Centre forwards – Come in, number 9!

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.

Football's Boom Boom Boom!

The last few decades have witnessed extraordinary sums of money cascading into football. Admittedly an awful lot cascaded out again into the grubby mitts of agents and chief executives, but much of that has been invested in the game itself – or at least the tip of the mighty pyramid which supports the global sport.

It’s not just about the billions thrown at Premier league football by Sky, BT and now Amazon; it’s the rest of the world. The Manchester clubs, Liverpool and Chelsea can afford to splash out £50 million for players all bar the true cognoscenti will not have heard of. However, even Real Madrid, the club which made its modern reputation from hiring top-gun galacticos for vast sums (Sanchez, Figo, Ronaldo, Bale et al) is being left behind by Qatar-bankrolled Paris St Germain. I’d become used to world records being raised by a few million Euros at a time, but when PSG blew the transfer market apart with their 222 million Euro acquisition of cry-baby Neymar, followed by a 180 million option on the teenage Mbappe, my hands were thrown high in horror.

Things have got seriously out of hand. Like London house prices, hyperinflation at the top has an impact on every layer below. I write this after a summer transfer window awash with laughable sums being vaunted for unknown Portuguese or young defenders from our own League One who will probably end up being loaned out again. Has the whole world gone stark staring mad? Newly-promoted Fulham shelled out well over £100m on new stock just to give themselves a fighting chance of staying up.

Of course, I and most other football fans have been making similar exclamations all our lives. Even I am too young to remember the first six-figure transfer between British clubs (Alan Ball in post-World Cup 1966) but I do vividly recall the revelation of, I think, the first £100,000 teenager.

When I read about Arsenal spending such a huge sum on Peter Marinello from Hibs in January 1970, I probably almost choked on my Alphabetti Spaghetti. I presume his value was inflated by a vague physical resemblance to George Best but sadly his talent proved nowhere near as similar. Without a phalanx of psychologists and welfare coaches, the wee boy from Edinburgh never really justified the attention he received in the media. Although he scored on his debut – never a bad thing – injury and the celebrity lifestyle thrust upon his unsuspecting shoulders reduced his contribution to a mere three goals in three seasons before returning to Scotland.

A few months after the Marinello deal came our first £200,000 footballer, Martin Peters. However, I remember the most surprise at the time was not concerning the headline figure but the fact that the West Ham stalwart was heading to Spurs while the 30 year-old White Hart Lane legend Jimmy Greaves was the makeweight in the opposite direction. In the end, Spurs proved to reap the greater benefit because the alcoholic Greavesie retired the following year after only 38 appearances to spend more time in the pub.

With no mid- or close season windows in which to funnel all attention and pointless airtime-filling speculation, transfers were a year-round feature, as much part and parcel of football as they are now. It’s just that there was no internet, YouTube footage or ‘super-agents’ to whip up expectations. David Nish’s £225,000 move from Leicester to Brian Clough’s League-winning Derby side in 1972 raised eyebrows as he was ‘only’ a defender, then centre-forward Bob Latchford’s £350,000 fee in 1975 shelled out by Everton to Birmingham shattered the record. With consumer prices increasing by 25% a year at the time, perhaps we were accustomed to such inflation, and football transfers were merely symptomatic of mid-Seventies economics. Good for Bob, though!

In 1979, Clough's Nottingham Forest made Trevor Francis the first domestic million-pound footballer, doubling the previous record. Things went a bit berserk that September when Manchester City, way before their current excesses, found over £1.4 million to bring midfielder Steve Daley from Wolves. He was a decent player but hardly in that class. He even signed a ten-year contract – but left after two. Until the days of Robinho (Man City again) and Veron (Man Utd), Daley was considered the biggest waste of money in English football history.

During the Eighties, the financial clout of Serie A and La Liga constantly raised the bar, as the likes of Ray Wilkins (Milan), Mark Hughes (Barcelona) and Ian Rush (Juventus) went abroad in exchange for several million quid and head-turning signing–on fees and continental salaries. When Dennis Bergkamp came the other way for £7.5 million in 1995 - making even Arsenal worth watching for a change! – the dye was cast for a new international market in which Premier League clubs were leading buyers and sellers. However, the biggest leap occurred in July 1996 when Newcastle swooped for Blackburn’s Alan Shearer, England captain and goal scorer supreme, at a cost of £15 million. The floodgates opened….

The same has happened with wage bills, too. My heart bleeds for the poor dears who have to live on a basic £5 million plus bonuses and commercial extras in return for a few hours a week kicking a ball. Yet there is a vast disparity in salaries evident in English football. That has always been the case; it’s just that there are far more noughts and commas involved in the numbers these days.

If there is a salaries Grand Canyon between the Premier League and League Two, it’s probably even wider across the England-Scotland border. In 2018, Aberdeen’s star striker Adam Rooney headed south for a pay rise. He had been lured not by a club in the EP, nor even the Championship. No, he will be playing for non-league FC Salford! Inevitably the headline-grabbing contracts dished out to the Hazards and Pogbas of this world distort the overall PL average. In 2016-7, Man Utd’s annual wage bill was £264m, compared with newly-promoted Brighton’s £11million. No doubt Albion’s players earned a Premier League premium but nevertheless it’s hardly surprising that there is a widening chasm between the top six and the rest. It wasn’t always so but, unless more Middle East kingdoms get involved I can’t see the rest being allowed to catch up.

