Don’t label all the mad lads as T-Rex
THE dentist’s chair. Fishing in the Wembley bath with a rod Bryan Robson had juryrigged from medical supplies. Falling into a lake and being rescued by David Seaman. At his first press conference as England manager, Gareth Southgate spun endless yarns about the escapades of Paul Gascoigne.
Culminating, of course, in that glorious moment when the most gifted midfielder of his generation bamboozled Colin Hendry, volleyed past clubmate Andy Goram and single-handedly ignited Euro 96.
I was 14 that day, watching at home in Swalwell, an old mining village five minutes up the Tyne from where Gazza grew up. We’d played on the same parks and pavements. His success was ours. If the mad lad from Dunston could play for England, couldn’t we all?
You didn’t need wealthy parents, a dad who’d played for Man United or an IQ like Einstein. All you needed was magic in your boots.
Character
Little did we realise that Gazza was the last of his kind, a mighty T-Rex bellowing into the sunset as the asteroid pierced the atmosphere.
When the dust settled, the meek had inherited the earth. The advent of ultraprofessionalism has had a similar effect on football’s biggest personalities.
“Whether a character like Gazza comes through the academy system the same way, I don’t know,” said Southgate. He does really.
Gazza wouldn’t stand a chance now. He didn’t have the discipline, the fitness, the greyness to be a modern pro.
In an era when Ross Barkley is accused of lacking responsibility, what would Ronald Koeman have made of a man for whom shape and position were an irrelevance?
What would twitter make of someone who donned plastic breasts and told the entire Norwegian nation to f*** off ?
He’d be ordered to shape up or ship out. And we all know how that would have gone. No tears of Turin. No Scotland wonder goal.
For all his flaws and frailties, nobody can deny that football is richer for the years Gazza graced us. Rare talent deserves rare treatment. Adel Taarabt is a nightmare. Petulant. Selfish. Indisciplined. The Moroccan is to team spirit what dry rot is to floorboards.
Yet, for 12 magical months, Neil Warnock turned a blind eye and persuaded his QPR players to do the same.
The result – for the only time in Taarabt’s unfulfilled career – was a season of such sustained brilliance that the Hoops ended up in the Premier League. Lee Tomlin, who spoke so openly to The
FLP last week, has often been accused of lacking professionalism, whether it be collecting suspensions or pounds round his midriff.
Playmaker
Frankly, though, who cares? When he’s tying defenders in knots and scoring wonder goals, nobody in the stands cares if he picks a fight along the way.
Before signing off last week, I asked Tomlin what he valued about working for Lee Johnson.
“He lets me play my natural game,” said the Bristol City playmaker. “And, when I do that, there’s nobody better in the division.”
If that’s a bad attitude, I wish more English players had one. There’s nothing wrong with a bit of cockiness and swagger. Just watch prime Gazza.
Of course, some players simply aren’t worth the bother.
Nile Ranger, a former resident of Blackpool, Swindon and various UK courtrooms, produced little magic and plenty of trouble.
Nevertheless, in an era when players are judged on kilometres covered, forward runs and myriad other crunched numbers, we must guard against ripping the life and colour out of our game.
Because professionals may win prizes, but mavericks make memories.
For the majority of football fans, that is what the game is truly about.