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Last season was a season of records for the club: their first piece of major silverware, a record number of games unbeaten (27), and a record number of points in the first division (77). The club also saw its old stadium revamped with new seats put in the stands.

This season, however, anything and everything has gone wrong for the seaside club. With 23 games of the season gone, Cobh sit bottom of the table with only 12 points and and abysmal -28 goal difference. They are currently six points from safety and have only scored 12 goals over the entire season. Ramblers were also dumped out of Ireland’s domestic cup, falling at the first hurdle to a team in the first division.

The joy the club’s players and fans experienced last season has turned sour with a number of controversial and comical incidents both on and off the pitch. One example of bad luck occurred during a crucial away match to fellow strugglers UCD a month ago. Ramblers took the lead from the penalty spot and looked set to take all three points, yet were robbed by the UCD goalkeeper, who headed home a 94^thminute free kick to the dismay of the 20+ traveling away fans.

The problems on the pitch, however, have not come close to the problems the club is having off it. Last month the club’s directors held a board meeting whose outcome could have meant that Cobh Ramblers would drop out of the Irish Premier Division and instead play intermediate football in the Munster Senior League (Ramblers last played in that league 23 years ago before being inducted into the Irish League). The board meeting ended with chairman Barry Walsh remaining in power after a 4:1 majority vote in his favor. The meeting brought further embarrassment and confusion to the club with manager Stephen Henderson publicly stating that he would have left the club if Walsh had been removed from his post.

With the board meeting out of the way, it looked like everyone at the club could now concentrate on keeping the club in the Premier Division. Yet more off the field distractions were just around the corner. The club’s rising debts forced the chairman to take the ludicrous measure of asking the players to take out 2000 euro each in personal loans to help the club’s debt. The players laughed off the proposal, reminding everyone that most of the players are on one year contracts meaning many of the players would soon be paying back a loan for a club they used to play for. The players did agree to help the club out by taking at 30% wage cut.

Further embarrassment followed when a board member leaked documents to Ireland’s national newspaper The Independent revealing the club’s massive debts. The Chairman admitted that the club is now about 150,000 euro in debt, even after a recent friendly with Sunderland reportedly raised over 100,000 euro.

Ramblers next match was away against fellow relegation strugglers Finn Harps in Donegal, the longest away trip of the season. The club told the players that they could only afford a bus for the match, meaning the players would have to make the long journey to the other end of the island on the day of the game. In a gracious gesture the players offered to drive up from Cobh the day before the game if the club would pay for a hotel. The club agreed to this, and the extra rest seemed to help the players who came from two goals down to draw 2-2 in the last minute.

The last gasp equalizer has been a rare happy moment for the club so far this campaign. 2007 was widely considered to be the best season in the clubs 86 years of existence, but 2008 will be remembered as perhaps the worst.

Photo courtesy of photoreti on Flickr, via the Pitch Invasion photo pool.

The realisation kicks in that no matter how loudly or often we try and convince ourselves and everyone else that we give a shit, by shouting “YEAH! FOOTBALL! WOOHOOO! YEAH!” the season will be exactly the same as it was last year, and the year before that. OK, everything might be won by PetroDollar FC, rather than Hedge Fund United, but the top three or four are pretty much interchangeable beasts anyway.

Meanwhile the mid table will be filled up with non-descript teams, playing God awful football, as uninterested millionaires take it in turns to hoof the latest Nike football made from the cheeks of real babies to ensure a perfect spherical shape.

Of course there’s more to football than the Premier League. Thank God. But such is the blanket media coverage of Sky’s favourite product, you have to go to so much trouble to find it it’s barely worth it. It’s no wonder that as top flight attendances fall, the viewing figures for Coronation Street increase (I’ve not checked if this is the case at all, actually. But it certainly should be). It’s top quality entertainment on tap, four times a week. Unpredictable, passionate, well thought out, and so as not to upset the equilibrium, half the country can watch overpaid celebrities in Manchester strut their stuff from the comfort of their armchair.

Or, of course, you can delve in to the murky, anorak wearing world of the non-leagues. The Unibond Northern Premier League kicked off this weekend, and it’s set to be as unpredictable and exciting as any league in Europe. Fair doos: the quality of the football might not be up to scratch, and you won’t have heard of any of the players, but there are as many billionaires, crooks, chancers, charlatans and oddballs as the Premier League. Buy you won’t be as familiar with their shtick.

