"And it's Robbie Fowler stepping up to take it....." |
Cort McMurray tries to find the reason why we may well never be happy whatever happens.
Canadian man of letters Robertson Davies was not describing City supporters when he wrote, “We are an ironic people; irony and some sourness is mixed in our nature. It is a matter of climate. We are a northern people.”
But it fits.
We come by this
partly by heritage – we are a northern people, after all – and partly by
circumstance. Until an improbable,
insane afternoon in May, when for once the boys pulled Victory from the mouth
of Defeat instead of the other way around, two generations of City supporters
have mostly made do with irony and sourness, our clay-footed heroes – Richard
Dunne, with his stevedore shoulders and his grim air of Irish fatalism, scoring
yet another own goal, or Robbie Fowler, confidently pushing a penalty well
wide of the net – reliably breaking our hearts. For a while, the closest thing we had to a star was Joey Barton. Joey Barton was less an attacking midfielder
than a kidney stone in football boots, cutting his painful, miserable path
across the Premier League, the blue half of Manchester firmly, if uncomfortably
in his corner. Defending Joey Barton
takes a lot out of you.
"The ball was slid across and Dunne just stuck a leg out and in it went....." |
It’s not that we
enjoy disappointment; we expect it. Victory is sweet, but disaster is inevitable. City is, after all, the only club to be
relegated the season after becoming First Division champions, the only club to
score 100 goals and concede 100 goals in the same season, the club for whom the
touchstone moment in one of its most momentous victories is not a spectacular goal,
but Bert Trautmann’s broken neck. Joy
and despair. Pleasure and pain. Irony
and some sourness.
This is no plea
for failure, no fit of nostalgic masochism. I am not saying, “City are only City when we're losing 1–0 to Dagenham
and Redbridge. In a driving
rainstorm.” That’s Colin Shindler’s
territory.
Win, you natty
sheiks, by all means win. Dazzle us with
trophies, Mr. Pellegrini. Make the rest
of England forget that there ever was a manager named Ferguson. Dominate Europe like Bonaparte, before he got
it in his head to invade Russia. Give us
your Brazilians, your Argentines, your huddled Spaniards, yearning to be
creative.
Just remember that
we are happiest when the whole thing seems like it’s about to fall apart. Give us Aguero and Silva and Negredo, but
save a few roster slots for players who think the way we do, who understand
that Things Go Wrong and Life is Hard, and that always, no matter how decisive
the victory, Something Untoward is just around the corner. Save a spot or two for players who accept
that sometimes, you just can’t help putting the ball past your own 'keeper and
there’s nothing to be done but put your hands on your hips and stare stoically
down the pitch and move on. Give us
some Northern players.
Maybe some Poles.
By Cort McMurray.
You can of course follow Cort on Twitter
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