Goals, Goals, Goals

Tucking it away, slotting home, ‘back of the net’; football’s all about goals, isn’t it?

It doesn’t matter how they go in. Dodgy deflections or thirty yard thunderbolts, goalie gaffes or goalmouth scrambles, they all count.

When conjuring up my own brightest memories of goals over the years, I think they basically split into three different categories: late winners/Cup clinchers, life-affirming stunners and the ones which make me smile in recognition of their sheer impudence or originality.

The famous end-of-season last-gasp efforts by Sergio Aguero (2012) and Michael Thomas (1989) wouldn’t make a YouTube montage of Greatest Ever Goals ('pleaz like and subscribe') but for significance they can’t be beaten. Similarly, many goals which decided Cup finals at home or abroad linger long in my memory, from Charlie George’s strike for Arsenal in ’71 to Lawrie Sanchez’s flick header for Wimbledon in ’88 or Iniesta’s pounce to claim Spain’s World Cup triumph in 2010.

Whirling curling shots from distance are ten-a-penny these days. Every goal in very match played is captured for posterity, a far cry from the old Match of the Day era of two games a week. Nevertheless, Dad and I would religiously select our own 1-2-3 Goals of the Month from the meagre list, culminating in the Goal of the Season around the time of the Cup Final. Some of those early winners are ingrained in my brain, such as Mickey Walsh's strike for Blackpool in 1975, Justin Fashanu’s flick, twist and thump for Norwich five years later and, of course, Ronnie Radford’s Motson-maker in the 1971-72 FA Cup.

The onset of the Premier League, the exponential expansion of camera angles and balls aerodynamically designed to prance and pirouette to the striker’s tune brought an even greater number of mouth-watering goals to my TV screen. In the mid-Nineties, Leeds’ Tony Yeboah and Southampton’s Matt leTissier were forever scoring individual masterpieces while, for Arsenal, Thierry Henry and Dennis Bergkamp would re-define the art of finishing, later finessed by the incomparable Lionel Messi.

We all love an acrobatic volley, of course. Anyone with any experience of playing football knows how insanely difficult an overhead ‘bicycle’ kick is to pull off successfully, so when I see one perfectly executed, I have to stand and applaud. Gareth Bale even did it in the 2018 Champions League Final. However, Zlatan Ibrahimovic, never one to shrink from the toughest challenge, produced one of the very best and most ambitious for Sweden against England in 2012. But when an ‘overhead’ is delivered by a player from my own club, it’s even more special. Thank you, Trevor Sinclair!

Free-kicks have never been more important to teams. With the defensive wall still expected to line up ten yards from the ball, it is much easier these days to loft it up and over. The hard bit, of course, is to get the ball to dip under the bar. Some have avoided this dilemma by mischievously taken advantage of leaping defenders to fire home under the wall, and I won’t forget a few brilliant Brazilians’ success with bending it around the barrier. Rivelino was an early exponent but I doubt even he could have executed a banana kick as well as Roberto Carlos did in ’97. Phenomenal.

It’s not all about the boot, of course. Crosses, corners and free-kicks often seek out someone’s head to apply the final touch in the box. In my younger days, forwards would struggle to power in a header from further then the penalty spot but modern plastic balls are much lighter. One of the first goals off the bonce to stick in my mind was Uwe Seeler’s back-header against England in the 1970 World Cup. Malcolm Macdonald made the art look easy, scoring four headers against Cyprus five years later and in the 2014 World Cup Robin Van Persie’s winged flier for Holland showed that the head can be just as exciting a weapon as the foot. Occasionally a conventional-looking header becomes legendary when delivered by a master. Cristiano Ronaldo’s exemplary leap, hang and power was such a moment, breaking Welsh hearts in the 2016 Euros. How could anyone defend against that?

Solo goals often make me gasp but team moves can be more satisfying just as a delicious main course is ultimately more edifying than the instant appeal of a post-match burger and chips. In recent years, Spain and Barcelona have delivered many, of which this Iniesta-completed work of art is a perfect example. Wenger-era Arsenal were also often criticised for trying to walk the ball into the net when a more direct approach may have been more effective. However, when they had an end product, they could be beautiful.

Novelty value also makes some goals particularly memorable. One of my favourites is Ernie Hunt’s free-kick from Willie Carr’s two-footed back flick for Coventry in 1971. We certainly tried to copy that one for days on end! Mercifully it was not disallowed but it was kinda sad that the double-foot free-kick was subsequently outlawed. There’s nothing wrong with penalty-takers opting for a gentle dink instead of firing at the top corner. The ‘Panenka’ can go horribly wrong if the ‘keeper stands his ground but, when star players choose a chip in a high-pressure game, I doff my cap, as in this Zidane instance during the 2006 World Cup final.

One of the most famously audacious goals in the 1990s pretty much launched the career of one of England’s most celebrated football icons. Who can forget watching on MOTD when David Beckham lobbed Wimbledon’s Neil Sullivan from the halfway line in 1996?

