[Insert Club] for Life -- Loyalty in the Transfer

“I’m [Insert Club Name] For Life” – Loyalty in the Transfer Age Tuesday, September 16th – After slotting home a brilliant, twenty-yard free kick, a shot pumped so full of swerving, curling life one would hardly believe the ball had just moments before lain motionless on the manicured turf, how could Carlos Tevez not break out his second “robot” celebration of the night? He waved to the crowd, smiled broadly, then turned, still grinning, to his black-and-white clad teammates. Juventus, barring a miraculous stoppage-time comeback by opponents Malmo FF, would emerge victorious from their first Champions’ League match of the new season, in no small part due to their miniature Argentine virtuoso and his second-half brace. Tevez represents a decidedly new generation of footballers, when compared to trends that prevailed through much of the sport’s history. As he begins his ninth season in Europe, West Ham’s “Great Escape” hero of 2006-07, still just thirty years old, finds himself leading the attack of the reigning Serie A champions, already his fourth club since setting sail for East London with Javier Mascherano at his side on that fate-steeped January day. A Growing Flock Yet this hardly represents a prolific example of team-swapping; twenty-four year old Liverpool dynamo Mario Balotelli, in comparison, pulled on a fourth club shirt in just six years upon his inaugural appearance at Anfield. He is just one of many of the game’s chameleons, changing club crests more often than most change the oil congealing in some dank place amidst the crisscrossing wires and tubes under the hoods of their respective cars. For the loyalists, such a trend proves upsetting; they warily mark it as the boiling point of both their own sanity – oh, the wonderful calm of a mid-morning snack in August without news of an unhappy Nicolas Anelka’s latest move – as well as a scar across the face of the game. Thirteen of history’s sixteen highest transfer fees occurred in 2009 or later. While certainly an abettor, currency inflation’s knife appears too dull to be fully indicted in the murder of football’s player-pricing standards. What, then, has caused the Great Club Confusion of the Twenty-First Century? Buying the Last Laugh If the influx of profligate owners post-Bosman ruling hasn’t shortened the leash of struggling managers at their clubs, it undoubtedly has forced a less-than-subtle change in team- improvement strategies across the globe. Instead of stewing until a player’s contract expires, then lacing up the running spikes for a mad dash to score that man’s signature, gaffers (with boardroom permission, of course) are now privileged to employ a “name your number” strategy, which effectively prices each prospective employee through some odd amalgam of demand, current form, and wallet depth. In this no holds-barred atmosphere, if you wish your team to play, you first must pay. This, however, rarely acts as an impediment to an eager billionaire. While this development perhaps asks more of incumbent players, who undoubtedly feel the burn when their team signs a younger set of legs to challenge for roles which heretofore had been secure, it invites a dangerous “scorched-Earth” policy of transfers, one which inevitably leaves a larger pile of invested capital stewing on cushioned, Audi-sponsored benches throughout the England, as well as encouraging an unsustainable rise in prices which serve to alienate the more conservative or less affluent franchises from their well-heeled competitors. Though “new” never proves synonymous with “better,” enough new creates enough of an increase in talent, or at least a blatant enough change in style, to appease the trust fund- wielding honchos in the front office and produce top-level results. Home is Where the Heart is? With the temptation of Scrooge McDuck-ian mountains of riches staring them in the face, what is a young player to do? For those who grow up in relative poverty, the answer comes as quickly as the question of a big-money move appears. Help the friends who you’ve trained with all your life win trophies, or move where the money dictates, and in doing so, aid your biological family, while also securing the spoils of competition? While the home club may draw up a more favorable contract, only Roman Abramovich has access to Roman Abramovich’s bank account. The tempted young talent is just one of a growing number of species affected by this matter. New signings provide a readymade excuse for troubled players to search for a new home (see: Mohamed Diame). Thus, the chain establishes itself: those rattled by competition at top-four clubs step down a peg, whether in a transfer to another country or a team with tempered expectations within the same