IN 10 days time I will be perched high in a commentary box in the gloriously named Royal Bafokeng Sports Palace Stadium in Rustenburg rooting for an England victory over the good ’ol US of A – not that I’ll be allowed to show any bias as my words are being fed to a global audience and impartiality is paramount.
Having seen England’s final two warm-up matches that shouldn’t be difficult.
Apart from Glen Johnson’s stunning solo goal against the Mexicans, there was little to set the pulse racing about England’s performances.
Mexico were quicker than us, and somewhat unlucky to lose at Wembley, the Japanese scored all three goals in Graz, unfortunately for them two into their own net.
Fabio Capello cut an agitated figure at times on the touchline, though at least the performances cemented in his mind those players who are not good enough to take to South Africa.
Sadly the inadequacies of Darren Bent and Tom Huddlestone at the very highest level were exposed, and it gives me no pleasure to relate that beneath the icing on England’s cake lies some fairly stodgy fare.
This doesn’t mean we can’t win the World Cup, though I think it highly unlikely. It means that the first X1 will have to play out of their skins to attain glory.
Arguably only Joe Hart, Glen Johnson, Peter Crouch and Gareth Barry (without playing) enhanced their reputations over the two games and of them only Johnson is certain to start in the opening match.
Sure, we can kid ourselves that these were only exercise matches, and we did win them after all, but we mustn’t run away with the jingoistic idea that this side is good enough to beat the likes of Brazil, Spain, Argentina, Holland or even USA playing like that.
Other nations have had their problems too, the Dutch and the French are squabbling among themselves, Portugal eked out a goalless draw with the mighty Cape Verde Islands, and everyone in Argentina believes Maradona has lost the plot completely even before a ball is kicked.
The first result will be as vital as ever in a major tournament, and if we can avenge the World Cup’s greatest ever shock (USA beat us 1-0 in 1950 as 250-1 outsiders) then the confidence and momentum should grow with victories over Algeria and Slovenia.
Just don’t put your mortgage on it.
THE very first game of professional football I saw took place on March 20, 1954, between Bradford City and York City.
The Bradford No6 was a chap called Ivor Powell, a Welsh international. I mention it here, 56 years later, because he has just retired!
Not as a player I hasten to add, but as coach of Team Bath the University-based side in Somerset.
Ivor has recently been awarded the MBE for his services to the game and he is listed in the Guinness Book of Records as the oldest active coach in sport at the grand old age of 93.
The Ivor Powell Sports Scholarship Fund to assist future undergraduates was set up only last week – his legacy to the game – yet he will also be remembered by those of my vintage as a tough-tackling wing-half and a man prone to the odd verbal faux pas.
During his time as manager at Bradford he once attributed a good run of form to "the harmonium in the dressing room!"
Well, he is Welsh and therefore a lover of music.
By the way, Ivor says he still intends to work one day a week!
Folk keep asking me if I’m worried about the violence I might encounter in South Africa.
As someone born in a city which has produced the Yorkshire Ripper, the Black Panther and now the Crossbow Cannibal, I think you can guess my response.
