My job involves reading a lot of stuff about the state of the world's economies, and one thing I find curious is the metaphorical and humanising language economists use to describe abstract economic currents that are best charted emotionlessly with a line and a couple of axes (worst.plural.ever). The first few lines are taken directly from a report about Croatia I edited today.
*
Growth in 2015 will be weak at best, and the economy could continue
to stagnate. Import growth is subdued because of constraints on domestic
consumption. Croatia is experiencing sustained deflation.
Croatia is experiencing sustained deflation.
Croatia
is experiencing
sustained
deflation
How does that feel, I wonder?
An emotional response, like the inverse of elation?
There’s a pattern that runs throughout my sporting heroes. The
all-time greats don’t really do it for me. Messi and Ronaldo? You can keep ‘em.
Usain Bolt? An incomprehensible talent, but not for me. I’ve only warmed to
Roger Federer since he got old.
No, flawed geniuses and nearly men are my deal. They tread
tantalisingly close to greatness and mainstream recognition, but there is
always something that holds them back. Tom Huddlestone – yes, I know, I never
stop cheerleading – is one, with his best-in-class passing accuracy and scud
missile shot tempered by a lack of bite and on-pitch authority. I revel in the
English middle class disdain for Andy Murray and his teenagerish sulks, and his
record-equalling consecutive Grand Slam final defeats. It’s not that I don’t
want Murray to win, you understand, it’s that his shortcomings endear him to
me.
The same goes for Andy Schleck, a cyclist from Luxembourg who
kiiiinda won the Tour de France in 2010. He possesses an exasperating talent, one undone
by a few glaring deficiencies, but over the course of his career did more than
anyone to breathe life back into cycling in the post-Armstrong era.
To win a Grand Tour you need four key attributes. You have
to be a) good at time trialling, b) good at climbing c) good at avoiding
mishaps and d) not on drugs. Andy Schleck was only every really good at b),
climbing, and despite some speculation, d). Every year he’d lose an
unrecoverable amount of time in the time trials to Alberto Contador or Cadel
Evans (and, well, mostly every decent rider in the peloton) and still manage to
come second. It’d be like if Federer was only able to play backhand but reached
the final of Wimbledon all the same. As for some perspective on the mishaps
thing: one of Schleck’s iconic moments is his chain coming off moments into a
potentially Tour-winning attack. He fell off a lot, too, crashing out of the
Tour in 2012 and 2014.
It was the crash this year, and the resulting damage
suffered to his knee, that forced him to announce his retirement from the sport
last week. Schleck is 29 years old, an age where most Grand Tour contenders are
nearing their peak, and his career is finished.
But in fact, even at 29, it has been some years since he
made any waves on the professional circuit. A series of heavy crashes, terrible
performances and continual abandonments (fuelled by speculation of growing
alcoholism) from around the end of 2011 scuppered his reputation in the peloton
as a contender. Schleck’s inability to finish a race became a joke in the
cycling community; it reached the point that some smart-alec set up a website
counting the days since he last finished a race. "SchleckChute" became a thing. The crash
that irreparably damaged his knee was sustained on the outskirts of Cambridge
by some troglodyte attempting to take a selfie. That video is hard viewing for
me. It was not the end he deserved.
*
July 21, 2011. Stage 18. Col d’Izoard.
Sixty kilometres from the finish, Andy Schleck attacks.
No one bothers responding. Who attacks from 60km out? No
one. It just doesn’t happen. Cadel Evans and Alberto Contador watch Schleck
ride off into the distance, and do nothing. Group breakaways rarely survive; one-man
breakaways never do. Minutes tick by; Schleck’s out of sight, and the gap
increases.
Two of Schleck’s teammates – Joost Posthuma and Maxime Montfort
– had strategically positioned themselves in the day’s doomed breakaway, for the
sole purpose of serving as human battery packs once Schleck makes contact. He catches
Posthuma ahead of schedule, two kilometres from the top of the penultimate
climb, and finds him too worn-out to be of much use. He can offer Schleck a few
moments respite from the wind, but nothing more. Schleck pedals on. The gap
stretches to two minutes.
