Friday, July 3, 2009
Wednesday, May 27, 2009
United/Barcelona
I play harder on my Sunday team than United did in Rome. If any player walks off that pitch with any energy at all, having lost the game, then they fucked up. There is no reason to have any energy left in a losing effort in the final of the Champions League. Michael Carrick was an absolute parody. Rooney had no guile. The whole team passed the ball around casually like it was just another game, which it wasn't. Scholes and Berbatov and Tevez, the three obvious substitutes, should have all been in sooner. Giggs was also a huge joke. Not really taking the time to say anything poetic here, just stating the facts. Van der Sar could have done better on both goals. Gets beaten near-post by Eto'o, who loves using his toe to shoot like that (you'd assume Van der Sar knew that) and the Dutchman was characteristically off balance when Messi scored his glorious header. Vidic was unstuck, Evra and O'Shea were blanks, and, I may as well include every other player I haven't mentioned yet, Park and Anderson, as being totally ineffective. See you next season!
Also, Puma makes great soccer cleats.
Also, Puma makes great soccer cleats.
Wednesday, April 1, 2009
Arshavin, De Jong bring world class, European style to England
Whether or not the "6+5 rule" sweeps through Europe into England, two foreign players arrived in January who would not be hampered much by the regulation.
Andre Arshavin, the little Russian, and Nigel De Jong, the stacked Dutchman, each brought a unique European flair—and world class—when they were suited to England.
Grace and skill translates visually but words cannot always justify the edges, the fine margins between good and great.
Essentially, 90 percent of professional footballers can do 90 percent of the tricks and skills. Class lies in the final 10 percent.
De Jong and Arshavin's class are of the world variety.
The warring Dutchman
De Jong himself fills the defensive role in midfield so many teams pine after.
The bottom half of the Premier League table is littered with clubs who struggle largely out of a void in the center, just as mostly all more successful teams have a holding player in his mold.
One of the first names during the Netherlands' muster, the 24-year old bunker captain holds down the fort with a crooked helmet while his attacking teammates snipe and maneuver. His bootstraps tightly fastened, he is well fortified, with plenty of ammunition and stores to see out the winter.
The reliable, compact muscle-man owns his space. He's the bouncer at the night club you can't get into. Players pass through with his permission. If he loses the ball, he will track you down and either foul you or take it back or both. Even his facial hair is class.
Every team in competitive, modern European football need this type of combative central player, especially in overly tactical UEFA Champions League settings.
De Jong can use both feet to turn and pass, and his distribution is very economical and sometimes even forward-incisive. He appears to take certain care to bend passes with either feet into the stride of his teammates, which is often overlooked but a sure sign of class.
His partnership with Vincent Kompany—renewed from their chummy Hamburg days—makes the central midfield of Manchester City the toughest in England.
From Russia with class
Of course, the team who needed De Jong most—Arsenal—instead got the type they needed least.
The Gunners squad is replete with stylish winger/support-striker hybrids. Rosicky, Nasri, van Persie, Vela, Da Silva, Fabregas, and even Theo Walcott—who is becoming a more out-winger—all bring great beauty and romance to a flowing attack, at the shameless cost of expense of steel, bottle, and graft.
Though occupying a similar position, and general mold, to his new teammates, Andre Arshavin is none of these players. The style he brings to any attack is quite unique.
The shifty Russian may have the best feet in all of England. He uses both, at will, and shifts effortlessly in between. His balance sets him apart. He can move left or go right, with either foot, convincingly, and have enough poise and craft to turn again, or not, to no end, while other renowned attackers turn once and are committed.
The nimble little bugger, cheeks red, hasn't taken time to settle in London, contrary to another Russian in town, rival Spurs' Pavyulchenko—with whom Arshavin does not socialize, to the delight of Gunner fans.
In seven games for Arsenal, spark-plug Arshavin has a goal and four assists, statistics which paltrily render his true effect on the field. He picks apart defenses like a cold-war KBG operative, with patience and subterfuge, craftily evading clumsy approaches from less-trained Western agents.
Tourists in England?
