Tag Archives: carragher

England’s Pain: Germany ’06

Kevin Hoggard

My married friends relish telling me that having a child is the best thing that can ever happen to you. My reply is that the World Cup is the best thing that ever happens to you. Unfortunately for England fans, the World Cup is like having a child, except when you cradle it in your arms for the first time and you brush back the blanket… and catch your first glimpse of ginger hair. You’ll still love it… but there’s always that tinge of regret. I can imagine it’s how my parents felt.

The more the years progress, the more I have used alcohol to dull the pain of misspent patriotism. During Germany 2006, I would reach new levels of debauchery. There would be professions of love, incidents with a lamp shade, people locked out of pubs, and friends waking up in boxers in their driveway. I’m waiting for maturity to kick in but it’s taking its sweet time.

In 2006, I was back in England, staying at a friend’s place. My wife (at the time) was in Costa Rica, staying at her aunt’s house and acquiring my crazy Latina cat. They are both still biting and scratching me to this day.

Steve and I developed a routine for England games. Dressing smartly was the first order of the day: always look good. Then we would convene in the living room, open the windows and put the Killers on the stereo. The song would build slowly as we stood side by side, nervously shifting our weight from one foot to the other. “I’ve got Soul but I’m not a soldier” would be softly spoken at the start but as the song progressed it would grow in intensity and so did we. By the end, primal screams of “COME ON ENGLAND!” would echo around the lazy suburban neighbourhood. The song would end, the stereo would be switched off, the windows were closed, and the march down to the pub would begin. It was our day, we were pumped, and nobody could defeat us. But The Killers are false prophets.

We chose our first pub badly. We thought a cool chic place would be good for the opener against Paraguay. It was not. I stood out like a sore thumb. My swearing and general abuse of alcohol was so out of place that my friends started to become embarrassed by me. A third-minute own goal won us the game. England was comfortable, unlike the rest of the bar’s patrons.

After the game, I drank until The Men in Black zapped me and erased 4 hours of my life that has forever remained a mystery. I awoke the next day and gingerly made my way down to the kitchen to put the kettle on.

“Enjoy yourself last night?”

Leaning against the doorjamb behind me, Steve posed a question. A look of puzzlement crossed my face.

“The lamp?”

“I have no clue what you are talking about fella. After 10pm, everything is a blank.”

“You don’t remember the lamp?”

“What in God’s name are you talking about?”

“Last night I get in and find my lampshade sitting in the middle of my bedroom door.”

“Strange,” I replied.

“Indeed. In your inebriated state you must have found it amusing to go into my room,” — I had never, so much as once, been in Steve’s bedroom during my stay — “Then you teetered on the edge of my bed, unscrewed the light bulb, unscrewed the plastic casing, removed the lampshade, screwed the plastic casing back, screwed the light bulb back in, and then carefully placed the lampshade in my doorway.”

Apparently I’m a comedy genius, even in unconsciousness!

We moved locations for our second game. The Phantom and Firkin was our destination and it was jammed with degenerates who made our behaviour look positively upper class. We were home. England eased past Trinidad and Tobago 2-0. With six points and no pressure, we were unsure what to do. Drink was the answer.

Our final game mattered. Lose to Sweden and we would most likely face Germany in the next round. Win or draw and our game would be easier. Michael Owen twisted his knee in the first minute and his tournament was done. Joe Cole scored a 35-yard volley that screamed into the top corner. Beer flew everywhere. We were soaked but happy.

Sweden equalized but Stevie G put us ahead… only for Henrik Larsson to grab a last minute goal. It didn’t matter. We smelt of lager and we were ready to take on the world.

Steve drank himself into a state where his legs betrayed the relay signals sent by his brain, meaning I had to carry him home. We tumbled several times as his weight dragged me down into bushes and grassy knolls. Up we got and onwards we travelled. Steve told me several times I had saved his life and that he loved me – like a man loves a man after a case of beer. I did save his life because I literally turned down several offers to pimp him out into prostitution. He’s a good-looking boy.

We finished the night by sitting out on his back patio downing a final beer. It was still toasty. The effort to get him upstairs was too much, so I left him muttering quietly to himself, entrusting his fate to God and Stella Artois. He awoke at 5a.m., lying in his driveway in just his boxers, his neighbour tipping his cap to him as he left for work. The Men in Black had done their job again.