Schleck and a big Alp. Not pictured: e'rebody else
He catches up with Monfort just over the crest of the
mountain, and Monfort guides him down the winding Alpine roads where they join
up with the survivors of the breakaway. By the foot of the final climb, the gap
to Contador and Evans has stretched to a full four minutes. With eighteen
kilometres to go Monfort cracks, Nicholas Roche cracks, and Maxim Iglinsky
cracks; Andy Schleck, now riding alone, stretches his lead to beyond four
minutes. The stage win looks all but certain, but what of the time gaps? He
needs two minutes twenty one seconds to take yellow from Thomas Voeckler, the
tiny, gutsy Frenchman, and as much as possible over Cadel Evans.
The road up the Col du Galibier is one of the highest
mountain passes in Europe, but this was the first time its peak was also the
stage finish, setting a record for the highest ever stage finish. It has a
formidable reputation, even amongst the Alpine giants. The climb is 18.1km
long, peaks at 2645m, and the average gradient is 6.1%. The air is thin.
Cadel Evans, now realising the terrible blunder he has made,
begins to huff up the mountain in dogged pursuit. This was it – like Schleck,
Evans had a reputation as a nearly man himself, with second place finishes in
2007 and 2008 – the last stab either would get at winning the Tour. Evans,
unaided by teammates and fueled by desperation, lays waste to the group, dropping Contador and Samuel
Sanchez.
Cadel Evans on the warpath
Up the road, Schleck is on his last legs, and the gap begins
to close.
*
For years, Lance Armstrong was the Hollywood blockbuster in
the art-house cycling world. Putting the drugs calamity that followed aside for
a moment, Lance was understandably a huge public draw: with the cancer thing,
the swagger, the jawline, and let’s face it, the incredible ability on a bike,
Lance Armstrong was Mr Tour de France. He retired in 2005 after a preposterous seven consecutive victories, and left a
power vacuum behind. Literally every other rider in the peloton was part of the
chasing pack, even the really good ones like Ullrich, Vinokourov, Menchov and
Kloden. Cycling needed new blood (no Dr. Ferrari, not that sort of new blood) and some new leading men.
It didn’t take long. After a crap 2006 in which another
brash American claimed yellow before subsequently being stripped of the title for
doping offences, Contador won in fine style in 2007. Two months prior, a 22-year-old
Andy Schleck announced himself to the cycling world by coming second in the
Giro d’Italia. He was perhaps the outstanding rider at the 2008 Tour, working
in support of his older brother, Frank Schleck, and Carlos Sastre, the Spaniard who won the race with an
outstanding attack on Alpe d’Huez.
By the time Contador and Schleck came together at the Tour in 2009, they
were the top two Grand Tour riders in the world. They would only race three
times in the Tour, but in my mind it became one of the great rivalries in
sport.
In truth, Contador clobbered Schleck in 2009, as he did
everyone, including Armstrong (making a respectable comeback) and Britain’s
very own Bradley Wiggins, who surprised everyone by coming fourth. Contador was
impervious, winning by 4’11” with an Armstrong-esque all-round superiority.
Schleck beat Contador on the key stage up Mont Ventoux, but it was a token
victory: Contador had won the Tour and could afford to let his rival cross the
line first.
Contador won again the following year, but this time it was
closer. Much closer. Schleck put time into Contador early on following a crash,
and by stage 9 was in yellow. The race came to a peak on stage 15. The pair
never took their eyes off each other on the climbs, and played out a game of
cat and mouse. Schleck refused to allow Contador to take his wheel for fear of
being attacked from behind, and the two came to a virtual standstill, mimicking the track stand technique used by Chris Hoy and the track sprinters. That the rest of the field was barrelling up the mountain was of no concern to them; both knew that they were untouchable by the rest of the field, and that the race was theirs and theirs alone. It was a small moment, but a telling one.