And now the two Europeans are plying their trade in England, as most players abroad seem to vie towards at some point in their careers.
But not all their hopes will be realized, especially as the "6+5 rule" necessarily surges throughout European footballing institutions.
The rule, currently championed by the presidents of Fifa and Uefa, decrees six of 11 starting players on any team in Europe must be nationals of the domestic country.
Such a regulation would bring youth development, training, and club loyalty back into a European game dominated by generally British easy-money spending, hostile takeover bids, immediate gratification, and purchased success.
But the cogs of political change move slowly, so England will continue to stage more and more of Europe's best talent until the dogma, greed, and lobbying hopefully succumb to the populist regulation.
And as Man City travel to Arsenal on Saturday, bask in the ineffable particulars: the soft edges of class both De Jong and Arshavin express on grass in-form, and don't worry; they'd be top six on any club side in England for many years anyways.
Andre Arshavin, the little Russian, and Nigel De Jong, the stacked Dutchman, each brought a unique European flair—and world class—when they were suited to England.
Grace and skill translates visually but words cannot always justify the edges, the fine margins between good and great.
Essentially, 90 percent of professional footballers can do 90 percent of the tricks and skills. Class lies in the final 10 percent.
De Jong and Arshavin's class are of the world variety.
The warring Dutchman
De Jong himself fills the defensive role in midfield so many teams pine after.
The bottom half of the Premier League table is littered with clubs who struggle largely out of a void in the center, just as mostly all more successful teams have a holding player in his mold.
One of the first names during the Netherlands' muster, the 24-year old bunker captain holds down the fort with a crooked helmet while his attacking teammates snipe and maneuver. His bootstraps tightly fastened, he is well fortified, with plenty of ammunition and stores to see out the winter.
The reliable, compact muscle-man owns his space. He's the bouncer at the night club you can't get into. Players pass through with his permission. If he loses the ball, he will track you down and either foul you or take it back or both. Even his facial hair is class.
Every team in competitive, modern European football need this type of combative central player, especially in overly tactical UEFA Champions League settings.
De Jong can use both feet to turn and pass, and his distribution is very economical and sometimes even forward-incisive. He appears to take certain care to bend passes with either feet into the stride of his teammates, which is often overlooked but a sure sign of class.
His partnership with Vincent Kompany—renewed from their chummy Hamburg days—makes the central midfield of Manchester City the toughest in England.
From Russia with class
Of course, the team who needed De Jong most—Arsenal—instead got the type they needed least.
The Gunners squad is replete with stylish winger/support-striker hybrids. Rosicky, Nasri, van Persie, Vela, Da Silva, Fabregas, and even Theo Walcott—who is becoming a more out-winger—all bring great beauty and romance to a flowing attack, at the shameless cost of expense of steel, bottle, and graft.
Though occupying a similar position, and general mold, to his new teammates, Andre Arshavin is none of these players. The style he brings to any attack is quite unique.
The shifty Russian may have the best feet in all of England. He uses both, at will, and shifts effortlessly in between. His balance sets him apart. He can move left or go right, with either foot, convincingly, and have enough poise and craft to turn again, or not, to no end, while other renowned attackers turn once and are committed.
The nimble little bugger, cheeks red, hasn't taken time to settle in London, contrary to another Russian in town, rival Spurs' Pavyulchenko—with whom Arshavin does not socialize, to the delight of Gunner fans.
In seven games for Arsenal, spark-plug Arshavin has a goal and four assists, statistics which paltrily render his true effect on the field. He picks apart defenses like a cold-war KBG operative, with patience and subterfuge, craftily evading clumsy approaches from less-trained Western agents.
Tourists in England?
And now the two Europeans are plying their trade in England, as most players abroad seem to vie towards at some point in their careers.
But not all their hopes will be realized, especially as the "6+5 rule" necessarily surges throughout European footballing institutions.
The rule, currently championed by the presidents of Fifa and Uefa, decrees six of 11 starting players on any team in Europe must be nationals of the domestic country.