(Look, this isn’t another of those ball-achingly tedious ‘modern football is shit’ whinges from a reformed Football evangelical. Far from it. The only purpose I purport to serve is to highlight that something different you may be looking for. It has all the thrills of Corrie, without the disadvantage of having to sit through another tedious Ken and Deirdre storyline)

The NPL is one of the regional leagues that sits directly underneath the Football Conference. This season threatens to be one of the best ever, with at least half a dozen teams having the potential to win the title. According to the bookies, the joint favourites are our old friends Leigh Genesis, now a full-time, professional club, and Bradford Park Avenue.

Park Avenue are an interesting (in the ‘bat-shit crazy’ sense of the word) case. They were bought by a local businessman and millionaire, Bob Blackburn, just over a year ago. His arrival was trumpeted from the grimy, terraced rooftops, and he claimed he was more excited when he bought BPA than he was when he bought his luxury Spanish villa and his yacht. He also kindly provided the usual rhetoric surrounding league football, five year plans, and new stadiums. This, according to Blackburn, has to have a 20,000 capacity. So that’ll be nice and roomy for their 500 fans.

To be fair to Blackburn, he has delivered on most of his promises so far. BPA manager David Cameron (no, not that one, that’d be a step too far) has assembled a very handy looking squad indeed, including Rory Patterson, signed from rivals FC United. And while throwing money at players until they agree to join you (Patterson signed a part-time contract for £450 a week) lacks subtlety, it delivers results. Former Oldham striker Chris Hall, who quit football two years ago to become an actor, and appeared in a BBC3 drama playing ‘man in gimp mask’, also signed up, and scored two of BPA’s four goals on the opening day of the season.

Optimism is high, then, on the field. But question marks surround the running of the club off the pitch following a bizarre and embarrassing story from this summer.

As a reward for winning the NPL div 1 North title last season, Bob Blackburn promised the fans a players a preseason tour of Spain. And sure enough, Bob ‘I always get my man’ Blackburn claimed to have sorted it. Reports appeared in the local paper, and on the official BPA website, heralding a successful tour, in which Rory Patterson scored a hat-trick on his debut. Except he didn’t. He wasn’t there. And nor were most of the BPA team. Bob Blackburn made the whole story up, even going so far as to completely fabricate the three teams they played against. What was no more than a lads’ holiday for a handful of the players had been sold to the fans as a prestigious preseason tour.

When the story finally broke, thanks largely to me and my blog, the BPA fans were up in arms. Bob Blackburn described the story not as a lie, but as a ‘grey area’ of the truth, which is an interesting take on things. As I write no public apology has been made, and the match reports remain on the official website. As I said, bat-shit crazy.

One of the only teams that can match BPA’s spending power is Ilkeston Town, but apparently trying to restore the balance of good and evil, they seem only to want to spend their money to help the local community.

The owner of Ilkeston is Chek Whyte, one of Britains wealthiest men. He appeared recently on Channel 4’s ‘patronise the poor’ programme, Secret Millionaire, where he went undercover in Salford to see how the other half lived. And, having been made to feel suitably guilty, ended up signing cheque after cheque to help local community initiatives.

I’m possibly being a little hard on Mr Whyte here. He’s the son of a lorry driver and grew up on one of the poorest estates in the country. In his teens he fell in with ‘the wrong crowd’ and ended up serving time in jail. It was only after this he got his act together and became one of the most successful property developers in the country.

Rather than throw his money at Ilkeston Town to create a super team to get in to the league, Chek Whyte has different plans.

“There are massive problems and we need to do something here. It will take time, you have got to help me and I will chuck money in,” he told a meeting where he outlined his vision. “I was in foster homes and was dragged up but I am a role model now and want to put something back.”

His vision includes running a true community club in an attempt to keep teenagers away from crime and drugs, as well as running courses and training opportunities. The executive development manager of the scheme added, “This is not the whim of a rich man who wants to build a white elephant which will get him into heaven. This is someone genuine who wants to make a social impact who knows what is happening in the community and wants to make it better.”

This is highly laudable, even to a stone-hearted cynic like me. Football shouldn’t just be about what happens on the field, and success shouldn’t necessarily be measured in terms of number of cups won.

But, perhaps sadly, that is how success is measured, and come the end of the season it won’t be the club who helped the community the most who gets promoted. It’ll be Boston United. At least that’s who I’m tipping. Though if my efforts at horse betting is anything to go by, a curtain will be drawn around Boston mid-March and a bolt will be shot through their skull. Still, never mind, eh?

