BORN OR MADE?
We probably all agree that the great soccer players are born and not made. The Peles, the Beckenbauers, the Bests, the Matthews', the di Stefanos, the Puskas', all born to greatness.
But the key issue is that they were all born players, not made. Let's face it if you went out to make a player you'd hardly choose the body dimensions of a Puskas. And you'd certainly put a bit more beef onto Matthews' frame.
There are hosts of players who have been made, of course, journeymen seizing on the meagre talent issued to them and working assiduously through countless hours of training and by-rote tactics to keep their place in the pantheon of the game. But they are rarely great players. No, the great ones are born.
Is the same true of supporters? Are the great ones born or made? In all probability, like the great players, the great supporters are born not made. If you doubt this imagine the criteria for making a supporter. Let's eavesdrop an instruction session between a Supporter Coach (SC) and a Trainee Supporter (TS).
SC: It starts about Wednesday, the build up for the game.
TS: Wednesday? I thought the match was on Saturday.
SC: Well it's Wednesday because Sunday, Monday and Tuesday are made for either re-living the game and gloating or forgetting the game and hiding. By Wednesday that's all over and you can start preparing for the next game.
TS: What happens on Thursday?
SC: You pick the team.
TS: I thought the Coach did that.
SC: In the real world, yes. But who's citing the real world here. You're a Supporter now, or will be when I've finished with you, forget the real world.
TS: Friday?
SC: Mainly nerves. After you've told the players who's playing. Friday night you fall asleep planning the set up; backs, midfielders, strikers.
TS: Saturday?
SC: GAME DAY. The most important day of the week. You don't talk to anyone at breakfast. You move around a lot, it eases the tension. You make sure your scarf is there where you threw it after the last game. You skip lunch because it would only make you throw up. You compensate by downing as much beer as you can in the shortest time. You grab your scarf and leave early so you can maximise the wait and the tension.
TS: What about the game? What happens there?
SC: Everything and nothing. You arrive at the ground like a pilgrim approaching his Mecca. The stands are sacred, the terraces washed in the blood of those gone before, the turf is holy. You greet your comrades as fellow pilgrims: Well met, mate, how goes it? Alright, mate, alright. How is it with you? Alright mate, alright. These are ritual greetings.
TS: Before the game, what happens?
SC: A multitude of things. You go through a checklist and reassure yourself. I'm wearing the socks I wore when we beat City; check. Hang on a minute, I can't remember the last time we beat City. OK, I'm wearing the socks I wore last time we should have beaten City; check. I climbed the terrace steps two at a time and I didn't tread on any cracks or where any grass is growing; check. My scarf hasn't been washed since the last time we won the cup; check. It's bloody dirty, good job they discovered penicillin. I've got my fingers crossed and said Òplease GodÓ forty times (one for each of the players on the senior list); check. I've bought the programme and flipped through every page without reading a single word; check. I've memorised the opposition players I want to have a go at; check. I've worked out where the opposition supporters are and the quickest line of retreat; check.
TS: And during the game?
SC: The gamut, no, the full gamut. You retain your nervousness right up to the Kick Off, but once the ball is kicked you're into it. You surge forward with each probing thrust. There's a quick corner, an inswinger; it's headed on, a shot, just past the post. Like the others around you, you groan and then leap to support the team. It's important they know when they've done the right thing. After all, if it had gone in it would have been a goal. We are the greatest. You surge down the opposite wing, the ball comes in, you check, yes the striker's there, he chests it down and shoots in one movement, sheer poetry, but the ball flies over the bar. Still, you nearly scored again. You give it to the opposition. Too easy, mate, too easy. Just a matter of time. Your mob are pushovers. And a goal does come. Their midfield genius, Mad Nobby, strokes the ball forward into the path of their striker. Onside, drat. He checks and beats two of your defenders before angling the ball top left into the net. Your goalie never even moved. You groan. Lucky goal, that. Sheer luck. At half time you queue ten minutes for a leak but when a roar behind you announces the recommencement of the battle you decide you never really wanted one anyway. There's been a change. One of the young forwards has been brought on. He's an immediate hero when he takes a throw in. Did you see that? What a throw in, what a talent. From the throw you move forward. A blast from forty yards out that was meant as a pass hits the post, rebounds to your striker who hits it back against the crossbar; it drops on the goalkeeper's back and trickles across the line. All is chaos and mayhem. Did you see that? What a goal. What a move. All down to The Kid's throw. There's a minute left. You have the ball, The Kid flicks it on after leaving Mad Nobby in his wake. Your striker shoots. Their goalkeeper dives full stretch to his left and stops the shot with a fingertip. No, you yell, bloody hell. If only. The ball rolls to their left back who slots it into the path of Mad Nobby who's just picked himself up and told The Kid just what bits of his anatomy he'll lose if he pulls a stunt like that again. Nobby moves forward like a dervish. The Kid's nowhere. Three on two. No, you yell. Bloody no. Like a rabbit in headlights you know what's coming. And you're so right. Your goalkeeper's sent the wrong way. The ball is side footed into the net. Your defenders hold their heads in their hands. You stand ashen faced. Grown men around you shed a tear. Bloody hell. A game we should have won. Another year for the socks to survive.
TS: And did I enjoy that?
SC: Enjoy? Who said anything about enjoyment? You are devastated. Too upset to drink. You can't go to work on Monday. The others will give you heaps. With a bit of luck you can stretch the sickie to cover Tuesday. And by Wednesday you can start preparing for the next game. Now, will I see you for the next session? It's entitled: How to cope with relegation.
TS: Look. I'll call you, OK.
Ergo. You'd have to be born to it to undergo that regime for fun. You wouldn't pick that for your entertainment, would you?
Bluie Stewie
