Clockwork Cheese

... and Carlos Belmonte roared as ever

Detalles

Creado: Jueves, 15 Marzo 2018 21:40

Escrito por Clockwork Cheese

--- Spanish version follows/Versión en Español a continuación ---

An improbable chronicle/tribute

Oh if only Dad could see me right now, desperately yelling at a guy in a yellow and black referee outfit, infuriated by a stream of bookings, six cards and the subsequent sending off in just six minutes? The words might have been too much for him, however annoyed he might become in the middle of any game.

Not knowing what the development of the afternoon would be, I had urged my friend to drive at full speed to Albacete just after the end of another plentiful meal topping an amazing weekend by the Mediterranean shore, birthday celebration included. We were leaving 15 degrees in sunny Alicante, only to find a blatant drop to 4 degrees at the Carlos Belmonte Southern stand five minutes prior to kickoff. “Every day you take more after your father”, petty chat in the car, my wife evoking the long-gone father figure; I tend to suspect that such comment had to do with my increasingly grumbling character rather than any other positive feature out of the huge number that I can remember from my father. It cannot be denied, though, that lately I get annoyed more often than one might expect, like he used to do, sitting at his loving arcade. And it was then, around five in the afternoon on a gloomy Sunday, that I realized I had seen him exhale his terminal breath just ten years ago, and my mind rambled on back to the early seventies, one more time. For a short while I was eight again and it was not Osasuna that we were going to watch, but any other team struggling in the depth of the regional league, may be fighting for our lives, skipping over relegation to an utterly unknown abyss. It might have been Eldense, Novelda or even Almansa, the only derby I had known for years. Milestones along the motorway as I was watching past in the car; towns whose lineups could only be imagined covered in mud in chilly Sunday afternoons. Holding my hand, he would take me straight into the main stand, where those ordinary titans, hairy grown men from nowhere, would hit the ball anxiously, looked as if tomorrow meant nothing to them. For me, though, Monday was, obviously, another average school week ahead, mom cross-examining me when I came back from the game, checking that my homework was ready for the next morning.

I woke up from the most pleasant delirium up that Avenida, filled with black and white trees and the haunting smell of roasted chestnuts, to find myself in my stand just about to hear the referee blow the whistle. How I wished Dad had started telling me about that guy who was a friend of him and now was going to shoot a free kick on Carlos Belmonte’s brownish pitch. He would for certain have shown a cynical grin when I naïvely –what should an eight-year-old say other than that?-questioned him about who was going to wash the players’ filthy clothes after the game. It was not like that last Sunday, though. We got to half time with the initial nil tie, one player off and nothing too promising to be expected when the match was resumed. Come to think of it, my mates and I had been discussing the meaning of “hopeless attack”, a term so fashionable these days, which makes the referee save a booking by applying advantage. You wouldn’t expect anything too intellectual, would you?.

Well into the second half, surprising as it may seem, our lads did not take anything for granted and so began a Spartan fight, ten against eleven. Robust guys from Navarra unsuccessfully meant to besiege Tomeu’s goal. And metamorphosis came through. The crowd started to cheer bravely, despite not being a decisive game, nor one of the most famous nights like those in 2003 –how should I not remember them, memories become so complicated, delightful and excruciating at a time- before the last promotion to La Liga. It was just another day in the stand, looking forward to the end of the damned Albacete Winter. But the crowd shouted louder and louder, each and every one of us going the extra mile. There I was, calling the referee names, running out of words and voice and demanding the guy to blow the final whistle. And there he came again, Dad with Big Brother’s eye watching over me, eternal memory. Father’s Day is coming, once a bank holiday of family gatherings. Then I realized that I had been speaking a lot about fathers lately; about those who I keep meeting, about the ones who smile so proudly when they mention their kin, about those who never wanted to be, about those on the point of celebrating a joyful anniversary, about those-my dearest friends’ fathers- who have passed away so ruthlessly in the last few months. That’s the way things go, they say, yet I will never get accustomed to loss.