Last season Boston United finished mid-table in the Conference North. They were only relegated due to league rules governing finances. The club had to exit administration by May 10, they didn’t, they were relegated. Which is a bit of a kick in the plums for the fans, who are still paying the price for the criminal (literally?) way the club was run by former manager Steve Evans (currently serving a twelve match touchline ban at Crawley Town).

Boston Manager Tommy Taylor has managed to keep the vast majority of his squad together and this alone should ensure the club will be there or thereabouts at the end of the season. And when the only other viable options for promotion are the loathsome Bradford Park Avenue and the loathsomer Leigh Genesis, every neutral will be hoping, praying that it’s Boston who go up at the end of the season.

Unless of course my lot, FC United, can prove themselves up to the task of winning a fourth successive promotion. The bookies, or betties as my Mum hilariously calls them, seem to think we’re up to it. As does our hopelessly optimistic and romantic manager, Karl Marginson. We may have lost three of our best players over summer, but we’ve managed to bring in players of proven non league quality to replace them. And, according to Margy, they’re not here for the money, but for the thrill of playing for FC United.

Which is just as well. We’re broke and barely turning an annual profit. We still average about two and a half thousand a game, so this seems mystifying to many. But the rent at Gigg Lane is crippling us, it’s said to be in the region of £100,000 a season, and until we can build and move in to our own ground we’ll struggle to compete financially with teams even two divisions below us (hello New Mills Athletic!).

The club also appears to be suffering something of an identity crisis. Fans are leaving, fleeing back to Old Trafford, whinging about club politics, changing priorities, and denying vehemently that Manchester United’s European Cup win has anything to do with it at all. This sort of conflict between the fans is all very 2005, and all very boring. Maybe some of Margy’s romanticism is rubbing off on me, but I firmly believe that ‘United’ aspect of FC United has played a huge part in our successes to date.

But not to worry. As I intimated above, I believe football isn’t just about winning (it’s easy to say that after three years of pretty much unrivalled success: ask me again if we’re winless in February) and the fact we’re still here is success enough for me for now. Besides, I’m not sure we can afford to get promoted just yet. It could cripple us.

So that’s about it. The four teams the media and the experts seem to be concentrating on as favourites for the league title. Witton Albion fans may feel hard done by not to be included. Eastwood Town fans even more so. And Marine won their first game 6-2, so who’s to say they won’t be there at the end of the year? I genuinely don’t know who will win the league, and nor can anyone else say with any certainty. Ignorance really does appear to be bliss.

Step into any Japanese top flight stadium as an uninitiated fan and the first thing that hits you is a wall of sound. Noisy support is de rigueur, and those who insist that J. League supporters are simply mimicking their counterparts in Europe and South America have clearly never attended a baseball game in Japan. From the multitude of unofficial fan clubs that crowd the terraces to the carefully choreographed chants that ring out for ninety minutes, J. League fans have arguably borrowed as heavily from their native baseball league as they have from European and South American football culture.

While baseball retains its image as a somewhat staid past-time in what is a relentlessly conservative country, football supporters in Japan broke the mould early, with Kashiwa Reysol fans setting the earliest trends for excessively passionate support. Kashima Antlers’ InFight were arguably the first well-organised fan club to travel the length of the country in support of their team, but these days it is Urawa’s travelling hordes who continue to polarise opinion. The Reds’ story is a well-worn one of a struggling underdog come good, but in a country obsessed with glamour, the extra twenty thousand fans to have recently clambered aboard the Reds roller coaster has sparked claims that much of Urawa’s support is made up of “plastic fans.” Whether that is the cause of the inferiority complex that Urawa’s more hardcore supporters lumber around with them is a mystery, but at any rate the most recent instances of fan violence have almost always involved the Reds.

Urawa fans deserve further scrutiny. At their best Reds fans produce an atmosphere worthy of any match in the Bundesliga – from which the Saitama club borrowed heavily in the mid-1990’s. Opposition teams are greeted by a cacophony of noise, with hopeful away fans forced to up the ante to compete with the vociferous support raining down from the northern end of Saitama Stadium. Yet Urawa’s hardcore support has grown increasingly boorish. From the days of supporting their team with relentless zeal at the dilapidated Komaba Stadium – which included a trip to the Second Division in 2000 – Urawa’s support has not only been diluted by the move to the far larger Saitama Stadium, it has also become increasingly inane. Instead of offering support to their team, many Urawa fans have simply taken to booing the opposition, and a string of more than three opposition passes prompts a predictable chorus of jeers from the Urawa faithful. There were more than a few wry smiles up and down the country, then, when Urawa inexplicably choked away at relegated Yokohama FC on the final day last season, handing the title to bitter rivals Kashima Antlers in the process.