Our first place finish had earned us a match against Ecuador. The pub was heaving again. Intimidating bouncers lined the entrance, their knuckles creating sparks as their rings scraped the ground while they paced. There was always violence waiting to erupt. A wrong word, a spilt pint and you’d find yourself eating pavement, thanks to our evolutionary-challenged guardians.

England played poorly but they did the job. We survived an early scare when Ecuador hit the bar but Beckham became the only Englishman to score in three different World Cup Finals. It was a trademark free kick. What else could it have been?

So it was the last eight again. All the classic teams were there; Argentina, Brazil, Italy, Germany, France, Portugal –our opponents – plus the surprise package of Ukraine.

As we had progressed, our entourage grew. We were joined by wives and girlfriends and friends who didn’t even like football. The World Cup had brought us all together. Texts pinged back and forth as people asked us to reserve spots and order pints. One of our party was locked out when the pub closed its doors: it was over maximum capacity by a couple of hundred people. The distraught face of our stranded friend was pushed up against the window, pleading for entry. He would later sneak in the back way, to much rejoicing. The bar was about eight deep and getting a pint was longer and more hazardous than Frodo’s quest to Mordor.

What can you say about the Portuguese? I personally find their team despicable. During their exit from Euro 2000, their players assaulted the linesman and referee. Three players received bans of five months or more. Their previous match against the U.S.A. had resulted in four red cards. And of course, they have the most punchable man in football – Cristiano Ronaldo. With the tension already palpable in the pub, losing to them just didn’t seem like an option.

The game was so familiar to England fans. We lost Beckham to an injury just before half time and, on 62 minutes, we lost Rooney. Two Portuguese players harangued him, hacking at him as he tried to break free. His frustration boiled over and he stamped on Carvalho’s nuts. Ronaldo – Rooney’s teammate at United – led the rest of his team in calling for Rooney to be sent off. How they played together at United the next season, I’ll never quite fathom. But our hearts sank with the dismissal. Here we go again. The inglorious bastards were about to beat us.

But the sending-off galvanized us and we fought with the ferocity of the three English lions on our chests. There were so many English fans at the match, it felt like a home game and they roared our players on. Owen Hargreaves was magnificent. He was England’s MVP for the tournament and he led by example that day.

Like a prisoner on death row, we delayed our execution. But our exit, like theirs, was inevitable. Penalties!

We all watched with bile rising in our throats. Portugal scored. Lampard had his penalty saved… but Viana hit the post and Hargreaves cemented his place in our hearts by bringing us level. Petit then missed and Gerrard had a chance to put us ahead. Ricardo saved. Postiga scored and Carragher levelled it, but then the referee ordered him to retake it. We knew he’d miss the second time. Ricardo saved again. So it all came down to the most hated man in football. Steve just couldn’t watch. He turned away, shaking his head, hands on his knees, looking ready to throw up if we were defeated by this arrogant son of a bitch. I held his hair back as Ronaldo knocked us out.

The pub cleared out quicker than if a bomb threat had been called in. We retreated to the outdoor picnic tables. All the lads were silent. All the girls chatted about non-football related matters as if nothing had just happened. We all had a case of Football Tourettes. Every so often one of us would blurt out “Fucking Portuguese” or “FUCK RONALDO!” Our group slowly broke up and silently we returned to our lives.

The final was famous for Zidane’s head-butt. But what was better for me was the bet my friend Steve had with our Italian friend, Ronnie. Before the tournament, Italy was in complete disarray and Ronnie told us they would win the tournament. Steve sprayed his pint out onto the lawn as he laughed. He took a beat and then said, “If Italy wins the World Cup I will run naked down the high street”.

Steve, we’re still waiting for you to pay up.

Kev remains ever-hopeful that his beloved Three Lions will end their 44-year drought.  England’s campaign kicks off Saturday against the USA in Rustenburg.

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Uh Oh…

Two massive injury stories have come out in the last hour: Didier Drogba of the Ivory Coast has broken his elbow in a friendly with Japan, while England’s Rio Ferdinand sustained a knee injury in training this morning.