Individual brilliance comes in many forms but two of my favourite goals were straight from the ‘out of nothing’ manual. George Best’s incredible acceleration and swivelled finish for Man U in ’71 was breathtaking but I will never forget watching England’s live game against Chile in ’98 when Marcelo Salas’ control and volley almost literally took my breath away. I must have screamed “What a goal!” on countless occasions but this deserved all the hyperbole. They may all count but some are definitely better than others. 

United Kingdom United

As a child, football was a gift which kept on giving – unless you were a player, in which case the season must have seemed interminable. If your club wasn’t in the Anglo-Italian Cup, the British Home International Championship might grab you instead. 

There was none of yer here-today-gone-tomorrow UEFA Nations League nonsense. For a hundred years, each domestic season was wrapped up by a week of fixtures involving each of the home nations, England, Scotland, Wales and Northern Ireland. These days, eyebrows are often raised when any two of the above are drawn against each other in qualifying groups for the World Cup or Euros, but until 1984, we could enjoy not two but six matches every single year. For me, they were as much a part of the season as the FA Cup Final. 

Many of the Scots played north of the border, fuelling the success of Celtic, Rangers and Aberdeen, but almost all the men in red or green were familiar faces in the Football League alongside their English counterparts. England and/or Scotland reached the World Cup Finals in 170 and ’74, respectively, but come May I welcomed the opportunity to watch the likes of George Best, Pat Jennings, John Toshack and Leighton James in their national colours.

I don’t recall whole matches but isolated incidents have stayed with me. An imperious header against England by Southampton’s Ron Davies – it must have been in 1969 - had Saints fan Dad in absolute raptures: “He was away above Moore”. And indeed he was. However, Wales lost that game, as they did most of the ‘Home’ internationals they played against their more populous neighbour.

A rather more famous incident two years later also sent my normally placid father into a state of heightened animation. For the opening fixture Northern Ireland were hosting England at Windsor Park, presumably hoping to snatch a goal against Sir Alf Ramsey’s men. George Best was at his peak, a constant thorn in any goalie’s side, and at one point he cleverly spotted a chink in Gordon Banks’ armour. Noting how the English number one tended to throw the ball high when attempting a drop-kick clearance, he tracked Banks from the side then, with the ball in the air, flicked a left boot to clip it over the ‘keeper’s head and nodded it in the empty net. Genius, and entirely within the laws of the game. Banks protested and the goal was shamefully disallowed. Dad, of course, had been a goalie but we recognised a perfectly legal goal when he saw it. The ref’s decision cost the Irish not only the goal and the game but also the championship which at that time they had never won outright.

In 1975 I remember watching in amazement as a rampant England, so feeble in their previous games, ripped Scotland apart at Wembley, and the legend of the Incompetent Scottish Goalkeeper was born. Poor Stewart Kennedy may have been a Rangers mainstay but he had an absolute nightmare in the 1-5 humiliation and never played for Scotland again.

Two years later, Scotland gained their revenge. I don’t remember it as a classic match, although the uncompromising centre-forward Joe Jordan roughed up the England defence as only he could. However, the images of the raucous Scots celebrating a 2-1 victory on the Wembley pitch culminating in the destruction of one of the crossbars not only increased awareness of hooliganism in British football but also hastened the end of the championship itself.

By the Eighties, only the oldest rivalry in world football, the England-Scotland clash, roused much passion – too much for the stadium owners and London councils. 100,000 could pack into Wembley or Hampden Park but there wasn’t much enthusiasm for a rain-soaked Tuesday evening at Ninian Park. The growing fear of hooligan incidents, coupled with the political situation in Northern Ireland, only hammered the final nails in the tournament’s coffin.

I couldn’t help feeling sad, despite recognising the reasons for the ruling. The Championship was dying on its feet but, paradoxically, was becoming more interesting as the Welsh and Irish teams were more competitive than they had been for years. Wales had one of their more memorable moments in 1980, a glorious 4-1 triumph over a mediocre England at Wrexham. The hundredth tournament was to be the last, in 1984, and who were the final champions? None other than Billy Bingham’s Northern Ireland. It may have been achieved on goal difference but the trophy remains Irish FA property for as long as the Championship is consigned to history. George Best et al had the last laugh.

Reds, Yellows and Green is the new Black

Whether or not Jagielka deserved to go last weekend, red cards are always the source of much debate, arguments which ultimately can't change anything. Yet the brandishing of yellow or red cards wasn't always an everyday occurrence.  Although launched on the international stage in the late Sixties they weren’t adopted by the Football League until 1976. Prior to that, relatively minor misdemeanours would result in the offender being ‘booked’, i.e his name would be written in a notebook carried by the ref. Something worse would mean a sending off. 

