Peter Drabwell
(Ed’s note – Doing a bit of housekeeping here and sorting through unused submissions. This one was sent in on 12th December, although the points made have not really dated in the three weeks since)
A season of false starts, new lows and disappointment saw us out-played by a Swansea team supposedly looking to emulate our ‘passing game’, yet doing so far more effectively than us. The pupil out-witting the teacher. A disgruntled Wenger at the post-match interview failed to hide his disappointment at the performance, yet still dropped in the ‘fatigue’ excuse by way of explanation.
Tired… so let’s examine this. Goal-keepers are exempt immediately, and the two full-backs, through injury or rotation, have sat out more games than they have played in, so they should be fresh. Mertesacker, at times resembling Beckenbauer in his pomp, intercepting and striding majestically out of his own penalty area with the ball at his feet, at others inducing flash-backs of Andy Linighan being turned on a frozen lake, has emerged as our most consistent defender.
Wenger’s desperation to remove Santos from the starting line-up before his injury - a selection insulting to the illustrious list of left-backs going back through Cole, Winterburn, Sansom and McNab that preceded the Brazilian – has meant Vermaelen adopting a more unaccustomed full-back role, at a time when he was struggling with his own form in his regular centre-back position. Whilst he is far more competent than Santos, his attacking forays down the flanks and his delivery in the final third fall well short of what is required.
Cazorla and Arteta have manfully soldiered on during mediocrity-filled displays from colleagues. Cazorla, understandably, will be finding the pace much hotter than he is used to, and at times away from home (Norwich, Villa to name but two), has proved that when he does not function, the team do not create. Arteta is more used and suited to Premier League football, and covers the ground for 95 minutes. Wilshere, we are well aware, is fragile and vulnerable following such a long lay-off but, at 19, should and does have bundles of energy. Podolski rarely completes 90 minutes, a forlorn-looking figure on the left flank uninvolved in the game for far too long over the 75 minutes playing time he gets.
Gervinho has played more games than he deserves and we would like, but is still a bit-part player and Walcott warms the bench at a time when he, for the first time in his Arsenal career, looks fully-fit, fired up and effective. Rather like Rosicky, irony or coincidence, a contract or a move are in the offing, and form improves. Disappointing as Theo’s time has been – one good game in ten before this season saw him booed mercilessly before last year’s inaugural 5-2 win against Spuds – refusing to start a player that looks set to leave in January for a song yet sits top of our goal-scoring charts surely makes no sense.
And that brings us to Giroud. Variously described in the East Upper as ‘fat Cantona’ from seat 541, to ‘no better than Niall Quinn’ from 543, he has at times brought horrific flash-backs to yours truly of Lee Chapman and, for older viewers, one Ray Hankin (still the fattest player I have ever seen take to a professional football pitch - his theme tune now would be the opening credits to Eastenders, such was the thud of turf as his weight lumbered over the white line …). But two things to Giroud’s credit. The first is a great song, fortunately sung more harmoniously and in-tune than Mr McCartney’s lame and embarrassing efforts at this summer’s various ceremonies. The second is his attitude. Unable to hit proverbial barn doors early season, he kept going. He doesn’t ‘hide’ – much rather the striker who blazes high or wide than the one that shows no appetite to get on the end of a cross or through-ball. Some better quality supply from wide, crosses that evade the first defender (God forbid), may help his cause.
Sorry Arsène, not buying the tiredness excuse. The only tired, weary, furrowed brows are to be found on your own visage. A look of despondency and exasperation far too often to instill confidence in the players or the fans. And exasperation leads to desperation.
Two great managers of our time spring to mind with disturbing synergies between them and our own boss. Brian Clough lived off former glories and an untouchable nature and persona for far too long. Admittedly, his off-field habits brought about a sad and ultimately fatal decline – but he enjoyed such reverence from those around him, hiding behind glorious history and failing to see the decline before irreparable damage set in and resulted in relegation. Now, while we have a long way to fall until things reach that basement level, the elephant has long out-stayed its welcome in the Arsenal board-room.
The other comparison is our very own George. Ultimately fired for a hand or two in the till, his three signings the week before he departed, Hartson, Kiwomya and Helder, smacked of a man who had lost his mojo. Inexplicable, low-grade panic buys…deadline day, August 2011 is still fresh. Since Patrick stroked home the winning penalty in 2005 to claim our last trophy, and then got sold that summer, we have joined the ranks of a ‘selling-club’, replacing quality players with those with inferior ability, culminating in the ultimate indictment of the system, solving a rival’s striking problems and, in the process, creating our own. Since Henry and Ljungberg departed, treacherous mumblings of lack of ambition were dismissed as the words of money-grabbers. Their fears voiced for our future are now more than justified. A club that self-analysed when finishing second, now rejoices in a fourth-place finish.
Does Arsène accept that his fascination, bordering on obsession, with the Barcelona way has contributed to the recent wilderness years? That the holy trinity of Messi, Xavi and Iniesta cannot be replicated? This Barça team is a phenomenon – once in a generation, maybe one of the greatest of all time. Arsène’s template for success in the first eight years of his career with us was a team of powerful, strong, talented athletes. Ex-pros have talked of being a goal down before leaving the tunnel on seeing the intimidating size of the opposition. No recital by northern pub-team managers such as Allardyce and Pulis of that awful 21st century mantra ‘get in their faces’ back then. Bring a step-ladder and be prepared to be thrown off it. Now, by comparison, we look like a team that be should be led out by Snow White to the strains of ‘Hi-Ho’…and will swap shirts at half-time if you ask them nicely. Can we see Ox TV in existence 15 years ago? Hosted by a teenager yet to have a single decent full 90 minutes for us, yet feted by press and club like he has a hatful of medals already. Time for Steve Bould to recount a few anecdotes of trophy-winning teams gone by maybe?
I, like many others in our un-christened new home, want to remember Arsène Wenger in years to come for what he was. A genius, forward-thinking football revolutionary, who created a team, stadium and training facility in his own image. Whose teams combined grace and elegance with power and domination. Who refused to go down without a fight – occasionally stepping way over the disciplinary line in the process. Not the almost broken, despondent figure we see regularly on the touch-line and with a microphone in his face post-match shuffling uncomfortably as the questions fire in about another sub-standard performance. Yes, we want our Arsenal back – and we want our memories unblemished. If that means the most successful manager in our history moving aside, so be it.
