Uilleam

From today's Times (of London): http://www.thetimes.co.uk/edition/sport/albertos-goal-still-reduces-me-to-tears-zd3s8mvrn Alberto’s beautiful goal still reduces me to tears Matthew Syed, sports journalist of the year Carlos Alberto, who died yesterday aged 72 after a heart attack, scored arguably the most beautiful goal in the history of football. It wasn’t a free kick from the edge of the area, or an overhead strike of the kind that Wayne Rooney scored for Manchester United against cross-city rivals Manchester City, causing meltdown on social media in February 2011, or a piece of individual brilliance that we witnessed (through barely parted fingers) when Diego Maradona subdued a valiant England side in the 1986 World Cup quarter-final. No, this was a goal born of team dynamics of the kind that Alberto, right, loved so dearly. The captain of the most flamboyant and joyful team in the game provided merely the last touch, the final note of the symphony, the last brush-stroke in a masterpiece of such intricacy and wonder that it bears watching again and again. Yesterday, that fourth Brazil goal from the 1970 World Cup final brought tears to my eyes, reflecting not just on the majesty of that team, but the joy they brought to so many. Pelé, who caressed the final lay-off to Alberto, christened football “the beautiful game”, an epithet that has been ridiculed rather a lot over the years. But I defy anyone to do so while reflecting upon the music and magic of that Brazilian team. I was born in 1970 and came to adore the South American way of playing the game. Like most fans, Brazil were my second team. It wasn’t just the passion and the daring. It wasn’t just the skill and feeling that — even while carrying the weight of expectation of a nation and the pressure of contesting a World Cup — they were enjoying themselves. No, it was the subversive sense that these individuals were knitted together by something more than team spirit, something more even than patriotism. They exuded a collective intelligence that defines greatness. The goal started when Antonio Julian, who had come on as a sub for Italy, was intercepted by Tostão, the No 9 tracking back into his own half. Tostão passed the ball back and it is knocked forward to Clodoaldo who, with one touch to control the ball, laid it off to Pelé. The great man passed it, first time, to Gerson, who flicked it, again instantly, to Clodoaldo. The ball was still midway in the Brazilian half. They were slowly, systematically finding new space. Clodoaldo ducked a couple of challenges rather magically, stepped over the ball to avoid a third, and then knocked it sideways to Rivelino. Already, the spectators were beginning to sense the beauty of what they were seeing, like concertgoers listening to the closing bars of the Adagio of Sergei Rachmaninov’s Piano Concerto No 2, and anticipating the start of the Allegro. Rivelino passed it down the wing to Jairzinho, the ball now midway into the Italian half, the crowd volume growing as he controlled the ball and, as he did so, inverted his body to step inside, just as Mário Zagallo, the Brazil coach, had advised during the pre-match team-talk. Giacinto Facchetti, the Italy captain now backed away, almost as though afraid, as the magician Jairzinho, who had scored in every round of the competition, encroached upon the penalty area. The pass to Pelé, delivered across the outside of the penalty area, opened up the right side of the pitch and he almost languidly held the ball up, knocking it from left to right boot, engaging the Italian defender, but aware in his peripheral vision that Alberto was now sprinting into the space to his right, the full back having charged almost the length of the pitch to deliver the coup de grâce. Alberto, who was born in Rio de Janeiro, that great incubator of legendary footballers, exuded passion for the game from a young age. He joined Fluminense at the age of 19 and captured instant attention for his intelligence, reading of the game, and cerebral use of space. Above all, he had that rare capacity to enhance those around him, knowing when to bring them into play, and provide them with cover. He also knew when to dash forward to support an attack. You glimpse an unfolding symphony of movement and mastery Pelé’s lay-off was almost, but not quite, flippant. So certain was he of the velocity of Alberto’s approach, and so sure of his own mastery, that he scarcely looked up, dabbing the ball on the diagonal as the Italian defensive unit realised that they hadn’t contemplated the possibility of an overlap. The ball bobbled at the precise moment that Alberto’s boot reached it, as if the footballing gods were teeing it up for posterity. The rest is history. In his spellbinding essay Ant Fugue, the author Douglas Hofstadter writes about a colony of ants. When you look closely at any given individual, the actions seem simple. As one of the characters says (the essay is written as a Socratic dialogue): “An ant colony is simply a bunch of individual ants running around at random looking for food and making a nest”. In other words, the group is simply the sum of the parts. But this conception is quite wrong. When you take a step back and assess the colony as a whole, you begin to see new, rather amazing things. Every action fits neatly and seamlessly into every other action. The group is capable of solving complex problems. You glimpse a thrilling collective intelligence. The whole, in fact, is so much more than the sum of its parts. This tells us much about life. You cannot understand a symphony through an analysis of its individual notes, but only by confronting it as a living whole. In the same way, the greatest teams and organisations (and perhaps even nation states) can only be comprehended by appreciating the collaboration and empathy that enable them to excel. The Alberto goal was, in that sense, a metaphor. It was not about the individual actions of those who touched the ball on its journey across the pitch. Indeed, there were no mesmerising detonations of skill or silky step-overs, with the one exception of the cameo by Clodoaldo. Instead, there were short passes, gentle touches and well-executed lay-offs. In totality, however, you glimpse an unfolding symphony of movement and mastery. “We only realised how beautiful the goal was after the game” Alberto would say years later, shaking his head with humble disbelief. “The emotion, of course, when I scored was incredible. But after the game, and still today, I realise how beautiful and how important that goal was because everybody is still talking about it.” We still are, Carlos. And we always shall.