It was an indistinct game, some will claim. A bland nil-nil, there is no denying that. But you and I know well that it was not. I couldn’t help remembering the title of a friend’s band last single “There are no waves at Bondi Beach” .Nor are there any waves on Spain’s Avenue, but coach Martín is a genuine witch -not a wicked one, of course- and he will surf the pitch like no other would. Osasuna was just an anecdote. The huge, overwhelming wave to overcome is bound to come in two weeks, in another, modest if anything, game of the century, versus Cultural Leonesa this time. The outstanding stuff, however, is whether I will be meeting him again. Cheers! I owed you one, Dad.

Avenida Rodríguez Acosta. Albacete. Foto: Archivo Centro de Estudios de Castilla-La Mancha. UCLM

Referees eating Manchego

Detalles

Creado: Miércoles, 24 Enero 2018 09:49

Escrito por Clockwork Cheese

How amazing! How many wonderful creatures there are here! Mankind is so beautiful! Oh, what a wonderful new world, that has such people in it!

William Shakespeare

And then we watched a game on telly where Alba tried and tried and ended losing. This time it was 1-0 in Cordoba, recovering that title of ‘The Exorcist.’ Well, beyond the annoyance of an unexpected defeat, it is nice to see the reactions of fans after the match. This is what happened. It is strictly difficult to watch Albacete Balompie in England, but there’s always the source of social networking sites. Some, very few, fans complained about the lack of quality in the game. The reaction was immediate, and true fans replied arguing that Alba play very well under Enrique Martin’s commands, and the lads don’t deserve such criticism. And then, there was all this fuzz about the ref. Mates, in England, inventors of this mad game, there’s been a lot of noise about referees, and it’s our duty to send some comfort to those Manchego plains.

It was 2011, Rik will remember, when at good old Goodison Park Everton where trying to beat Birmingham City. Jordon Mutch approached Everton’s Louis Saha with stern severity. The referee was Peter Walton, who ran onto the pitch too light for the occasion. He went upon Mutch to book him for his action, put his hand into his pocket, and… horreur! He forgot them bloody things in the locker room! What to do now? How can one book a footballer without the precious coloured carboard?

Many will remember the TV footage, which is somehow preserved on Youtube here. This is one of the most ridiculous episodes that we can remember in English footie, most of us being born in the eighties.

Yet, we keep getting nice comments about the Premier League, the introduction of Video Refereeing and figures like Webb or Clattenburg. The latter one works as a sort of c… character for American TV channels. Web should be remember, for example, for not sending De Jong off after nearly murdering Xabi Alonso.

Bad refereeing is something that happens with football. If you had the joy of watching a Championship game you’ll see men not being booked because it’s the first half, injury time not being added in spite of time being wasted, keepers taking ages to get done with a goal kick, attacking fouls being given after a corner kick because the ref can’t see what’s going on, etc. Do they ring any bells?

Now, what happened in Cordoba was outrageous. What is really annoying about it is not being able to say how bad it was. We complain about how corrupt certain politicians are, how bad TV is, how expensive toll roads are, but we can’t say that a referee was rubbish at it. We’re only humans and can make mistakes, but it’s still difficult to understand how managers and footballers can’t say hat the referee truly affected the final score.

Keep on trying, Alba. It’s only a stumble.

Lorca: the Face of Modern Football

Detalles

Creado: Miércoles, 07 Marzo 2018 13:11

Escrito por Clockwork Cheese

--- Spanish version follows/Versión en Español a continuación ---

There were the days when people started to know about the Clockwork Cheese and most fellows used to ask: ‘Why Albacete Balompié?,’ and it is simply because Albacete represented what we all love about old English football clubs: close, real, and, most of the time, sweetly unsatisfying. You, dear Iberians, are now facing the bite of modern football ripping the soul of La Liga, burying great names like Racing de Santander or Majorca deep in the ground. Amongst the cruelty of big chunks of cash coming from over the continents, Albacete Balompié has miraculously survived years of hardship and it represents how real football can prevail when it is properly managed.

