The inevitable consequences of success

Dying is a lonely business. People have their own prolematic lives to be burdened with its imprecise process. Best not to get involved at all.

Death, conversely, is very popular because it is a finite commitment. You attend the funeral, eat the sandwiches, and go home to convince yourself you’ve witnessed a celebration not a mourning. Then life carries on as it was. Darlington found that out on Saturday when their crowd doubled for what may be their last ever home game. We experienced something similar when we were relegated from the football league in 2006 - never were we so popular than when we died as a football league club.

Success is also a popular place to be, and with it comes a unique, and new to us, set of challenges.

So, we have players that attract interest, with real money, from other clubs. This puts us in the position of having to balance our needs as a football club with those as a viable business.

As prone as I am to mythologising the comings and goings of Oxford United, the response to Swindon's third and successful bid for James Constable takes some beating. Being a bit busy when the story broke, I was a slow to the news. By the time I'd connected it was becoming our 9/11. There were visions of Constable sitting at a table in a darkened room, while the evil Paolo Di Canio in full length leather coat broke the strker's spirit, persuading him that his dark and evil ways would see the peace in our time.

Meanwhile Kelvin Thomas and Chris Wilder tore off their human masks to reveal their alien lizard faces. While they shoveled piles of gold onto their spaceship, Constable stared back in disbelief as all that he considered good crumbled around him. Across this abyss he stared at the crying hordes of Oxford fans, doomed to death by their Machiavellian ways.

On one level, I love this. the evil empire launches a series of unprovoked attacks in an attempt to rip our spiritual leader from our grasp. Football would be a fraction of what it is without this kind of drama.

But, this is is the myth, so let's recognise that for what it is.

I doubt very much that the Oxford/Swindon rivalry has bypassed Kelvin Thomas and Chris Wilder. They are, therefore, not out of touch with the fans. They will also recognise that they run a company which has the turnover smaller than your local Tesco. They will also consider their long term ambition and how to fulfill that. Somewhere in this equation is a figure which considers the need for revenue and a premium for any reputational damage that might occur. Swindon's bid exceeded that figure.

I also doubt that James Constable followed the story via Twitter alone. So, when the bid came in, it seems unlikely that he was bundled into a taxi and transported to the County Ground without a word. More likely, someone from the club will have explained that they have been offered a figure they can't turn down, they don't want to lose him, but nor can they ignore the offer.

It seems equally unlikely that Constable's decision not to talk to Swindon was a simple one of loyalty over money. Be careful of the word loyalty - it suggests an emotional decision over something he fundamentally feels is the right thing to do. I would hope that staying at Oxford is a decision based as much on logic as emotion.

Constable's dad seems to be involved in helping him with his career choices. This has got to be a good thing because it will help him consider more than just the money issue. He will need to consider the level of comfort he currently has, the risk of moving both in terms of his lasting reputation and the potential for failure - which is quite high given the pressure he'll be under. Amidst all this, he needs to consider the financial compensation for making that move in that environment with that risk. Constable didn't think Swindon's offer would be enough. 

So, far from this being Constable demonstrated superhuman powers to resist the lure of evil through a moral fortitude and innate sense of good. More likely he enjoys the job he does, where he does it and what he's payed for it. Why wouldn't he, given the three years he's had? A move to Swindon, like any club, is to start again.

This is all relatively new to us. Peter Leven was shoved into the limelight via Twitter, Michael Duberry is a target for opposing fans due to his comparative fame. Suddenly our success has delivered a raft of new issues to deal with. This includes living up to the caricatures that develop from such hero worship. Constable goal scoring feats, Duberry the immovable object, Leven, he can do what he wants. Add to this Ryan Clarke's England credentials, Alfie Potter the lower league Lionel Messi.

The reality on the pitch is different, of course. Yes, these players have proven themselves among the best we've seen at the Kassam. But they can't turn it on and off like a light switch. For the last couple of weeks; the defeat to Crewe and the bizarre draw with Hereford, we've seen them demonstrating flashes of brilliance; Little backheels, passes round the corner, sublime exchanges and a couple of near misses. Then, it all begins to taper out. Chris Wilder described it against Crewe as as losing heart. But, inevitably, the more extraordinary you are the closer you are to becoming ordinary. It's what scientists call regression towards the mean.