league. Incoming or outgoing, they pitch spiels stating their intent to “challenge themselves” in a new environment. What really drives these moves is the innate human desire to leave a memorable impression. An otherwise-noble pursuit, money can dribble vegetable oil on the idealist’s pretty picture of personal achievement if it becomes the main focus. One can be remembered by staying, but why stay when an indelible mark in the world’s history books appears more likely as a cog in the indefatigable wheel of the defending league champions than the anchor of a mid-table side? It’s the quick path, though it’s not always the best. Once the mistake of a flawed move is realized, however, it is often too late or too embarrassing to return to the birthing stone; either the fans scream for the turncoat’s innards, decrying him as a traitorous swine, or you’ve failed in an attempt to climb the corporate ladder for shin-guarded warriors, and must slink back with drooped ears and a hanging tail. A Day without Hercules Gone, now, is the homegrown star. Gone is the twenty-year, 600-appearance legend. The Bobby Moore breed dies with the imminent retirement of Steven Gerrard from Liverpool. Mark Noble, of course, could fill both pairs of shoes – if given a chance. Increasingly, it appears the disruptive transfer hierarchy jades the opinions of those with the powers to select international rosters. In James Milner, Roy Hodgson and company see a man who, while a fringe-member of Manchester City, advances far in domestic and European competition on the coattails of his club and slots into the midfield, when he does play, alongside the Yaya Toures and Samir Nasris of the world. This perspective ignores the fact that in turning out for West Ham, Noble works to hinder the effectiveness of these stars, the very players the English National Team must defeat in order to claim their first World Cup since 1966 – Bobby’s era. To be fair, Tevez’s constant transfers constitute a divergent saga. As he was not raised in the West Ham youth system, his position as a globetrotting mercenary is something of a novelty, nonexistent prior to 2002. England experiences rather few “outbounders” – those who exit the country in search of destiny. Still, the influx of international options begets the pyramidal trends which threaten to further separate the big boys from the punching bags. The market for flair appears bullish; aided by a growing readiness to ditch one kit for another, for whatever underlying reason, players’ futures look less and less stable. Then again, there’s always another city, another club with a perceived lack of depth at a certain role in their new manager’s byzantine formation. Balotelli asks, “why always me?” though he must realize the answer. It stares back at him – through his eyes, the windows into the mind of a modern footballer, and in the shine of his prominent diamond earrings – each time he looks in the mirror. Altering the Vantage Point Sometimes, fealty is a matter of perspective. No Chelsea fan would have dared call Frank Lampard disloyal prior to last Saturday; West Ham faithful, however, never hesitated in doing so after his 2001 cross-city jump from Upton Park to Stamford Bridge. Why though, did he stay at Chelsea so long? Did he perhaps feel guilty for leaving his father’s club? West Ham was his family, yet the Blues’ quick-spending, quick-results allure promised both challenge and meteoric realization of lifelong dreams. Frank recognized the burgeoning system and, much to the indignation of Hammers – and possibly against his better judgment, based on the Iron- clad values his father bestowed upon him – worked it to his advantage. Chelsea may have experienced a bit of an East London twinge after Lampard’s match-tying shot hit nylon last weekend. That he agreed to play for the Mancunians speaks both to the capriciousness of the modern game and to his undying desire to pit himself against the most demanding of opponents; as players move on to greener pastures (and usually greener wallets), what power does this whimsicality lord over the modern game? Does it redefine how a “legacy” is built? Does it perhaps remove the potential of an individual legacy altogether? As Tevez rollicks in Italy, potential Everton heroes Wayne Rooney and Jack Rodwell, one a Premier League lion, the other nearing journeyman status, toil away in Manchester red and Sunderland stripes, respectively. Each slaloms over the same ball as in years past, albeit in a more advanced design. Yet each does so for a different set of fans, on a different contract, for a fresh paragraph at the end of his current biography. Does it alter the durability of the imprint left behind at each of their clubs? Perhaps.

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