Captain of a great team of great footballers, maybe the greatest team ever. Very sad to see him passing.

That's so depressing a thought; moreover the implications of it are that we will be years, years, playing catch up.

Did you see the celebrations at the goal? Their players looked pretty pumped to me. (Of course there should have been bookings for running to the crowd.)

Rangers were second to the ball all day. It looked like Windass and Hodson were ring rusty. Rangers could play until Hallowe'en, and not score. Maybe players are off the boil, or, worryingly, maybe one or two are not up to it. Fhilth FC is no great shakes, but wanted it more, it was clear. Joe Garner? Really?

Nah, Hank never steps out of the shadows..................

JonJo Shelvey @142

More chance, surely, if they follow a rugby prescription?

A Centurion with a time machine....Medicus Qui

Nos 137 & 150 are The Proclaimers, right?

Arguably, a Palestinian......

Thanks for that, Keith, no doubt we'll all join with you in kissing its fetid, stinking arse.

Put the support through the mill, with a meagre 1 win in 13 matches in charge. Strange, one of the country's finest young managers, we were told.

Nothing to do with the "Ulster Fry", then.......

I take it that the decision, and penalty, relate only to "seizure of documents subject to legal professional privilege and irrelevant documents not covered by the search warrant", and not to documents relevant to any live case. What is clear that the Crown Office/PF, as with all matters relating to the Rangers' cases, has shown a remarkable lack of professionalism.

Goal of a start to the fhilth, then.

Sutton is opinionated, and trying, desperately some would say, to cultivate an image as brash, outspoken, controversial, and of operating from left field. As a result he does overstep the mark, sometimes, probably too often for our sensitivities. He may yet learn to learn. There are guys who have been around and drawing a wage for very much longer, who really grind my gears, and who contribute nothing other than the vacuous, or the obvious, or the downright inane: step forward Mr Andy Walker, and Mr Davey Provan, stalwarts of rasellik, both.

Highly original, highly amusing banter. If he keeps up that standard of repartee, he might, just might, attract the attention of the Nobel Literature Committee. (He should live so long.)

The guy on the fhilth board, who, less than surprisingly, was victim of anti-semitic abuse by supporters, was a board member at BT, also, was he not? Where is he now? If the 'special relationship' forged by him, still holds, we can expect nothing from BT Sport.

Our Odious Coach could have them run out covered only by woad, for all the difference it would make to performances and results.

The little turd is trousering something like 400K per annum, plus perquisites. As he seems like the kind of man who is always last at the bar (if, indeed, he approaches it at all), he will have to be crowbarred out of his position; that is presupposing Lawwell actually wants him bagged.

If rasellikfootballclub was the agency instrumental in the employees' evasion, and the players, etc, lose huge sums, might they have a case to pursue it? I, for one, would love that, just love that.......

It would become even more interesting if rasellik, itself, was, in any way, responsible for this.

Actually, I could see a wage rise and a contract extension for the little turd; after all, there is no alternative to him; imagine where we would be if he was lured away by a top club side!!!

