Note: In the wake of the current WGA strike wreaking havoc on American television, I have included excerpts from a script I am proposing to any major studio executive who happens to be read.ing this with airtime slots to fill. I plan to adapt and rearrange selected scenes and dialogue from The Godfather Trilogy into a one-hour made-for-TV epic about Michael Owen’s career.

Michael Corleowen: Do you still fear me Kay?
Kay Adams Mourads: I don’t fear you Michael, I just dread you.

There was a time I might have been lambasted for this piece. Considering my chosen language of expression, I might have even been accused of blasphemy, and rightfully so. For there was also a time when Michael James Owen was one of the most efficient strikers alive, a prominent member of the select club of forwards most commonly referred to as “clinical”, that most coveted of fictional football terms. Unfortunately for Michael, that time has regrettably passed, the latter adjective now lugging with it a dark and far more ironic meaning when used to describe him.

Recent performances unquestionably prove he can remain a threat, but does England’s godson really still rank among the best? Alas, given my now all-too-familiar lack of surprise, or even disappointment, upon first witnessing the photograph spearheading this article, I’m afraid my answer is a curt and tepid “no”.

Kay Adams Mourads: Michael, is it true?
Michael Corleowen: Don’t ask me about my business, Kay.
Kay Adams Mourads: Is it true?
Michael Corleowen: Don’t ask me about my business.
Kay Adams Mourads: No.
Michael Corleowen: [slams his hand on the desk] Enough! Alright. This one time, this one time I’ll let you ask me about my affairs…
Kay Adams Mourads: Is it true? Is it?
Michael Corleowen: No.

Yes. It is. He’s injured again. Which means what for club and country? Not as much as one might think. Owen will undoubtedly retire a worthy hero as England’s all-time leader in goals scored, but their impossibly prolonged reliance on him flirts with the absurd. If Wayne Rooney, when healthy, come somehow summon his inner Maniche and play as consistently well in international fixtures as he does in the league, and if Steve McClaren could somehow reverse his lobotomy and actually send out a squad with eleven distinct positions, England would be looking at Owen as a welcome luxury rather than a vital necessity.

Considering the unfortunate pattern of irregularity his injury-plagued career seems unable to abscond, perhaps that is precisely how they should perceive him. A record of 40 goals in 88 caps is undeniably ridiculous, but if it’s recent goal tallies you solely respect, someone could remind you that Peter Crouch has 11 in his last 13. Care to plan your entire attack around him? Didn’t think so. When he’s fit, no one can argue Owen won’t contribute and score; he simply can’t be expected to do it as often anymore. Rooney should be placing all the weight squarely on his shoulders, at least while he waits for Theo Walcott to mature some before relieving him of part of the load that Jermain Defoe seems unable to bear.

Michael Corleowen: If someone is going around this city saying, “Fuck Michael Corleowen,” what do we do with a piece of shit like that? He’s a fuckin’ dog.
Joey Barta: Yes, it’s true. If someone were to say such a thing, they would not be a friend. They would be a dog.

As for Newcastle United? Owen’s latest absence secures an otherwise non-guaranteed place in the starting lineup for our leading scorer this season and the last. Obafemi Martins is what Owen used to be: short, wily and devastatingly fast. What he blatantly lacks is the assuredness in front of goal that Owen was once heralded for. How does one find this? He plays a full 90 minutes, week-in, week-out, until he does. Just ask Benjani Mwaruwari. Since taking a seemingly unprovoked stab at Rafa Benitez, Sam Allardyce seems to have symbolically recanted his statements by adopting his Spanish counterpart’s rotation policy, with an occasional splash of nepotism on the rocks. Other than maybe David Rozenhal, whose calamitous late September day at the City of Manchester Stadium has seen him harshly resigned to the substitutes’ bench at the start of virtually every match since, it is Martins who has clearly been Fat Sam’s most undeserving victim.