Such a regulation would bring youth development, training, and club loyalty back into a European game dominated by generally British easy-money spending, hostile takeover bids, immediate gratification, and purchased success.
But the cogs of political change move slowly, so England will continue to stage more and more of Europe's best talent until the dogma, greed, and lobbying hopefully succumb to the populist regulation.
And as Man City travel to Arsenal on Saturday, bask in the ineffable particulars: the soft edges of class both De Jong and Arshavin express on grass in-form, and don't worry; they'd be top six on any club side in England for many years anyways.
Tuesday, March 31, 2009
Rooney needs to curb aggression, not celebrate it!
Stubborn Wayne Rooney.
The Englishman recently defended his truculent behavior, ever on display this season, in what is an argument based more out of said emotion and rationalization than footballing sense.
To be sure, the passion and aggression Rooney exudes and personifies has its benefits when marshaled and channeled. But instead when anger controls the player, self-destruction follows.
Rooney needn't look any further than fellow teammate and former starlet Cristiano Ronaldo for insight into how emotions can curb a player's growth.
The Portugeuse serves as a fine warning sign. Last year, he did everything to deserve all the accolades awarded to him. His form was rampant, consistent, dominating; he was focused and confident.
This season, pressures conspire to expunge all patience and most efficacy from Ronaldo's game. Insecurity and arrogance replaced confidence. Blame replaced accountability.
The result for the Portuguese? More disgrace than Rooney ever brings upon himself, surely, and far less effect on the pitch where even a deplorable attitude and disposition could be forgiven.
Fortunately for Rooney, his demons are slightly more productive than those currently bedevilling the insecure winger. The striker's subconscious fuel drives him around the pitch. To be fair, this sometimes brings him out of position. But he tracks back. He gets stuck-in. These qualities, though, in a forward, are overvalued and overemphasized when goals aren't plenty, and overlooked when they are rife!
Goals are of course the prime directive for a striker. And Wayne Rooney, despite being one of the better English footballers, and a top-20 striker in the world, probably has fallen short of perhaps slightly romantic hopes set upon his meaty shoulders as a young scouser; while the aforementioned Ronaldo certainly exceeded all in his last few seasons.
Many of Rooney's qualities are better suited to a midfielder. His ability to pass, his vision, tendencies towards grafting and getting stuck-in, willingness to run, an inability to beat defenders one-on-one, and his outspoken, fiery disposition all conduce to a midfield role.
His passion, still raw with youth, sometimes expressed immaturely, sometimes beneficially, like every other aspect of the world game, can be practiced and refined to create the utmost utility on the pitch. To justify it as being unyielding to growth or change—a character flaw—is merely the Englishman selling himself short.
''The desire to win makes me the player I am. Take that away and I would be totally different,'' he said after his brace against Slovakia. ''I do get frustrated at times but aggression has always been part of my game."
He is right and wrong on a few accounts here. Wayne Rooney made himself the player he is, and he should not be defined by destructive behavior, which he seems to confuse with the "desire to win", a desire all players share, but not all project through violence and "fack off" rage.
He is right, though, if you take it away, he would be totally different. But who's to say he won't be better? Aggression has always been a part of his game, and if he is happy with his current scoring rate, and his unfolding legacy, as is, then he may not want to curb it. Who would begrudge him, one of the most recognizable players in world football?
But it shouldn't be within a competitor's nature to acquiesce.
Of course, he has been fantastic for England this season, claiming the English player of the year award for his performances in the white shirt.
For Manchester United, however, his season has been again slightly checkered, with incidents of immaturity and sophomoric behavior marring matches throughout his average campaign.
Last season Tevez outplayed the Englishman, with some cynical sections of prevailing professional media asking if this was a make-or-break year for Rooney.
If it was, for United, he's yet to achieve an on-form consistency greater than two weeks at a time. He's still bagged some goals, inevitably, and he's definitely played vital roles in many matches, nonetheless.
It's hard to judge players who are great (or lingering slightly below). But, maybe carefully crafted words in print translate even to the ivory towers of our heroes, in hopes that they realize their full potential, instead of being content already achieving just a respectable majority of it.
