The Diary

13 August 2007: That Opening-Day Defeat - Everything Changes But Nothing Changes!

After some three to four weeks of Sundays spent in various parts of the Black Country, trying to suss out the various pros and cons of relocation ? neighbourhood, shops, bus services, GP surgeries, chemists, are there any hills to worry about, and are the local teenagers fairly civilised? etc. ? the whole thing has tended to become something of a blur, and a bit of a pain in the fundament as well, if you really want to know the truth. After about the tenth possibility, details of properties start to merge into one another, a bit like the ghastly moment a combination of tomato ketchup and mayonnaise first strikes up closer acquaintance with a view towards the food already on the plate. And no, it doesn?t do the chef that cooked it any favours at all.

It must have been the mental impetus provided by yesterday?s defeat that prompted me to adopt a Cunning Plan, and nothing to do with mayo, either. Unless you?re referring to Albion?s Irish striker of that name, circa 1976, of course. Poor old Joe?. No more confusion, and short-term memory loss when weighing up the merits of one property versus another, because the answer was dead easy ? to simplify matters a little from now on, I?d add brief notes of my own to the written stuff already there from the estate agent?s print-out. Comparisons later? Easy peasey!

?Im Indoors seemed pretty amenable to this idea ? well, he didn?t have much choice, actually! ? so come half-eleven, orft we jolly well went on our fourth recce trip on the bounce. Once again, the Brierley Hill and Kingswinford areas got the dubious pleasure of our company this beautifully warm and sunny afternoon, as did a very pleasant pub nearby, the same one we?d visited on a similar fact-finding mission just seven days earlier.

Today?s journey involved looking at a total of five properties in all, some with far more ?bang for your buck? than others. Of that five, we reckon the immediate area around four merit further attention, one way or another. We?re still light years away from putting our place on the market, of course, but when we do get serious about a move, at least we?ll be pitching armed with some useful background knowledge about the area in question we want to move to.

Right, then. On to The Dirty Job That Has To Be Done, in this particular case, looking back over yesterday, and trying to be honest about performances etc. Well, anything?s got to be better than slapping magnolia paint (we thought we?d finally done with the stuff for all eternity: that was, until yesterday, and the Grand Clearance of our downstairs store cupboard, where we had to somewhat reluctantly admit defeat, and head out to the shops for yet more of the blasted stuff!) onto every surface imaginable, hasn?t it?

Horrible, wasn?t it? No, not the paint, that opening-day defeat (although, I will concede that victorious belligerents occupying a country should be allowed to splash whatever colour they like over their newly-acquired subjects? houses, as long as they don?t volunteer mine for it), silly. Seriously, though, I reckon The Fart hit the nail right on the head right after the final whistle at Turf Moor when he called the fiasco we?d witnessed ?Groundhog Day?, aka ?Last Season Revisited?.

Lots and lots of lovely flowing football to begin with, accurate passing, silky movement, ball to feet, and not lumped so far into the air, our finest were picking up broadcasts from Radio Peking every time they tried to set in motion a credible attacking move, or series of moves. The sky-high standards set by our revamped European-rich first team should have banjaxed the Lancashire lot completely and utterly, and before The Clarets could muster up enough of their people to do something about it, too ? but they didn?t. Put that down to the fact that the home side then began to make things so uncomfortable for our harassed troops one way or another? a bog-standard tactic of theirs ever since Adam was a lad, and, as we shall see, it worked!

All Stevie Cottrell had to do was scream at his charges a bit more than usual, tell them to keep possession no matter what, put themselves about a bit (The Clarets do ?putting themselves about? very well indeed, always have done, always will), try not to get bullied back, then ride out the expected Albion attacking onslaught until their new guys? collective unfamiliarity with British Championship-standard football finally dropped them in it.

That?s the main reason why The Fart called this complete and utter disaster ?Groundhog Day?. And why, as per usual, we Baggies exited the scene with steam pouring from our ears. One of these days I?ll come across an Albion side that actually learns from its mistakes, raising the bar (and therefore the standards expected of it) immensely? and come that day, I?ll truly raise a glass towards the guy that?s made it possible.

Perhaps our finest should be made to experience just a microcosm of what the guy who?s story I?m about to tell had to suffer in his quest to become a star. His name is Besart Arisha, he?s Albanian by birth, and he is now a member of the Clarets? first team, but to get there in the first place, he didn?t half have to travel along a rocky, dangerous road, both literally and metaphorically.

It all started for the guy when he was an eight year old boy, and living in Kosovo around the time of the vicious Serb versus Albanian fighting seen there back in the 90?s. Because of the war, his family had to flee the country to start a new life in Germany ? but that took them 10 days, with most of the journey done on foot.

Despite German police threats to ship the lot of them back to where they came from, Besart managed to earn a contract with German side Hamburg SV, finally arriving on these shores after Burnley came in for him in a ?375,000 transfer deal. And that isn?t the end of it: recently, the lad played for his country, scoring against our ?B? side at Turf Moor (that must have been where he came to the attention of the Lancashire side) last May.