The acrobatic Nigerian has expressed his loyalty to the club in no uncertain terms on more than one occasion, Geordie supporters having already wholeheartedly embraced him as their new cult number nine, yet one can’t help but feel Allardyce’s persistent partiality to Owen must be taking its toll on his spirits. Owen might still be the more decided finisher, but Martins has undoubtedly proven that he can be the present and future of the club’s attacking arsienal, though, if this summer’s faint transfer rumors were to be believed, Newcastle possibly face the prospect of losing him to Arsène Wenger’s attacking Arsenal.

Leslo Corleowen: Uno… por favor…
[to Michael]
Leslo Corleowen: How do you say “banana daiquiri”?
Michael Corleowen: Banana daiquiri.

When we signed Owen for a record £16 million from Madrid, I disagreed when people considered it an overly extravagant fee. Contrary to most, I thought he had succeeded quite well in Spain, considering the carousel of managers Real Madrid entertained between 2004 and 2005, and the constant pressure of an extremely skeptical local press. Some might forget he finished his only season in Spain with the highest goals-to-minutes played ratio in La Liga. He was approaching the natural prime of his career, and the only injury concern was a slightly niggling thigh problem from his days at Anfield. Since breaking a metatarsal bone during a 2005 New Years Eve match against Tottenham, however, he has displayed only a passing resemblance to the player he once was. We have long heard optimistic opinions from surgeons, specialists and former players alike on Owen’s chances at a full recovery, but despite it all, he has noticeably lost some of the pace so crucial to his success, and just can’t seem to stay healthy for more than a month, something even Allardyce’s mandatory yoga regimens cannot correct.

Perhaps the only astute act of Freddie Shepherd’s gluttonous reign at St. James Park was convincing Florentino Pérez he should purchase Jonathan Woodgate for £13.4 million. Like Owen, Woodgate was the first truly accomplished player in his position Newcastle could boast about in years, but an incredible misfortune with a slew of injuries began to ravage a potentially illustrious career. In Woodgate’s case, Newcastle management decided to cut their losses and cash in while they still could; this will surely draw the ire of many, but perhaps it is time they begin pondering doing the same with Owen.

If Kwik-E-Mart wasn’t around, it is very likely I would be far less dogmatic, but the truth is they are vying for the exact same place on the field alongside Mark Viduka. One demands the experience needed to develop, the other desperate to recapture his sharpness; translated, they both need to be starting every game. Fans have complained about an apparent apathy about Owen’s efforts on Tyneside this term, though I for one believe the new snarl on his face is as much a testament to long and lonely nights of reflection in a myriad of rehab clinics than a lack of passion for the Newcastle cause. Daily commutes on his Eurocopter Dauphin aside, I really do think he’s giving it his all, no less with the unfair burden of an entire nation’s expectations looming over him. Nevertheless, though it gives me no pleasure to say or even type it, I believe Newcastle United and Michael Owen have finally reached an impasse. David Moyes, you just might get your chance.

Michael Corleowen: I’m not a pezzonovante.
Don Corleowen: There wasn’t enough time, Michael. There just wasn’t enough time.

Theme Music: Nino Rota – The Godfather Theme

From Soccerlens.com - Football News

Besides perennial irrelevance on the world stage, there are three things us football fans from the Third World can look forward to each year: decrepit stadium seats, cheap-looking replica jerseys and a bootleg copy of the latest installment in the Japanese Winning Eleven video game series by Konami Tokyo.

Despite the splendor and sheen of EA Sports’ vaunted (read: fully-licensed) FIFA series, it has never been a secret among serious gamers that Winning Eleven has always been the more compellingly accurate virtual representation of our sport. Now boasting a cult-like international following that falls somewhere in between Star Trek and Chuck Norris, the ’08 brainchild of video game designer Shingo Takatsuka was released recently to much fanfare and frantic anticipation.

The result is simpler than an offside decision involving Mark Viduka: it is the single greatest sport video game on any console since Super Tennis on the Super Nintendo. (The exception, of course, being any Football Manager game released during that period. I have since sworn off the latter time-effacing contrivance; it seems I have developed a fondness for clean underwear, meals and women.)

