I have just finished reading the book, Gerrard: My Autobiography. Through it, I have come to appreciate the shade of subtle difference that may be found between the reds of Liverpool and Manchester United; the deeper tinge of the shirts from Old Trafford and the brighter sparkle of the Anfield jersey.
But team colours go beyond what is visible to the measure of teams, their fighting spirit and a sense of the things that define their style, or the lack of it.
This is the regular message of football. The sermon is delivered on the pitch and off it, in the stands and boardrooms, the sports good shops and on the sporting pages that chronicle the enduring drama of the game for teeming fans around the world. Beautiful runs of play, thunderous cheers in the stands, increasing sales of club gear and souvenirs, the intermittent buzz of agents’ phones and spicy reportage of the thrilling game- all are woven into a seamless quilt.
The players, the fans, the scouts, the managers, the marketers, the football association and the media are bound together by the wondrous fabric of their collective passion. Needless to say, this enthralling chain is as strong as its weakest link.
Consequently, if the players fail to deliver on the expected level of skills, the fans would find their thrill elsewhere and the clubs would rue their investments. If the rot infects the administration of the game, the entire league becomes trapped in a vicious circle of underperformance. That is the sorry state of our local football league, but the sorrier tale is that our local football reporters are a part of the problem.
Let’s visit the English Premier League, where several of our football greats have showcased their talents to the warm admiration of all. Dan Omokachie, Celestine Babayaro, Nwankwo Kanu, Austin Jay Jay Okocha, Yakubu Aiyegbeni, John Utaka, Joseph Yobo, John Mikel Obi, Obafemi Martins, Victor Anichebe, Daniel Shittu, Seyin Olofinjana, Dickson Etuhu and of course Osaze Odemwingie and Obinna Nsofor both of whom crossed over from Russia and Italy respectively in the new season. Indeed, we could go way back in time to the likes of John Chiedozie, Rueben Agboola and John Fashanu, if we want enough names for a team and bench.
Reading through the Gerrard book, therefore, one could not but wonder what these Nigerian players are lacking, that make them ineligible for story books of their own. One could count five names in the above list who have achieved more for Nigerian football than Gerrard has done for the English FA. Yet, we do not have their stories in lasting form for the enjoyment and education of fans and the growth of Nigerian football. Why is this so?
My diagnosis: a pervasive myopia that makes it impossible for our local sports writers to think beyond the next meal.
Take a look at these other persons: Paul Bassey, Onochie Anibeze, Ade Ojeikere, and Abdul Mumini. Between them we are looking at over a hundred years of sports reporting and analysis. Incredibly, none of them has a pamphlet to his name in the genre of a worthy record of the life of any sporting personality of his time. Yet they know many of these sporting heroes by their first names, have their phone numbers and can regale you with intimate stories about their lives on and off the field and track. What has this to do with the growth of football, you might ask.
One only needs to flip through “Gerrard: My Autobiography” to see it all. Take away the rampant expletives; Steven does not spare himself or his readers the gritty stench of player-speak. He lets us into the dreamy world of a teenager struggling through the junior Liverpool ranks to make a desired impression on his managers and get into the first team. From there to his captaincy of Liverpool FC, he affords us a prime view into the psychology of winning and the enormous preparation and managerial skills that produce a winning mentality. The book informs, educates and entertains.
By the time Gerrard and Liverpool FC come from a three goal deficit to lift the Champions League Cup off the groping hands of Paulo Maldini and AC Milan, the reader is well and truly won over, singing along with the fans the Liverpool chant, “You’ll Never Walk Alone.” You come away from the book feeling that valour is a Liverpool jersey be it red, green and yellow.
Steve Gerrard never claims to have written his engaging life story, but gives the credit to two reporters, who interviewed him at length for his account and reported it dutifully in a thrilling first person narrative. A similar feat is not beyond the gifted sports writers mentioned above or other fellows like them in other media houses. Sad that Austin Okocha left the game without a written document of his era from his own view point, while the likes of Ashley Cole and Rio Ferdinand have books that celebrate their achievements for club and country.
The market is there surely. A decent paperback on “Jay Jay” in his prime would have sold no less than 50,000 copies? Instead, our sports journalists are focused on selling jaundiced opinions of footballers and administrators. Our football is the worse for their mental laziness. Nwankwo Kanu is on his last legs currently.
Who can give to Nigeria the full story of the Papillo phenomenon, with its fuller import for the growth of our football? Come on guys, WAKE UP!!
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