We need patience and shape. We are amongst the 4 or 5 best sides in the division. The pass and move philosophy drilled into the players is the right one, but when it doesn’t come off, we have to take a breather, regain control and go again. When things didn't come off against Crewe and Hereford, we tried to solve the problem by rolling out our super powers. When they stopped coming off, everyone gets frustrated.

We've been picked off by a couple of teams who have kept their shape and waited for an opportunity.

The problem is that we haven't been in this position for years. The crowd, manager and team all need to learn to play the game for 90 minutes, not in a burst of 30 minutes of intense brilliance followed by an hour of frustration. Against better sides our tempo will be maintained, but where we need to dictate the tempo - at home, against 'lesser' teams, then we need to learn a bit more control.

...And if you thought Crewe was depressing

There was a predictable wash of simpering good will from Oxford fans on Sunday when it was revealed that jug-eared goalscoring funster, and (perhaps) the last Manor legend, Dean Windass, has been suffering from depression leading him to twice try and take his life.

Depression in sport is particularly on-trend nowadays. Gary Speed’s suicide, despite his apparent balance, talent, good looks and happy-go-lucky demeanour – none of which are signs of depression or otherwise - jolted everyone.

Now they’re all at it, last week Andrew Flintoff presented a documentary on it involving some of the decade’s most celebrated sporting names. In the process he recognised that some of his own misdemeanours were a demonstration of some kind of depressive tendency.

You suspect that when The People, having spent weeks camped outside the Sporting Chance Clinic in the hope of spotting a big star through the tinted glass of some over-sized, pimped up four-wheel-drive, found out that Windass was prepared to come out, they were secretly punching the air in triumph. OK, it wasn’t a real star, but it was good enough.

The Windass story is a convenient one for a tabloid audience, but it is ultimately unhelpful. His is the standard narrative of a man who had it all, then without the structure and lustre of professional football lost his way. It involves; fast cars, loose women, money and booze. But he’s not the first to stare into an abyss after retiring from a profession offering such rewards.

I’m not suggesting that Windass is faking or just suffering from being a bit down. But it doesn’t help the wider message if people think you become depressed as the result of no longer being able to buy top of the range cars. Sadly, you can’t write a story that basically says ‘Everything was normal, nothing much happened and then I had the overwhelming urge to kill myself’.

When Neil Lennon and Stan Collymore both came out as suffering from depression years ago nobody took much notice. Both players were, in their own way, outsiders, and therefore, ‘typical’ of people with mental health issues. Lennon was a gnarly pitbull, maginalised by sectarianism, whose success was down to graft more than talent. Collymore had talent, but managed to throw Ulrika Jonsson across a bar in a depressive stupor. I mean, how can he be depressed? Mate, she’s gorgeous and therefore, you're an idiot.

Now apparently 'normal' people, like Speed, and happy people, like Windass have got it. Accordingly, we react appropriately with a knowing sympathetic nod towards football’s last taboo (apart from the gay thing, obviously).

Hours before The People story broke, Oxford fans were lining up to lambast the team for its sloppy defeat to Crewe. Days after he was being begged to stay, James Constable was being pressed to leave because he’s 'not up to this level'. Similarly, Chris Wilder should recognise his limited competence and step aside, after we lost our first in seven, conceding our second goal in 6,300 minutes.

Single events don’t, in themselves, cause depression but they can trigger depressive episodes in people who are prone to its grip. The best thing you can do for a depressive is create a healthy and stable environment in which they can function and manage their condition. They need to exercise, eat well, sleep and generally ensure that life remains devoid of extremes.

Football excels in creating an environment of extreme reactions to episodic success and failure. This is conveniently labelled ‘passion’ - the lifeblood of the sport which the media and marketers are happy to play up. Most people who actively attend football were brought up in, or are the product of, the football culture of the 1970s and 80s when football evolved from being a diversion from the working week to being overtly tribal, confrontational and aggressive.

It wasn't always like this. There’s an old joke about Sheffield FC – the oldest club in the country – if they were the first club, then who did they play? Well, the members of the club formed teams and played each other. It was club for people who enjoyed football. It wasn't concieved as a way of defining a town or region to the detriment of other towns or regions. In 1939 Southampton fans celebrated Portsmouth’s FA Cup win, now they tear each others’ throats out.