Rik, Oli, Erin, Juanjo, Molina, Ángel, and his dad struggled during those endless playoffs you have in Spain, and in that time there was a day that we cannot forget, the trip to Lorca. The atmosphere and passion was something unseen by us in Spanish football. Then two hours of water deprived standing followed, climaxed by young lads literally crying on the curbs by that Artes Carrasco. Lorca F.C. played their part wasting time, causing argument, then celebrating and cheering. They attempted a pitch invasion, but with only a bunch of fellows you can barely invade the local box.

What is Lorca exactly, and why the scarce support for such a big day? Some manchegos on the bus called it engendro, which I imagine stands for ‘mutant.’ This mutant, pals, is football today. In fact, they are the reality and we are maybe the mutants. And it is our custom to illustrate our adventures, in this case the clash between Lorca and Albacete, with tales of what we already saw in England, because England and our football are old, really old, and we have seen things you would not believe.

Wimbledon Champions FA Cup 1988

Wimbledon is known abroad for having this fancy tennis tournament, but among football fans it represents how cruel money can be with this sport and its fans. The old Dons were a humble club near London that struggled to climb their way up the Football League until the eighties, when they played wonderful football and ended up beating Liverpool in the 1988 FA Cup Final. Let us say that they were a sort of Leicester of the time.

And then, money came. With the lead of Eamon Dunphy, some investors tried to take over Wimbledon FC to move the club to Dublin, since the Republic of Ireland did not have a competitive league and it was an opportunity to bring the lucrative business of the Premier League. Nevertheless, the project ended up in the drain. Although many papers insisted on the opposition of the fans, it was really FIFA who blocked the move. It is funny nowadays to read all that rubbish about F.C. Barcelona moving to such and such league after the independence of Catalonia: the engendro of Dublin Dons died because, for all those confused with the political settings of the British Isles, the Republic of Ireland is not part of the United Kingdom. Swansea is; Cardiff is; Dublin is not. Therefore, articles like this are complete detritus.

Wimbledon AFC Venue

‘Hosanna!’ would Winbledon fans say back in the nineties: the FA and FIFA will not allow them move our beloved Dons away. How wrong could they be? The owners at the time had a very interesting suggestion. How big was Wimbledon at the time? Maybe 60,000 people? The very loyal borough of Milton Keynes was a succulent city with a population of over 200,000 –larger than Albacete- and investors where drooling over the idea of such a big town not having a proper football club. ‘Well, Milton Keynes is not that far away from Wimbledon; maybe we could try the move.’ And it was then, by the turn of the century, when another engendro was born: the MK Dons. Doom came upon Wimbledon. None of the authorities stood against this and the Dons left Wimbledon forever.

The very noble people of Wimbledon did not give up and decided to establish a new club: AFC Wimbledon. As they say, they ‘did it the right way.’ Starting in the lower leagues, nowadays they compete in the very difficult League One -third tier or segunda B, as you would call it-, facing big sides like the old Blackburn Rovers, Oldham or, surprise surprise… MK Dons! In fact, the Milton Keynes group are currently unsuccessfully trying to dodge relegation.
Back to Spain, Albacete went down to Segunda B and it survived thanks to what we see as a series of consecutive miracles that put the club back in professional football. Andrés Iniesta’s decision to save the club until better times came was indeed a miracle. The promotion happened with agony and patience –we nearly lose Rik under the sun at the game against Atlético Baleares. The eventual purchase by Skyline thanks to the incompetence of the board at Elche F.C. was the last bead in the chain of miracles that have saved proper football weekends in the city of Albacete.

Lorca, on the contrary, is dying slowly. The Chinese investor already finished what he wanted to do. They only have a small group of loyal fans who will probably –who knows- never see professional football again in their pretty town. Even their manager admitted their fate. This summer they will join the legion of clubs that were bought with burning money and subsequently abandoned. Our kids will frown when we mention them.
Manchegos, every time that you complain about an unexpected loss –oh, Gimnastic-, you see an empty Carlos Belmonte, or the manager orders a strange substitution, remember that represents what proper football is. We are still here, and hopefully for a very long time.