Then the spark. Near the top of the Port de Bales, after which came a fast
and short descent to the finish, Schleck caught Contador napping and attacked. Almost immediately, his chain came off,
Contador counterattacked, and by the time the stage was over Schleck had lost
39 seconds, and the yellow jersey.
One of the most famous photos from the history of the Tour
de France depicts eternal rivals Jacques Anquetil -- the five-time winner -- and
Raymond Poulidor -- Anquetil’s shadow -- locked shoulder-to-shoulder, battling up a
climb. Usually in such a situation one would be behind the other in order to take advantage of the slipstream effect; the bullishness and pride of both men triggered a one-on-one confrontation. Slipstream be damned, no hiding, this is a test of strength.It was pure ego. A fistfight on two wheels.
Jacques Anquetil (left) and Raymond Poulidor, 1964
Poulidor would win the stage; Anquetil the race.
Schleck and Contador
re-staged the duel on the slopes of the Tourmalet. The result was the same as in 1964: Schleck, as did Poulidor, won the stage; Contador the
race. They rode away from the bunch with ease, and battled up the mountain. Schleck attacked, again and again, but with each move Contador countered. Then Contador went, but just as it looked like Schleck would snap, he clawed his way back to Contador's wheel. A late lunge for the line won Schleck the stage,
but the celebratory fist-pump was muted. It wasn’t enough.
Shoulder-to-shoulder up the Tourmalet
The time trial was tighter than expected: a surprisingly competent ride from
Schleck actually brought him temporarily within two seconds of the overall lead,
before his challenge faded and Contador was able to gain a further 31 seconds.
One last twist of the knife: the final gap once the peloton rolled into Paris was 39 seconds – precisely the
amount of time Contador gained after Schleck’s chain came off. Classic Andy
Schleck.
Then the footnote. Remember quality d) from earlier, about
the importance of not being on drugs? Well, it turned out to be Contador’s
biggest flaw, and after testing positive for clenbuterol he was stripped of his
wins from 2010 to 2012. Schleck became the 2010 Tour de France
champion in the most unsatisfying way possible: by default. It was the outcome no one wanted.
*
It was one of the truly great stage wins Tour history
– all 102 editions of it. By the time a wobbling Andy had crossed the line (pictured in the header photo),
Cadel Evans was only able to claw back half of the four minute deficit. But despite the impressive margin of victory, it still wouldn't be enough. Schleck didn’t even take the yellow jersey – an incredible
ride by the un-fancied Voeckler saw him retain it by just 15 seconds, but he did
end up wearing yellow after dropping Voeckler up Alpe d’Huez the following day.
Evans was fantastic over the penultimate day’s time trial, turning the 57”
deficit into a 1’34” victory. The only consolation was being joined by his
brother, Frank, on the podium.
Cycling has changed over the years. An increase in
professionalism and a cleaner peloton has reduced time gaps significantly. Mountain-top
finishes – where the make-or-break moments in the Grand Tours usually play out
– have become tighter, cagier affairs, with attacks from near the top to claim
a handful of seconds becoming the norm.
Thus, Andy Schleck’s lone assault of the Galibier was
something of a throwback. In some ways his entire career was a throwback, in fact. Pure climbers capable of challenging for yellow are a thing of the past: you have to look way back to the likes of Luis Ocana and Schleck's compatriot, the enigmatic Charly Gaul, before you find such figures again.
The win on the Galibier was it for Andy Schleck. He had no
further success on a bike. But in fairness, when you’ve just won the greatest stage on the highest
peak the venerable old race has ever taken in, where else is there to go but down?
Not much to say here, just a list of internet things.
The Rowntrees Fruit Pastilles advert. Best advert ever.
