Merse. Not the blokeish, oafish geezer whose tooth falls out on Sky Sport's Soccer Saturday. Not the pathetic, tearful young man haltingly confessing his addictions at a press conference. Not the harbinger of doom for the Arsenal, whose 'I fear for them' prognostications now rival those of the egomaniacal Ian Wright. No, Merse, the player who, for me, defined George Graham's Arsenal in a way that even Tony Adams did not; the lowslung, swarming style, running with the ball stuck to the outside of one boot, arms out, angled at defenders, blond hair flopping in curtains. George's number 10, the 'son of George' whose transgressions were forgiven or blind-eyed because he was the one player with flair, with spark, with genius, who turned a powerful, disciplined and hard-running team into Champions.
I first saw Merse on telly playing for the Arsenal in a 'Soccer Six' tournament sometime in the mid-1980s. This was the period following Heysel, and the banning of English teams from European competition for 5 years. The fixture list was less clogged: there was the League Cup, sure, but the FA Cup didn't start for Arsenal until the first weekend in January and the 3rd round. (In the mid-80s, it often didn't last much longer than the 3rd round, either.) The 'Soccer Six' was an indoor 6-a-side tournament featuring squad players and youngsters from top clubs, a marketing wheeze, a filler for a free Wednesday evening on Sportsnight. These days, of course, the insurance men would shudder at the thought. Indoor 6-a-side is now the province of Sky's 'Master's football', shown in the summer when Sky doesn't have World Cup or Euro rights, the thinnest gruel for football addicts gone cold turkey, a televisual methadone. Merse plays there, too, now. But for Villa rather than the Arsenal.
Merse was a slight young blonde lad in the 'Soccer Six', a youth team product. There was something about him, though - he scored four or five goals that night, looked like an up-and-comer. As with most youth or reserve team youngsters, he looked good but you wondered whether he would make it - so many of Arsenal's touted 'next Bradys' have fallen by the wayside. Stephen Hughes, Paolo Vernazza, David Noble, Stephen Bradley.
But Merse did make it. He broke through to become a major player in the 1989 Championship side, playing up front with Alan Smith. (When Kevin Campbell came through in the 1991 side, Merse was shifted to the left, but was still crucial.) In 1989, Merse had gap teeth - shades of Joe Jordan - and long, tatty blond hair grown out in a footballer's superstition. He ran with the ball, driving at opposition defences, and scored great goals. He was too good for Arsenal, in a way - he could have been playing for Liverpool.
Merse was partly a footballer out of time. He was a last scion of the 70s maverick, for Stanley Bowles, Frank Worthington, Rod Marsh; Merse's sad apotheosis in front of press and tv cameras, his entry into the Nineties/ Noughties narrative of the three steps, The Priory, 'recovery', is an index of footballs' changing PR. No more playboys.
That's not to say Merse's lifestyle of gambling, drink and drugs was anything other than detrimental to his health, his happiness and his career, nor that his problems were partly caused by English football's internal culture. I loved Merse for what he was, what he could do, on the football pitch, and I'd rather not see any footballer off it.
I remember an evening away game at Highfield Road, then Coventry City's ground. Midweek, penned in behind Sky Blue fencing. Highbury never had fences, of course, and lost the right to stage FA Cup semi-finals after a pitch invasion following the Watford-Plymouth Argyle semi in 1984, because they didn't have fences. Growing up being taken to Highbury as a kid, being behind fences was always immensely alienating. And dangerous. Coventry were awarded a penalty, John Lukic saved it - the away end crowd surged down to the front, celebrating. There was no way of resisting - your feet were lifted off the floor as the crowd, as one body, ran down the stepped terrace to the front. Merson scored the winner, ran over to our end, slammed his hands on the fences - the surge again, down to press up against its hero. I felt fear that evening, and standing on the Clock End as Arsenal played Newcastle on the day of the Hillsborough disaster in 1989, I remembered what that felt like, and cried when I got home.
Merse was sold by by Arsene Wenger in 1996, at the age of 28, to Middlesbrough, for £5 million. A good price for a 28-year-old. Dennis Bergkamp had already taken over the number 10 shirt. It was the end of Wenger's first season, the end of Merse's last for Arsenal. No more playboys.
Oh, I didn't mention one other thing. Merse and I share a birthday. He's exactly one year older than me.
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