The organised nature of support in Japan is often misunderstood, and stands in glaring contrast to the spontaneous outbursts synonymous with English football. The word fascist pops up from time to time to describe J. League fans – not because of any particular right-wing political leanings, but rather due to the rigidly organised nature of their chants. That has given rise to claims from some Euro-versed analysts that J. League supporters are not in tune with the action on the pitch, however such criticism overlooks the fact that Japan remains a group-oriented society. While J. League stadia offer fans the chance to cast off the shackles of an overbearingly formal social structure, that fans choose to do so in unison with their fellow supporters should come as no surprise in a country where the concept of wa – or group harmony – is one of the central tenants of its culture.

Elaborately choreographed card displays are one aspect of European culture that have made their way onto J. League terraces, while the fact that hardcore fans stand at J. League grounds makes the giant flag display an old favourite. Uniquely Japanese are the team slogans, however, which routinely delight English-speaking fans with their Babelfish-inspired Engrish. Júbilo Iwata’s “Hungrrrrry” invoked mirth from local rivals Shimizu S-Pulse this season, but the joke may be on S-Pulse for their “We Believe” slogan, with the club failing to inform fans to believe that a relegation dogfight was on the cards. Supporter groups also adorn themselves with some inspired translations, with Kyoto Sanga fanclub “Real Naked” making a name for themselves as a group of men who support their team in bare chests – fortunately for them the J. League is a summer-based competition.

Despite some of the more uniform aspects of J. League support, the match-day experience for all eighteen top-flight clubs differs from team to team. The 2002 World Cup may have left a legacy of international-class stadia, but it has proved problematic for some well-established clubs such as Nagoya Grampus, who alternate their fixtures between the ageing Mizuho Athletics Stadium in downtown Nagoya and the ultra-modern Toyota Stadium, situated some thirty-five kilometres out of town. That’s a situation mirrored across the league, with several top flight clubs regularly splitting fixtures between a variety of stadia. Given that clubs rent their grounds from local councils it has also led to some radical scheduling – with Kyoto Sanga “hosting” Yokohama F. Marinos hundreds of kilometres from the former imperial city in Kagoshima’s Kamoike Stadium, while Gamba Osaka played the first leg of their League Cup quarter-final against the Marinos in distant Kanazawa.

For foreign fans, supporting a J. League club can be a hit-and-miss affair. Some clubs welcome foreign supporters with open arms. In the case of FC Tokyo – perhaps the only J. League club to have lifted its influences straight from British football – one highlight is the annual UK Day, where holders of a British passport are entitled to discount tickets and are treated to standard English fare inside Tokyo’s cavernous Ajinomoto Stadium. With match-day line-ups announced in English and a rousing rendition of “You’ll Never Walk Alone” belted out before kick-off, there’s no mistaking who FC Tokyo fans are paying homage to. Other clubs offer a nod to Japan’s sizeable Brazilian community – arguably the largest minority group in what is practically a homogenous society – with the Auriverde always on display when Júbilo Iwata take to the pitch. Still, in a country that remains largely suspicious of foreigners, many J. League clubs simply prefer to ignore the smattering of foreign fans that dot the terraces on a weekly basis, offering little in the way of support for non-Japanese speaking fans.

The days of extra-time and penalty shoot-outs to decide drawn games are long gone, while the two-stage championship has also disappeared from view. The image of the J. League as a mere “retirement home” for ageing European stars is also an enduring, albeit unrealistic point of view, with the league having instead matured into a legitimate, sustainable competition. Nevertheless while the forces of modernity will invariably continue to thrust the J. League into a wider global context, there’s no doubt that it remains a competition blessed with an alluring charm and a unique dose of East Asian exocitism.

All photos by Michael Tuckerman.

The possibility of this snowy ritual taking place a world away wasn’t foremost on the minds of the moneymen who collected tickets from tens of thousands of British working-class men, women and children most Saturday afternoons in the late 19th and early 20th century. The three o’clock kickoff was meant to accommodate the Saturday half-day. Workers exhausted from a week of toil in the ’satanic mills’ of industry were more than happy to be “Lords of the Earth”, as J.B. Priestly once wrote, for a couple of hours at the football ground.

