Armbands are immaterial
When you were at school, the biggest, ugliest kid who could kick the ball the furthest would be captain, mainly because he would scare the opposition most at the coin toss. Then at local level, the best player would be skipper as a way of keeping him sweet and out of the conniving arms of the next pub's first 11. Any aspirations of leadership remain mainly mythical, because nobody has enough authority to make any impact with whatever passionate gibberish spouts out of their mouths.
When most of the players are worrying about other, more important issues - like money - who will really listen in the heat of a tight encounter on a muddy council pitch? Sure, every now and then a player epitomises a team through their talent, image and behaviour. But in the main, the key is not to appoint the wrong captain, rather than to choose the right one. It takes nothing to be a symbolic representative of a team. It is far more difficult to damage a club merely by wearing an armband. Not much different in the Premier League, really, is it?
The stakes are higher, egos larger and wages bigger, but the principles remain the same. One man, who, to all extents, is an equal of his other ten team-mates, is suddenly elevated to the apparent heights of a demi-god. He is the man to look to in a crisis, to put in a captain's performance. Nobody but him can drag dishevelled groups of players through sticky situations by having tags such as Fantastic, Marvel and Caveman (this only applies to Wayne Rooney's stints as skipper) attached to him. He is the emblem upon which the aspirations of fans rest and outcomes of games depend.
Often, the most-revered captains are referred to as their manager's voices on the pitch, the physical embodiment of the gaffer's standards. They need to be in tune with their boss, able to handle all manner of military comparisons and, above all, know how to choose heads or tails. It is a job for the men amongst men, those who put their body on the line, die for the cause and fulfil all manner of clichés. They are the driving force, the bedrock, the heart and soul of squads.
But, honestly, what do captains actually do? In cricket, they make meaningful decisions and even impact upon team selection, moulding their teams to their own wills. In football, they hold hands with the mascot. Would John Terry really throw his face front of less strikers' poised size tens if he didn't have a piece of elastic above his elbow? Would Steven Gerrard get Liverpool out of fewer holes? Would Roy Keane have ranted at a smaller quantity of team-mates? Of course not; a player's character can be exaggerated by the captaincy but not redefined – some are leaders and some aren't, regardless of their title.
Problems only exist when a disruptive influence is given power with which to reap negativity – enter William Gallas. His comments and attitude have been scrutinised more because of the captaincy, so his public hissy fits have fashioned a crisis, where once they created an opportunity for another defender to replace him for a game or two. He is a character who plays for himself – usually very well – but therefore doesn't fit the criteria for captain. Now Cesc Fabregas has the job, he will excel, despite his tender age. He ticks all the boxes of being a superb player, who is not likely to do anything controversial and is certain to be in the team. It doesn't take a superhero to be skipper, it just takes common sense.
When you were at school, the biggest, ugliest kid who could kick the ball the furthest would be captain, mainly because he would scare the opposition most at the coin toss. Then at local level, the best player would be skipper as a way of keeping him sweet and out of the conniving arms of the next pub's first 11. Any aspirations of leadership remain mainly mythical, because nobody has enough authority to make any impact with whatever passionate gibberish spouts out of their mouths.
When most of the players are worrying about other, more important issues - like money - who will really listen in the heat of a tight encounter on a muddy council pitch? Sure, every now and then a player epitomises a team through their talent, image and behaviour. But in the main, the key is not to appoint the wrong captain, rather than to choose the right one. It takes nothing to be a symbolic representative of a team. It is far more difficult to damage a club merely by wearing an armband. Not much different in the Premier League, really, is it?
The stakes are higher, egos larger and wages bigger, but the principles remain the same. One man, who, to all extents, is an equal of his other ten team-mates, is suddenly elevated to the apparent heights of a demi-god. He is the man to look to in a crisis, to put in a captain's performance. Nobody but him can drag dishevelled groups of players through sticky situations by having tags such as Fantastic, Marvel and Caveman (this only applies to Wayne Rooney's stints as skipper) attached to him. He is the emblem upon which the aspirations of fans rest and outcomes of games depend.
Often, the most-revered captains are referred to as their manager's voices on the pitch, the physical embodiment of the gaffer's standards. They need to be in tune with their boss, able to handle all manner of military comparisons and, above all, know how to choose heads or tails. It is a job for the men amongst men, those who put their body on the line, die for the cause and fulfil all manner of clichés. They are the driving force, the bedrock, the heart and soul of squads.
But, honestly, what do captains actually do? In cricket, they make meaningful decisions and even impact upon team selection, moulding their teams to their own wills. In football, they hold hands with the mascot. Would John Terry really throw his face front of less strikers' poised size tens if he didn't have a piece of elastic above his elbow? Would Steven Gerrard get Liverpool out of fewer holes? Would Roy Keane have ranted at a smaller quantity of team-mates? Of course not; a player's character can be exaggerated by the captaincy but not redefined – some are leaders and some aren't, regardless of their title.
Problems only exist when a disruptive influence is given power with which to reap negativity – enter William Gallas. His comments and attitude have been scrutinised more because of the captaincy, so his public hissy fits have fashioned a crisis, where once they created an opportunity for another defender to replace him for a game or two. He is a character who plays for himself – usually very well – but therefore doesn't fit the criteria for captain. Now Cesc Fabregas has the job, he will excel, despite his tender age. He ticks all the boxes of being a superb player, who is not likely to do anything controversial and is certain to be in the team. It doesn't take a superhero to be skipper, it just takes common sense.
No comments:
Post a Comment