The egos have landed, the hair gel and hair ties have been
meticulously put into place and tonight two of the world’s greatest players go
up against each other to decide who’ll be taking centre stage in next year’s
Nike ambush marketing campaign, and who’ll be ITV’s number one target for the
job of pretending Adrian Chiles isn’t a total moron at the World Cup next summer.
Yes it’s Zlatan versus
Cristiano, Ibrahimovic against Ronaldo, or to give the match its proper
title Portugal v Sweden. This match represents more though than two men and
their mediocre teams’ Freudian journey from Lisbon to the Copacabana.
It represents the divide in our culture between rock and
pop, between the desire to see the talents of the wanton libertine and the
pretty boy superstar, between the difficult unpredictable artist and the
ultimate artisan.
In pop’s corner we have Cristiano; a footballer who wouldn’t
look out of place gallivanting with Simon Cowell and a sexless harem of
dead-eyed models on a ludicrously over-sized yacht.
In fact if Cowell, or is footballing equivalent Florentino
Perez, could’ve designed a footballer then one feels that Ronaldo is what they
would’ve come up with. Seemingly hewn from off-cuts of GQ models and absurdly
talented, Ronaldo very much is the lifestyle of the modern footballer incarnate.
On the pitch Ronaldo is a modern footballing machine;
athletic, in command of every move and skill and capable of producing a shot
that. In fact there’ something about Ronaldo’s footballing talent that
resembles the perfectly executed dance moves of a tween idol on an ostentatious
stage in a heavily branded arena.
Just as Justin Bieber has taken Michael Jackson’s act and
added cuddly good looks and an unstoppable marketing machine, so Ronaldo has taken football
favourites like the step-over and Cruyff turn and garnished them with pizzazz, athleticism and accuracy to both batter and bedazzle defences.
There’s also that sense that Ronaldo the brand, or ‘CR7’ to
give it its proper moniker, is an entity as titled controlled as any pop star’s
image. From the probably soon to be trademark look to the skies when a ball whistles
past the post to the indication of prissiness at any perceived criticism Ronaldo often seems to have a personality that’s more Madonna than
Maradona.
Zlatan too possesses the arrogance that if it isn’t a prerequisite
to becoming a superstar, is instilled by millions hanging on your every move
and Paris Saint-Germain's oil rich Arabs funneling currency into your bank account, yet with the Swedish striker it has
unfettered unpredictable results.
This is a man, who perhaps not entirely seriously replied to
a journalist’s inquiries about God with the words, “You’re talking to him”, and
when asked what he would get his wife for her birthday responded: “Nothing, she already
has Zlatan.”
In most people speaking of yourself in the third person is
either a sign of madness or a burgeoning career in the WWE, but with
Ibrahimovic there’s an endearingly hell-raising quality, a self-awareness of
the absurdity of what life has bestowed upon him.
When asked about fellow footballing oddball Mario Balotelli’s
decision to stage an impromptu fireworks display in his kitchen, Ibrahimovic
replied: “I like
fireworks too, but I set them off in gardens or kebab stands. I never set fire
to my own house.”
It’s the arrogance of the rock and roll star, the artist who intends to
use his talent and the absurdity of the riches and indulgences to those we
venerate as superstars to have one hell of a time. The words of a man who’ll sharestories about ending up in a bathtub full of vodka after a night out with DavidTrezeguet and happily describes Pep Guardiola’s management style as “bullshit”.
The analogy of the dissolute rocker extends to the pitch too; whereas
Ronaldo’s dominance represents a triumph of choreography and speed, Zlatan’s
greatest moments are those of wild inspiration.
A taekwondo black belt, who more often resembles Bruce Lee on the pitch
than Franny Lee, his catalogue of his goals includes feats of contortion, absurd
arrogance and imagination only a man determined to revel in his talent could produce.
Oh Zlatan...
To the spectator these moments of beautiful madness have the spontaneity
and wanton uniqueness of a particularly mind scrambling set at an anarchic gig.
The point of the evening where one is over-refreshed, totally immersed and for
a brief few minutes the fact that you’ve been drinking Carling out of plastic
cups, those attending will probably be doing admin come Monday and the whole
thing is sponsored by Virgin, doesn’t matter.
Even the name ‘Zlatan’ makes the Swede’s talisman sound like a
contemporary of Captain Beefheart or an intimidating metalhead. ‘Cristiano’? Well
let’s just say when the time comes for the inevitable perfume brand the brand
designers can have a day off.
We could go on; Zlatan is supported by sturdy looking roadies like
Anders Svensson while Ronaldo’s backing dancers include Nani and Fabio Coentrao.
Zlatan falls out with everyone then heads off on the tour bus (or Zlatan's Zepplin as The Football Ramble have dubbed it) to the next city
while Ronaldo seems intent for his legacy to be further entrenching Real Madrid
‘the brand’.
But before this analogy gets smashed to bits by Pete Townshend, let us
strip it down to its real significance; tonight sees two brilliant, arrogant,
fabulously well rewarded individuals take each other on, but there the similarities
end because it’s a battle between the ultimate creature of the system, the
billboard boy for football as nonthreatening monetised entertainment, and the man who says
he plays “Zlatan-style”.
So...who do you want in Brazil, football's Justin Bieber or Keith Moon? Unless you're a swimming pool attendant or kebab shop owner, there's surely only one answer.
No comments:
Post a Comment