Today, with the advent of satellite television able to provide instant live coverage around the globe, viewers are able to watch live matches five or six timezones away. The ‘three o’clock’ kickoff is a moveable feast, and European football’s unique popularity means many have fans grown up watching Serie A, the Bundelsiga or the Premier league at odd times of the day. Afternoon games are enjoyed in the Middle East over supper, in North America at the crack of dawn, in Australasia in the late evening. These time differences can have a subtle but intriguing effect on how local audiences enjoy the game.

It may seem daft or pretentious to think of something like the time of day when talking about football. Surely it doesn’t matter when the game is played — it should just sit there like a one-size-fits-all, universal absolute. Yet the circumstance of how and when we watch football can influence what we take from it. Making plans with friends, choosing the right pub, planning on the fly if your club crashes out of a cup competition when you’re stuck miles from home in a unfamiliar city, often it’s these rituals that make the memory – think Colin Firth rolling around on the apartment floor at the end of Fever Pitch. And as any Cistercian monk will tell you, rituals revolve around time.

For example, depending on where you live in North America, European club matches start anytime from 7 to 10 AM. Games are watched over coffee, eggs, toast, and bacon. Traditionalists will wait an agonizing hour or two at the local pub eyeing the flat screen until beer can be served, but most of the time, matches are enjoyed at home in the quiet of a Saturday morning. For this reason, European soccer in Canada and the US tends to be a more solitary affair. The sobriety of the dawn helps reveal the game’s many idiosyncrasies. It’s hard, for instance, to imagine something like Brian Phillip’s Run of Play getting written in the haze of a laddish, alcohol-fueled English afternoon.

I would also imagine that, for many Australians, watching the Roma or North London derby at midnight must have some sort of doomsday quality, the coda to a long night out. Like Saturday Night Live, it’s something you have to stay up to watch, and can also for that reason be a big letdown– the dull outcome to many a ‘Grand Slam’ or ‘El Clasico’ is probably felt with a sharper tinge of regret. While I wouldn’t pretend to know the experience, I do remember that, during the 2002 World Cup, the midnight start time turned ho-hum group round games into titanic epics, half-blurred by one or three pints too many.

It’s therefore hopeful that, for all of globalization’s milquetoast sameness, it hasn’t yet found a way to conquer the peculiarity of time. I enjoy the haughty distance the five-hour difference gives me from the mad-rush of the European soccer machine. Richard Scudamore’s vision of European football as traveling circus takes that away, which is why I’d rather stay at home and watch the bustle of a St. James Park or a San Siro comfy on my chesterfield with a hot cup of coffee at ten in the morning than witness the same thing at my local park at three in the afternoon. It may not amount to much, but the myriad ways time affects the ‘football ritual’ may be European soccer’s most underrated asset, and the modern-day football moneymen and women, who once used the clock to great exploitative effect, may have missed it.

Europe

• In English Non-League action, It’ll Be Off looks at the NPL results, in his usual inimitable style: “Bradford Park Avenue started the season in some style, humping Prescot Cables 4-0. Stuart Rudd scored twice, and no doubt Bob Blackburn is sat in an office somewhere desperately trying to wank his pathetic, flaccid cock back to life so he can ejaculate his moronic opinions on to a message board somewhere.”
• 101 Great Goals has the video highlights of Sunday’s English games.
• EPL Talk is far too kind in his description of Man City’s new away kit, described as a ’salmon color’, but which I’d call ‘vomit orange’.
• And speaking of weird looks, A More Splendid Life captures David Bentley’s curious ‘do perfectly, describing it as a “weird 1940s era pilot haircut” and wondering how it played its part in Spurs’ disappointing start to the season: “Bentley tried to focus but his hair was distracting him. And his anger toward this giant freak-jaw Wheater. And his stylist. The thing was crusting up, like it was crisco.”
• The Football Bog Blog continues its tour, giving us a look at Seaton Deleval Amateurs’ facilities.
• Paul Wilson debunks the claim that the Championship is the fourth most popular league in Europe, by doing some basic maths about average and aggregate attendance.

North America

• Sergio Tristan looks at what Chivas Guadalajara need to do to turn their season round in Mexico.
• USA Soccer Spot says Bruce Arena is the right choice for the Galaxy. I suppose things can’t get worse there.
• Atlanta is the latest team to join next year’s Women’s Professional Soccer league in the U.S., while Arsenal’s coach warns the best English players could be lost stateside soon.