Drogba’s absence puts a serious dent in The Elephants’ chances, although Chelsea teammate Salomon Kalou is ready to step into the brink, as is former Portsmouth player Aruna Dindane.

Ferdinand’s injury may provide an opportunity for Jamie Carragher to move from right back to centre, and Capello still has Ledley King or Matthew Upson available. Tottenham Hotspur’s Michael Dawson has been recalled, after being cut from the England squad on Tuesday.

The pair join a growing list of players considered important to their countries’ drive for the Jules Rimet, including Ghana’s Michael Essien and Germany’s Michael Ballack. The fact that Essien, Ballack and Drogba are all teammates has given rise to talk of a Chelsea curse.  But it’s more likely to do with the Londoners’ long season, that included a down-to-the-wire Premier League title run, an FA Cup final, as well as a quarter-final exit in the Champions League. 

Brent Lanthier

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Liverpool FC Walk Through The Storm

“Once decline becomes precipitous, even money may not prevent the decline spiralling into permanency.”
 – David Bick, Square 1 Consulting
The consultant-speak belies how bad the situation is for Liverpool. The season has been nothing short of disasterous. In a campaign that started with a loss to Spurs — and basically ended with a dreadful performance at home against Chelsea — last year’s would-be champions fell from grace with alacrity.
The players simply weren’t good enough. With the exception of workhorse Dirk Kuyt, every squad member can shoulder part of the blame:
– Gerrard’s season was summed up in his “conspiracy” pass to Drogba,  
– Midfield bulldog Mascherano played with a heady mix of anger and stupidity, while his partner Lucas was a pale replacement for the sorely missed Xavi Alonso,
– Jamie Carragher showed signs of rapid decline,  while the man he was protecting — Pepe Reina — made simple saves look tricky at the beginning of the season,
– Rieira and Babel — for all of their chirping — didn’t come close to earning their wages,
– Defensive backs  Johnston and Insua looked like strokes of brilliance by the manager, until injury felled both at inopportune times.
And nothing further needs to be written about the absence of Fernando Torres — who seems to be afraid of what the Premier League is doing to his body.
Regardless of individual performances, Rafael Benitez remains the lightning rod for the team’s troubles. Many will forever asterisk the Champions League win as a squad assembled by Gerard Houllier and dragged to victory by Stevie G. 
The doubters will point to Benitez’ endless tinkering in his first seasons and the revolving door on the training ground. Keane, Pennant, Voronin, Arbeloa, Bellamy, Crouch and countless others — all players who came and went. That’s not to mention the 20 million pound purchase of Alberto Aquilani — known in Italy as “The Crystal Kid”. But the punters are missing the pattern of waste and wandering ambitions that have guided the team for two decades.
Rafa inherited a team that was still revelling in its former glories: a club that could boast to being England’s all-time best, both at home and abroad. Like a fat, aging Lothario — LFC could count on its fans to point to past conquests. The faithful beat their chests as they sing the club’s famous theme, along with odes to Rome and Wembley and Paris and Istanbul.
But the fat and the decline were there for all to see. The Souness/Spice Boy years in the Nineties. The neglect of the youth system in favour of the latest fad player from abroad (Diouf/Diao/Diarra anyone?).  The self-righteous talk of the “Liverpool Way”, even as board members plotted against each other.
And then came the Americans.  George Gillett and Tom Hicks arrived in Merseyside promising a yellow brick road to the title, while secretly planning how to flip the club like a renovated townhouse. The problem was that neither counted on a U.S.-made global recession — or a slowly developing hatred for each other.
Now the club sits mire in unprecedented debt. Its plans to build a bigger stadium still sit on an architect’s table — and much-needed revenue from the expanded capacity sits unrealized. As Man U, Arsenal and Chelsea build their global brands — along with their counterparts in Spain and Italy — Liverpool has failed to adjust to the new reality. LFC  is still trying figure out what it is.
But time is running out. The Reds will not see Champions League football next season. Thanks to Gillett and Hicks, the team now owes 10 million pounds more in annual debt payments then it makes in operating profit. The manager realizes what this means for the transfer window and is likely to looking for greener (and warmer) pastures. So are key players like Gerrard and Torres and Mascherano, who all see the writing on the wall.
The decline has begun. The spiral is forming.  And time is ticking.
It’s time to be afraid of the dark.

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