Recently in Football Category

The goalkeeper quit. Again. Last season he left for a month or so, because he thought he might like to play rugby instead. We were suitably enraged, having put time into nurturing and encouraging him and even picking him up to drive him to certain games. In the end we allowed him to come back as he appeared suitably contrite, and he's a good keeper after all. This time there's no going back.

By now you'll have worked out that I'm not talking about professionals, this is much more challenging - the heady and competitive world of under-11's football. Or should that be the petulant and irritating world of under-11s?

This week's blog could've been encompassed within the few words I wrote on my twitter feed yesterday - we get relegated, he gets promoted and I get stuck with a season ticket I no longer want. This was, of course, a response to the inevitable resolution of the long-drawn-out saga over whether Tony Mowbray would go to Celtic.

Like most football fans I am slightly one-eyed but even I recognise the overwhelming lure of power and money, no-one can really deny that Mowbray is moving to a bigger club, a club that can buy top players, a club that has the potential to win things. It is regrettable that he chose the immediate post-season to remind his players about the value of loyalty but we all know that loyalty has no place in modern football, he may as well have saved his breath.

So, I wish Mowbray well, there's no point in bleating about it. A similar point could be made to those Villa fans still sore about Gareth Barry's departure. I try to see both sides of any argument and how many of us would've turned down the opportunity to increase our salaries by that amount? He even wrote you a letter - how many players would bother to do that?

Whilst you may see me in a new light of magnanimity, see PF in his coat of charitable colours, you should be under no illusion that I'm similarly disposed towards existing players who demonstrate or vocalise their desire to be elsewhere whilst being gainfully employed and paid by my long-supported club. These players seem to have very short memories and a shockingly small conscience that their input may be at least partly responsible for placing us in this diminished position.

Brouhaha is a great word, one that unfortunately seems better when vocalised than it looks in print. I almost never say it because I have a tendency to miss out one of the ha's, and I suspect it would make me sound like some poncey media-luvvy, which is quite possibly the case.

Brouhaha is a great way of describing the attention given to the less-than-perfect pitch at Wembley for the FA Cup semi-finals at the weekend, particularly as the brouhaha over the pitch was used to divert attention from the other matters having a more direct influence upon the results.

There is a sporting phrase often used in business-speak which talks of a 'level playing field', in the case of Wembley at the weekend it could be argued that it was particularly relevant. As all the teams had to play on the same pitch it was therefore an equal hindrance to both. Certain managers, like Sir Alex Ferguson, moaning loudly about it could be seeking a smokescreen to divert attention from the fact that they picked an inadequate team, resting key players for matches obviously deemed of more import. The state of the pitch could not be blamed entirely for the fact that Man U and Arsenal fans were short-changed by team selection errors, nor could it be blamed for Berbatov's pitifully weak and none-too-clever penalty miss.

We are now reaching the end of what seems to have been a very long football season; I refrain from calling it the pinnacle for reasons which will become obvious. This time around I have managed to double my misery. Not only did I have a season ticket to watch West Brom (often viewed through the fingers of one hand attempting to obscure my view of the defending) but I was also co-managing my son's under-10's team in the John Bryan Coventry Minor League, division C. For once I was unable to complain that I could do a better job than the manager, I couldn't.

It's readily-accepted, with a few exceptions, that footballers are not the brightest. Indeed they should probably only express themselves on the pitch or using their wallets in the shops to prop up the dwindling economy.

Unfortunately we live in a celebrity-obsessed world and many people hang off every comment that their idols expel. On that basis maybe it was less than diplomatic for Wayne Rooney to point out that he 'hates' Liverpool.

On the flipside though, why shouldn't he? Aside from the fact that it conflicts with my fear that players shouldn't talk too confidently about a match before it takes place - as it may only inflame and inspire your opponents (something that may be true of this instance), football is built on rivalry; it's a competitive sport and sometimes the only thing better than your team doing well is your rivals suffering in some manner.

As a West Brom fan I accept that Wolves are gloating over our troubles this season - as I hope and pray we are able to do to them next year when they have an even worse premiership season than us.

I prefer to deflect their taunts by not recognising them as our worthy rivals. When I first became an Albion fan (many years ago in my childhood) Wolves were completely off the radar, subsequently my fiercest rivalry has always been with Villa. I think most Albion fans only patronise the Wolves hatred because we've dropped a million miles from that Aston team in the past two decades.

It is commonplace for football fans to despise their nearest geographical (and sometimes competitive) rivals. Thus Arsenal hate Tottenham, but also Chelsea for usurping them. Man Utd hate City, but probably hate Liverpool more. It goes with the territory.

Being British I can bear a grudge with the best of them. I like nothing better than to nurture some perceived grievance and to slowly plot some revenge I will probably never enact. It's a national pastime, probably up there with whinging and moaning, we clearly all love to hold grudges.

This said, even I know where to draw a line. Time is usually a great healer, is there any point in wanting to piss on the grave of a school bully when you haven't seen that oaf in almost 30 years? Similarly one might think that English sports writers could move beyond the shadow of the war whenever we face Germany in any fixture. Guys, it ended 60 years ago and war is not the basis for puns. Not now, not ever.

Naturally we enjoy the schadenfreude (tactical use of Deutsch word, use the link to look it up if you need to) of some enemy or other coming to grief, even when we played no part in it. We also seem to relish the downfall of the famous or fatuous thanks to our build 'em up, knock 'em down mentality. Thus, there is Maradona. One-time king of football, latterly known for his drug problems and carrying enough blubber that he looked like he had two baby elephants wrestling in his tracksuit.

It's a fact that Maradona was one of the most gifted footballers to grace the grass of many a pitch, but you'll rarely read about that in England. Instead, I can guarantee, that accompanying any text about him will be some reference (usually in the headline) about the World Cup Goal he scored against 'us' using his hand. Since he then referred to it 'tactically' (if not tactfully) as the 'hand of God' this will usually, if not always, feature in the article.

My friend Chris lives in New York. He sent me a message on facebook yesterday; it said "full of gloom yet?" I needed no further explanation. I knew exactly what he meant. As fans of West Bromwich Albion this is the state in which we live three quarters of each year, every year, wherever we're living.

I didn't miss the football season. At all. I was happy to enjoy the European Championships and appreciate the style and craft of the combatants without thinking about any misplaced patriotism. I had no emotional investment; I could experience it on a purely passive level - a voyeur, if you like.

If I try to think back to a time when I really enjoyed going to the match on a regular basis it would probably scare me. It may be that this time was actually 30 years ago. Certainly this would be true if I were thinking of success and attractive performances in the top league; it was also the time that I started actively going to 'the match'.

For a few years I was watching a great team, skilful players who played with a great spirit and didn't need to kiss their badges to prove their loyalty. I was amongst people who I considered to be like me, born of the Black Country and proud to stand and sing for their team. Last week I read that the average football fan is middle-class, male and in his forties. I once considered this to be special, now I've become average.