(Better
late than never - this appeared in last week's paper, but I've been
away on my hols, so apologies if it seems out of date. Normal service
resumes on Monday.)
Who
knows how Ireland will fare in their World Cup warm-ups, but whenever I see
Giovanni Trappatoni, I laugh privately inside. I can’t help it, and it’s not
just a little giggle. It’s a bloomin’ great big guffaw.
What
right do I have to mock the man? Well, the Irish national team’s manager
certainly had a record worthy of respect, before he took the Irish job. He’d
won all the major UEFA competitions together with league championships in four
different countries, but the first time I heard about him was back in June
2007, when he was manager of Red Bull Salzburg.
I’m
apologising in advance here, my colyoomistas, because I’m brazenly about to
publish a clip from a colyoom some of you read in this noble rag five years
ago.
Back
then I played it just for laughs, but today you’re reading it because we now
know well who he is. As your manager, he’s been extracting the urine from your
country for years.
Anyway,
first the laughs. Here’s the clip from the June 2007 colyoom:
‘
Giovanni Trapattoni, who I strongly suspect might be Italian, is the coach of
Austrian soccer champions, Red Bull Salzburg.
Showing
a poetic talent that, despite his managerial achievements, suggests he might
well have followed the wrong career, Snr. Trapattoni let rip at a bunch of
German journalists who were criticising his fitness coach, Fausto Rossi.
“Our
training is strong. Is modern. Training wins also. I have 21 trophies. There is
blah, blah, blah from you. Fools write who know nothing. Blah, blah, blah,
blah. I can understand people paying. No problema! Let whistle, is right. Have
lost. But run 90 minutes! I am a professional when it comes to psychology. We
train, make fitness. You people always make qua, qua, qua! Shit fools!” ’
Doubtless the words
of a genius, but is he somebody you’d want as your boss? Not your football
team’s boss, but actually yours?
Would you like to
go into a meeting on a Monday morning and be told
“We must for to go
biff sales and then bang bang very physical on budget deficit it will be.”
It’s neither
politically correct nor internationalist of me to suggest that working for
someone who doesn’t speak your language might not be the best scenario, but
when the leader of your pack is meant somehow to transpose charisma through an
interpreter, it’s like expecting your rasher to go “Oink!”
Yes, major global
negotiations are successfully completed through interpreters, but when it’s
just you and your boss and he doesn’t understand what you’re saying and you
haven’t a clue what he’s on about, it just doesn’t work.
Footballers need
to want to play for their managers. They need to be inspired and enthused by
them.
A lack of common
language was a big part of the problem with Fabio Capello’s England team, but
while it was the elephant in the room in his case, Trappatoni’s stewardship of
Ireland has a herd of elephants trampling throughout the building.
The man doesn’t go
to games. He has teams of people who go to games for him and he watches videos,
but Fabio went to games, and England’s new manager Roy Hodgson has announced
plans to see a game in every Premier League ground at least once this season.
Hodgson already has long-standing relationships with many of the Premiership’s
other managers, has known all the players for years and in his own way, speaks
their language.
Obviously
Trappatoni knows his stuff, but at this stage of his career you have to forgive
him for taking the big paycheque and sitting back. I know there are legions of
Irish fans out there protesting
“But he took us to
the Euros, and only Thierry’s fingers stopped us from winning the World Cup and
and and...”
Cop on lads. The
spirit of Roy Keane is upon me. Stop thinking so little of yourselves. Stop
expecting to lose and stop being satisfied with making it to a tournament every
ten years.
There are loads of
excellent Irish players in the Premiership, Championship and SPL. Having
closely watched the evolution of your Boys in Green for 20 years, I’ve enjoyed
the journey from Saint Jack’s “You’ll Never Beat The Irish’ boys, solid at the
back and capable of miracles like beating the Italians in a World Cup, through
Mick’s more attacking formula, with Duffer’s speed and width, Dunny’s defensive
heroics and Robbie’s boyish Lineker love of toe-poking goals.
For a while Ireland
looked less frightened of losing and had more belief in winning, but now, after
Brian and Stan and Trap it’s all gone wrong.
Never thought I’d
say this, but Keano for Ireland. Raise the bar.
Everything I’ve
read of Trappatoni over the years concerns his on-off relationship with Irish
players. Apparently, his preferred method of dumping players is by text
message. I’d say he was like a teenage girlfriend, but that’d be unfair to
teenage girlfriends. He’ll fall out with you over the most infantile matter,
and then say “If you call I might pick up but I’m not calling you.”
So the talent that
might have been Stephen Ireland goes missing, alongside Hunt and Hoolahan and
all the many others who have been in or out of favour, and still he doesn’t go
to games.
To judge
footballers you have to see them play. It’s not difficult, even when you have
to suffer the ignominy of having your annual salary cut from €1.7m a year to a
measly €1.5m.
Awwww. Poor diddums.
Somehow he even managed to wring some positive PR out of that gesture, saying
he understood the state of the nation.
For that dosh you
have to recognise the faces of and be at least speaking to all your best
players. Trappatoni is having a laugh and the sooner it’s dealt with the
better. There’s a tremendous team of Irish Internationals out there. It’s just
such a shame they don’t play for Ireland.
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