Lorca 1 – Albacete Balompié 2

Lorca: la cara del fútbol moderno

Cuando la gente comenzó a conocer nuestra peña Clockwork Cheese, muchos de nuestros compañeros nos preguntaban "¿por qué el Albacete Balompié?", y la respuesta era sencilla: "porque el Albacete representa lo que más nos gusta y amamos de los viejos clubes de fútbol ingleses: es un club cercano, real y, la mayoría de las veces, dulcemente insatisfactorio para sus seguidores". Ustedes, queridos íberos, asisten ahora al espectáculo de ver como el fútbol moderno desgarra el alma de La Liga, enterrando bajo tierra a grandes equipos como el Racing de Santander o el Real Mallorca. Entre indecentes cantidades de dinero moviéndose por todos los continentes, el Albacete Balompié ha sido capaz de sobrevivir milagrosamente a años de dificultades y representa más que nada como el fútbol real puede prevalecer cuando se gestiona de manera adecuada.

Rik, Oli, Erin, Juanjo, Molina, Ángel y su padre sufrieron lo indecible en esos interminables PlayOffs que tienen en España, y durante ese tiempo hubo un día que no podremos olvidar: el viaje a Lorca. El ambiente y la pasión de aquel momento fueron algo que no hemos visto antes en el fútbol español. Luego siguieron dos horas de pie, privados de agua, que culminaron con muchos jóvenes literalmente llorando por los rincones del Artés Carrasco. El Lorca F.C. hizo su partido perdiendo tiempo, provocando continuos enfrentamientos para después celebrar su triunfo. Intentaron incluso una invasión del terreno de juego, pero con sólo un puñado de seguidores apenas si puedes invadir el banquillo local.

Pero, ¿qué es el Lorca exactamente y porqué tuvieron tan escaso apoyo en un día tan importante?, algunos manchegos en el autobús lo llamaban "engendro". Y este engendro, amigos, es lo que es el fútbol hoy en día. Ellos son una realidad por lo que quizás seamos nosotros los engendros. Es nuestra costumbre ilustrar nuestras aventuras, en este caso el enfrentamiento entre Lorca y Albacete, con historias de lo que ya vimos en Inglaterra, porque Inglaterra y nuestro fútbol son viejos, muy viejos, y hemos vistos cosas que no creerías.

Wimbledon campeón de la FA Cup 1988

Wimbledon es mundialmente conocido por albergar el prestigioso torneo de tenis del mismo nombre, sin embargo, para los aficionados al fútbol representa lo cruel que puede llegar a ser el dinero con este deporte y con sus seguidores. Los viejos "Dons" eran un modesto club cercano a Londres que tuvieron problemas para ascender en las distintas categorías del fútbol inglés hasta los años ochenta, cuando jugaron un fútbol maravilloso y terminaron venciendo al Liverpool en la final de la FA Cup de 1988. Digamos que eran una especie de Leicester de la época.

Y entonces llegó el dinero... Encabezados por Eamon Dunphy, algunos inversores trataron de hacerse con el Wimbledon FC para trasladar el club a Dublín, ya que la República de Irlanda no tenía una liga competitiva y era una gran oportunidad para llevar el lucrativo negocio de la Premier League allí. Sin embargo, el proyecto naufragó antes incluso de llevarse a cabo.

Aunque muchos periódicos insistieron en que fue la oposición de los aficionados lo que impidió el traslado, fue realmente la FIFA quien bloqueó el mismo. Hoy en día es divertido leer toda esa basura de rumores sobre el F.C. Barcelona jugando en tal o en cual liga en caso de una hipotética independencia de Cataluña: el engendro de los "Dublin Dons" fracasó porque, para todos aquellos no familiarizados con la organización política en las Islas Británicas, la República de Irlanda no es parte del Reino Unido. Swansea lo es; Cardiff lo es y Dublín no lo es. Por lo tanto, artículos como este son un completo detritus.

