03 Jan Premier League Mid-Season Musings from a Clueless Yank
I’m putting it right out there, Gentle Reader(s)—right at the git go: I have NO idea what I’m talking about. Certainly when it comes to futbol—and yes, I’m going to call it futbol, just to be clear that I’m talking about The Beautiful Game and not the gladiatorial concussion-fest that us colonials are traditionally frothing over. I’ve been a fan for several years now, and what little I know about futbol is what I have gradually gleaned through the process of acquainting myself with the Premier League via the good graces of over-the-air NBC broadcasts (one, perhaps two, matches on Saturday or Sunday mornings), Telemundo (also Saturday and/or Sunday morning fixtures, en Español), and, for the last couple of years, the Peacock streaming channel. The 2022 World Cup and its seemingly endless rounds of buildup matches further served to expose me to the substantially more boggling realm of international futbol competition. I trust Harry Kane is feeling somewhat better by now.
I just finished reading an incisive Premier League mid-season analysis in the New York Times, full of technical insight and statistical evaluation, and quite frankly I couldn’t hardly make sense of any of it. Futbol wonk-talk is completely beyond me, and I’m pretty okay with that. I’m a lifelong baseball fan and most of the intensive wonkery generated regarding Our National Pastime is largely incomprehensible and meaningless to me as well. I just love the game and I’ll go for the magic over the science any day. While I have finally managed to grasp the concept of ‘offside’ in futbol, the workings of the infield fly rule remain completely mysterious to me. I am, however, still wondering who’s parking the airplanes when all those chaps with the little flags are busy charging up and down the touchline on match days.
What I do know is that the club I follow—Liverpool—is in amazing form this season and they’re on the cusp of running away with the championship. As of today they’re eight points clear of their nearest competition, Nottingham Forest, with one game still in hand. The one game in hand is due to the postponement of the Merseyside Derby match with Everton because of inclement weather. Inclement weather? At a Premier League match?? What—did the pitch split open and radioactive molten lava and a host of Gorgons come spewing forth? I figure they’d just as likely postpone a Premier League match due to balmy temps and sunshine—no one would know what to make of it!
Alright—enough ranting for the moment. Time for a word (or two) about the incursion of Yanks into the Premier League. With last week’s completion of the takeover of Everton by the Texas-based Friedkin Group, fully one half of the twenty Premier League clubs are now majority American-owned. A Yank observer might well think, ‘So, they need the money, we’ve got the money—what’s the rumpus?’ Perhaps, but consider: Of the 32 teams in the National Football League, only one can in any way be considered as ‘foreign’-owned. That would be the Jacksonville Jaguars and that owner would be Shahid Khan, a naturalized American citizen born in Pakistan and resident upon these shores since 1967. (Khan’s sports franchise portfolio also includes Fulham F.C., by the way.) In baseball, only the Toronto Blue Jays are not American-owned, which kinda makes sense because, well, it’s a Canadian team. Beyond those with Yanks now at the helm, another five Premier League clubs are in the hands of other foreign investors, leaving only five controlled by British entities.
If, in the US of A, there was any situation even vaguely approximate to the takeover of British futbol by foreign interests I can assure you there would be collective freaking out of a degree only marginally less than that what might be provoked by an actual military invasion of these eroding shores. Congressional hearings would be empaneled to stem the tide of evil foreign influence over our blessed sporting patrimony, fans would be taking to the streets in protest, and the Orange Goblin would be at full froth (unless, perhaps, it happened to be his Saudi buddies who were doing the gobbling up).
My grandfather, who was born in 1900, took me to my first baseball game, to see the Cubs at Wrigley Field in 1968. The Cubs are MLB’s oldest team, having been organized in 1870. That connection goes pretty deep with me but futbol is ingrained in British culture and identity to a degree that I don’t think many of us here Across The Pond can fully appreciate. The oldest English futbol club, Sheffield (relegated at the end of last season), dates to 1857, and of the current Premier League clubs only three were established in the 20th century. Crystal Palace is the youngster of the group, dating to 1905. By way of comparison, Shahid Khan’s Jaguars played their first game in 1995.