The Englishman recently defended his truculent behavior, ever on display this season, in what is an argument based more out of said emotion and rationalization than footballing sense.
To be sure, the passion and aggression Rooney exudes and personifies has its benefits when marshaled and channeled. But instead when anger controls the player, self-destruction follows.
Rooney needn't look any further than fellow teammate and former starlet Cristiano Ronaldo for insight into how emotions can curb a player's growth.
The Portugeuse serves as a fine warning sign. Last year, he did everything to deserve all the accolades awarded to him. His form was rampant, consistent, dominating; he was focused and confident.
This season, pressures conspire to expunge all patience and most efficacy from Ronaldo's game. Insecurity and arrogance replaced confidence. Blame replaced accountability.
The result for the Portuguese? More disgrace than Rooney ever brings upon himself, surely, and far less effect on the pitch where even a deplorable attitude and disposition could be forgiven.
Fortunately for Rooney, his demons are slightly more productive than those currently bedevilling the insecure winger. The striker's subconscious fuel drives him around the pitch. To be fair, this sometimes brings him out of position. But he tracks back. He gets stuck-in. These qualities, though, in a forward, are overvalued and overemphasized when goals aren't plenty, and overlooked when they are rife!
Goals are of course the prime directive for a striker. And Wayne Rooney, despite being one of the better English footballers, and a top-20 striker in the world, probably has fallen short of perhaps slightly romantic hopes set upon his meaty shoulders as a young scouser; while the aforementioned Ronaldo certainly exceeded all in his last few seasons.
Many of Rooney's qualities are better suited to a midfielder. His ability to pass, his vision, tendencies towards grafting and getting stuck-in, willingness to run, an inability to beat defenders one-on-one, and his outspoken, fiery disposition all conduce to a midfield role.
His passion, still raw with youth, sometimes expressed immaturely, sometimes beneficially, like every other aspect of the world game, can be practiced and refined to create the utmost utility on the pitch. To justify it as being unyielding to growth or change—a character flaw—is merely the Englishman selling himself short.
''The desire to win makes me the player I am. Take that away and I would be totally different,'' he said after his brace against Slovakia. ''I do get frustrated at times but aggression has always been part of my game."
He is right and wrong on a few accounts here. Wayne Rooney made himself the player he is, and he should not be defined by destructive behavior, which he seems to confuse with the "desire to win", a desire all players share, but not all project through violence and "fack off" rage.
He is right, though, if you take it away, he would be totally different. But who's to say he won't be better? Aggression has always been a part of his game, and if he is happy with his current scoring rate, and his unfolding legacy, as is, then he may not want to curb it. Who would begrudge him, one of the most recognizable players in world football?
But it shouldn't be within a competitor's nature to acquiesce.
Of course, he has been fantastic for England this season, claiming the English player of the year award for his performances in the white shirt.
For Manchester United, however, his season has been again slightly checkered, with incidents of immaturity and sophomoric behavior marring matches throughout his average campaign.
Last season Tevez outplayed the Englishman, with some cynical sections of prevailing professional media asking if this was a make-or-break year for Rooney.
If it was, for United, he's yet to achieve an on-form consistency greater than two weeks at a time. He's still bagged some goals, inevitably, and he's definitely played vital roles in many matches, nonetheless.
It's hard to judge players who are great (or lingering slightly below). But, maybe carefully crafted words in print translate even to the ivory towers of our heroes, in hopes that they realize their full potential, instead of being content already achieving just a respectable majority of it.
Sunday, March 22, 2009
Unfortunately, there's only one Keano
Never before have Man United missed Roy Keane so much.
Whether berating a prawn sandwich culture, or throwing under-performing players publicly under the bus, the man Keane never hesitated to put the spotlights—and pressure—upon his own shoulders.
More importantly, beyond the brash outbursts was the most blue-collar of field workers. Keane led by sword and plowshare, demanding nothing of his peers that they could not expect of himself. He constantly interrogated his teammates egos and work ethic and no one could—or at least would—say he was a hypocrite.
