There’s a certain attraction most people feel towards the Summer months. The heady smell of a just-lit barbeque, the weekend trips to undiscovered nooks of coastline, the sun dresses. The sun dresses! While I certainly enjoy a freshly grilled hotdog while listening to “Blackbird” in front of a dangerously swelling pit fire, the arrival of Summer always brings a rash of unwanted anxieties into my life. You see, Summer coincides with the most relentlessly agitating part of my year, the Summer transfer window.
Coincidentally, it was also the season I most looked forward to as a kid.
Back then, Summer was a period of hope, where fate seemed determined to bring my team a championship the following year. We were always linked with a competent left-back set to shore up the defense, with a foreign forward to provide a bit of flair up front, with new owners ready to open their coin purses. During the Summer, even the most unreliable piece of transfer gossip seemed reasonable. If you had heard the same playground rumors I did, you would’ve been convinced that we were only a few signatures away from a dynasty. Unfortunately, the reinforcements rarely arrived, and the squad on the verge of improvement in August, became infatuated with mediocrity by January.
With each passing season, I grew a bit more cynical. The left backs chose more prosperous clubs, the foreign forwards, it turned out, had never heard had of our city, and the potential take-overs disintegrated once questions were posed about the source of funds. In truth, Summer became a season not so much marked by hope and the arrival of fresh talent, but by disappointment amidst the departure of the few reliable players on our squad who didn’t embarrass themselves on a regular basis.
At a certain point though, the rationale for their exit shifted. Where newspapers once explained the divorce as a symptom of a competitive spirit, bylines gradually began to point to wages as a determinate factor. Never mind that all of us are concerned with our own financial well-being, as a fan, I was repulsed by the business side of the game. How could these coddled millionaires abandon their fans over a few thousand dollars a week?
Gradually, the naive adoration I felt towards players was replaced with suspicion as transfer windows came and went. Why should I embrace a player who’d eventually move on to brighter stadiums and larger paychecks? I began to see the game in terms of black and white. As if I was watching a drama, I saw self-centered and insatiable footballers turn a deaf ear to the cries of their fans and traverse regional divides in search of a larger bank account; and how the fans, groping for space on the terraces, looked at the demands of their former favorites and the now discouraging prospects for the nearing season, and purchased the new season’s kit anyway, displaying a loyalty and moral fortitude no player could hope to understand. Summer became defined by transfers, demands, and frustrations, a season where the divide between supporter and millionaire professional athlete grew most pronounced. With the constant talk surrounding Stewart Downing, Carlos Tevez, Luka Modric, and their obsession with wages, I was a few headlines away from boycotting football until the start of the season. That is, until an email arrived in the Futbol Intellect inbox.
With a message written in a foreign language, a subject written strictly in capital letters, and a paper clip that looked particularly malicious, the email had all the signs of a message that had slipped through our Spam filter. More than a little influenced by the fact that the Futbol Intellect inbox has only received 5 emails in the 6 months since its creation1, I opened the message.
At first, I couldn’t help but laugh. Someone, it seems, had been mislead about the scope of our blog. While I’m sure that influential scouts and managers regularly read our blog (Those two visits from Madrid and Barcelona had to be Jose and Pep. Who else?), I”m less convinced of our ability to affect real-life transfers.2
I considered deleting the message and moving on to more important emails from the likes of Amazon, local politicians and Bolton Wanderers3, but I had already stepped too far, and opened the dubiously named CV-CL22.doc.
This wasn’t a player with a posh home and a bloated bank account; here was a man using every possible route to save his career. Stints in Argentina, Slovakia, and Mexico, from the fourth division to the second, a man accustomed to the back-firing buses and triple digit stadiums that make up football’s lower levels. Here was a person with such a passion for his trade that he was willing to traverse divides of language, culture, and even hemispheres to prolong his calling for just another season.
My cynicism was misplaced.
The billionaire owners and mercenaries chasing larger paychecks don’t own football. Neither is football defined by the ridiculous transfer fees and financial irresponsibility. For every Luka Modric and Stewart Downing, more concerned with wages than loyalty, there are tens of thousands of players struggling to make a living, toiling in anonymous cities and clubs around the world, hoping to make a name for themselves. They’re the ones who define football: the journeymen, constantly shifting locations searching for an unlikely breakthrough. If they can maintain hope during the summer, so should I.
So in the event that all the transfer talk becomes a bit much for you, just remember, there’s a world of football outside of the top-flight, a world of players struggling to make ends meet. They deserve our attention.