It wasn’t until I moved to Montreal four years ago, over a decade since I first explored the limits of my temper managing Espinas, Iouga and the rest of the original Master League misfits, that I first found myself purchasing the fancy complete-with-manual Western edition, Pro Evolution Soccer. Despite a much more serious title, little differed between the two versions, PES offering slightly faster gameplay along with the absence of an overly-enthusiastic Japanese match commentator screaming “shoootoh!” upon witnessing any attempt at all on goal.

While waiting for this year’s release, I had the opportunity of sampling FIFA 08 to satisfy cravings for the kind of confidence and reckless abandon on a football pitch I never could quite muster around real people. Surprisingly, as someone who had all but dismissed the series’ playability since 1997, I was wholeheartedly impressed. Matches no longer resembled a weird amalgam of women’s soccer, pinball and that crazy volleyball-like affair using hacky sacks. The graphics were stunning, the pace was realistic, players with the ball no longer sprinted like the infected from 28 Days Later. You could even muck about as Ronaldinho on a practice pitch while you waited for games to load. The problem? A seasoned grasp of the knowledge needed to perform all the game’s controls could require an accredited diploma from Electronic Arts.

I’ve always thought of the FIFA series as an idealistic prototype car too intricate for anyone to drive. Indeed, FIFA 08‘s manual reveals no less than eleven-and-a-half pages of instructions to memorize in order to perform the dizzying array of moves and trickery available. As usual, the designers apparently attempted to make use of every combination of buttons possible on one controller, leaving you once again resigned to the analog stick as your only means for movement.

A very brief open letter to EA Sports: if you’re over the age of 21, which a lot of us actually are, and still like playing video games, the only way you like to use the analog stick is as a metaphor for your penis. I don’t need the Rainbow Flick, just give me the directional buttons option please.

All things considered, FIFA 08 is an admirable effort, the first football simulation worthy of even being compared to PES in years. But something just wasn’t right. I quickly found myself longing for retro minimalist menus, for English club names like Wearside or West Midlands Village, for players who have to instinctively hop when forming lines in front of a free kick no matter how short or low. Which brings me, quite tardily, to PES 08.

It is testament to the game’s crack-like addictiveness that I have stopped no less than six times while writing this article to continue my inaugural Master League campaign. It really is that good. Everything you loved about past versions remains: simple controls, aging stars enjoying recurrent Indian summers and, of course, the greatest venue never built, Konami Stadium. The arcade quirkiness about the game is also omnipresent; goalkeepers still play like they were CGI’d by René Higuita. The graphics on match day are beautiful, yet not as meticulously compiled as FIFA‘s. In my opinion though, PES player faces always tended to show a more distinct resemblance to their real-life inspirations. What has improved most, however, is the actual gameplay.

The latency between the press of a button and the execution of command that wreaked havoc on previous releases no longer exists. For the last few years, one couldn’t help but feel the game’s rapid-fire playability was sacrificed somewhat to accommodate sharper visuals. Now, control is so natural, one feels free to dribble like they used to playing International Superstar Soccer. (Nintendo heads will recognize.)

The venerable Minanda is still spearheading the exceedingly aforementioned Master League squad, although currently, at age 36, he is seen sporting a shorter and most mature new haircut. The Master League mode itself is considerably more engaging than in the past; you now have more to ponder than the speed of Burchet vs. the softer touch of Espimas. Why the players’ names recently all changed by exactly one letter, however, is beyond me. The music is still terrible, best described as an all-inclusive resort DJ spinning at a birthday party for the 12 year old daughter of the exuberant Japanese talk show host from Lost in Translation.

This year’s Ronaldo Award (given to the player who most defies his programmed statistics to become untouchable when possessing the football, an honor the chubby Brazilian was awarded virtually every season) is bestowed upon Manchester United’s Cristiano Ronaldo.

The only negative comment I feel compelled to share seems rather petty when considering any of my last few paragraphs: PES 08 showcases some of the worst officiating since the Italian Football Federation fined Juventus. At least two or three times a match, the referee will get an obvious decision horribly wrong, leaving you wound tighter than Castolo’s cornrows. Just yesterday, I lost the World Cup final to the Netherlands on a laughably given corner. An innocent attempt to make the game authentic? Perhaps, but unnecessary regardless. The same might be said for the inclusion of the possibility to dive; no good can come of this, and some friendships might never be salvaged.