Do as he did, not as he said, was the subtext to his whole persona.
But who can lead a disjointed United side with sheer force of will? Are there any players with the same demonstrative volition? Are there even any players on the current side capable of harnessing and controlling their anger, instead it controlling them—without being petulant?
Surely the last clause rules out Wayne Rooney.
Pundits had hoped to provide a prophecy for Wayne to fulfill this season, claiming that his days of charging about angrily were finally behind him. These notions have so far turned out to be mere fantasy.
There is no doubt his heart is in the cause, but too much so, and it is often further unhinged by a lack of reason and patience—and the absence of the role model like the fiery Irishman.
Ronaldo gets angry. But he's not very good at it. He whines and pouts, projecting and displacing, hating himself and blaming everyone else. He's much more part of the problem right now than he would be for any solution to his club's possibly fragile psyche.
Paul Scholes doesn't like him. Why would he? Scholes himself is the paragon for modesty and honesty in motion. He's not concerned about the spotlight or the women, nor the parties or acclaim. But the same virtues that make him a model person and professional preclude him from invoking personal demons which don't exist to exorcise those plaguing some players around him.
United don't just need a player to get angry. It's safe to assume they're all quite peeved at the moment. But who will assume the burden? Who will raise his chin and point it forward? Who can lead by example and stature?
Arguably the only player on the current side with a similar capacity to Keane for weighted anger and leadership, Gary Neville, the club captain, is a peripheral figure. Often injured and always aging, his voice from the bench doesn't carry to the pitch, not when the adrenaline and endorphins govern each player's instinctual actions.
Rio Ferdinand and Ryan Giggs are often given the armband in Neville's absence. Unfortunately, neither have the make-up to inspire, or the gall and effrontery to unstick their chums.
Ferdinand yells superfluously, usually without force, usually without response. Players just don't fear him. Giggs is a quiet man and captains the side more from experience than effectiveness.
Nemanja Vidic emerges. The 27-year-old has the makings for a future captain. He's a gentle giant, really, except when he's flying head-first into Didier Drogba, smothering Kevin Davies, or snuffing out Samuel Eto'o.
But despite being United's player of the season—and a firm candidate for PFA Player of the Year—he may not be the answer right now. His own confidence seems frazzled, being outwitted by Gerrard and Torres, proven slightly bemused by Zlatan, and run a bit ragged by Martins in recent matches.
Carlos Tevez could be the answer. Who roars louder? Who exhales after each run-out with more veracity? Who's badge is placed more squarely over his heart than the Argentine terrorist, crunching and crashing about, demanding, earning, and reciprocating respect from and to all opponents?
On action alone, Tevez speaks the loudest. He never argues with a linesman, never complains to the referee or, more crucially, his teammates, and never dives. And he never gives up.
But maybe United need nothing more than a break, and that's one thing they do have.
The players have two weeks to distract themselves with other exploits and refocus.
The man who molded Roy Keane partly in his own likeness, Sir Alex Ferguson, has this break to plot and calculate the restoration of his side's confidence.
He has two weeks to exhume the cobwebs of self-doubt from the minds of his rattled players, and if he can't, you wonder who on the pitch might, should the first goal at Old Trafford in a fortnight's time be scored by the visitor.
Whether berating a prawn sandwich culture, or throwing under-performing players publicly under the bus, the man Keane never hesitated to put the spotlights—and pressure—upon his own shoulders.
More importantly, beyond the brash outbursts was the most blue-collar of field workers. Keane led by sword and plowshare, demanding nothing of his peers that they could not expect of himself. He constantly interrogated his teammates egos and work ethic and no one could—or at least would—say he was a hypocrite.
Do as he did, not as he said, was the subtext to his whole persona.
But who can lead a disjointed United side with sheer force of will? Are there any players with the same demonstrative volition? Are there even any players on the current side capable of harnessing and controlling their anger, instead it controlling them—without being petulant?
Surely the last clause rules out Wayne Rooney.
Pundits had hoped to provide a prophecy for Wayne to fulfill this season, claiming that his days of charging about angrily were finally behind him. These notions have so far turned out to be mere fantasy.
