Champions, Inevitably

Champions, Inevitably
By Prayaag Akbar

Another season, and another Premier League title for Alex Ferguson and Manchester United. The Scottish knight has just racked up a 18th title for the self-proclaimed biggest club in the world, equalling the record that bitter rivals Liverpool have held since their last league victory, way back in 1990. When Sir Alex was appointed manager of the club in 1986, the once-great club was enduring a protracted fallow period, far from the heady days of the 1950s and ‘60s. They could no longer attract the best talent in the country, as they had in the days of George Best and Bobby Charlton. Yet Ferguson took his time, fashioning a team that matched the fervent supporters of Manchester. More than twenty years later, he has won eleven league titles, the first coming in 1992 when the old Football League was rebranded and became the Premier League. In 1992 Liverpool’s haul of eighteen league titles seemed unassailable, and if you had suggested then that the mighty Liverpool would fail to win the league once in the next seventeen years you would have been laughed out of Old Trafford. But that is how things have panned out. By equalling that record this year Ferguson has comprehensively demonstrated who the top dog of English football has been since he has been around. It is worth keeping in mind that Ferguson is no shrinking violet. When he first headed south from the Scottish club Aberdeen, he was asked what his primary responsibility would be in England. His answer was succinct: ‘to knock Liverpool right off their f***ing perch’.

But if Manchester United’s unquenchable thirst for trophies is making things a little predictable at the top – this is their third league title in a row – football lovers seeking thrills should look below those heady reaches, to the pit of the Premier League table, where every season a gut-tingling fight to the finish takes place. This is the battle to decide which teams will be allowed to ply their trade in the topmost echelon of English football. Until the last weekend of the season, two of the three teams that would be demoted had not been decided. Only West Bromwich was sure to go down; Newcastle, Sunderland, Middlesbrough and Hull were all struggling to avoid the drop.

As it turned out, it was Newcastle and Middlesbrough that suffered that ignominy, with their failure to win ensuring Hull, who lost to the champions on the final day, and Sunderland, who lost to Chelsea, would escape the chop. The relegations come as something of a shock because both clubs have been established fixtures in the Premier League for some time now. Middlesbrough at least stayed true to their principles, playing decent football and never resorting to the overt physicality that typifies the approach of strugglers like Hull and Bolton. But it was the demise of Newcastle which is most startling. They are traditionally one of England’s biggest clubs, with highly-paid stars like Michael Owen, Obafemi Martins, Mark Viduka, Nicky Butt and Damien Duff all in the squad. Much is also made of the passionate support of the Geordie nation (they are often described as the best fans in England). In a bid to stave off relegation, in April Newcastle appointed their former striker Alan Shearer, who is revered as a demi-god in the northern city, but had absolute zero experience in football management. He had eight games to turn it around, but only managed to get three points during his tenure, all from a 3-1 win against Middlesbrough. Lessons need to be learnt for the club. Stability will be needed if a return to the top-flight is to be envisaged [¼]

In a season saturated with cricket, Saeed Naqvi spotted a write-up which forms part of a series of Covert quizzes. The questions are: Who wrote the piece? And which batsman is being praised by the cricket writer? The first five correct entries will get a year's subscription to the magazine.

The innings was rent in twain now; A was left standing on a solitary rock of sound technique; between him and rearguard yawned a chasm. He proceeded to play the cricket of heroic loneliness; he hit B for six to square leg with the serenest sweeping movement. He cut late with the touch of intimate art. Impending disaster did not ruffle him; even a snick through the slips off B was tranquil and graceful. B bowled keenly, accurately, ominously, and fast; C at the other end turned his leg-break now and again and avoided too much short stuff. D’s off-breaks had an amiable aspect. Now came the death and glory, brilliance wearing the dress of culture. A demolished the attack with aristocratic politeness, good taste, and reserve. Claude Duval never took possession of a stage coach with more charm of manner than this; his boundaries were jewels and trinkets which he accepted as though dangling them in his hands. He scored nearly fifty, unhurried but trenchant. He cut and glanced and drove, upright and lissome; his perfection of touch moved the aesthetic sense; this was the cricket of felicity, power and no covetousness, strength and no battery, dazzling strokes and no rhetoric; lovely, brave batsmanship giving joy to the connoisseur, and all done in a losing hour.