gleaned just two points have been followed by this disappointing home reverse.
It certainly makes qualifying for the Champions (sic) League a more difficult task and it would require us to go on a remarkable winning streak while hoping other sides above us drop points.
Of course that's possible - anything in football is possible - but for now all we can focus on is the Europa League.
And in my book, I think that should be the primary attention of our efforts right now.
A fourth place finish or lifting our ninth major European trophy in May in Amsterdam?
C'mon, do I really need to answer that one?
Such is the nature of this sport that the best team over the 90 minutes are not guaranteed to be rewarded with a victory.
When Steven Gerrard saw his well-placed spot-kick pushed away by the imperious Ben Foster in front of The Kop with 13 minutes to go, the writing was on the wall.
And it hardly came as a shock to me when first Gareth McAuley headed in from a corner a few minutes later before Romelu Lukaku tagged on a second for the Baggies as we chased to try and pinch a point from a match where we should have had all three.
It certainly wasn't for the want of trying; this was no gutless effort that the debacle against Aston Villa most certainly was in the run-up to the festive season.
Some 14 efforts on target from a total count of 23, plus 13 corners shows this was a side intent on attacking throughout the contest.
But in West Bromwich Albion goalkeeper Foster, we came up against a player who was having one of those "tell the grandchildren" matches.
His stops from Gerrard - twice (including the penalty) - and one from Jordan Henderson's cute flick from a brilliant move created down the right flank were simply incredible.
Just like John Ruddy and Michael Vorm last season at Anfield, Foster produced a string of stops that rightfully earned him the man-of-the-match accolade.
And that tells you everything about tonight's contest. When the opposition goalkeeper is handed that honour, you absolutely know it's been one of those games.
I thought Brendan Rodgers got it spot-on in his post-match comments. He was right - the players did try their best and he certainly couldn't fault them for effort.
I avoided the moan-ins because listening to to the knee-jerk jerks is really a waste of your life.
So two super displays against Arsenal and Manchester City that gleaned just two points have been followed by this disappointing home reverse.
It certainly makes qualifying for the Champions (sic) League a more difficult task and it would require us to go on a remarkable winning streak while hoping other sides above us drop points.
Of course that's possible - anything in football is possible - but for now all we can focus on is the Europa League.
And in my book, I think that should be the primary attention of our efforts right now.
A fourth place finish or lifting our ninth major European trophy in May in Amsterdam?
C'mon, do I really need to answer that one?
Thursday, 7 February 2013
Carra has called it a career
THE word 'legend' is banded about so frequently these days, particularly on Sky Sports and TALKSport, that it seems to have lost its true meaning.
Journeymen footballers who have clocked up barely a couple of hundred matches playing for a whole raft of clubs since 1992 (which, as we all know, was when football officially started in this country) are given the 'L' word next to their name when even the word 'great' - a rank below in my book - could hardly be justified.
But there is no doubt in my mind that the word 'legend' can quite comfortably fit in the same sentence when describing Liverpool Football Club player Jamie Carragher.
The long-serving Reds star announced on Thursday lunchtime that this season will be his 17th and final one as a professional footballer. All 17 of them spent at Anfield.
All Reds fans knew this decision was coming one day - and Thursday, February 7, 2013 just happened to be that day.
In many ways, it sums Carra up as the sort of man we all know he is. To avoid any speculation about his future with the club, talk that could well have disrupted the team at the business end of the season both in Europe and fighting for as higher-placed finish as possible in the Premier League, Carra has stopped the debate before it has even begun. A brilliant move by a brilliant player. As timely a block as any one of the countless ones he has performed defending the Liverpool goal since he made his debut way back in January, 1997 - it tells you how long ago that was as John Major was still in Number 10, Everton had only gone two seasons without winning a trophy, I had been married less than 12 months and no-one had ever heard of Simon Cowell (apart from Sinitta, probably).
Fast forward a little over 193 months and more than 700 appearances later and you have in Jamie Carragher one of the greatest-ever careers for Liverpool Football Club.
From a Bootle lad who grew up an Evertonian before becoming a committed Liverpudlian, Jamie has come a long, long way. His achievements wearing that red shirt are well-documented with his defensive heroics in Istanbul on that unforgettable late spring evening in 2005 cementing his title 'legend'.
His work off the field too has been nothing short of magnificent with his 23 Foundation, a charitable body helping causes in Merseyside, a wonderful legacy.
And it is with '23' in mind that I believe that Liverpool Football Club should do Bootle's great son the real honour of being the first player in the club's illustrious history to have their shirt number officially retired.
