Alan Coleman

Pete Crouch’s transformation from baddie to all round good guy has to be a shining example of just how fickle we are as a nation of people.

A few months ago, with a good helping of tabloid spite, he was being lampooned as ‘Mr Miss’, a half-witted fraud who simply couldn’t find the back of the net. His height and awkward appearance made him an easy target for the only slightly funny Baddiel and Skinner, egged on by their legion of tubby followers that watch A Question of Sport and drink larger tops.

He appeared on a website dedicated to the celebration of ugly footballers, the sort of link that gets forwarded in an email with the Subject title, ‘Hilarious- SOO true!!’. You could just imagine the two blokes putting the site together. Looking slightly awkward in their safe GAP fashion and spiky hair. The sort of people who are scared by the unfamiliarity of city living, desperately fighting the magnetic pull to the safe suburban village of their childhood. Their parents, ever present, tediously filling the neighbours in on what David is up to in the big smoke. Their website is of course little more than an exhaust for the crushing jealousy that is derived from the simple fact the middle classes aren’t any good at sport – apart from Tennis of course, but that’s a wankers game, and you know it too.

With determination and grace, Peter Crouch rose above his detractors and simply kept coming back for more. He bravely ignored the moronic boos and focused on his game, and slowly but surely things started to happen for him. The goals at one of the worlds most famous football clubs came and so did a deserved place in the England squad. Oh how the table started to turn for the smug graduates and the silly website.

By the time the World Cup started he had not only proved himself professionally, but also demonstrated a level headed and endearing personality that is a tribute to his upbringing. No longer a figure of fun for the Audi brigade, now the man that two Page 3 girls fought over outside a swanky club. Fantastic. In England’s second game against Trinidad and Tobago it is true that he made some awful misses, but in an inspiring example of resilience he persisted and found the end of a sublime Beckham pass at the far post. Better late then never.

The fact that he indulges in self-mockery in front an entire nation shows a person capable of separating professional talent from the ludicrous pantomime egos that accompanies his chosen sport. I am of course referring to the now famous robot dance, of which no article about the FIFA World Cup 2006 will be complete. ‘The Crouch’ is probably the finest goal celebration since Gazza’s famous dentist chair episode in Euro ’96. And because it is simple manoeuvre that is strangely quite cool, anyone from the playground to the pub can have it. Just like in the film Teen Wolf, he has turned the strange into a unique brand for everyone to enjoy, and in doing so has forced the tabloid filth into its most blatant U turn since Jade Goody.

Peter Crouch, Liverpool FC and England.

When it comes to football I consider myself to be an armchair pundit. By that I mean that my opinions are ill informed, outrageously positive and usually based on what I read on the back pages or pick up in pubs.

The best thing about armchair punditry is that you never stop learning, there’s always a new little nugget to pick up from a Notts County supporter in IT, or that bloke in parcel dispatch that hasn’t missed an Orient game since he was 18 months old. I’m always amazed at the amount of knowledge people who have a genuine love of the sport amass in a lifetime. I watched the first half of the Germany – Costa Rica game with some friends from work on Friday evening. Two of then, Matt and Aaron, manage and train non-league teams in their spare time, and between them probably have at least 45 years worth of footballing knowledge up top.

These are the people to watch a match with. Opinions unclouded by the ignorance of nationalism, with insightful comments from the brain rather than the wobbling gut. (Saying that, FC knows a fair bit about the game. However the idea of him playing it is akin to Nutty coming on for the last 10 minutes of a Champions League final). There’s nothing better than hearing about famous players when they first started out in the French lower leagues in the early nineties, or stories involving bunking off school to travel all the way to Sunderland to see Wimbledon play on a Wednesday night. Stuff that takes the edge off foul tasting overpriced lager.

Which brings me to Sven. Now I’ve always said that anyone can bluff a 30k year job and get away with it, but there must come a point with earnings in which one really has to come up with the goods. That being so, if one party is willing to pay an individual over five million pounds a year to do a job, I would assume that that person would know what they’re doing.

Now there’s no doubting Sven’s managerial quality at club level, and I would say that he probably knows more about Football than me or that bloke up the pub with no teeth. But something must be up when you secure a win but also the criticism of an entire nation of football fans. We can take a few positives from Saturday’s win over Paraguay, but there was a sense of having been at the second half before, in other international competitions when we lose our bottle.

As the competition progresses we will get better, and I can honestly see us getting to the semi finals. But to do that we need to focus on the game in hand and playing football, rather than on winning the world cup.

But until then, just consider a Rosiky and Henry partnership in the premiership next season.

So here we are again, finally after 4 years of waiting another World Cup is upon us. Four intense weeks of euphoria, despair, nerves and the joys of world football await those up to the task.

Like a small boy waiting for Christmas, it seemed like we’d never get there, but then one by one the giveaway signs started to emerge as the weeks shortened. The team photo on the steps of the plane, organising where we’re going to watch the Paraguay game, women on the train talking about the back four and of course, the final crescendo of the all important nationalism.

Over the past few months the news footage, tireless radio phone ins, world cup pullouts and punditry have all been about one thing. Filling in time before 9th June 2006. Come Friday everything will change as the things we discuss, argue and write about will finally be based on something that has actually happened.

On Saturday 10th June, England will face Paraguay in their first group match in Frankfurt. Expectation almost outstrips the anticipation as an entire nation, desperate for some international success, focuses its hopes on a group of young men. Over the next few days I’ll be talking about a few of them, Peter Crouch and David Beckham spring to mind.

At this point my thoughts turn to all those flags that can be seen draped around the stadium during any England campaign. The ubiquitous St Georges flag inscribed along the center in huge white lettering with the origin of choice. Towns like Luton, Rochdale and Plymouth, places full of local boozers like your own, full of people like you glued to TV screens. Hopefully, over the next few weeks, all of those people will be leaping around with unbridled joy spilling lager over each other as they hug complete strangers. Hopefully.

The fact is that football has given us something that religion, politics or education have spent hundreds of years trying to achieve. A sense of community, belonging and togetherness. Ironically the only other thing that beats football in getting people together is war, but lets not go there today at least (2-0!).