Worldwide

• Jennifer Doyle offers her latest thoughts on today’s Olympic women’s soccer as Brazil crush Germany 4-1, singing the praises of midfielder Formiga.
  
• Hasta El Gol Siempre looks at the latest action in Argentina.
• Fifa.com reports on the Homeless World Cup.

At a push, most football fans know that the first official international match took place between Scotland and England in 1872. However, that game finished scoreless, so we must look to the second international ever played to discover our mystery scorer.

The return match kicked-off at the Kennington Oval, London, on Saturday March 8th 1873 at 3 p.m. The boisterous crowd of approximately 3,000 did not have to wait long for the first goal to be scored, for it happened in the first minute. Picture the scene: England are awarded a throw-in, not too far from the Scotland goal, and up steps one of the six forwards to take it. The ball travels directly to a dashing 25 year old army captain making his England debut, and he converts the chance. The spectators, unmistakably from the upper strata of London society, enthusiastically applaud England taking the lead.

In your mind you’ve just recreated a little piece of history, the first of a myriad of goals that would be deposited in the lucrative account of international challenge matches. Many of these goals would be controversial, still argued and debated about to this very day; and some would inflame human passion and political fervour to such an extent that figurative and - in at least one case - literal war would eventually erupt.

So who was this youth, the first human link in the chain of events which ultimately led to the 77 goals scored in Euro 2008? His name was, in all its double-barrelled finery, William Kenyon-Slaney.

Early Life

He was born in India in the year 1847 to an army captain of the 2nd Bombay cavalry. This accident of geography ensured that William would be endowed with another football first. He and his team mate Alfred George Goodwyn later became the first players born overseas to represent England, a tradition which continues in the current England set-up with Owen Hargreaves.

William would have been exposed to rudimentary versions of football when he received his education at Eton college. The English public school and university system was obsessed with sport during the mid-Victorian era. These institutions taught that team games were crucial to the development of an elite who would be physically, mentally and morally equipped for the twin tasks of imperial expansion and administration of the British Empire. The doctrine of ‘Muscular Christianity’ was born. However, a fundamental flaw in this system of education was highlighted by the writer Lawrence James, in his enthralling “Rise and Fall of the British Empire”:

“Intelligence mattered less than the acquisition of character… the end product was a Christian gentleman with a stunted imagination, who played by the rules and whose highest aim was to serve others.”

The skills and qualities that team sports require were thus seen as a pivotal way of inculcating this dogma into the young men of the period, William included. He had learned to ‘play by the rules.’

After a brief time studying at Oxford University he left to take up an officer’s commission in the Grenadier Guards. In those days of imperialism, joining the Britsh Army was one of the wisest career moves that a young gentleman of sound character could make, for it offered adventure, glory and the chance to make a lasting name for oneself, all ‘in the service of others’. It was during this period that Kenyon-Slaney became noted for his sporting prowess, playing first-class cricket for Shropshire in addition to playing for Wanderers FC, one of the leading clubs of the day.

One Cap Wonder

William’s educational background and sporting dexterity made him an ideal choice for his England debut on that spring day back in 1873. Not being content with scoring once on his first appearance, he notched another goal, England’s third, in the sixtieth minute, as they defeated Scotland 4-2.

Given the fact that he had scored twice on his debut, Kenyon-Slaney seemed ordained to make many more appearances for the national side. However, astonishingly as it may seem, this was his only cap. We don’t know why he never played for England again, since all that we have are the bare statistics. This was not unusual during this period of international infancy though. Of the eleven who lined up against Scotland in 1873, five won what turned out to be their one and only cap. In the era of hallowed amateurism the best players were not always readily available.

England’s first goalscorer was not quite finished with the football limelight. He appeared in three FA Cup finals during the 1870s, one for Wanderers and two for the Old Etonians. In fact he played in the 1876 Final for his old school against Wanderers, having switched allegiances. Perfidious Albion indeed.

Having fulfilled his duty on the pitch, it was now time to pursue his promising military vocation.

Post Playing Career

In 1882, he served under the command of Sir Garnet Wolsely at the Battle of Tel el-Kebir, Egypt , as the British Army crushed the revolt of the Egyptian armed forces led by Ahmed Urabi.. The aftermath of this conflict led to the British military occupation of Egypt, and Kenyon-Slaney was later decorated for his conduct in the battle itself. No doubt this was a major factor in him being promoted to colonel in 1887, before retiring from the military in 1892.

