Forwards, strikers, attackers, front men, predators. They’re the footballers who hog the headlines, attract the most
sensational transfer fees, appear on more bedroom posters than anyone else.
Whether in the flesh or on the box I’ve marvelled at many great marksmen over
the years, from Pele to Aguero, Lineker to Ibrahimovic, Best to Kane. There are
many different types of striker. There are the willing channel-runners like
Suarez and Vardy, the penalty-area poachers such as Muller and Dalglish, the
‘off-the-flank’ dribblers in the image of Hazard and Mahrez or the awesome
all-rounders – for instance, Cristiano Ronaldo. However, in my opinion, it’s
the big target man, the centre-forward who is often the more irresistible
member of the team.
I’ve already loaded plaudits on to the burly shoulders of
Les Ferdinand and Ron Davies but I’ve enjoyed watching many more of their ilk over
the last half a century. Many were as much villains as heroes; the players I
loved to hate. Unless you were whole-hearted fans of their clubs or countries,
it was hard to like menacing men like
Duncan (‘Disorderly’) Ferguson, Malcolm Macdonald, John Fashanu or Diego Costa.
But even I had a sneaking regard for their ability to leap above centre-backs
or muscle their way into the goalmouth.
Everton seem to have a particular penchant for fearless
centre-forwards. Setting aside historical figures such as Dixie Dean and Tommy
Lawton, I recall Joe Royle being a towering presence
in the League in the late Sixties and early Seventies. Like Jeff Astle, I
daresay he would have won more England caps had Alf Ramsey not preferred the
wingless approach which won him the World Cup. He was replaced by Bob Latchford
who became a legend not only for the Toffees but also his first club Birmingham
and latterly Swansea. I think he was playing
for them when, as Division One leaders in 1982, they came to Exeter for a
mid-season friendly for some badly-needed practice amidst a glut of winter
postponements.
Andy Gray made a big impression in under two seasons at
Goodison but, for any of his clubs, the Scot was never afraid to put his head
in dangerous places in an attempt to score. Graeme Sharp was a different kettle
of fish, a more cultured striker yet brilliant in the air, but then came Duncan Ferguson. Let’s face it, he was a
throwback to a previous era: the Stone Age. He would slot in well in today’s
game, with its fixation on ‘passion’. He was all about shaking his fist and
grabbing opponents by the throat, the ‘harder’ the victim, the better. He even
served time in Barlinnie for a vicious head-butt while playing for Rangers. At least he seems to have been rehabilitated with a
coach’s seat on the current Everton bench.
Another Scot, Joe Jordan, was a similar sort of number nine,
bristling with aggression and making life hell for defences and referees alike.
With his front teeth missing he looked especially menacing. Both Jordan and Ferguson suffered a lot from injuries but I
suppose that goes with the territory. You dish it out, you have to take it.
Just ask Andy Carroll. Since announcing himself as a teenager at Newcastle in
2008-9, his career has been a series of layoffs, be they in the treatment room
or the dog-house. Like most, I always give an ironic cheer whenever he gets a
yellow or red card but have to admit his reputation precedes him and whenever
Carroll’s elbow goes up, his opponent will surely fall down clutching his face,
regardless of any physical contact.
John Hartson was another big bruiser
who was targeted by rivals desperate to stop him rattling in the goals. He,
too, played for West Ham, after being offloaded by Arsenal in 1997. His lowest
point must have been the appalling kick at the head of a felled Eyal Berkovic.
The perverse nature of Hartson’s violence was that Berkovic was a team-mate and
the incident occurred on the Hammers training ground! Unfortunately for him, it
was captured on video. His best years were to be in the 2000s at Celtic but he
remains a hero in his native Wales where he often appears as a pundit, equally
adept in Welsh or English
Iain Dowie was not a truly big centre-forward by modern
standards but in the Nineties he was a barnstorming bull for several clubs,
notably Southampton and West Ham. He wasn’t prolific in the goal sense but
proved his worth by creating space and knockdowns. I always thought he looked less a footballer, more a boxer after a third mandatory count, his forehead alone bringing to mind a 3-d contour map of Dartmoor. However, before
becoming a pro, he completed a degree in engineering, proving how darned
deceptive appearances can be.
Bolton’s Kevin Davies was a similar type of player, but far
dirtier, as evident from this clip. Start as you mean to go on,
Kev, why don’t you! That boyish face was as misleading as Dowie’s, yet he was a
consistent performer in the Premier League, earning him membership of England’s
one-cap wonder club. Davies had all the never-say-die qualities needed to
become a fan favourite. The same goes for Watford’s Troy Deeney, Wolves’
all-time top scorer Steve Bull and Peter Withe, who must have lost count of how
many clubs at which he is a legend. He’s also one of the few players who can
claim a First Division winner’s medal with two clubs (Forest and Villa), along
with a European Cup award with the latter in 1982.
At that time, black British players were thin on the ground
so it was especially encouraging to witness the adoration warming the cockles
of West Brom’s Cyrille Regis. As one of the Midlanders’ ‘Three Degrees’,
Cyrille’s nose for goal was uncanny, and his 1981-82 Goal of the Season featured as perfect a shot
on the run as you will ever see. His contemporary Luther Blissett epitomised the
old-fashioned English number nine, banging in 186 goals for Watford in all four
divisions. I used to laugh at his occasionally clumsy style but, boy, was he
effective!
Withe apart. none above were particularly tall; no more than
six feet. However, I did have a sneaky regard for a few human lighthouses over
the years. Niall Quinn was 6 foot 4 and naturally
a great target for crosses. The ever-engaging Peter Crouch is three inches
taller, a penalty area threat at the highest level (pun definitely intended) for
two decades. More than just a twig-legged, robot-dancing heading machine, he
has hit the net with a few spectacular shots, too. You gotta love him.
However, the best all-round centre-forward I have seen was
Alan Shearer.
As a weapon of choice, his elbow had no peer and he could take on the Roy
Keanes of this world, too. However, his true worth lay in his prolific scoring
record. His tally of 260 in the PL may be beaten but 422 in all competitions is
an amazing tally. Only 6 feet tall he nevertheless won duels by sheer willpower
and could shoot ferociously, a belligerent bulldozer for club and country.
For all the rise in swift passing, it’s still great to see
centre-forwards thriving, even if their nationalities have changed. They may
often seem profligate, but the top managers always find time for the likes of Romelu
Lukaku and Olivier Giroud, even Christian Benteke, for the muscle they bring to
an attack. As with Crouchie, they may not always start but make a very useful
Plan B. A or B, long may they continue.
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