–
1990s Premiership football is too often remembered for the Cantonas and the Bergkamps. David Geoghegan prefers to appreciate the most heroically mediocre players who excited the fans with their extraordinary blandness.
For some reason or another, certain premiership footballers from our youth remain in our memories. They may not have been the most exceptional, nor the most exciting, but they possess an unforgettable, yet indescribable, quality that solidifies their position in one’s memory An important fact to mention is that there is something inherently funny about some players. I know many people that if you simply looked them in the eye and said ‘Fabrizio Ravanelli’, they would begin to laugh. These kinds of footballers, the types that arouse genuine nostalgia, are essential components of the sport, and I hope that never changes.
Matt Le Tissier
Matt Le Tissier was an elegant player. Few English footballers in recent memory could be described as truly graceful, but Le Tissier most certainly could. He was one of the last bastions of plump, paunchy footballers who still managed to give some semblance of athleticism, despite being conspicuously overweight. This would seemingly result in a player being ridiculed, but with Le Tissier it was different. The reason for this is because he was a bloody talented footballer with a penchant for scoring goals verging on the sublime. Furthermore, the fact that he was constantly overlooked for his national team produces a peculiar amount of sympathy towards a professional footballer. They can be difficult to sympathise with occasionally, but Matt made me pity him. It is also important to bear in mind how a footballer of Le Tissier’s dimensions and constitution can go horribly wrong, and result in Andy Reid.
Fabrizio Ravanelli
Ravanelli was a keen exponent of the shirt-over-head celebration; it would be reasonable to say he was addicted to celebrating goals in this manner. When FIFA outlawed the practice, one could only imagine the raw grief that overcame Ravanelli. With nothing to sate his predilection for putting his shirt over his head when he scored, Ravanelli lost his mind. He grew disillusioned, and moved from Lazio in Rome to Derby County in the Midlands, as only an insane man could. However, Ravanelli’s insanity appears to have paid dividends in the long run, as Derby County still pay his wages up to this day, despite Ravanelli only playing there for two years. Ostensibly, the Silver Fox has made a decent career by demonstrating the impression of talent, and perhaps he has achieved his own illusion of happiness, but you can see how he will not be entirely content, nor of sound mind, until he raises that jersey over his head one more time in front of thousands demonstrating his purest form of self-gratification. No addict can ever get truly clean. Ravanelli needs his fix.
Phil Babb
If you don’t remember Phil Babb, what exactly do you remember? Amassing 35 caps for Ireland he managed to become just about memorable, but for no particular reason at all. Perhaps it’s because his surname is a bit weird, and verging on Scandinavian. Does it need three Bs in it? Nevertheless, he is the archetypal forgettable, but not forgotten, footballer. For many, the only memory of Babb will be his unfortunate collision with the post in a match against Chelsea. While nobly attempting to divert the ball from going in, fate transpired against him and decided to affect his life in a pointless, but painful, manner: with legs akimbo he flew bollocks-first into the post. A cruel indictment of Phil Babb’s career is evidenced by typing his name into Youtube. The first two results are videos of the aforementioned incident. It seems the people have decided how they want to remember you, Phil. You were a handy player too, but Youtube doesn’t remember that. It just remembers you hurting your balls.
Pointless Footballer That I will Remember in the Future: John O’Shea
I don’t think I will ever be able to forget John O’Shea. That desperate attempt to obtain absolute mediocrity; that slightly forlorn, forever lost disposition; that striking similarity to all bouncers in Dublin. He is unforgettable, and I’m pleased. John O’Shea is the kind of man who drifts through life without notice, and whose death is mourned by only his most ardent fans. Unfortunately, John O’Shea has no fans, and I doubt he has a family either. No one will mourn his death, but it will be noticed by all. We will never forget you because we have no choice.