Remaining true to his upbringing, William was not finished with public service just yet. As he had inherited a landed estate he became wealthy enough to serve as a Conservative MP for 22 years before his death in 1908 (MPs were not paid an annual salary until 1911).

International footballers turned politicians may be few and far between today, but they still exist. Pele is perhaps the most famous example, having served as an ineffective Minister for Sport in the Brazilian government during the late 1990s. Gianni Rivera, the elegant midfielder of AC Milan and Italy during the 1960s and 70s, currently serves as an MEP for the Italian Uniti Nell’ Ulivo party.

However, the prospect of a current England forward such as Wayne Rooney earning military honours whilst fighting battles against the Taleban in Afghanistan, after his playing career is over, seems rather remote. Though, he was present in the ‘Battle of the Buffet’ in October 2004, when Manchester United manager Sir Alex Ferguson came under enemy soup and pizza fire in the Old Trafford tunnel, after his side had ended Arsenal’s 49 game unbeaten run. Does that count?

Legacy

Unlike countless other ex-footballers, it’s difficult to warm to individuals like Mr. William Kenyon-Slaney. The public persona of many of those who chose to carry the ‘White Man’s Burden’ comes across a century and a half later as oppressively self-righteous, emotionally barren and sexually repressed. They were missionaries with a puritanical zeal for teaching other nations of the world how to live.

Yet their weakness became their strength. That same drive and fanaticism was what enabled the gospel of football to spread to the farthest ends of the earth. Men of a similar character to Kenyon-Slaney packed a leather football and a set of rules into their suitcases and sailed away to make new lives for themselves, and new disciples of the game that they loved so much. For that at least, we should be grateful.

Watching today’s entertaining match, I found myself mulling over the way the word “profligacy” was used in FIFA’s summary of that last game againt Germany:

The African champions dominated much of this match and had enough chances to win a few games, but their profligacy in front of goal - which had already been in evidence in their 1-0 defeat to Korea DPR - once again proved their undoing.

Warning: I am an English Professor by trade. The author meant something like “wasted goal scoring opportunity,” a situation that writers about football find themselves needing to write over and over again, and so one’s vocabulary stretches along with that striker’s foot, and like that prodigal daughter who discards the perfect pass and misses the wide open net, sometimes the writer, too, goes wide of the mark. All that aside, profligacy is an odd word choice. Its first meaning is:

1. Licentious or dissolute behaviour; debauchery; spec. (in later use) sexual promiscuity. [Oxford English Dictionary]

Given the centuries-old racist and sexist traditions that inform representations of African women, it is not a word I would choose. I am sure the FIFA writer didn’t mean to draw from this (the primary) meaning of the word. Better to use the word in a statement like “Manchester United’s behavior off the pitch is a good example of the profligate lifestyle of contemporary footballers.”

Even the secondary meanings for “profligacy” feels inappropriate as a description of how the Super Falcons play:

2. a. Reckless extravagance, prodigality; (also) a wasteful or extravagant act. 2. b. Lack of moderation, excess; great abundance, profusion. [Again, this is from the O.E.D.]

On this point, my objection isn’t political, but technical. In footballing terms, I would say “profligacy” is more apropos of the striker who strikes too soon, of the player who sends the ball too far down the pitch. (In which case, one might tag Brazil for its profligacy in the first match against Germany in which we saw lots of long balls just launched away.)

If the Super Falcons suffered against these teams - the very best teams in the very toughest group in this tournament - it was, I think, more properly because they were too conservative. Which is perhaps counterintuitive, because the Super Falcons play with a lot of style and imagination. But style isn’t the same thing as wastefulness. If that were true, Argentina and Brazil would have the weakest records in football. And England would have qualified for Euro 2008.

A team of goal scorers and a lame back line may be accused of profligacy, in which case we can turn to Tottenham as a fine example. But the Nigerian women’s team plays more like Arsenal, who would never be called “profligate” with the parsimonious Wenger at the helm. We all know the purse strings are kept tight chez les Gunners. And then we have the style of play: lots of jaw dropping short little passes right up to the goal. Spectacular to watch. But, as we all know, eventually the odds go against these genius little moves up the field. Every pass is a pass that can go wrong or be interfered with. Every moment you hold onto the ball is a moment a defender has to catch you. The problem, here, then, is not “letting go” but holding on.