The incursion of colonial control in U.K. futbol certainly hasn’t gone unremarked upon in Blighty, but it seems to be perceived of as somewhat more of a fait accompli. From what I’ve been able to glean, the infrastructure of British futbol, certainly relative to the smaller clubs, has been pretty miserable for a pretty long time. Stadium creature comforts were often at a bare minimum, food options were meagre and unappetizing (even by British standards!), bathrooms were squalid, and locker rooms were small and shabby. Given that conditions on the pitch at Premier League matches are typically dismal, with rain pissing down on one and all about 95% of the time, you’d think that the prospect of a bit of a respite before and after matches and at the half would be welcomed. But with no amenities to lure them in, supporters traditionally showed up at matches moments before the starting kick and fled the premises immediately upon the final whistle.
American money and management has introduced modern food courts, gleaming team schwag boutiques, better lighting, expanded seating, clean bathrooms, and, of course, skyboxes and executive suites. Needless to say, ticket prices have increased commensurately, but with only 19 home fixtures per season per club it seems that a fair number of supporters have toughed it out.
I suppose the question is, what is the balance of tangible benefits the newcomers are bringing versus what they are extracting? Liverpool provides one instructive case in point. The club was purchased in 2007 by a couple of American investors named George Gillett Jr. and Tom Hicks. Their tenure proved to be nothing short of disastrous and mismanagement and fan rancor nearly drove the club into the ground before Liverpool was acquired—rescued, some might say—by John Henry’s Fenway Sports Group in 2010. Anfield, Liverpool’s home field since 1884, has been modernized and expanded and the club has not finished out of the top ten since 2010-2011 and has been a top-five finisher since the 2016-2017 season. In 2019-2020 they were champions.
Professional sports is a business, obviously, but it’s much more than that. The intangible commodities of deep-rooted fandom—the rituals, the rivalries, the bonds of family and community support going back generations, the esprit de corps of the stands, the jeering and cheering, the chants and the songs—the vibe, I guess—cannot be packaged, bought or sold.
Is it possible to find a balance between tradition and authenticity and progress and all that money? I haven’t a clue, but in the era of increasing corporatization the Premier League still manages to retain some of its unique quirks and idiosyncrasies. Sure, there’s West Ham’s bubble machines and the Oak Road End at Luton Town, but how do you explain a league in which Bournemouth plays at Dean Court (capacity 11,307) and Man United plays at Old Trafford (capacity 74,879)? It beggars the imagination, if I dare say so myself.
Here’s a telling bit of context for you: The least valuable team in the NBA is said to be the New Orleans Pelicans, currently listed as being a $2.72 billion franchise. In 2022, Bill Foley, the owner of the NHL Golden Knights of Las Vegas, purchased Bournemouth and their minuscule stadium for just over $150 million. How is that possible? Well, part of it likely has to do with relegation—a concept completely anathema to professional sport in the U.S. If there’s the inescapable possibility that your precious team could get demoted to the minors in any given season, well, that’s a lot of value hanging in the balance. Now, there’s probably not much chance that consistently high-flying clubs like Arsenal or Man City are going to have to worry about relegation anytime in the foreseeable future, but things do change—Nottingham Forest’s current success being a case in point.
And speaking of change, the notion of doing away with the relegation/promotion system altogether has indeed been kicking around for a while. If more American sports conglomerates continue buying up more clubs (not that there’s many left), well, that conversation could get start getting real. Crazy as the concept seems to a Yank like me, I hope relegation/promotion always remains in place. Get rid of relegation and the next thing you know they’ll stop selling Marmite and kipper sandwiches at Portman Road. Like the universal designated hitter in baseball, it’s just the thin edge of the wedge, folks.
So, now that I’ve gotten all that off my chest, let’s move along to what’s really important: Liverpool!
What can I say about the Reds this season? They are in incredible form and playing with a confidence and precision that is truly a beautiful thing to behold. Everything seemed so uncertain back in August following the departure of Jürgen Klopp—he had become such a commanding presence it was hard to imagine Liverpool without him. His charisma and energy on the sidelines, his passion for the game, his patented fist-pumps to the stands at the conclusion of winning matches—I loved watching the guy almost as much as I loved watching the team. But he said he would leave, and leave he did. No dithering about, no indecisive Hamlet-esque hovering about in the wings—the man just packed up and done gone. You’ve got to admire that.
