Wanted: A Winner
This is absolutely a digression from the really very pressing but currently insoluble problem that might be called "How do you solve a problem like Fat Bastard", sung to the tune of How do you solve a problem like Maria" from the Sound of Music, which I have selected because he particularly dislikes that musical.
I came home tonight to the news that England, Mighty England, managed to secure a 2-0 defeat away against Croatia. There are a lot of grown Englishmen (presumably including everyone within the FA connected with the current Head Coach's appointment) weeping into their cheap and nasty English lager tonight as the godawful truth begins to dawn that the only option on the menu is More Of The Same, which is to say going out in search of a nil-nil draw against any opposition that isn't Faroe Islands*.
Lots of grown men complaining that the men who turned out either were not the right men or they were the right men but they weren't playing in the right position when the simple fact of the matter is that this mob are playing Good Enough football when if they were anything like as good as they could be they'd be crushing the Faroe Islanders* and grinding Croatia into the turf.
The problem seems to be that England's players tend to believe their press. If only they believed that they were no better than anyone else, they'd go out believing that they were playing against equals commanding their respect and they'd play accordingly, they'd play with all their heart.
Professional and personal pride would demand that they'd burst out of the tunnel determined to leave the pitch held in higher regard by the spectators than they'd entered it.
Instead they believe they're infallible Gods, and such is the power of the sporting press in this country they continue to believe it in the face of all the evidence (such as that to be found in the final score-lines of the team's last two competitive matches) to the contrary.
More on the Fat Bastard when I'm in a better frame of mind. Sometimes it's rather pleasant to let my hair down and be fundamentally Australian (ie, sports obsessed).
I came home tonight to the news that England, Mighty England, managed to secure a 2-0 defeat away against Croatia. There are a lot of grown Englishmen (presumably including everyone within the FA connected with the current Head Coach's appointment) weeping into their cheap and nasty English lager tonight as the godawful truth begins to dawn that the only option on the menu is More Of The Same, which is to say going out in search of a nil-nil draw against any opposition that isn't Faroe Islands*.
Lots of grown men complaining that the men who turned out either were not the right men or they were the right men but they weren't playing in the right position when the simple fact of the matter is that this mob are playing Good Enough football when if they were anything like as good as they could be they'd be crushing the Faroe Islanders* and grinding Croatia into the turf.
The problem seems to be that England's players tend to believe their press. If only they believed that they were no better than anyone else, they'd go out believing that they were playing against equals commanding their respect and they'd play accordingly, they'd play with all their heart.
Professional and personal pride would demand that they'd burst out of the tunnel determined to leave the pitch held in higher regard by the spectators than they'd entered it.
Instead they believe they're infallible Gods, and such is the power of the sporting press in this country they continue to believe it in the face of all the evidence (such as that to be found in the final score-lines of the team's last two competitive matches) to the contrary.
More on the Fat Bastard when I'm in a better frame of mind. Sometimes it's rather pleasant to let my hair down and be fundamentally Australian (ie, sports obsessed).
posted by Enyo @ 10:10 pm
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