Usually, I like to think of a witty way to end my articles, but not tonight. My friend and arch-nemesis Fanous, who has been pestering me for a mention in this article all day, awaits at the Camp Nou Catalonia Stadium with a Milan squad he has been tinkering with for over twenty minutes. I could go on, but right now I’m too excited to think of anything else to say. Pro Evolution Soccer 2008 is the real deal. Harigato, Takatsuka san, harigato.

Theme Music: Sam And Dave – Hold On, I’m Coming

From Soccerlens.com - Football News

The tallest and fastest roller coaster on Earth is said to be located at a Six Flags amusement park in Jackson Township, New Jersey. Obviously, none of the thrill-seekers who have survived a ride on the Kingda Ka have ever strapped themselves into a seat for 90 minutes at St. James Park. Or, for that matter, at The Madejski Stadium this past Saturday.

In this, the loudly trumpeted season of revival and renewed vigor on Tyneside, a soundingly resolute performance from Steve Coppell’s charges provided another early wake-up call for Sam Allardyce and his small battalion of coaches and trainers. Ever the portrait of staunch pragmatism in English football, the man with the daunting task of hauling silverware into the empty arms of the Geordie faithful has declared on more than one occasion how arduous and stressful he expects his task to be. Indeed, overcoats and pinstripes aside, Fat Sam seems to have lost a visible amount of weight since he took over. When discussing reasons why, few, I’d imagine, would point to a treadmill.

Supporting Newcastle this year has been like any other, only with a slightly more valid renewed sense of optimism. At times, they have left me more excited than Chris Kamara watching a prostitute undress. Most days, however, you just feel like the prostitute. Realistic campaign goals have long evaded the hearts minds of Newcastle management, so Allardyce’s humbly honest predictions for our season appeared a healthy dose of rationality.

But to play out the final 14 minutes of a match away at Reading grasping desperately onto a single point gifted to us through a bewildering own goal, in vain no less, surely came as a shock to even him. Still riding the wave of a rather flattering scoreline against Tottenham last week, his bolstered squad’s ultimate lack of absolute confidence resurfaced once more against the Royals, and suddenly an abysmal showing at Derby County isn’t an isolated incident. I’ve always believed that Allardyce is the right man for the job, and still whole-heartedly do, but every now and then he can mystify.

Goalkeepers: I’m starting to believe Given and Harper got drunk one night in the off-season watching Face-Off and decided to travel to South America to replicate the surgery. They’re both playing exactly like the other. It’s incredible.

Defence: News that Shay Given thought Caçapa spoke Spanish only hints at the lack of understanding still present that only time can fully absolve. Steady for sporadic 15-minute intervals at at time, judging from some of their league performances so far, it would seem that, like a lingering fart, Titus Bramble has left an impact more lasting on the club than the venerable manager who signed him. That being said, I really like the defensive unit Sam has put together. By the new year, I expect them to be communicating well and tightening up. The only true liabilities, Babayaro and Carr, have about as much chance of playing as Santiago Munez from Goal!.

Midfield: As the good people at Actim will tell you, Charles N’Zogbia has easily been our best player this season. Not a believer in the Index? Ask any Premiership fantasy football manager. With Jose Enrique finally settled and starting to look the part, supporters were anxious for another sighting of Charles unleashed back into his natural position as a left-sided midfielder.

Facing a Reading defence that had allowed 23 goals in their first ten league matches, albeit most of them away from home, Sam decided to leave him healthy on the bench, opting instead to field four players who are most comfortable right in the center of the pitch, with only Emre possibly able to convince someone he’s a winger this Halloween. The result was a midfield as inspiring as Dick Cheney, confining a £26 million strike force to an endless game of tag with Reading’s back four.

Geremi and Butt negate each other, and together combine to stagnate the direct passing a 4-4-2 formation needs to produce attacking football. Sam spent all summer renovating our back line, constantly reminding us they need time to gel. Insisting on playing two defensive-minded midfielders, to the obvious detriment of the offense, should do nothing for their collective confidence.