The credits sequence to Alan Partiridge: Alpha Papa. Partridge is my favourite comic creation. There's a bit of Partridge in everyone. Love that noise.
Haven't watched it in a year, but the intro sequence to A Matter of Life
and Death (Powell and Pressberger, 1946) is one of the best I've seen. Andy Marvell, what a marvel!
Footage of a stricken hump back whale, tangled in fishing nets, rescued by a few men; celebrates joyously.
All around,
unsmiling, dead-eyed drones of the Underground pack the Bakerloo line like
battery farm chickens. Non-responsive, their very demeanour whispers elegies to
their disconnect from the world around them. Their mouths are sealed like
tombs. Their ears are blocked by headphones that blare only with dense white
noise. Personal space is not a concept that applies here. Personal space first requires
a person; no such being exists in the dark and winding tunnels below London.
Elbows nudge foreheads. Hair tickles noses. Too many sweaty hands grip a pole. No one complains. The rattle of the train and the rush of stale, dirty air through small openings
are the only noises.
How can they be so sucked dry? I think
to myself. When did they give up the fight?
Not wanting to betray my thoughts I steal momentary glances at those
around. The middle aged woman with the fading red hair. The smartly-dressed
twentysomething City worker with the shiny face and shaven jaw. An elderly man
in a reflective jacket. All following tracks through life just like the train
they are on. They exert no force on the world around them.
The person
opposite disembarks at Regents Park, leaving the seat vacant. The train passes
into darkness once more and the window, now unobscured, abruptly becomes a mirror. There’s another.
The girl next
to me reaches into her bag and pulls out a book. 2666 by Roberto Bolaño.
I catch a
glimpse of the screen of faded-hair lady’s iPod. Tom Jones – Sex Bomb.
The elderly
man in the reflective suit winks at a baby, which giggles.
***
Sonder.
n. the realization that each random
passerby is living a life as vivid and complex as your own—populated with their
own ambitions, friends, routines, worries and inherited craziness—an epic story
that continues invisibly around you like an anthill sprawling deep underground,
with elaborate passageways to thousands of other lives that you’ll never know
existed, in which you might appear only once, as an extra sipping coffee in the
background, as a blur of traffic passing on the highway, as a lighted window at
dusk.
In the past few weeks I have been getting to know the third
significant athletics track of my lifetime.
*
The first was the lumpy gravel loop that Maidenhead AC calls
home, situated in a cluster of rugby pitches just a gentle breeze from the Braywick
sewage works. Having moved on to pastures new, I now resent the joint-pounding
hardness of the rutted home straight, the lack of grip and the horrific damage
the cinder does to a pair of spikes, but without it I would never even have had
the choice to take up sprinting. The next closest track is Eton and my parents
didn’t have the time to take me what with two other boys with commitments and
passions of their own to raise. I am grateful for its existence, but that
doesn’t save it from holding the title of Comfortably the Worst Track I Have
Ever Run On by Miles.
Note the puddles. Note the uneven surface. Note the colour.
One solitary floodlight, barely above head-height, is tasked
every Tuesday evening with lighting the whole track, a task at which it fails
admirably. Three sides of the track are shrouded in gloom for the entirety of
winter, rendering sprinting impossible. Distance runners, seemingly unaware of
the existence of the peculiar creature known as a “sprinter”, meander all over
the place and dodging them without anything but the faintest illumination is
all but impossible.
Too poor to ever lay a tartan track, in a futile yearly
attempt at respectability every summer the council would paint wiggly white
lines on the track, y’know, in an attempt to disguise it as a normal running
track. Within weeks the white paint would be scattered and dispersed by a
combination of the footfalls of Nike-shod runners and the ever-dependable
British weather. It was about as effective as painting sand at low-tide. Not
only that, but the Maidenhead track is the only one I’ve ever seen that has an
eight-lane home straight, a seven-lane top bend, and six lanes for the second 200m.