Estadio de Fútbol del Wimbledon

¡Hosanna!", decían los aficionados del Winbledon en los años noventa: la Federación Inglesa y la FIFA no les permiten trasladar a nuestros queridos "Dons" a otro lugar. ¿Cómo de equivocados estaban?, los propietarios del club en ese momento tenían otra interesante propuesta. ¿Cuántos habitantes tenía Wimbledon en ese momento? ¿tal vez 60.000 personas?, el noble municipio de Milton Keynes era un sitio atractivo con una población de más de 200.000 habitantes -un poco mayor que Albacete-, y los inversores babeaban pensando en la idea de que una ciudad tan grande no tuviera un club de fútbol acorde a su tamaño. "Bueno, Milton Keynes no está muy lejos de Wimbledon; tal vez podríamos intentar la mudanza". Y fue entonces, hacia el cambio de siglo, cuando nació otro engendro: el MK Dons. Y la maldición cayó sobre Wimbledon. Ninguna autoridad se opuso a tal traslado y los Dons dejaron Wimbledon para siempre.

La muy noble afición de Wimbledon no se rindió y decidió fundar un nuevo club: el AFC Wimbledon. Como ellos dicen: "lo hicieron de la manera correcta". Comenzando desde abajo, desde las ligas inferiores, hoy en día compiten en la complicada League One -equivalente a la Segunda B en España-, enfrentandose a antiguas glorias como el antiguo Blackburn Rovers, el Oldham o, sorpresa sorpresa ...  ¡el MK Dons!. Equipo este el de Milton Keynes que por cierto está en estos momentos intentando infructuosamente evitar el descenso.

De vuelta a España, nuestro Alba bajó a Segunda B y sobrevivió gracias a lo que podemos considerar una serie de milagros consecutivos que volvieron a poner al club en el fútbol profesional. La decisión de Andrés Iniesta de salvar al club hasta que llegaron tiempos mejores fue un verdadero milagro. La promoción de ascenso transcurrió con agonía -casi perdimos a Rik bajo el sol en el partido contra el Atlético Baleares- y, la compra del club por parte de Skyline gracias a la incompetencia de la junta directiva del Elche F.C., ha sido el último eslabón en la cadena de milagros que han conseguido preservar los fines de semana con fútbol en la ciudad de Albacete.

El Lorca, por el contrario, está muriendo poco a poco. El inversionista chino ya terminó lo que quería hacer. Sólo queda un reducido grupo de aficionados locales que probablemente -quien sabe-, nunca volverán a ver fútbol profesional de nuevo en su bonita ciudad. Incluso su entrenador reconoce el destino que les aguarda. Este verano pasarán a formar parte de la legión de equipos comprados con dinero caliente y abandonados luego a su suerte. Nuestros hijos fruncirán el ceño cuando se lo contemos.

Manchegos, cada vez que os quejéis por una derrota inesperada -oh, el Nástic-, veáis el Carlos Belmonte vacío, o el entrenador decida un cambio extraño, acordaros de lo que representa el verdadero fútbol. Nosotros seguimos todavía aqui, y ojalá que por mucho tiempo.

Lorca 1 - Albacete Balompié 2

CMYW - Come On You Whites!

Detalles

Creado: Domingo, 29 Octubre 2017 18:12

Escrito por Clockwork Cheese

--- Spanish version follows/Versión en Español a continuación ---

Chanting is one of the stadium activities which can reinforce that feeling of brotherhood among fans. Although lads and ladies feel very passionate about their club songs, the thing is that this is one of the purest forms of oral transmission and in the end the tunes and rhymes travel from ground to ground, lyrics being adapted to each team’s circumstances. Let’s face it: English crowds are very good at changing -am I allowed to say ‘the best’? We’ve got a few fellow Clockwork Cheesers in Spain, yet sadly our Miguel supports Liverpool. He’s sometimes bragged about their famous YNWA. The thing is that in the end, pretty much all big clubs have their own special tune: Miguel and John Hulse will feel that pride at Anfied, Oli and Mike’s ‘Glory Glory,’ Rik and Tom’s ‘Keep Right On,’ etc.

Now, what about Albacete? On many occasions have we been told about Carlos Belmonte being a cold ground, not in terms of temperature, but in chanting. How can you then explain this? As far as we now, no other club in Spain has ‘forged its own history from the Cask Boulevard to the old pitch in the park.’ Why are we talking about this now? Well, several things have caught our attention recently. The first one is the fans’ reaction after Gaffoor’s goal in Soria. It was absolutely honourable that the crowds cheered him at Carlos Belmonte after such an unfortunate event. You Manchegos should rejoice in pride about your club, its players and yourselves as fans, and finally ignore all those who will enjoy a low quality industrialized Real Madrid or Barça game. You’ve supported your team after the Lorca let down, after two relegations in three years, a liquidation, a chubby guy from who knows where trying to fool you… What you did with Gafoor proves that Albacete fans are above all that, and that’s why it will always be a great club in Spain, and it explains why everyone in Iberia respects you.