I am wondering if, in the case of the Nigerian women’s team, this isn’t about confidence, and the opportunities a team has to play together. You didn’t see Nigeria, for example, making a whole lot of medium or long passes into space - Germany’s Stegemann scored off of exactly that kind of optimism (”I know she’s on her way, and will be there by the time the ball gets there”), and Marta and Cristiane work off of exactly this kind of confidence in each other (”Marta - draw those three defenders off me, and then cross me the ball!”).

Nigeria’s problem isn’t profligacy - it’s the opposite. A fear of letting the ball go. And with so much riding on them - the only African women’s football team at the Olympics (and, therefore, the only all black team on the tournament’s rosters), who can blame them.

Want to talk about parsimony? Let’s talk about FIFA’s ambivalent support of African football over the years, and then let’s talk about FIFA’s even more ambivalent support of women’s football, and, well, marry those two histories: et voila! You have the special burden of being the only African women’s team allowed to take the world stage. Who can blame them for playing a somewhat skeptical game.

Well, there you have it, my reading of one sentence in a FIFA match report. This is what happens when a feminist English professor becomes a football fan.

Before I sign off for the day, let me just say some things about today’s game. The Super Falcons have super fans! You could hear them shouting, cheering, and singing alongside their own brass & drums band from the start to the finish of the match. And while plainly Cristiane is player of the match, I’d like to give a shout out to Nigeria’s Faith Ikidi who got in some technically perfect tackles and was just a hornet in both of the games I was lucky enough to see. She’s one of the defenders of the tournament in my eyes.

Cristiane’s bicycle kick goal brought tears to my eyes. So amazing, so perfect - she was surrounded by defenders and still got a controlling touch and just sent it over her own body and into the net. I was rooting for Nigeria, but I’m a fan of the beautiful game, and I don’t know what’s more gorgeous & inspirational than a goal like that. (Note the Nigerian player who nearly takes Cristiane’s foot in her face!)

So - here it is:

Right then. After a summer of increasingly tedious transfer tittle-tattle, actual football is finally breaking out in Europe. Thank god for that. You’ll notice there is no mention of the “R” word here.

Europe

• Some time ago, we noted Brian McClair’s harsh comments about the structure of youth football in England, including the tough geographic restrictions on where clubs can now recruit players from. In a slightly disjointed article in the Telegraph, Henry Winter at one time praises Man Utd’s youth team as the match for any worldwide, yet McClair’s view is still that the restrictions are making it difficult for the club to develop enough quality players.
• “Crowd violence, racism, a kidnapping, stadium bans and financial problems marred Bulgarian soccer last season,” says Angel Krasimirov. “Things can only get better”, according to the Bulgarian FA. Let’s hope so!
• Twohundredpercent previews the Non-league season in England. I fear for my favourite Non-league team Lewes, who went up to Blue Square Premier last season, but bizarrely sacked their manager and lost many of their best players.
• QPR might be newly minted with their collection of billionaire owners, but their fans are having to pay through the nose — season ticket prices have almost doubled in some sections.

North America

• The Red Bulls have done the sensible thing and lifted the bans on six fans caught up in trouble with security, including the legendary Binks. And in what could be a very positive decision, regular stadium security will now be replaced in the supporters’ section with supporter group leadership and Red Bulls staff liasing, and only calling in security when necessary.
• Chicago Fire forward Chris Rolfe has a superb dissection of Commisioner Don Garber’s stance over the Superliga pay dispute between the players and the league over the fact the players would receive only $150,000 of the $1M prize money, pointing out that “we would split the $150,000 between, at least, 37 people - possibly more. That means that each team member would receive about $4,054 before taxes. After taxes, they’d each receive about $2,878 or $575 per game. There are men’s amateur teams in Chicago that will pay you as well as that.”
• Goal.com looks at the end of one of North America’s biggest rivalries, as Portland and Seattle squared off for the final time in USL in front of 12,000 at PGE Park. Timbers fans saw their team lose, as “a coffin outside the park waited for the corpse of the Timbers’ opponents and bitter rivals, the Seattle Sounders.”

Worldwide

• Soccer Science looks at the global growth of women’s soccer, from ancient times to 1991 as the real take-off point (not 1999).
• Racist Beitar Jerusalem fans held up training, hurling racist abuse and monkey chants at their own team’s player, Ghanaian midfielder Derek Boatang.