It’s also 440 yards. It’s that old.
For some reason, it’s not a place that I associate with good
weather. I can remember times that it has been nice – one Easter it was so hot
I trained shirtless – but owing to training mostly coming to a halt when school
finished the scorching mornings and glorious warm evenings spent on the
Southampton track are slower to come to mind than winter dreariness and
three-minute runs.
The saving grace is the people. There’s a great little
community of dedicated athletes and coaches and since I started there a decade
or more ago the junior section has grown massively thanks entirely to their
commitment. I reckon I’ll try and do the same when I’m a bit older.
*
In comparison to Maidenhead, running on the Southampton
track was like running on a red carpet. A close-up: the foot comes down, spikes
dig and grip, rubber compresses minutely under pressure, stored energy, the
rebound. Repeat ad infinitum. A world away from slap-and-slip Maidenhead.
One of the feelings I most associate with the Southampton
track is freedom. It is literally a big, flat infinite space to run into as
fast as I can until I decide to stop. Neither going nor coming, just running. This
is true for all running tracks to some extent, but the spacious green geography
of the Southampton Sports Centre and its role as shelter from pressures of
academic university life intensify this feeling in me. We dealt with some grim
weather over the three years I trained in Southampton, but as I mentioned
before, the sunny spells linger in the memory moreso than the storms. When it’s
hot it’s almost like a dare: I’ve done
your warm-up for you, now run fast. And then when you’re spent the warmth
and sponginess of the track will afford you a lie-down.
Come at me, bro
But with pleasure comes pain, and with a greater level of
dedication to my running, the Southampton track at times began to resemble a
place of self-imposed torture. That’s barely an exaggeration. The sensation you
find at the lowest, deepest fire-(or tartan?)red circles of fatigue is one of being
wasted, if being drunk was agony. You can barely think, and you certainly can’t
walk, not for a while at least. Not until your stomach is heaved empty. Eh. Worth it.
I should also stress the amount of time I spent on the
Southampton track. A rough estimate points to about 700 hours over 2 ¾ years,
which actually doesn’t sound like that much to me, but I guess when you think
that’s 700 hours, or a solid month of intense exercise it starts to make sense.
A significant chunk of my life has been spent there with a slowly shifting group
of like-minded people who have become some of my closest friends. I’ve written
about this bond before. Then I graduated.
*
The autumn just gone I ended up back at the deserted Maidenhead
track for two months, training alone. A regression in lifestyle, a regression
in running surface. Without a car I had no choice – Eton was too far to cycle.
Eventually, though, I got a temp job in Slough and with it enough money to
afford car insurance.
The Eton track, owned by the school but open to the public,
is enclosed entirely by trees, tightly enough that it is scattered with fallen leaves
and twigs. The trees serve to keep the wind at bay, mostly, so the place feels
quiet, hushed, collegiate; this in contrast with exposed Southampton and its
gale-force headwinds. One evening a few weeks ago a thick fog rolled in, so
dense that visibility was around 50m. There were few people there that night,
so every now and again a jogger would loom out of the mist, whiz by before
being swallowed again. Surreal. The expensive stands enclose a gym, sauna,
decent changing rooms and, best of all, a rubberised indoor 60m straight.
And the track. Oh my.
It was re-laid in early autumn and it is perfect.
Southampton’s feels dead in comparison. I float. You float. We float.
Even before training here regularly Eton was my third
most-visited track, owing to all the district inter-school athletics events
held there. These were some of the best days of my school life, and not just
because I nearly always won, but also because of proper team spirit and the
dependable good weather. Our relay team also wiped the floor with every other
school in the district.
*
Tomorrow after work I meet up with some of the Windsor
Slough Eton & Hounslow sprint coaches with the hope of finding a group to
train with for the first time since June. Chapter three!