Another negative aspect of football as big business is the modern obsession with measuring players by salaries and, increasingly, transfer fees. The bigger the fee, the better the player, right? Is some non-entity plucked from the Turkish league for £12 million superior to an international star whose last club move came five years ago for half that amount? And where does that leave the one-club players - the Brookings, Gerrards and Scholeses – whose loyalty is considered so quaint and old-fashioned? They didn’t even take the lucrative pre-retirement bundle of dollars offered once by the USA and now China and Japan. No, you can’t value everything in terms of numbers. Football is better than that.

Football - Shoot! It's all for the cameras!

Like most sports, football has undergone humungous changes in my lifetime. When I first took an active interest, my enthusiasm beyond the family was fed only by special dispensation to stay up late for BBC1’s Match of the Day and London Weekend TV’s Sunday afternoon rival The Big Match. All in blazing black and white.

The only football coverage in colour came courtesy of the Shoot! magazine. From October 1969 to 1972, it would arrive every week with our Daily Express (not the UKIP mouthpiece it is now!). Originally costing a shilling, rising to six pence post-decimalisation in ’71, it was worth every penny of my meagre pocket money. 

 I would greedily devour every page, from ‘Bobby Moore Writes for You’ (it never occurred to me that they weren’t actually his words) to ‘You Are the Ref’, ‘Football Funnies’ (cartoons), quizzes, ‘Focus On…’ and a host of player photos and articles. My collection of back copies survived more than three decades before lack of wardrobe space dictated that a clearout was necessary. I retained a handful for nostalgia’s sake (see the above composite photo) but the rest went to a local charity shop. The owner may have made a killing as I note that those early editions can now sell for £2.99 on eBay! 

At around the same time, my friends and I would also collect cards depicting players. You could buy packets of six (I think) in the newsagent’s for a few pence and any duplicates we would swap at school: “Have you got a Mike Pejic for an Ernie Hunt” (I always seemed to have a Coventry City surplus), and so on. They were the forerunners of the familiar Panini stickers which still delight kids to this day.

Now, of course, there are dedicated TV channels, many more periodicals and, in particular, countless websites, YouTube videos, etc, etc to satisfy every conceivable craving of the football fan, 24/7, 365 days a year.

Looking back at these much-loved treasures from my childhood reminds me how the player photos have changed. Most of those early Seventies portraits featured either blank passport-type head-shots, the self-conscious folded arms, or the squatting in pristine club kit, fingers resting on a ball, half-smile beneath newly-combed hair (see Alan Woodward below). Not a tattoo in sight, thank God! Nowadays, besides displaying the obligatory inked 'sleeve' which I so forcefully despise, players clearly practise their open-mouthed roar, as such shots seem to be the only ones printed. I know it’s symptomatic of the current obsession with ‘passion’ and “giving it 110%” but forgive me if I don’t want to see endless pictures of Sergio Aguero’s tonsils on Match of the Day. 

                              

These days, goal celebrations are more than baring your fangs for the pitchside cameras. Where once upon a time, raising one arm (a la Alan Shearer) or two (Kenny Dalglish) and being hugged by your team-mates was sufficient. Even Mick Channon’s windmill action was considered a bit ostentatious in the Seventies. Then in the Nineties, the World Cup gave us Roger Milla’s corner flag hip swivel, Bebeto’s rockabye-baby and, when Jurgen Klinsmann brought his diving reputation to Spurs, the bellyflop slide.

Thereafter celebrations became ever more fancifully choreographed. Some were amusing (the Aylesbury Town synchronised duck waddle), some mildly embarrassing (the Peter Crouch ‘robot’) and some frankly ill-advised (the Robbie Fowler white line snorting). In more recent seasons, players seem to have cottoned on that an individualistic move or gesture can be worth more than a few photos on the back page or the club website. 

Daniel Sturridge’s hip-hoppy wavy arms are so famous, it’s easy to forget he barely gets on the pitch any more. When a player becomes better known for his celebration than actual feat of scoring, there's something fundamentally wrong. Gareth Bale has even taken the whole 'making it his own' phrase to the extreme. His once-cute, now-irritating hand heart shape has even been legally trademarked. Even Jesse Lingard has developed his own JL gesture which will presumably be repeated on adverts for years to come. That’s providing he actually gets to deploy it on the Old Trafford pitch when he’s on bus-parking duty.

Actually I’d much prefer to see a goalscorer just get caught up in the moment, either with a wild-eyed mazy run to the bench (Marco Tardelli in the ’82 World Cup final) or a bog-standard, turf-ripping kneeslide. Better still, a Lomana Lua Lua-style backflip is hard to beat for entertainment value, and the prospect of such joyous gymnastics going horribly wrong! Even more impressive was Julius Aghahowa. In the Nineties I would long for Nigeria’s forward to score in the World Cup, just to witness his incredible multiple somersault routine. You couldn't get away with that whilst sporting a shaggy Seventies barnet.

Goals are great but even I have to admit that sometimes the celebrations are even better.