Yet, Aira was sacked, wasn’t he? We were the ones who wrote very optimistic lines, although they were laid on the basis of a group of really skillful players. Then a couple of well earned victories came and the Martín’s side keeps showing better tactical layouts. The game against Huesca was the evidence of it. To be perfectly honest, it was a shame to see Huesca going to Albacete for a draw, but that only shows that Albacete are a feared team and a point a Carlos Belmonte is a reward for the club in the Segunda Table. There’s no way Albacete will get relegated, and they keep adding.

By the way, we need to say to Victor Varela and the board that the ground is looking gorgeous. We just added little Niamh to our Clockwork Cheese, being now seventeen, so we know about beauty.

Come On You Whites!

CMYW -¡Venga, Blancos!

Los cánticos son una de las actividades de los estadios que más refuerzan el hermanamiento entre los aficionados. Aunque los chavales se toman con mucho sentimiento las canciones sobre sus equipos, el caso es que es una de las más puras formas de transmisión oral y al final las melodías y las rimas pasan de campo a campo, adaptando las letras al contexto de cada club. Seamos sinceros: las aficiones inglesas son de las mejores cantando -¿se nos permite decir que “las mejores”? Tenemos algunos Clockwork Cheesers en España, y por desgracia Miguel es del Liverpool. A veces fanfarronea sobre el famoso YNWA. Lo que pasa es que a la hora de la verdad todos los clubs de envergadura tienen su canción especial: Miguel y John Hulse se enorgullecen de Anfield, Oli y Mike del ‘Glory Glory,’ Rik y Tom del ‘Keep Right On’, etc.

¿Y qué pasa con el Alba? Muchas veces nos dicen que el Carlos Belmonte es un campo frío, no porque haga frío, sino porque la gente no canta. Entonces, ¿quién nos explica esto? Por lo que nosotros sabemos, no hay ningún otro club en España que haya “forjado su historia desde el Paseo de la Cuba al viejo campo del parque”. ¿A qué viene eso ahora? Pues ha habido un par de cosas que nos han llamado la atención últimamente. La primera ha sido la reacción de la grada después del gol de Gaffoor en Soria. Fue increíblemente caballeroso que la afición le animara en el Carlos Belmonte después de semejante escena. Los manchegos deberíais enorgulleceros de lo que sentís por este club, sus jugadores y vosotros mismos, y dejar de pensar en quien se conforma con el pseudo fútbol prefabricado de Real Madrid y Barça. Habéis apoyado al equipo después del chasco de Lorca, dos descensos en tres años, una liquidación, un tío gordo de no se sabe dónde intentando engañaros… Lo que hicisteis con Gafoor demuestra que los seguidores del Albacete están por encima de todas esas cosas, y es por eso por lo que siempre seréis un gran club en España, y explica por qué todo el mundo en Iberia os respeta.

Aun así, Aira fue destituido, ¿no? Nosotros éramos los que éramos más optimistas, aunque lo que decíamos se basaba en un grupo de futbolistas de mucha clase técnica. Después de un par de muy bien merecidas victorias, el equipo de Martín parece muy bien planteado tácticamente. El partido contra el Huesca ha sido la demostración. Si somos sinceros, hay que decir que el Huesca fue a Albacete a por un empate, pero eso sólo nos dice que el Alba es un equipo temido y un punto en el Carlos Belmonte es un premio en la Segunda. No habrá descenso, y cada jornada es una nueva suma de puntos.

Por cierto, tenemos que felicitar a Víctor Varela y el equipo directivo por lo precioso que se ve el campo. Acabamos de apuntar al Clockwork Cheese a la pequeña Niamh, decimoséptima socia, así que sabemos de belleza.

Come On you Whites!