The needle has swung wildly in the opposite direction. In
2006, the England team was packed full of stars, men like Stevie and Frank and
Wayne and Ashley and EBJT, all in their Champions League-troubling glory, and
England expected. We had a great collection of players, we really did. Of
course, things didn’t go according to plan. We struggled to score goals and
went out on penalties in the quarter-finals to baby-Cristiano Ronaldo’s team of
Portugeezers (which is not actually that bad, really).
Then came the recriminations. Overrated bollocks! shouted
the papers. Pampered millionaires! shouted the rest. And as such, England, as a
football-watching collective, went into the 2010 World Cup in Suthifrika with
tempered expectations. Gareth Barry was in the midfield along with James Milner,
and Heskey was Rooney’s best striking partner.* T’was uninspiring, but at the
same time, we still had quite a lot of very good players who turned out
regularly for the best teams in the strongest league in the world. Most teams
in the tournament could not match that. I don’t blame the personnel, not
really.
No, Fabio Capello is the man to blame. Most of England’s
best players are all-rounders. The best, Rooney, is an all-rounder. Eight-out-of-tens
across the board. Numbers three and four are Steven Gerrard and Frank Lampard,
both of whom are all-rounders. Likewise, seven-to-eight-out-of-ten across the
board. A team needs one or two of these players, players that can help out
defensively as well as attack, pass, run and fire-fight. Any more than a couple
and a team will lack the necessary high-end qualities to get through a tough
defence: their roles will be poorly-defined and as a result the team will lack
any focal-points. A team needs specialists, like highly mobile players to get
in behind, predatory finishers who rely on anticipation and cold-bloodedness or
players with outstanding ball-retention. With Rooney, Gerrard, Lampard, Milner (Happy 28th Birthday, James!) and possibly Welbeck when he’s played out wide, England have far too many
all-rounders. Of those five, Rooney has to start, and personally I would play
Milner on the left to bring some tirelessness to the midfield. Welbeck would be
a good replacement, too. The key point is this: there is no space for Gerrard
or Lampard, and particularly not both.
I can’t wait for Gerrard and Lampard to retire. They’re
still playing frustratingly well at 34 and 35 years old, which makes dropping
either of them a seriously tough decision for Woy. Gerrard’s the captain, and still
a good player, I can completely understand why Roy persists. He does play well
and it can be hard to be overly-critical of his play due to his general
competence. Not only that, but he is the captain also – it would take a bold
manager to drop his captain entirely from the set-up. Nevertheless, he
shouldn’t be in the team.
I have more patience with Lampard who is cleverer and more
cunning and could thus play a more advanced role, but he would overlap with
Rooney’s skillset and between the two it’s a no-brainer.
At the moment my team stands thus:
Hart
Johnson Terry Cahill Baines
x
x .
Walcott Milner
Rooney .
Sturridge
A quick overview: Hart,
obviously; Baines narrowly ahead of Cole; Johnson narrowly ahead of Walker;
Terry needs to come out of retirement to partner his club-mate Cahill; Walcott
is by far England’s most dangerous wide-player (sorry Andros); Milner is solid
and dependable and offers good protection for attack-minded Baines; Rooney and
Sturridge pick themselves by being the best two English forwards by a distance,
and happily their playing styles are complementary. Pretty good, and nice and
balanced, too.
This team has two spaces with
which to fill the roles of distributor and defensive midfielder. Gerrard these
days likes to be both, and frustratingly Roy is happy to allow him to try. Oh,
Roy. Gerrard’s distribution is, it has to be said, very good, but when it comes
to soaking up pressure and playing an understated game, he comes up short. For
the role of distributor I nominate two players, one of whom is obvious, the
other isn’t (unless you know me. Oh yes.)
Michael Carrick
Carrick is a graceful player and
a fantastic passer. Is he too old? Probably not. He’ll be just shy of 33 at the
start of the World Cup, and for a player in his position requires a lot of
jogging but not much sprinting, that’s okay. On the downside, he doesn’t offer
much goal threat and isn’t much of a physical presence. I can rarely remember
Carrick being assertive, instead doing his best to allow other players to be
assertive. One advantage from Roy’s
point of view is that he wouldn’t get much stick if things went wrong; Carrick
is a safe choice. He’s not my first choice distributor though.