Back in the summer of 2009, in a series of offbeat sporting features I wrote for the Football Echo - 'Left Field' - I argued the case that it was time for football clubs to start to follow the American sporting tradition and retire shirt numbers for those players who truly merited the honour.
The Stateside sport I follow in particular, Major League Baseball, has numerous examples of this, with the team I have supported for almost 30 years, the San Diego Padres, having five former players' jersey numbers retired. There's a prize if anyone can name that famous quintet... no, there isn't, but at least it caught your attention!
Now is the time for Carragher's 23 to be retired. Who else - apart from Robbie Fowler's very early days - can you picture wearing that number?
What a great thing that would be and a very worthy recipient of such an honour.
They say no player is bigger than the club - that's true, of course. But some players truly deserve being honoured more than others. And what better way than to say thanks for a wonderful career - you will never be forgotten here. And we're going to show it by retiring your shirt number.
I just wonder whether even now Messrs Henry and Werner are thinking about this idea, bearing in mind all the numbers that have been retired at Fenway Park over the years.
So the sun is about to set on Jamie's glittering career. Sadly for him it will finish without a Premier League winner's medal - but it certainly wasn't for the want of trying on his part.
And he can console himself with the fact that just like Humphrey Bogart and Ingrid Bergman always had Paris, he'll always have Istanbul.
Journeymen footballers who have clocked up barely a couple of hundred matches playing for a whole raft of clubs since 1992 (which, as we all know, was when football officially started in this country) are given the 'L' word next to their name when even the word 'great' - a rank below in my book - could hardly be justified.
But there is no doubt in my mind that the word 'legend' can quite comfortably fit in the same sentence when describing Liverpool Football Club player Jamie Carragher.
The long-serving Reds star announced on Thursday lunchtime that this season will be his 17th and final one as a professional footballer. All 17 of them spent at Anfield.
All Reds fans knew this decision was coming one day - and Thursday, February 7, 2013 just happened to be that day.
In many ways, it sums Carra up as the sort of man we all know he is. To avoid any speculation about his future with the club, talk that could well have disrupted the team at the business end of the season both in Europe and fighting for as higher-placed finish as possible in the Premier League, Carra has stopped the debate before it has even begun. A brilliant move by a brilliant player. As timely a block as any one of the countless ones he has performed defending the Liverpool goal since he made his debut way back in January, 1997 - it tells you how long ago that was as John Major was still in Number 10, Everton had only gone two seasons without winning a trophy, I had been married less than 12 months and no-one had ever heard of Simon Cowell (apart from Sinitta, probably).
Fast forward a little over 193 months and more than 700 appearances later and you have in Jamie Carragher one of the greatest-ever careers for Liverpool Football Club.
From a Bootle lad who grew up an Evertonian before becoming a committed Liverpudlian, Jamie has come a long, long way. His achievements wearing that red shirt are well-documented with his defensive heroics in Istanbul on that unforgettable late spring evening in 2005 cementing his title 'legend'.
His work off the field too has been nothing short of magnificent with his 23 Foundation, a charitable body helping causes in Merseyside, a wonderful legacy.
And it is with '23' in mind that I believe that Liverpool Football Club should do Bootle's great son the real honour of being the first player in the club's illustrious history to have their shirt number officially retired.
Back in the summer of 2009, in a series of offbeat sporting features I wrote for the Football Echo - 'Left Field' - I argued the case that it was time for football clubs to start to follow the American sporting tradition and retire shirt numbers for those players who truly merited the honour.
The Stateside sport I follow in particular, Major League Baseball, has numerous examples of this, with the team I have supported for almost 30 years, the San Diego Padres, having five former players' jersey numbers retired. There's a prize if anyone can name that famous quintet... no, there isn't, but at least it caught your attention!
Now is the time for Carragher's 23 to be retired. Who else - apart from Robbie Fowler's very early days - can you picture wearing that number?
What a great thing that would be and a very worthy recipient of such an honour.
They say no player is bigger than the club - that's true, of course. But some players truly deserve being honoured more than others. And what better way than to say thanks for a wonderful career - you will never be forgotten here. And we're going to show it by retiring your shirt number.
I just wonder whether even now Messrs Henry and Werner are thinking about this idea, bearing in mind all the numbers that have been retired at Fenway Park over the years.
So the sun is about to set on Jamie's glittering career. Sadly for him it will finish without a Premier League winner's medal - but it certainly wasn't for the want of trying on his part.
And he can console himself with the fact that just like Humphrey Bogart and Ingrid Bergman always had Paris, he'll always have Istanbul.
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