A TOUCH OF THE LIVERPOOL’S
West Ham 2 Aston Villa 1
It has always been a mystery to many a West Ham United follower just how Arsenal (historically), Manchester United (early in the days of the ‘Premiership’) and Liverpool (most recently) have managed continually to ‘win ugly’ whilst simultaneously ‘playing ordinary’.
‘1-0 to the Ar-se-nal’ is a plaintive cry that still encourages bile to form spontaneously at the back of my throat. Why has that shit never happened to the humble West Ham fan? (other than of course in that 7 match run in 1985-86 when the team only had to show up for a match to be guaranteed victory)
Okay, so this is a totally weird and unrepresentative season with behind closed doors fixtures – and about to get weirder with 50% of ‘crowds’ made up of curious corporates who couldn’t get tickets for Spurs and Arsenal games – but even the most hardened cynical Hammers supporters must have concluded at the end of this game that they might be entering a new phase where ‘Lady Luck’ is concerned. Just quite what might have encouraged the grand dame to enter the London Stadium fray is still a mystery. Is it the delicious testosteronal mix of David Moyes, Stuart Pearce, Andy Irvine, Kevin Nolan and… wait for it… Mister Pi? (yes, him) Or is it some other collection of enigmatic ingredients?
The point is that this was a home game where West Ham fashioned just two genuine efforts on goal across the ninety minutes, both within two minutes of the start of each half, and both resulting in goals, the first a header by Angelo Ogbonna from Jarrod Bowen’s corner, the second another header, this time Bowen’s from a clever curling chip by Saïd Behrama, the would be Payet only entering the arena as a substitute less than a minute earlier. Aston Villa, the opposition, who wear West Ham’s colours (or they theirs, you know what I mean) when they play at home were, in this game, generally faster to the ball, and created more goal opportunities, but were unable to make their early dominance count (other than in scoring the best goal of the game) and reached the final minute wondering just how they were about to complete a game in which they were far and away the better side, with nothing to show for their efforts. If I take two teams from my opening paragraph (Arsenal, Liverpool) and West Ham’s games against them this season, you will see how these things work.
Returning to the Hammers’ unique and spectacular coaching staff, this is where we might find the clue. Remember Arsenal, Manchester United and Liverpool’s five deep row of track-suited open-mouth gum chewing neanderthals sync-baying for blood from their cosseted position on the bench? Of course you do. Those ‘Champions’ DVDs and Sky reruns are full of them. Well Hammers’ bunch of baying brutes have actually chosen, in this pandemicia, to position themselves more disparately. Pearce and Irvine are positioned in the gods, kind of, a few rows back in the amber Covid Zone B with their radio mics, from where they have a raised panoramic view of the action. This leaves Moyes in the technical area, Mister Pi on the bench in front of the substitutes, and Kevin Nolan, with his iPad and fashioned monosyllabic chanting delivery of instructions, moving between the two on the ground. A brilliant synthesis of ideas and observation. A team for the twenties, you might say.
There will be those of you asking who Mister Pi is, and to you I would say, keep up, keep up. Every team needs a sports scientist, as well as a chaplain. I will take a look at West Ham’s chaplain in later games, as he tends to exert his unquestioned influence from an even greater panoramic position in his socially distanced seat. Doctor Pi, though, is the articled influence, the man with letters after his name, a man who has done the hard yards and studied to the nth degree (quite lidderally) just how to turn presence into points on the football field. He cuts quite a figure on the bench with his Glenn Gregory brilliant white hair and his knowing expression, and yet you wouldn’t notice him at first glance. He’s Mister Pi, after all.
Aston Villa have noticed him. They have a player called Jack Grealish who wears mini shin pads and who dances around the pitch with socks round his ankles, a fashionista hair style and a captain’s armband, the front figure for Villa’s assault on the Premier League that has seen them recently win 3-0 at Arsenal and beat champions’ Liverpool 7-2 in front of their own fan. The problem is that Mr. Grealish, for all his moderna, carries with him that rather passé characteristic still seen in swimming pools, should you be fortunate enough to find one open, of the Grand Diver. Not for nothing is he known as football’s Tom Daley. Even with observation from every one of the 36 TV cameras in the ground or mobile phone twenty lens cameras, he still dives. On some occasions he will receive a challenge to his right leg and resurface from a stylised collapse clutching his shoulder. In short, dare I say it (yes, I dare) a cheat. And yet he doesn’t need to. So why does he? I guess it’s part of that whole impresario thing on the sports pitch – the untouchable sportsman who believes he should be free to be untouchable – to ply his trade without the irritating interference of – other players.
For me, in these days of Covid, I like to go with the science. And for us, in football, that means going with the sports scientist. West Ham’s scientist, observing some early transgressions by Mr. Grealish, commented on them using that earlier mentioned c-word. Falling on the ordinarily deaf ears of the opposition manager, the Villa boss then responded to the science from the other side of the technical area, reviling the opinion dismissively with the compound epithet ‘f***ing twat.’ But you ought to listen to the science Mr. Smith, I kept thinking, for it speaks the truth.
In the second half, that other bastion of fair play and common decency, John Terry, presumably having had the half-time break to consider his case, moved from his opposition bench position magisterially, and somewhat unexpectedly, into the technical area. He voiced his opinion on the science unambiguously, using his own choice of c-word and then suggesting the sports scientist meet him in the tunnel after the match, and he didn’t mean for a game of cards. The science replied ‘All day long,’ showing scant respect for a man more than familiar with defending his dishonour from the inside of a courtroom. The fourth official, summoned from his residual slumber, now beckoned to the science to join him and Mr. Terry, now temporarily parked in the technical area, to each receive a yellow card for their respective contributions.
Well into the second half on the field of play, Aston Villa were still chasing the game at 2-1, when they were awarded what can only be described as a ‘soft penalty’ for Rice’s momentary shirt tug on Ollie Watkins. Watkins, the hat-trick hero from the 7-2 demolition of Liverpool, stepped up and struck the top of Fabianski’s crossbar with his effort, from which Coufal was able to clear. This was one of Villa’s sixteen efforts on goal during the game, and there was still time for one more in injury time which found Watkins again, happy to atone for his earlier penalty miss by slotting home a deserved equaliser. Then Darth VARder stepped in and, applying Agamemnon’s Principle, calculated that Watkins’ shoulder had strayed offside in a failed attempt to avoid a foul on him by Ogbonna. Result: ‘goal’ disallowed.
And there you have it. Another three points to West Ham. Third win in a row. ‘Clips’ will no doubt wrap his dulcet metallic tones around the phrase, ‘We Are Massive.’ And now you can be certain that he is right.
1 Lucasz Fabianski, 21 Angelo Ogbonna, 4 Fabian Balbuena, 3 Aaron Cresswell, 5 Vladimir Coufal, 41 Declan Rice (c), 28 Tomas Soucek, 26 Arthur Masuaku, 18 Pablo Fornals 20 Jarrod Bowen, 30 Michail Antonio
Substitutes: 9 Saïd Benrahma, 22 Sébastien Haller, 16 Mark Noble
Scorers: Angelo Ogbonna, Jarrod Bowen