As he said in one of the Sunday scandal sheets ? and I make no apology for quoting the whole thing verbatim, for reasons which will be immediately obvious to those who think on a little: ?In England, the footballers all make jokes, and I like that, but for me, football is not a joke. It is very important. I have respect for this sport because I can have a better life, for me and my family. Even in Germany, I had so many pressures with the worries about the police sending us back, but every game was a release, and I managed to get the professional contract with Hamburg. I was so happy I cried.

?It is my big chance, and I am happy to be in Burnley. Always I have learned to fight, from my beginnings in Germany. This is what I can do, and I will fight in England, too. When I start each game, I am concentrating totally, because this is my life?..?

Talk about an anachronism. A professional footballer who is hungry for a first-team game ? ANY first team game - is painfully aware of the precarious existence football success in Germany took him away from, grateful for having been given the chance to experience a way of life that would have seemed far beyond his wildest dreams back in the war-torn Balkans: in short, wanting it desperately. When was the last time anyone encountered English-born lads from similarly-challenging backgrounds suffused with that same desperate urge to succeed as a pro, remembering their roots, keeping the worst prima donna tendencies well and truly at bay, and not milking clubs for everything they can get?

That sort of British-born lad, not fleeing conflict directly aimed at them, ?tis true, but brought up amid grinding poverty instead, ending up in the harsh working environment of the coal mines, or heavy industry on leaving school, playing part-time or Sunday football for recreation, and lucky enough to be spotted by a club scout on some parks pitch somewhere ? the English game hasn?t seen their kind since the late 1960?s, I would say.

They certainly had a keen appreciation of the kind of society they?d escaped from, so when they grew up and became pros, they played as if their lives depended upon it ? which, in one way or another, they frequently did. While appreciating their roots, more than anything in the whole world, these lads wanted a far better standard of living for their own wives and families than their poverty-stricken parents had ever experienced, a pretty good incentive to succeed back then, if ever there was one. The nearest modern-day parallel to such a gung-ho attitude I can find among kids these days is that of many Africans and Central Americans coming to these shores to play professional football. They?ve also had it tough, they?ve had the luck to get noticed by people who matter, the desire to escape their awful background burns so strong within them, it literally hurts ? and provided they can escape the predatory clutches of rogue agents, any British outfit taking these lads on will find they?ve got themselves an asset.

Compare and contrast the above with the likes of Curtis Davies, and Paul Robinson, plus other similarly-placed young men who all seem to have prioritised the worship of Mammon above and way beyond any greater desire to improve, not only their lot, but that of those dependent relatives needing their income to survive. Theirs is not the attitude of ?My club and country needs me,? but ?What?s in it for me?? An ?I don?t get out of bed for less than ?10,000 per week? kind of attitude, that sends players bunny-hopping from club to club in search of the most lucrative deals, and because they now hold most of the cards, when setting up contracts, they and their agents have the power to reduce most chairmen and managers to complete and utter hair-tearing apoplexy. I rest my case.

Back tomorrow, in preparation for our League Cup game versus Bournemouth, at the Shrine.

And Finally?? One. Two thoughts for you to do what you want with a) How good is your current street-cred rating, and how well would it stand up to having been associated with the biggest footballing laugh to hit the Black Country in years, and: b) Our chum on the SC Committee hadn?t half kept that particular aspect of his life quiet; a little like the days when those found suffering from unmentionable horribles e.g. syphilis, TB etc. ? were locked in bedrooms and effectively left to rot, as far as family and friends were concerned, poor sods. Out of sight, out of mind, as far as the Stuff That Built The British (and Germanic) Empires were concerned! Oh ? and if you want to know the name of the Baggie person currently resident in that lovely part of the world, but trying like hell to remain incognito.....Well, you?ll find him in the oh ? dammit, I?m out of space! But he knows who he is!

Result? We didn?t half have an almighty giggle when we were looking around one estate on our possible wish-list, today. A very green, agreeable location it was, too, and in addition to the pleasant ambience about the place, we were vastly cheered by the knowledge that a prominent member of Albion?s Supporters Club Committee just happened to live there (see above). Ticked all the right boxes, it did, as we slowly drove around the area ? yep, I could see us both settling down into post-retirement senescence, Black Country style, in some soon-to-come-onto-the-market Shangri-La situated there.

Somewhat nearer open spaces, no traffic worries (and an immediate future possibly involving either myself or my other half popping around to our Baggie chum?s place to borrow a bag of sugar, or something?) ? and then we saw it. On the sign adorning an adjacent road, it was. Er - how would living in Dingle Street grab you lot? Well, such disgusting language, and from grown people, too, shame on you all! And there was more, sadly: just a matter of fifty yards or so from the nearby main shops was situated ? wait for it?? The Dingle Community Centre, would you believe? I now know a prominent Baggie who kept those little gems very, very quiet when nattering to us two over the years! Shall we ?out? him, or not? Ooooh, decisions, decisions!

Two?. Oh, dear ? so Wayne Rooney?s ended up needing more treatment for a leg injury, this time for one sustained versus Reading at Old Trafford. Oh dear, how sad, what a pity. Shame he isn?t a racehorse, really ? then somebody could shoot him, and do everyone else in football a huge favour at the same time.

 - Glynis Wright

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