Moyes and Woodward shut selves out of transfer window

As debut’s go, it was not the best start for Manchester United’s David Moyes and Ed Woodward.

BAD START: Woodward and Moyes

The transfer market, on so many occasions a convenience store for United, was more a Supermarket Sweep for the club’s new chief executive and manager, not knowing where to turn next for their prize signing.

The duo, eager to splash the cash to kick-start the post-Ferguson, David Gill era with a big name, stumbled from snub to failure until a hair raising deadline-day at least gave them something to show for their money.

But an eleventh hour signing of Marouane Fellani, a player who will improve the champions, wasn’t enough to quell supporters’ anger that more hadn’t been done to secure a marquee signing, chiefly an architect in midfield.

It was left to Arsenal, of all clubs, to deliver the final poke in the eye for United when they swooped for Mesut Ozil – the world’s best number 10, according to Jose Mourinho – the type of player coveted at Old Trafford since Paul Scholes' legs dictated he played a deeper role.

United’s impotent summer started back in July when Thiago Alcantara, then a Barcelona player, opted to join former boss Pep Guardiola's Bayern Munich instead of the Red Devils.

The narrative at the time was simple: Alcantara says adios to Europe’s greatest side for the emerging Bavarian super power.

But after observing United’s behaviour since that failed bid, namely the repeated attempts at prising Cesc Fabregas from his beloved Barcelona and the “derisory” bid for both Fellani and Leighton Baines, perhaps alarm bells should have been ringing as early as the Alcantara move.

Has Woodward, whose voracious ability to wring every last dollar, yen and euro out of sponsors is undeniable, been caught out of his depth when it comes to getting footballers, not business executives, to sign along the dotted line?

Or was, as Fergie would bark, the market to blame for its bizarre interpretation of the rule of supply and demand?

The answer is somewhere in between.

The significant signing, or, ironically, non-signing, was that of Wayne Rooney. Though the striker agitated for a switch to Chelsea, his refusal to submit a transfer request was kudos to United’s management.

This season’s opening three games revealed how important the forward's presence at the club is, even if his powers have dimmed.

Rooney still remains a fulcrum in United’s starting 11, and without any stellar attack-minded signings he is as vital as Robin Van Persie is to the team’s success this season.

Credit must also go to Moyes for allowing interest in Ander Herrera to cool after reportedly balking at the Spanish midfielder’s £30.5 million price tag.

But leaving the Fellani bid, and a £40 million punt on Real Madrid’s Sami Khedira as well as rumoured inquiries about Daniele de Rossi and Mesut Ozil, until late on gave the impression of a scramble, a salvage mission after promising much but delivering little.

The positive is that Woodward and Moyes should learn to develop a strategy whereby targets are systemically approached, bids made, signings secured, weeks before the clock strikes 11 on deadline day.

Out the pairs’ hands is the market itself.

Both bloated and disproportionate, were the transfer market a set of real market indices, with players listed as the companies, the continuing trend would be boom, boom, boom.

If one club sells their 20-goal midfielder for £50 million, that must make your club’s similar asset worth £50 million, right?

Wrong.

Exorbitant fees create a bubble, which is inflated more each time an over-valued, judged on technical ability, player seals a deal to another club. No wonder Arsene Wenger has taken so long to stump up his considerable wedge.  

     

Woodward and Moyes moved too slowly this summer and have unintentionally put themselves in a damned if you do, damned if you don’t position for the winter’s window.

Damned if they jump straight back into the market, and risk paying a premium, and damned if they don’t for not making amends for the summer.

One more window like this and the shadows of Sir Alex and Gill would loom ever larger.    

Maggie and Me

I beat Thatcher.

There was no need for a recount and she graciously bowed to me being first past the post.

I also defeated Superman and then pipped a pair of six foot carrots at the finish line. A late surge by Rocky Balboa (who else?) meant I was chasing the boxer’s shadow and by the time I caught up with the Italian Stallion he was already blubbering into his phone to someone called Adrian.

This is not how I usually spend my Sunday mornings. Come to think of it I’ve never ousted a former prime minister or annihilated a journalist-come-superhero. And mutant vegetables? Surely they can’t be healthy.

But while you rub your eyes in astonishment, there is a minor caveat. All of these people, and the veg, were taking part amongst 9,000 competitors in Sunday's Brighton Marathon. 

The event marked my first foray into the world of marathon running and though this was my debut I backed myself to post a good time, setting three and a half hours as my target.

The crowds had already gathered at the start line and it was perhaps here, standing in the middle of Preston Park, in front of England cricketer Matt Prior, that my fate was sealed.

I’ve never been one for warming up or stretching but if there was one time I maybe should have flushed the capillaries in my legs with red blood cells it was at 8.50am on Sunday, t-minus ten minutes before embarking on 26.2 miles or road, pavement and promenade.