So now, ladies and gentlemen, I give you Arne Slot! Arne Slot?? Who the hell is Arne Slot? Whence and wherefore, pray tell? From the Netherlands, so it seems. One might well consider that filling the literal and figurative big shoes of the departed Herr Klopp might be an intimidating and unenviable task for any newcomer, but the evidence of the first 18 games of the season strongly suggests that Arne Slot and Liverpool are a match made in futbol heaven. Slot obviously inherited a supremely talented squad, but this seems nothing short of miraculous to me.
On the other side of the coin—the coin of the realm, that would be—we have Man City. The Man City squad is, for all intents and purposes, essentially intact from last season. Pep Guardiola is still there, as he has been since 2016. Haaland, Foden, De Bruyne, Grealish, Savinho, Ederson, Silva, Walker—all the big boys are still there, but something has happened. Something has gone wrong, very wrong indeed, with Man City and no one really seems to understand exactly what or how or why.
Since 2017 Man City has been nigh on unstoppable and they have five championships—including the last four seasons in a row—to prove it. Liverpool led the league for a few weeks last season, but listening to all the match commentators it seemed that everyone accepted it as given that, when it suited them to do so, Man City would reassert their dominance and take the championship. Again. Which they did. Erling Haaland was like some sort of cartoon Norse god descended upon the Etihad, sent down to trample on the futbol aspirations of mere foolish mortals. He was a phenomenon and there was an air of inevitability about Man City’s continued dominance of the Premier League. Who could stop them? How? When?
This season has seen Man City execute a steady slide from the top of the table down to their current fifth place, 14 points behind Liverpool. Haaland now seems like just another forward and I have watched several matches during which his name was scarcely mentioned. Pep, who has always seemed to play his cards close to his vest, used to preside over the team with a quietly confident cat-that-ate-the-canary sort of look. As he stalks the touchline this season he appears dismayed, distraught. Panicked, even. It’s a stark transformation from the prior seasons of self-assured coolness.
On the other hand, Arne Slot seems cool as a cucumber sandwich. Overt exhibitions of agitation or exuberance are apparently not his style, but whatever his style is it seems to have meshed beautifully with the Liverpool team culture. Like Man City, the squad is essentially intact from the past few seasons, but in stark contrast to Man City everybody is performing at peak potential.
And then there’s Mo Salah. At the age of 32—on the cusp of senior citizenry in the youth-driven world of futbol—he is playing better than ever and his conditioning is truly a thing of marvel. When he whipped his jersey off on November 24 after scoring the winning goal against Southampton, it seemed a genuinely celebratory gesture but, perhaps, also aimed at making a point to John Henry and the suits in the front office. Salah is a phenomenal player and not only has he not lost a step, he seems to have gained a couple. The Liverpool supporters are making no secret of their fervid desire that Mo’s contract should be renewed, and expensive though that would undoubtedly be, the suits would be out of their minds not to find a way through to hang onto the Egyptian King. Salah reportedly would be content with a one-year contract—and if the primary concern is about his age that seems like a no-brainer. I can’t see how losing Salah now could be anything but a huge tactical blunder for Liverpool, but, just as significantly, it would enrage the supporters who are under no illusion that it’s anything more than a pounds and pence calculation. Should Mo walk, the punters would not be happy, nor would I. Invoke the ire of the Kop End at your own peril, Fenway boys!
Mo is a global superstar and once his tenure with Liverpool is up it’s possible that he might choose to fade away into Ronaldo-esque irrelevance in the bottomless pool of Saudi money. I dearly hope that doesn’t happen. I would wish that Mo should stay with Liverpool until he’s ready to hang up his boots permanently, but that’s simply not realistic. Regardless of what happens, I certainly won’t be one to judge whatever it is that he ultimately decides.
The same goes for Virgil van Dijk and Trent Alexander-Arnold, whose contracts are coming up as well. I dearly hope they are all re-upped. I love watching this team because I’ve gotten to know the players and their styles and roles and when Salah, van Dijk, Alexander-Arnold, Diaz, Gakpo, Szoboszlai, Nuñez, Becker and the rest are firing on all cylinders, as they have reliably been doing this season, it’s truly a wondrous thing to behold.
I typically watch several matches every week (many of them on replay, via Peacock) but I must admit that when the squads aren’t the ones that I’m most familiar with, like Liverpool or Man United or Man City or Arsenal or Tottenham, it still seems to me like a bunch of guys in shorts running around endlessly in the rain. Just like it used to. What can I say? Once a Yank, always a Yank.
Nobody’s perfect.