There is no doubt his heart is in the cause, but too much so, and it is often further unhinged by a lack of reason and patience—and the absence of the role model like the fiery Irishman.
Ronaldo gets angry. But he's not very good at it. He whines and pouts, projecting and displacing, hating himself and blaming everyone else. He's much more part of the problem right now than he would be for any solution to his club's possibly fragile psyche.
Paul Scholes doesn't like him. Why would he? Scholes himself is the paragon for modesty and honesty in motion. He's not concerned about the spotlight or the women, nor the parties or acclaim. But the same virtues that make him a model person and professional preclude him from invoking personal demons which don't exist to exorcise those plaguing some players around him.
United don't just need a player to get angry. It's safe to assume they're all quite peeved at the moment. But who will assume the burden? Who will raise his chin and point it forward? Who can lead by example and stature?
Arguably the only player on the current side with a similar capacity to Keane for weighted anger and leadership, Gary Neville, the club captain, is a peripheral figure. Often injured and always aging, his voice from the bench doesn't carry to the pitch, not when the adrenaline and endorphins govern each player's instinctual actions.
Rio Ferdinand and Ryan Giggs are often given the armband in Neville's absence. Unfortunately, neither have the make-up to inspire, or the gall and effrontery to unstick their chums.
Ferdinand yells superfluously, usually without force, usually without response. Players just don't fear him. Giggs is a quiet man and captains the side more from experience than effectiveness.
Nemanja Vidic emerges. The 27-year-old has the makings for a future captain. He's a gentle giant, really, except when he's flying head-first into Didier Drogba, smothering Kevin Davies, or snuffing out Samuel Eto'o.
But despite being United's player of the season—and a firm candidate for PFA Player of the Year—he may not be the answer right now. His own confidence seems frazzled, being outwitted by Gerrard and Torres, proven slightly bemused by Zlatan, and run a bit ragged by Martins in recent matches.
Carlos Tevez could be the answer. Who roars louder? Who exhales after each run-out with more veracity? Who's badge is placed more squarely over his heart than the Argentine terrorist, crunching and crashing about, demanding, earning, and reciprocating respect from and to all opponents?
On action alone, Tevez speaks the loudest. He never argues with a linesman, never complains to the referee or, more crucially, his teammates, and never dives. And he never gives up.
But maybe United need nothing more than a break, and that's one thing they do have.
The players have two weeks to distract themselves with other exploits and refocus.
The man who molded Roy Keane partly in his own likeness, Sir Alex Ferguson, has this break to plot and calculate the restoration of his side's confidence.
He has two weeks to exhume the cobwebs of self-doubt from the minds of his rattled players, and if he can't, you wonder who on the pitch might, should the first goal at Old Trafford in a fortnight's time be scored by the visitor.
Saturday, March 21, 2009
Cristiano Ronaldo needs to get squared away
Confidence is piercing: It attacks the disposition in those it encounters with a domineering force.
Arrogance is masochistic: It challenges those dispositions to return force in kind plus more. It demands unequal retribution. It bolsters the defending.
Ronaldo has none of the confidence he deserves and too much of the hubris that weighs him down.
Someone needs to reboot him.
His head is nowhere near the pitch. His attacking is indirect. His tantrums are ubiquitous. His emotions run completely unchecked.
Where he once out-smarted most defenders, most now out-muscle him, sending the winger whirling downward again into the whining spirals which mar his ever-declining reputation.
His free-kicks sail well off course. His runs to the byline are rare. The extempore cuts and shifts are gone, the sleight and trickery with them, replaced with forecast, boastful, and inconsequential step-overs before usually passing square or backwards.
John O’ Shea is in the side—presumably—to pass sideways. Ronaldo is not!
The club he led to glory last year needs at least half of his ability and at most half of the immaturity. Its fans, ever scrambling to doggedly defend the reprobate, deserve respite and reassurance. They deserve to see their hero on song, not his villainous alter-ego, always scowling and recalcitrant.
