The reopening of the transfer window means we football addicts have a daily fix of rumours, speculation, comments from players which, when de-coded, roughly translate as ‘come and get me’, and – every so often – an actual done deal. During the potentially barren summer months of a World Cup- and Euro-free summer the machinations of the transfer market (notwithstanding the Confederations Cup) become the lifeblood of the football fan. The movement of players in and out of clubs helps to keep everything fresh and adds an exciting dimension to our obsession.
The majority of transfers probably take place between willing buying and selling clubs and players ready for a new challenge elsewhere. But the money swilling around the top end of the game, and the army of agents with their eyes on grabbing a slice of it, mean that other, less healthy forces are increasingly influencing the market.
Now, most of us accept that movement between clubs is not only inevitable change but for the most part a good thing. And few of us would begrudge a player or coach taking an opportunity to better himself. But there is a point at which ambition becomes pure greed and, at that point, loyalty flies out of the window.
A few recent events have highlighted just how nebulous the concept of loyalty is within the game – except in one vital and significant constituency: the fans. For you and me, supporting our particular club is as much a part of our lives as breathing. It’s part of our identity, what makes us who we are, like our family ties or our nationality. It’s that strong.
It’s also like a birthmark, a life sentence – something you can’t get rid of or get out of – no matter how abysmally the players perform.
Ah yes, the players. When I was a kid they seemed like gods. But as I got as old as, then older than them, I realised they were mortal, with all the usual human fallibilities. No matter – even the least stellar of them had god-given talent in comparison with us on the terraces. And they had that aura that came with wearing the hallowed shirt.
But I also realised that the club meant far more to us than it ever would to them. That’s the nature of football: religion to the fans, a job to the players. And for many people, footballers included, a job is just a meal ticket, especially when a career in football is relatively short. But as entertainers their job is both special and privileged.
We don’t get thousands of people every week coming to watch us write reports, fix leaky taps or assemble components of a car, cheering our every move, with thousands more wishing they could be there too.
The average job directly affects the employee and the employer, and that’s about it. A footballer’s job – and how well he does it – can directly affect hundreds of thousands. Does that mean they should have a different attitude to their job than we do?
Well yes, in some respects it does. Romance and economics are uneasy bed-fellows but footballers carry the hopes and passions of all those fans onto the pitch with them every time they play, and in return for that responsibility they are paid more handsomely than most of us could ever dream of.
And we pay those fabulous wages: in season ticket receipts and gate money, in all the merchandise we buy, from matchday programmes and burgers to replica shirts and branded cell phones and credit cards, from TV subscriptions to the goods and services of all the club’s sponsors. So we are legitimate stakeholders in a sporting enterprise with a right to expect consideration, if not loyalty, in return.
We accept that players and managers come and go; often we welcome it. But we don’t much admire selfishness and greed and hypocrisy; they insult our own unstinting loyalty. So when, for example, Ashley Cole (and his agent) demands five or ten grand more than the 50 grand A WEEK already offered by Arsenal, and reacts by seeing how much more Chelsea are prepared to offer him, then gets caught out and punished, and then bleats about how he’s being hounded out of Highbury, many Arsenal fans are dismayed. And when he further bleats about how hurt he is that he may have to leave the club he loves, the double-standard strikes a jarring note.
Or when another millionaire, Rio Ferdinand, stalls over the monetary value of a new contract from Manchester United, the club who stood by him unreservedly when his own arrogance or stupidity caused him to be banned for eight months, during which time United fans continued to revere him, it strikes those fans as a bit ungrateful to say the least.
And when Frank Arnesen, having been given a good job by Tottenham and done it well, turning around the club’s fortunes and giving them prospects at last, then decides to abandon the project and dump all those Spurs fans and their dreams because Chelsea’s siren call is more lucrative, many of those fans feel betrayed.
It’s football life and it always will be, even if it wasn’t always that way when money only lubricated rather than utterly dominated the game.
Of course, we shouldn’t forget either that loyalty within football is a two-way street: every player knows he has a sell-by date that is usually dictated by age; and every manager knows he is only three or four consecutive defeats away from the sack no matter how impressive his prior achievements.
The fans and their undying loyalty are the only constant in football. Which is why a Tony Adams, a Paolo Maldini or a
Ryan Giggs and their increasingly rare ilk is held in such esteem. When they kissed the badge on the shirt they meant it: they resisted the temptation to move to greener pastures because their one club meant so much to them.
Too many others are mercenaries too eager to cash in on the realisation that disloyalty often comes with a handsome cash reward. So they move on and gladly partake in the charade of being photographed in their new club’s shirt, holding aloft the scarf, and uttering inanities about how much they love this new club and its fans. Yeah, right…