It makes me think of the difference between a patriot and a nationalist. A patriot loves his country; a nationalist hates every other country. I’m an Oxford United patriot and a football patriot, but increasingly we seem to be becoming football nationalists. We don't love our team so much as hate everyone elses'.

Now, on the terraces, abuse is the norm, online it's more venomous, on the pitch people kiss badges and rip their shirts off as a primal act of celebration following a goal, on the bench people get fired for losing a single match and referees are branded as the mentally retarded enemy of the game. And that’s not a description of the bad old days of the 1980s; it's a manifestation of a culture that exists today. What's more, it is wholly acceptable; a rebranded and remodelled version of the hooligan era. At least hooliganism was overtly bad.

Amidst this maelstrom, is the stricture of being a footballer. A cabal bound by common behaviours. Lee Steele’s homophobic tweet that lead to his dismissal from Oxford City last week was the illustration of the environment footballers are brought up in. To a man, it's reported that Lee Steele is a decent bloke, and Mike Ford, despite firing him, was prepared to go on record to support him and say he isn’t a homophobe. It seems that Lee Steele's principle crime is that he was engaging with a deeply learnt behaviour amongst footballers - banter. In the changing room this works because the rules are understood, it's a mechanism for sifting out those who are in the football fraternity and those who aren't. In any other environment, it's deeply offensive. He just seems to have to forgetten where he was.

This enclosed environment, full of its extremes, isn’t a healthy one for anyone to be involved in, let alone those prone to depression. And yet, despite its current profile within sport and the apparent meaningful sympathy we have towards its sufferers (well, the famous sufferers, at least) we are quite happy to fuel that unhealthy environment by destroying and worshiping its protagonists with all the extreme passion we can muster.

Statistically speaking, in a squad of 20, 5 will suffer some form of anxiety or depression. James Constable and Chris Wilder, like Windass, Speed, Collymore and Lennon, could be among that number at Oxford. Or maybe Alfie Potter. Or Peter Leven. Or, well, anyone. They may not even know that themselves, but it could be lurking, waiting for something to trigger it. We would do well to recognise this and create a healthier environment than the one we are currently in. Not wait for one of our own to put a noose around his neck before reacting.

The rebirth of JP Pittman?

With two goals in two games, can JP Pittman succeed where so many have failed, and recover from Chris Wilder rejection to become a permanent fixture in his future plans?

Wilder’s three years in charge is strewn with the victims of his relentless focus on improvement. Chris Carruthers was an early victim, never one to do much wrong (or indeed, right), his Oxford career was finished (allegedly) when he took the last portion of pasta from the team canteen ahead of his manager.

Seems unlikely that this was the only reason, and his generally apathetic performances on the pitch support this view, but he wasn’t the only one to be swiftly sidelined from first team duties.

Luke Foster’s (again, alleged) problems were masked by some excellent performances in the first half of the 2009/10 season, but he was quickly despatched and Jake Wright brought in. After an initial wobble, Wright’s performances as a leader as much as a player, has proven Wilder’s instinct to be right.

Wright's partner during much of that promotion campaign, Mark Creighton, was similarly shown the door at the point that his manager no longer saw him as part of the programme. Creighton fundamentally did nothing wrong, he just no longer fitted with the masterplan.

Creighton's departure confronted a reality the club hadn't experienced in more than a decade. We had actually achieved something and were therefore at the uncomfortable point where good players had to move on to make way for better players. Up to that point, achievements fell below expectations so players left with a general shrug of apathy from the fans. Now we were culling our own. 

If Creighton's departure wasn't controversial enough, the exit of Dannie Bulman – to my mind Wilder’s only real mistake in this sense – Jack Midson and Sam Deering were all the victims of Wilder’s cold logic. Harsh as this seems to footballing romanticists like you and I, in nearly all cases, and Bulman perhaps aside, we have progressed with each subsequent, ruthless, decision.

The swiftness with which Pittman arrived and then departed the club for Crawley suggested that something was seriously wrong. Nobody outside the training ground could honestly say they knew what that might be. The glib and meaningless assumption was that Wilder was simply victimising the poor boy. This is a favourite taunt of all football fans, the idea that ‘he doesn’t play him because he doesn’t fancy him’ is tautological. Why would a manager play someone he doesn’t like? His job is to decide which eleven players he likes the most every week. Pittman, evidently, wasn’t someone he wanted around at that time.