A couple of lunges later, I was off, twinkle-toeing beside the 3.30 hour pace setter, who, conveniently, was wearing a luminous orange vest.

Winding around Preston Park and then down London Road, vast swathes of runners, most, myself included, clad in ill-fitting Lycra bearing the name of a charity they were running on behalf of, were bunched closely together.

This would not do. So, breaking marathon running rule number one (Thou Should Not Start Like A Man Possessed), I started weaving through groups of runners to pick up a bit of speed. Like one of Xavi’s passes for Barcelona or Kevin Pietersen’s drives towards the boundary, I was finding the gaps and exploiting them.

Cheering roadside crowds were willing our every step but after about five miles, as I headed towards the far east of the route, row of spectators thinned to the point where the only discernible sound was that of trainers hitting the wet tarmac and Eminem plying on the man next me’s iPod.

Rhythm. If there was one word I would have used to describe my progress after 10 miles, when I was running seven and a half minute miles, it would be that word. If I had my phone I would have tweeted it: #rhythm.   

But like my dancing on a Saturday night, this rhythm also came to a sudden end.

It happened at about the 14 mark just after I heard a voice in the crowd shout “enjoy it!” and up until that point I had.

But then something in my right quadriceps screamed “ping” and I hunkered slightly as the roaring spectators urged people on. Instantly my three and half hour target all but evaporated into the blissful blue sky.

Determined to keep going, to do Cancer Research proud, I focused on completing each mile and in my head set 12 goals to finishing the race.

My technique had now morphed into something unfamiliar and by the 18^th mile my left hip and ankle had stiffened like glass, the nerves inside shredding like shards.

Before the race I was told that you run the final six miles on adrenaline but no amount of adrenaline, not even a dosage like that which brought back Uma Thurman to life in Pulp Fiction, could have seen me through.

It was time to dip deep and persevere and after gulping an entire bottle of energy drink (another no-no) I progressed to the final two mile straight.

Buoyed on by family and friends I was swept to the final 200 hundred metres by a sense of achievement and by what was an inhuman gait. I crossed the line at 3:47:00 but the chip on my race number confirmed my finishing time at 3:42:38.

With my mental and physical strength depleted, I sat down in the sun and reflected on the preceding 26.2 miles. There were no tears, no breakdown, just a proud sense of achievement that my pain had done something good for this affected by the most terrible of diseases.

Mission complete: would the last person to leave the Brighton Marathon please turn out the lights. 

Balotelli Disappears to Milan

And then he was gone.

Like a magician who leaves the stage in a puff of smoke, Mario Balotelli packed his bags and departed Manchester City.

Roberto Mancini finally gave up on the striker he hand-picked to lead his City revolution, his fingers burnt following the 22-year-old’s training ground fracases, late night cavorting and threatened employment tribunal.

And that’s before his on-pitch indiscretions and blatant lack of form.

Balotelli was never the magician his compatriot manager envisaged he would be for City and a return of just three goals in 15 appearances so far this season meant the striker had become more scourge than sorcerer. The unpredictable Balotelli was embarrassing a club that seeks a place in football’s aristocracy. He was the prince that would not behave.

He’ll head back to the familiar surroundings of Milan, but this time in red and black, and join fellow City rebel Robinho at the Rosseneri as they hope to overhaul neighbours Inter into a Champions League spot.  

If Carlos Tevez was City’s marquee signing (literally), Balotelli will go down as a symbol of excess since City's new-found oleaginous wealth.

His record of 20 league strikes in 53 appearances has merit but it's not his goals nor the his role in the massacre of  Manchester United last season.  

Instead it’s bulbous headwear, bibs and Bentleys that will be etched into his Premier League epitaph.

But English football will miss Mario.

Trawl through Twitter on any match day and you see vitriolic bile flung in all directions. Football has become so serious to some fans it seems we’ve forgotten the best, most intrinsic part: fun.

On and off-pitch racism, crippling ticket prices and the Hillsborough inquiry have rightly dominated front and back pages this season leaving it to Mario the maverick to reminded us of football’s futility. Tales of generosity at the petrol forecourt, an apparent interest in the UK justice system and of course the fabled blowing up of his own bathroom brought a smirk to fans' faces if not his manager's and peers'. 

Of course he was indulged by City's hierarchy. But lets not begrudge the man his grotesque fortune for without it he would not have given us his marvelous expenditure. Afterall, why have an iron when you could equally have quad bikes?

The flip side is that Balotelli was no angel. Just ask Scott Parker’s head or Alex Song’s leg. Ask even his City teammates, at whom he snapped into. Balotelli’s farcical episodes were tempered by an inveterate anger and propensity to explode.

Mancini’s decision to offload his protégé was tinged with a morsel of regret (a penny for his thoughts stood on the touchline at Loftus Road on Tuesday), especially as he believes Balotelli can still become a world beater, that he can still pull a rabbit out of his hat.