Geremi is a calming personality, a wise choice for captain, but to solidify his presence he needs to command the space between the ball and his defenders himself, straying back even further than he does now with Butt, the perfect substitute for both his position and armband, as cover. Joey Barton’s first competitive start for us proved to be nothing more than a somewhat premature reward for all his commendable hard work and commitment to recovering from his metatarsal injury; in truth, he looked at least a month away from top form. Emre didn’t fare much better, but he’s always been the type of player who thrives on close interactive play with other quick passers.

There has been talk a plenty throughout the Newcastle blogosphere about the pressing need for a “creative” midfielder, but it’s far too early for me to agree. I’m still curious to see Allardyce tinker with some of the combinations at his disposal. The potential is there. For argument’s sake though, as soon as I buy FM 08, I’m sending an inquiry to Porto about Quaresma. As much as it pains me to say it, Milner just doesn’t look like he can ever evolve into a world class player.

When I have a son, I want him to be just like James Milner. But when I want a right winger starting for a club with (long-term) Champions League ambitions, I don’t. He keeps his head down too often to ever sharpen his sense of vision around the pitch and appears to pull back to his favored foot after three feints before offering up the exact same cross every time he makes a run. He was probably our most consistent player last season on effort alone, but he needs to improve all facets of his game to remain a starter.

Strikers: So rare was a venture into Reading’s penalty box, one could have been led to assume that Marcus Hahnemann had contracted SARS on his way to the stadium. Mostly not their fault, but someone forgot to tell Owen that being a hair taller than Martins doesn’t mean he needs to play like a big man.

Speaking of things forgotten, it might be said that it never was going to be a good day for Newcastle’s squad. It looked like a team assistant couldn’t remember to pack a full matching kit for everyone assigned a uniform on Saturday. Instead, the players emerged from the tunnel wearing an unfortunate combination of our home shirt and third kit shorts and socks. But hey, a win against the Mackems away in two weeks and all of this may very well disappear, promptly deleted from my memory for a week forever.

Theme Music: Shuggie Otis – Aht Uh Mi Hed

From Soccerlens.com - Football News

This article is a submission for the Soccerlens Football Writing Competition; to participate, please read the details here.

Written by Adam Mourad

When David Seaman hung up his boots on February 13 2004, the world of association football lost more than a once reliable keeper gingerly limping past his prime. While Gunner fans were left with the lasting memory of a wonderful save against Sheffield United’s Paul Peschisolido in a 2003 FA Cup semi-final, and City supporters unwittingly beginning their rollercoaster ride with a young David James, the rest of us quietly bid farewell to a few filaments of cultural phenomena.

Seaman’s moustache, narrowly edging out an awkwardly long ponytail in a career-spanning fight for the rights to his trademark, perched steadfast as the final bushy example of one remaining in mainstream football. It has been suggested that moustaches carry with them some form of supernatural omnipotence, ranging from acute sexual prowess to a tendency to retain food and drink, the latter to which Seaman’s physique late in his playing years surely lends daunting evidence. Always an affable character, if not ordinary, Seaman’s numerous television appearances since his retirement, including an inexplicable win on BBC One’s Strictly Ice Dancing, must in part be due to society’s affection for the innocuousness of a striking moustache. Indeed, no goatee could ever tell so much about a man.

In keeping up appearances, a moustache in football these days is as rare as Mourtaz Khourtzilava in a Mexico 70 Panini sticker album. Every other major sport can boast at least one notable athlete with a fringed upper lip: the NFL, MLB, rugby, cricket and, of course, the perennial hotbed for the freestyle moustache, the NHL. In the uber-trendy NBA, Adam “The ‘Stache” Morrison is notable because of it.

Imagine, for a moment, a world where world class footballers were equally risqué. What if Kaka wore a pencil moustache, or Messi (when he’s old enough) donned an Edgar Allen Poe? Would their respective claims to the title that was once Ronaldinho’s still be up for debate? If Maldini had always sported a Fu Manchu, would Beckenbauer’s legacy be threatened? How about a few whiskers for Kerlon to match his foquinha dribble?