Also, if you’re reading this Jose and Pep4, and are interested in a right-footed midfielder with great vision, get in touch. I’ll only ask for a small finder’s fee.
three of which are test messages from yours truly, to ensure that our address wasn’t broken… [↩]
Conor Casey would be playing for Chelsea, if that were true [↩]
I’ve received their newsletter for years, and have no idea why. [↩]
A Cure for Summer Cynicism
- Maxi Rodriguez
There’s a certain attraction most people feel towards the Summer months. The heady smell of a just-lit barbeque, the weekend trips to undiscovered nooks of coastline, the sun dresses. The sun dresses! While I certainly enjoy a freshly grilled hotdog while listening to “Blackbird” in front of a dangerously swelling pit fire, the arrival of Summer always brings a rash of unwanted anxieties into my life. You see, Summer coincides with the most relentlessly agitating part of my year, the Summer transfer window.
Coincidentally, it was also the season I most looked forward to as a kid.
Back then, Summer was a period of hope, where fate seemed determined to bring my team a championship the following year. We were always linked with a competent left-back set to shore up the defense, with a foreign forward to provide a bit of flair up front, with new owners ready to open their coin purses. During the Summer, even the most unreliable piece of transfer gossip seemed reasonable. If you had heard the same playground rumors I did, you would’ve been convinced that we were only a few signatures away from a dynasty. Unfortunately, the reinforcements rarely arrived, and the squad on the verge of improvement in August, became infatuated with mediocrity by January.
With each passing season, I grew a bit more cynical. The left backs chose more prosperous clubs, the foreign forwards, it turned out, had never heard had of our city, and the potential take-overs disintegrated once questions were posed about the source of funds. In truth, Summer became a season not so much marked by hope and the arrival of fresh talent, but by disappointment amidst the departure of the few reliable players on our squad who didn’t embarrass themselves on a regular basis.
At a certain point though, the rationale for their exit shifted. Where newspapers once explained the divorce as a symptom of a competitive spirit, bylines gradually began to point to wages as a determinate factor. Never mind that all of us are concerned with our own financial well-being, as a fan, I was repulsed by the business side of the game. How could these coddled millionaires abandon their fans over a few thousand dollars a week?
Gradually, the naive adoration I felt towards players was replaced with suspicion as transfer windows came and went. Why should I embrace a player who’d eventually move on to brighter stadiums and larger paychecks? I began to see the game in terms of black and white. As if I was watching a drama, I saw self-centered and insatiable footballers turn a deaf ear to the cries of their fans and traverse regional divides in search of a larger bank account; and how the fans, groping for space on the terraces, looked at the demands of their former favorites and the now discouraging prospects for the nearing season, and purchased the new season’s kit anyway, displaying a loyalty and moral fortitude no player could hope to understand. Summer became defined by transfers, demands, and frustrations, a season where the divide between supporter and millionaire professional athlete grew most pronounced. With the constant talk surrounding Stewart Downing, Carlos Tevez, Luka Modric, and their obsession with wages, I was a few headlines away from boycotting football until the start of the season. That is, until an email arrived in the Futbol Intellect inbox.
With a message written in a foreign language, a subject written strictly in capital letters, and a paper clip that looked particularly malicious, the email had all the signs of a message that had slipped through our Spam filter. More than a little influenced by the fact that the Futbol Intellect inbox has only received 5 emails in the 6 months since its creation1, I opened the message.
At first, I couldn’t help but laugh. Someone, it seems, had been mislead about the scope of our blog. While I’m sure that influential scouts and managers regularly read our blog (Those two visits from Madrid and Barcelona had to be Jose and Pep. Who else?), I”m less convinced of our ability to affect real-life transfers.2
I considered deleting the message and moving on to more important emails from the likes of Amazon, local politicians and Bolton Wanderers3, but I had already stepped too far, and opened the dubiously named CV-CL22.doc.
This wasn’t a player with a posh home and a bloated bank account; here was a man using every possible route to save his career. Stints in Argentina, Slovakia, and Mexico, from the fourth division to the second, a man accustomed to the back-firing buses and triple digit stadiums that make up football’s lower levels. Here was a person with such a passion for his trade that he was willing to traverse divides of language, culture, and even hemispheres to prolong his calling for just another season.
My cynicism was misplaced.
The billionaire owners and mercenaries chasing larger paychecks don’t own football. Neither is football defined by the ridiculous transfer fees and financial irresponsibility. For every Luka Modric and Stewart Downing, more concerned with wages than loyalty, there are tens of thousands of players struggling to make a living, toiling in anonymous cities and clubs around the world, hoping to make a name for themselves. They’re the ones who define football: the journeymen, constantly shifting locations searching for an unlikely breakthrough. If they can maintain hope during the summer, so should I.
So in the event that all the transfer talk becomes a bit much for you, just remember, there’s a world of football outside of the top-flight, a world of players struggling to make ends meet. They deserve our attention.
Also, if you’re reading this Jose and Pep4, and are interested in a right-footed midfielder with great vision, get in touch. I’ll only ask for a small finder’s fee.