Premier League Psychology? Don’t Make Me Laugh

In amongst all the banter of the summer, which managers laugh off but no doubt privately seethe about in their training ground offices, Manchester United boss Sir Alex Ferguson has attempted to illustrate jut how good he is at intense psychology by suggesting Chelsea’s players may be “too old” to make much progress next season. Last night he tried to distance himself from it, but Michael Ballack, a wizened 31 year old who plays for Chelsea, has stated that it’s just not true.

“I’m not too old,” he wheezed, puffing on a Senior Service and animatedly tapping his cane. “None of us are. You whipper-snappers don’t know what it’s like for us old’uns. You try wining major European trophies on a pension, not to mention the heating bills. Then there’s all your supplementaries. Putting them up isn’t easy, you know. What about all the Wether’s Originals you have to buy for the grandkids? Then there’s walking stick maintenance. These things don’t grow on trees, you know.”

Why Ballack felt he had to make a lot of feeble jokes vaguely related to the ageing process is unclear, but the point itself is clear enough – Ferguson’s mind games are pretty much the most superliminal tricks you could ever wish to find, but everyone seems to get taken in by them. Do you really think that come the title run-in, which could be anywhere from September onwards if you read the papers, Chelsea’s thirty-somethings are going to start feeling arthritic and wearing gloves on hot Saturday afternoons?

No. But it seems that all Fergie has to say is something like, “Hmm, that club shirt of Arsenal’s is a bit dour. Not the home shirt, just the after-training top. Still, they’re like that, aren’t they? Arsenal.” And lo and behold, three days later, Arsene Wenger will appear at a press conference, popping Quaaludes and sweating, protesting that Arsenal aren’t dull and that Ferguson is just jealous because The Emirates has got ‘Arsenal’ picked out in big letters on the pavement outside.

It’s rubbish, the lot of it. Managers bitch like bridesmaids smoking fags round the back of the reception hall. It would just be easier for them to get t-shirts printed saying ‘Hull City are gay’ and wear them on the touchline. Ferguson isn’t British football’s answer to Derren Brown, rather a rhubarb-faced Scot who likes taking the piss, because he knows it gets everyone in a fluster.

How can it possibly work? A lot of comedy sketches are based on the premise of a lack of social tact. Alan Partridge is based on that conceit. You get those clips of the make-up counter assistant who basically says “Your hair looks like it was molested by a tramp under a hedge. No offence,” and we all chortle and go on about our day. Of course, nobody likes systematic bullying. But a fellow manager saying “Well, perhaps Lampard’s knocking on to be a first-teamer” isn’t bullying. It’s mindless banter.

Of course, managers know this, so why do they fall prey to getting one back? The press can’t be entirely to blame, because all they do is ask questions. It’s the manager that responds. But if they don’t want to start a war of words, why don’t they just employ a silent device, like an enigmatic eyebrow raise, or perhaps a small placard saying ‘Hi! My Name Is Baron Jeremy’? With that, you could take it that the manager in question is too smart to raise a comment back and he won’t be fazed by such cod-chicanery.

The reason for all these psychological tricks is that it relieves the pressure. The beleaguered manager, watched an harried all year long, needs to take the attention away from himself just for a few seconds. I know they get paid well, as do players, but it can’t be an easy job. Top level managers in particular have the press intrusion to deal with, the endless press conferences, when what they’d rather do is get out on the training ground and slide their studs down the back of that lippy midfielder’s ankle.

It’s pure theatre, and they know that. They’ve been round the game long enough to appreciate that whatever level of football you’re playing at, the crowd and the players want to hear you slagging people off, belittling them, making them feel minute and yourself ten feet tall. It’s even better when the abuse rebounds and you end up looking a tit, but that’s the risk you take.

Fast forward ten months. One of the Big four will definitely have lifted the Premier League trophy. If it’s Manchester United, Ferguson’s psychology will be hailed as another piece of forward thinking tactical genius. If it’s Chelsea, Big Phil Scolari will have successfully defended his “ageing” team from constant questions about their life-span. If it’s one of the others, both of the above will have allowed themselves to be distracted by petty squabbling. But it’s funny how one man’s impression of R.D. Laing can be someone else’s rubbish attempts to undermine. It takes time and perspective.

The major example is Ferguson’s suggestion that Leeds wouldn’t play well against Newcastle and take the title race a week further. Kevin Keegan melted faster than an ice cube in a cup of tea. Now, it’s a masterstroke of sports psychology. Back then, Kevin Keegan was probably on suicide watch. It didn’t win Ferguson the title – Newcastle had already let their lead slip, and they could never extend it again. But that’s forgotten because that interview is such an indelible image.

Titles are won and lost on football pitches. A spat between two middle-aged men cannot possibly win or lose a match. The only thing it’s good for is having a laugh about, and in the words of Andy Gray, I’ll tell you what – Ferguson is probably laughing now, just at the sheer absurdity of the globe hanging on his every piss-taking wisecrack.

Chris Stanley