The possibilities, like the advantages, are endless. For one, supporters could easily know whose jersey to purchase for the new season. Say, for example, you’re a Liverpool fan. Chances are, you’ve got the Gerrard shirt already. In terms of reputation at the club, most would agree that Stevie is the spine, Riise the cult hero, Torres the star and Babel the future. You want to buy another jersey but can’t seem to make up your mind. Suddenly, Dirk Kuyt shows up to this week’s Premier League match proudly displaying what he casually explains is a new signature moustache. Would you now not be attracted by sheer novelty to seriously consider stenciling his name on your shirt?

Secondly, a carefully selected moustache can prove quite disarming in public. The media would no doubt have a hard time cruelly lambasting a player with a Salvador Dali after an uninspired performance. Finally, a new foreign manager could immediately have a frontrunner to consider for the captain’s armband if one was not already apparent. A moustache stands out even when personality might not.

I’m sure some of you can name a defensive midfielder playing in Hungary or dig up a veteran goalkeeper in Uruguay, but it shouldn’t be so hard. We need moustaches in the knockout stages of the Champions League. Enough with the schoolboy look, fellas. A little less Tintin, a little more Dupont. For the sake of namedropping my favorite club to induce a sympathy vote from Ed Harrison, I’ll nominate Joey Barton. Nothing screams clean slate like a moustache makeover. At worst, I’m sure he could use the laughs.

“Let Them Eat Gate”

Football has always been the great proletarian sport, both to play and support. With every new season, with every last television and licensing right renewed, with clubs modeling third kits despite the absence of European football in their fixture lists, we are reminded every day that like everything else in life, it is now principally a business. This is a broad subject that needs no further scrutiny. What does, however, is Manchester United’s newly implemented Season Ticket Holders Home Cup Ticket Scheme, which represents perhaps the most blunt example of audacity in the face of football supporters yet. This is news a few months old, but many I know still aren’t aware, so I’ll briefly explain. Any season ticket holder who doesn’t purchase a ticket to every home cup match this season, regardless if they are willing or even able to attend, will have their season pass withdrawn. Skyrocketing seat prices is one thing, but this utter lack of disregard for those who truly keep a club relevant is abhorrent, even by today’s standards. If this is a sign of things to come, someone needs to speak up quick.

Random Thought

Ever since Swept Away, I’ve believed Guy Ritchie needs to resurrect his career with a film about Robin Friday, the enigmatic English striker from the 70′s who remains a controversial legend for Reading and, to a lesser extent, Cardiff City supporters. He’s showed up late to matches drunk and still made the score sheet, knocked in two goals in a match against Bobby Moore, scored what some consider one of the greatest goals ever taken and once kicked future BBC pundit Mark Lawrenson in the face before promptly proceeding to defecate in the opposing dressing room after his dismissal. The Greatest Football You’ve Never Saw is an entertaining biography about him, curiously co-written by a former bassist for Oasis. The unpredictability of our sport ensures it will never commensurately translate into believable movie scenes, but Friday’s tale through the eyes of Guy Ritchie has to be well worth a watch.

Shearer vs. Marino

I’m a fan (albeit not so rabid) of the other football too, the Miami Dolphins in particular. Add that to the continued unparalleled success of Newcastle United in my lifetime, and this could very well be the start of a long overdue session with a seasoned therapist. It isn’t; at least not today. In light of the recent release of Alan Shearer’s autobiography, the unfortunately titled Alan Shearer: My Illustrated Career, a seemingly symmetrical comparison dawned on me. Alan Shearer and Dan Marino share more in common than the limited joy they afforded me. They are practically kindred spirits. Synonymous with their respective franchises and, it can be argued, still very much the faces of their teams today, both now enjoy easy lives as television analysts. Statistically speaking, they are relatively unmatched by their contemporaries, each with longstanding records to their name, yet in historical conversations about their positions, few would anoint them the best ever, citing an ultimate lack of indisputable success. Paging Dr. Melfi…

This article is a submission for the Soccerlens Football Writing Competition; to participate, please read the details here.

From Soccerlens.com - Football News