But with the mystery surrounding his exit, he instantly, became an enigma, a martyr that proved the  anti-Wilder brigade 'right'. He was no longer able to take the club forward because he'd, in some way, lost it. One forum comment suggested that if Pitman was crap, then he should at least be able to prove it in a yellow shirt. Personally, if he’s crap, I think he should be given a Swindon shirt in which to prove it. Whatever the reason, he seemed destined to become nothing more than a footnote in a future edition of the Oxford United Miscellany.

His return, and goals against Crawley and then on Saturday in the demolition of Aldershot, is welcomed but should still be greeted with some caution. Although demonstrating some poetic justice with the goal against Crawley, he still has much to prove. A year ago Jack Midson led the line with a hat-trick against Torquay in the Miracle of Plainmoor, which rightly afforded him a brief reprieve from the knackers’ yard. But, despite tireless, though largely ineffectual performances (11 more appearances, 1 goal) his story had already been written and it was a mere stay of execution.

Wilder is right to be ruthless with players; such is the way with football, a manager’s contract is meaningless so he can be fired at any moment. A failed player can sit on the sidelines drawing a salary for months, years even, without ever having to prove himself. The manager has the right to protect his job and reputation. His use of the term ‘assets’ to describe players is also appropriate, that’s what the players have to be. He would be a weaker manager if he felt paternalistic towards his charges. Players are happy to sell themselves as assets when looking for a new contract, so they should also be happy to be used and sold as such.

So, can Pittman make turn his Oxford career around? Wilder is right when he asserts that his future is in his own hands. If he wants to play in front of 8-9,000 people and draw the adulation that comes with that, then he’s got to get past his manager first. His challenge, should he accept it, is to remove the option available to Wilder in overlooking him by working his arse off and being bloody brilliant.Two goals in two games helps.

Pittman’s Twitter persona paints him as a reasonable and thoughtful bloke, so hopefully he realises that success is in his gift. Unless he’s taken the last portion of pasta at training this morning, that is.

Photo by NobbyD, reproduced without kind permission, but he's such a top bloke, I'm sure he won't mind.

Crawley In Space

A long time ago in a galaxy far far away...

Turmoil has engulfed the footballing galaxy, Jabba The Evans has amassed a vast clone army that threatens to overrun all that opposes it. Using their ill gotten gains and mysterious resources, the army from Mos Crawley - a wretched hive of scum and villiany - is sweeping away all that stands in its way bringing fear and darkness to the galaxy.

But there is hope in Luke Skywilder and his Rebel Alliance. Jabba the Evans doesn't believe in his sorcerer's ways, he thinks Skywilder's sad devotion to his ancient religion has not given him clairvoyance enough to fire the Rebels to promotion. Hokey religions and ancient weapons are no match for a good blaster at your side, says Evans.

But, the force is strong in Skywilder and he approaches the battle by launching a damn fool idealistic crusade. He deploys R2DLewis to Jabba's lair to shut down his garbage mashers on the detention level. Meanwhile the Mel-ville-PO, the protocol droid, translates the battleground into one of his 6 million languages.

Wilder squares up to Jabba...

Jabba - He doesn't like you (pointing at Jabba’s sidekick Doctor Raynor).

Skywilder: Sorry.

Jabba  - *I* don't like you either. You just watch yourself. We're wanted men. I have the death sentence on twelve systems.

Skywilder - I'll be careful.

Jabba - You'll be dead!

Meanwhile, in the stands, the Fanwoks, a friendly but ferociously brave tribe, follow the lead of Skywilder's motley band by throwing down rocks of abuse onto Jabba's forces and whittling tree trunks to destroy its AT-ST's (which are both surpringly brittle and wholly inappropriate for the terrain).

Anyway...

Under a constant battery, Yellow 5, using his might and battle experience, fights a gallant rear guard action with the A Whing Interceptor, Yellow 16, picking off anything that comes in the ground attack.

Then Pittmanakin emerges from the swamp, a new hope. This is the boy who can do it all but was lured to the darkside by Jabba. He returns to strike a blow against evil. Great shot, kid, that was one in a million.

But just as it seemed that Jabba had been defeated, he strikes back, escaping with a point, able to fight another day. The stuck up, half-witted, scruffy-looking Nerf herder.