While obviously having laws of the game to uphold, refs were allowed a lot of leeway, resulting in a more affable relationship between players and officials. Nowadays I tend to agree with those who decry refs as being ‘robots’, flashing the cards with officious relish at the first tug of a shirt or ‘raised arm’. The best refs still manage to apply the laws whilst understanding context and personalities but they are often themselves punished for leniency, which I consider ludicrous.

Sendings off, with or without a red rectangle, were unusual in the early Seventies. A defender would virtually have to decapitate or shatter the leg of an opponent to warrant his marching orders. However, woe betide anyone who swore at the ref or linesman, as the big and feisty Wolves number nine Derek Dougan would famously discover. I also recall his fellow Northern Irishman George Best being dismissed for petulantly throwing a piece of mud towards the ref when playing for his country in 1970. It seems so trivial now, but it caused a storm at the time. It wouldn’t happen in 2018; there’s no mud to throw!

Coincidentally, Best received the second red card ever to be shown in the Football League in 1976, although on the same afternoon, Dave Wagstaffe, whose crosses had been so valuable to Dougan a few years earlier, received the very first. Curiously, both were awarded for abusive language. Presumably the same naughty words we can hear or lip-read every few minutes in the Premier League today. At least there was widespread respect for referees back then, For all the FA’s attempts at stamping out on-pitch swearing, including the Respect campaign, they’re fighting a losing battle. Maybe more f*@#ing red cards are needed?!

Perhaps referees would be command greater respect were they always dressed in black, as they were until the Premier League ushered in the green shirts. When the Man in Black controlled the game with just a whistle, stopwatch, book, a knowing wink and firm gesture, they tended to shun the limelight. It seems ironic that the card system was dropped in England for much of the Eighties because it apparently encouraged “demonstrative referees”. How thinking has changed! When referees are officially ranked in descending order of cards shown, I think there is a problem. Surely we should be lauding those who don’t flourish the red and yellow at every opportunity.

Then again we now live in an era of not one referee but four. The linesman is now an ‘assistant referee’ although I suppose the modern nomenclature avoids the problem of gender-specific language now that women have finally been allowed to break the glass ceiling in this field. The so-called ‘fourth official’ seems a bonkers idea. All he – or theoretically she – seems to be there for is hold up an electronic board displaying substitutions and what we used to call injury time, and soak up the bile and venom spat by managers on the touchline. In my opinion, they are superfluous on both counts; just replace them with a fixed clock and a punchbag!

Refs have a tough job as it is without having to face down a manic Mourinho or ranting wild Warnock. I wouldn’t wish that on anybody. I also remember seeing poor Andy d’Urso being pursued around the pitch by a baying Man United mob led by Roy Keane ,which is probably worse. That led to the authorities clamping down on such appalling displays of intimidation, threatening massive fines to clubs whose players adopt mob rule. I guess a little coloured card can be a more effective weapon to wield than a machete when you’re a ref, but it sure helps to have the FA behind you.

The Russia World Cup expanded the number of officials still further to include the VAR – an anonymous bunch of people watching the same bank of camera angles we could see at home. No doubt this will be expanded to all Premier League games any day now. Is it a positive innovation? I reckon there are more pluses than minuses but VAR has to go hand in hand with tougher punishment for diving and bogus penalty claims.

Guidelines have come and gone over the years with new instructions to refs needed to counter insidious growth of on-pitch nastiness, such as the elbow (euphemistically called the 'raised arm'), diving  ('simulation') and the 'professional foul'. I remember applauding the 'straight red' shown to Kevin Moran during the 1985 FA Cup Final against Everton, a massive talking point at the time.

I can’t say I have ever drawn up a list of my favourite referees. As mentioned earlier, they are supposed to be largely anonymous, upholding the laws of football as required of them. In the Seventies, Clive Thomas of Treorchy (why were refs always named with their home town in brackets?) was probably the best known. I don’t know whether he was the most prolific when it came to taking names of offenders but he was always known as ‘Clive the Book’. I once saw him living up to his reputation cautioning the Exeter City ‘keeper Len Bond for tapping an obstinate forward with the ball, thus conceding a penalty! Thomas was not popular with us City fans that day.

The aforementioned Mr d’Urso is remembered by me not only for that Man Utd incident but for the fact he came from Billericay (those brackets again), while Uriah Rennie made waves as the first top-flight black ref in England. I do have a soft spot for Mark Clattenburg (Consett) who overcame an early ‘rabbit in headlights’ appearance to become one of the world’s finest. If a top PL manager singled him out for criticism, then maybe he was doing his job particularly effectively. However, I shall never forget the first time I saw Pierluigi Collina (Bologna). In the Nineties, Dad and I sometimes watched Channel 4s Sunday afternoon Italian football coverage, and the sight of ‘baldie ref’ used to liven up even the dullest Serie A encounter. We used to cheer every decision and he thoroughly deserved the accolade of best ref in the world. No automaton, he. With those scary, starey eyes, he wasn’t a man to mess with either. That's what you really want from a ref!