Tom Huddlestone
Hudd absolutely smashed Fulham
the other day and for the first time I can remember, large-scale debate has
sprung up around his ability and his potential suitability for England. Don’t
worry, I’m not being swept along on a wave of hype, I’ve been advocating Thudd’s
inclusion for years. He’s similar to Carrick in many ways, but has even better
vision and is more technically adept. He wasn’t at his best last season but
even then he would be subbed on early in the second half and would quietly set
about changing the game, out-passing the opposition midfield and bringing wide
players in with unerring cross-field passes, snappy balls into feet and
weighted through-balls. Willing runners such as Walcott and Sturridge would
thrive with his service, and his ability to thread a ball into an advanced
player’s (Rooney’s) feet in tight areas would no-doubt prove effective.
Assessments of Huddlestone’s
time at Spurs that he slowed play down are wide of the mark (it’s not about how
fast you can run, but how fast you can play the ball. No issue there), but his
lack of pace means he gets bypassed easily and doesn’t have much bite in the
tackle. In fact, despite his size, he doesn’t throw his weight around much.
A further downside is that he is
mostly an unknown quantity at international level with just four caps against
crap teams, and to install him in the starting XI would be seen as a huge risk
by the press.
If Thudd is to be the creative
hub of this England team he needs someone to help him defend. The requirements
are: good defensive positioning, energy, physicality, strong link-up play.
There are a few candidates.
Realistic choices
Jordan Henderson
He’s surprised everyone by being quite
brilliant for Liverpool this year, marrying dynamism with guile. Not having
seen Liverpool play many full matches I’m not really qualified to comment on
his defensive ability, though. Sorry.
Jack Wilshere
Pretty similar to Jordan
Henderson in many ways, I’m not entirely sold on his defensive ability either.
Phil Jones
This is the one, I think. The
lad can defend, no doubt. He’s good enough on the ball to work as a
double-pivot (someone’s been reading Inverting
the Pyramid) and take the play forward himself as well as being tactically
astute enough to let Hudd dictate the play. I’m on to something here.
Tom Cleverley
I seemed to be the only one who
thought Cleverley put in a decent performance against Germany a few months ago.
He was diligent in defence covered for Gerrard well. Essentially, he does what
Phil Jones does, but not as well.
Left-field choices
Lee Cattermole
Cattermole is a prick that no
one likes and often he seems to prefer injuring people than playing football.
However, in a reducer role he’s really quite effective and is the kind of mad
bastard that would complement Huddlestone's more cerebral style.
RAF Captain Scott Parker
He’s played alongside Thudd at
Spurs quite successfully, but he’s been short of his 2011 hey-day for a while
now. RAF Captain Scott Parker is made of gristle and English pride and as long
as he follows the instruction of ‘pass it to Tom’ and he could probably do a
decent job.
Jack Rodwell
Is Jack will broken? I’ve lost
track. He’s got the potential to be great but he hasn’t got the consistency and
isn’t playing regular football.
I'm pretty happy with that. It's got satisfactory cover for every position except maybe Jones. Rodriguez could be dropped for Andy Carroll if he ever gets back to full fitness, but I don't really feel a big lump up front these days. It's a shame to leave out both Henderson and Cleverley, but that would re-introduce the all-rounder issue so it has to be done.
Flaws in this team: Hudd's good but he's not invincible. This team could get overrun in the middle by Spain or Germany. It would work well on the counter-attack, with Jones able to bomb on ahead. Alternatively, Sturridge would be replaced by Rooney who would play the lone striker, with an extra man added to mid-field - Jack Wilshere would be my go-to man owing to his ball retention and skill in tight areas.