Wilson An interview from today's Times of London with the great man (a pity about the author, but hold your nose and read):- http://www.thetimes.co.uk/edition/scotland/we-lost-in-bratislava-but-later-we-crushed-spain-6-2-8ljpb2df5 We lost in Bratislava — but later we crushed Spain 6-2 Davie Wilson played in a powerful Scotland team but, he tells Graham Spiers, they lost in Czechoslovakia Graham Spiers October 11 2016, 12:01am, The Times Wilson resisted the riches of clubs south of the border to stay at Rangers, where he scored 157 goals It is 55 years ago now since Davie Wilson travelled to Bratislava with Scotland to face Czechoslovakia in a World Cup qualifier. This most prized Rangers left winger was 24 years old, earning £45 a week at Ibrox, and savouring every day of his life in football. “These were special times — and what a Scotland team we had back then,” Wilson enthuses to me over a cup of tea in Glasgow. “Sometimes you felt nobody could touch us. You’re talking guys like Denis Law, Jimmy Baxter, players of that ilk. Don’t forget I played in a Scotland team that trounced Spain 6-2 in Madrid in 1963.” The mystery only deepens. A check of the record books shows that, on that trip to Bratislava in 1961, Scotland were beaten 4-0 by the Czechs and Slovaks. One month earlier they had gone down 9-3 at Wembley. Yet a year later Scotland would beat England at Hampden, and go back to Wembley and win 2-1. To say nothing of that slaughter of Spain in the Bernabéu. The best goal I ever scored in my life, funnily enough, was during that Scotland 9-3 disaster at Wembley Wilson is keen to point out how many fine margins there were in football back then. “We finished the 1962 World Cup qualifying campaign level on points with the Czechs, and it went to a play-off, which they won 4-2, but only after our goalie, Eddie Connachan, had made a mistake,” he said. “Well, the Czechs went on to the World Cup final in ’62 where they lost 3-1 to Brazil. So as a team, we weren’t so far behind them. Look what we did to Spain.” Scotland defeating Spain 6-2 away was, and remains, an astonishing result. Yet the players in dark blue back then — Wilson, Ian St John, a young Willie Henderson, an emerging Billy McNeill, a brilliant Eric Caldow, never mind Baxter — were among the finest in Britain. They were days when Wilson himself felt the very essence of happiness. “I was a Rangers player, and a Scotland player, and I used to come out to the front door to give my father his match tickets — this would be either for games at Ibrox or at Hampden. He would stand there and his eyes would be laughing. His whole face would be saying, ‘that’s my boy’. “The best goal I ever scored in my life, funnily enough, was during that Scotland 9-3 disaster at Wembley. England had gone 3-0 up but my goal brought it back to 3-2. “I scored 157 goals for Rangers and quite a pile, too, for Dundee United, but that goal at Wembley was my best. I thought, ‘right, 3-2, here we go’. But, my god, our goalkeeper Frank Haffey … what a stinker. I was a better goalie than him.” In the early 1960s quite a few Scottish players, among them Baxter and Pat Crerand, chose to take the riches of English club football. But Wilson says he had no desire to give up playing in front of vast crowds at Ibrox, nor to leave the institution that was Rangers. “In 1961 Everton came to see me on the quiet — at my pigeon loft, in fact — with a view to signing me. They didn’t want anyone to know about it. “Everton said to me, ‘we’re going to put a bid in of £100,000 for you — you’ll be the first £100,000 player in British football.’ But I said to them, ‘I’m sorry, I cannae come’. For one thing, I was very happy at Rangers. But also, it would have been impossible for my father to travel from Glasgow to Liverpool for games, and he came to all my matches. “I would have gone on more money down there — about £100 a week. But I never wanted to leave the Rangers. And that was the end of it.” During this time Wilson claimed 22 Scotland caps —he would triple that today — and saw first hand the genius that prevailed in the Scottish game. “The best coaches I ever worked under would be Jock Stein and Eddie Turnbull. Whenever I was around Turnbull [as a youth player] I just wanted to hear what he had to say about football. He was a coach with tremendous ideas. “At Ibrox my manager was Scot Symon: he never left his office. I doubt he ever once saw us train. But he knew he had a great team. It was our trainer, Davie Kinnear, who got us fit. Mr Symon just picked the team — a 4-3-3 — and out we went. “This was the Rangers of Ian McMillan, Baxter, Henderson, Bobby Shearer, Caldow, Ralphie Brand and Jimmy Millar. In Baxter and McMillan we had two great passers of the ball. McMillan was a winger’s dream — he just took out the defenders every time with his passes.” Wilson used to go “jivin’” at the Barrowlands dancehall in Glasgow but his football remained sweet and pure. On March 17, 1962, he scored six for Rangers — a record that still stands — in a 7-1 win at Falkirk. But the end would come at Ibrox. After 11 trophy-laden years with Rangers, Wilson was suddenly dumped by the club, when Symon decided to swap him for Dundee United’s dribbling Swede, Orjan Persson. “I’ve made the biggest mistake of my life,” Wilson claims Symon said to him on the phone a week later, with the former replying, “well, it’s too late now”. At 29, he went on to enjoy four good seasons at Tannadice, where a young Walter Smith was his kit boy and gofer. “I had great times at United,” he says. “But then Jim McLean, who was actually younger than me, came over the road from Dundee to be the Dundee United manager. I knew Jim wouldn’t take to me. I said to Walter, ‘lad, go and get my boots, cos I’ll be off … this manager won’t fancy me.’ “Jim came in and said to me, ‘I’m going to let you go’. It was nothing to do with skill, but the fact I was older than him. I thought, I’m going to have my say here. So I said, ‘you know what Jim … you couldn’t play in the games that I’ve played in … you couldn’t have played in the Bernabeu or in European finals.’ “We had our wee tiff. But when Jim won the title with Dundee United in 1983 I phoned him and said, ‘well done, you’re a very good manager, and I hope we can forget our fall-out’. He said, ‘aye, okay, let’s leave it at that’.” At Ibrox my manager was Scot Symon: he never left his office. I doubt he ever once saw us train Today Wilson is a contented man in Glasgow, soon to be 80 years old, and with an unusual side to his life. “I’m a spiritualist,” he says. “I go to a spiritualist church. I’m a medium. It’s just something that’s in you that has to be brought out. “I’ve never had a drop of alcohol in my life — we weren’t all Jimmy Baxters. I never fancied the taste of it. My father didn’t drink and nor did my mother. “Whenever we won anything at Rangers, and they poured champagne into the cup, I put it up to my lips as if I was drinking it, but I never did. These were great, great days.”