Skywilder lowers his head and says forlonly "Told you, I did. Reckless is he. Now matters are worse."

Credits roll.

Torquay United 0 Oxford United 0

It seems fitting that Saturday's welcome non-event at Torquay concluded 2011 seeing that it was at Plainmoor that the year was ignited. With literally nothing to write about from the game, it seems the perfect opportunity to use that trusted device the American sitcoms use from time to time. Yup, let's review the year with a few flashbacks.


Man of the year: Michael Duberry
Over a 12 month period, there is one player who stands imperious over others. It is amazing that only now people are talking about Ryan Clarke as a potential transfer target for clubs at a higher level. James Constable rightly takes on the role of talisman at the club, but barely a game goes by Clarke making a match winning, or saving, save, some of which are world class. To date, he's saved 57% of the penalties he's faced, which is remarkable when you consider that on average only 18% of penalties are saved by the goalkeeper.

But, despite being at the club for only about 5 months - two where he's been injured - no other player has had a greater impact on the club than Michael Duberry. Despite Clarke's brilliance, last year conceding goals was our forte. Duberry has come in and instantly shored up a leaky back four.

But more than that, he's 36, he's played at a much higher level, he's been subjected to the ugly side of football and yet he remains enthusiastic, positive and committed. An intelligent and thoughtful player. It would be so easy to get carried away with his relative celebrity, but you cannot be anything but impressed by his performances both on and off the pitch.

Game of the year: Miracle of Plainmoor
The Swindon game seems the obvious candidate for the game of 2011. It extinguished a 38-year barren run of results at the County Ground. They tried to unsettle our star striker only for the star striker to ram their bullshit right back down their throats. The pantomime villian of the piece got his comeuppance. It even got my write-up about the game some coverage on the Guardian website.

But, the Swindon game was almost too perfect. It was pure theatre, there was a performance with a happy ending - it was almost too scripted.

So, for masochists like me, the game of the year was the aforementioned Miracle of Plainmoor in January. It wasn't just the 4-3 away win, it was more about the subtext. There wasn't a stage or a performance, it was a mundane nothingy fixture. And that's what makes it such a magnificent story.

With the December calendar decimated by snow, we returned to action after nearly a month without a game with a lingering fear that we were about to have a post-snow collapse similar to the one we had 12 months earlier. But, we beat Macclesfield and it seemed that we'd retained our form.

Then, the world collapsed around our ears at home to Southend. An apopleptic Chris Wilder made 8 changes to the starting line-up for the away trip to Torquay a few days later. This included Jack Midson, who was returning from the WILDERness to lead the line at the expense of James Constable. But was Wilder's anger about to get the better of him?

We raced to a 2-0, then 3-1 lead, before entering injury time all square. Then, Midson skipped through and snuck home the winner and complete his hat-trick. Moments later, Steve MacLean stood on the ball in celebration - the picture of the year.

Tour of the year: US tour 
OK, not exactly a lot of competition in this category, but the US tour this summer was brilliant. Timed to coincide with that point in the summer when you actually think you should start trying to work out the point of cricket, the tour of the US happened and it was like going back to the days of Roy of the Rovers.

With games kicking off at 11pm at night, no TV coverage and just the radio connecting you to the games, it felt like they were being played on the moon. A big adventure.

Twitter also came into its own, whether it was following the players onto the plane or the chairman chastising Dean Smalley's finishing via the club's official feed. A PR masterstroke.

Feature of the year: Kassam All Star XI
Perhaps the most startling thing about the Kassam All Star XI series is that I actually finished something I started. Celebrating, if such a thing is possible, a decade at the Three Sides of Hell, the Kassam All Star XI recognised the best the stadium has seen:

Turley, Ricketts, Crosby, Creighton, Robinson, Clist, Bulman, Whitehead, Constable, Mooney, Brooks

Goal of the year: Peter Leven v Port Vale
Every goal that we've ever scored has been greeted with a phrase akin 'WHATAGOAL!'. It always takes me by suprise when the ball hits the back of the net. You'd think I'd have learnt by now, but I'm a bit of a simpleton like that.

But, when Peter Leven intercepted a short pass ten yards inside our own half and looked towards goal, I couldn't have been the only person who chastised him for launching it towards goal. The next 3 seconds produced, maybe, the greatest goal ever seen at the stadium.