ChrisBlade
Member
- Joined
- Aug 20, 2009
- Messages
- 568
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When performances are crap and we get beaten by moderate outfits, you often get these references to how much players earn and how they are just "happy to pick up a fat wage"...
The problem is: I don't even think that our bunch are happy to pick up a wage, anymore. They now hate to be here and even the money hardly compensates. Many of these players knew three years ago at the promotion party that this was the highlight of their footballing careers. They knew it wouldn't and couldn't get any better. The first season in the Prem then just simply defied anybody's expectations. Everybody knew we weren't that good. So did they, secretly.
And then it all turned to crap. Over twelve and now 18 painful months...
What have Egan, Fleck, Norwood or Stevens either left to prove to us or to save for themselves at United? Nothing.
They know they will be part of a happy bubble that a fan base like ours will not experience again in the next decade. And they know that on a personal level these three years are the ones they'll remember when they are eighty through the onset of dementia from heading too many balls or the post career throes of alcoholism when the money and trophy wives have run out...
And they know that every game they still play now, at best, is an unsucessful coda to those glory days that slows or maybe halts the decline and weekly damage to their reputation, but certainly will add nothing to their legacy. If they think back to October 2019 and have any brains, they will know that as a collective they were experiencing the kind of high that is usually reserved to first-time trophy winners or conquerors of the biggest prizes, only. Every cog was oiled, every decision came off, they were - for a few months in the Prem - the English equivalent to footballing Greece under Otto Rehagel at the Euros. A team that suddenly came from nowhere and was on everybody's lips, doing things the fun way and to disbelieving adulation by a support that knew that this may well be once in a life-time sudden glory for many of them.
Now the difference is so stark that each and every one of them would happily sign for someone like Swansea or Coventry tomorrow. A sidestep with a moderate project where they can reboot and just fit into a grey crowd for seven months of mental recovery. And all of this is irrespective of Slav, Hecky or whoever else we bring in as task master. Most will currently be texting subservient "congrats" to you-know-who at Boro, faking genuine excitement for Chris getting back on the train, while thinking that keeping their names in his memory sure won't hurt or might offer the relaxing respite they all so crave.
Their cycle is done. They know it and feel tired and annoyed about is, just as we are. They get pay-checks, sure. But you had two years of living the dream on a level well in excess of established Premier League players. You knew your dressing room, your rapport with the fans, every time you went out to drink on the town was well better than what, say, Man United players or Spurs currently experience. You were a genuine local hero.
And now the best you can hope for is not to be among the ones that have funny names made up about them each week on forums which you or your mates or family read and feed back to you. Or you have to tread water just to restore some sort of credibility by dragging us to an eighth place finish to non-plussed sighs of "oh, he wore alreet" second half of the season.
We should not renew any contracts in June of players who were in the building on the day we drew at Stoke. They are finished because – if nothing else - they are now an unhappy bunch with nothing to believe in or aim for.
Truly a sad end of an era.
The problem is: I don't even think that our bunch are happy to pick up a wage, anymore. They now hate to be here and even the money hardly compensates. Many of these players knew three years ago at the promotion party that this was the highlight of their footballing careers. They knew it wouldn't and couldn't get any better. The first season in the Prem then just simply defied anybody's expectations. Everybody knew we weren't that good. So did they, secretly.
And then it all turned to crap. Over twelve and now 18 painful months...
What have Egan, Fleck, Norwood or Stevens either left to prove to us or to save for themselves at United? Nothing.
They know they will be part of a happy bubble that a fan base like ours will not experience again in the next decade. And they know that on a personal level these three years are the ones they'll remember when they are eighty through the onset of dementia from heading too many balls or the post career throes of alcoholism when the money and trophy wives have run out...
And they know that every game they still play now, at best, is an unsucessful coda to those glory days that slows or maybe halts the decline and weekly damage to their reputation, but certainly will add nothing to their legacy. If they think back to October 2019 and have any brains, they will know that as a collective they were experiencing the kind of high that is usually reserved to first-time trophy winners or conquerors of the biggest prizes, only. Every cog was oiled, every decision came off, they were - for a few months in the Prem - the English equivalent to footballing Greece under Otto Rehagel at the Euros. A team that suddenly came from nowhere and was on everybody's lips, doing things the fun way and to disbelieving adulation by a support that knew that this may well be once in a life-time sudden glory for many of them.
Now the difference is so stark that each and every one of them would happily sign for someone like Swansea or Coventry tomorrow. A sidestep with a moderate project where they can reboot and just fit into a grey crowd for seven months of mental recovery. And all of this is irrespective of Slav, Hecky or whoever else we bring in as task master. Most will currently be texting subservient "congrats" to you-know-who at Boro, faking genuine excitement for Chris getting back on the train, while thinking that keeping their names in his memory sure won't hurt or might offer the relaxing respite they all so crave.
Their cycle is done. They know it and feel tired and annoyed about is, just as we are. They get pay-checks, sure. But you had two years of living the dream on a level well in excess of established Premier League players. You knew your dressing room, your rapport with the fans, every time you went out to drink on the town was well better than what, say, Man United players or Spurs currently experience. You were a genuine local hero.
And now the best you can hope for is not to be among the ones that have funny names made up about them each week on forums which you or your mates or family read and feed back to you. Or you have to tread water just to restore some sort of credibility by dragging us to an eighth place finish to non-plussed sighs of "oh, he wore alreet" second half of the season.
We should not renew any contracts in June of players who were in the building on the day we drew at Stoke. They are finished because – if nothing else - they are now an unhappy bunch with nothing to believe in or aim for.
Truly a sad end of an era.