In the last several seasons, he played like a man who knew he'd be great. Then the world agreed and made him great, exalting him PFA Player of the Year, European Player of the Year, and World Player of the Year. But despite capturing all of world football’s individual awards to confirm his self-belief, he now seems somehow not to believe in himself anymore.
The weight of each opposing crowd booing and teasing him might be taking its toll. Maybe Messi or Ribery's form of late is what causes Ronaldo so much anxiety. Maybe he can't deal with the pressure of becoming the most recognizable player on the planet. Maybe he just wants people to like him more—who could blame him?
But after six months of his emotional treacle, can no one within the walls of Old Trafford encourage change in the 24-year-old? Can’t Alex Ferguson himself demand it? The Scot never shied from ego-management: Ince, Cantona, Hughes, Beckham—how is Ronaldo less deserving? Why is he immune?
A flying boot would affect him just the same. Ronaldo must’ve seized sizable leverage with his bi-yearly feigns at foraying into Spanish football, because Ferguson is hesitant to ever discipline the boy in his side who needs it the most.
Let Ronaldo watch a game from the stands like he used to when he actually played with some naivete and creativity. Give Tosic a run-out. Hell, give Nani a run-out. Make Ronaldo remember what it's like to just be a player again.
Perhaps Carlos Quieroz, former United number two and current Portugal manager, can speak with urgency in a language the winger will hear, understand, and adhere to.
Change for the winger Ronaldo is long overdue and must be swift before he completely undermines his stature in the world game that surely could not have peaked already?
Arrogance is masochistic: It challenges those dispositions to return force in kind plus more. It demands unequal retribution. It bolsters the defending.
Ronaldo has none of the confidence he deserves and too much of the hubris that weighs him down.
Someone needs to reboot him.
His head is nowhere near the pitch. His attacking is indirect. His tantrums are ubiquitous. His emotions run completely unchecked.
Where he once out-smarted most defenders, most now out-muscle him, sending the winger whirling downward again into the whining spirals which mar his ever-declining reputation.
His free-kicks sail well off course. His runs to the byline are rare. The extempore cuts and shifts are gone, the sleight and trickery with them, replaced with forecast, boastful, and inconsequential step-overs before usually passing square or backwards.
John O’ Shea is in the side—presumably—to pass sideways. Ronaldo is not!
The club he led to glory last year needs at least half of his ability and at most half of the immaturity. Its fans, ever scrambling to doggedly defend the reprobate, deserve respite and reassurance. They deserve to see their hero on song, not his villainous alter-ego, always scowling and recalcitrant.
In the last several seasons, he played like a man who knew he'd be great. Then the world agreed and made him great, exalting him PFA Player of the Year, European Player of the Year, and World Player of the Year. But despite capturing all of world football’s individual awards to confirm his self-belief, he now seems somehow not to believe in himself anymore.
The weight of each opposing crowd booing and teasing him might be taking its toll. Maybe Messi or Ribery's form of late is what causes Ronaldo so much anxiety. Maybe he can't deal with the pressure of becoming the most recognizable player on the planet. Maybe he just wants people to like him more—who could blame him?
But after six months of his emotional treacle, can no one within the walls of Old Trafford encourage change in the 24-year-old? Can’t Alex Ferguson himself demand it? The Scot never shied from ego-management: Ince, Cantona, Hughes, Beckham—how is Ronaldo less deserving? Why is he immune?
A flying boot would affect him just the same. Ronaldo must’ve seized sizable leverage with his bi-yearly feigns at foraying into Spanish football, because Ferguson is hesitant to ever discipline the boy in his side who needs it the most.
Let Ronaldo watch a game from the stands like he used to when he actually played with some naivete and creativity. Give Tosic a run-out. Hell, give Nani a run-out. Make Ronaldo remember what it's like to just be a player again.
Perhaps Carlos Quieroz, former United number two and current Portugal manager, can speak with urgency in a language the winger will hear, understand, and adhere to.
Change for the winger Ronaldo is long overdue and must be swift before he completely undermines his stature in the world game that surely could not have peaked already?
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