Today I was able to watch the last 15 minutes of the Arsenal-Everton match, Arsenal's penultimate match of the season. In fact, I turned on the tv just as the Bendtner header hit the back of the net.
I see this as a small step on my road to recovery. The metaphor has changed: this isn't a divorce from the Arsenal, or a trial separation; I've been forcing myself to go cold turkey, to forge a different relationship with the team and the club. It's beginning to work. I no longer need to deny the Arsenal, but they don't retain the power over me that they did. It feels a whole lot healthier.
I read in the online Guardian today a piece about Florent Sinama-Pongolle, once a young French world-beater who was signed by Gerard Houllier's Liverpool (in emulation of Arsene's youth policy), who never made it there but who subsequently left for Spain and has carved out a decent career at, I think, Real Zaragoza. In last night's match, Pongolle was racially abused by Atletico Madrid fans. (As a by-the-way, Atletico's ground, the Vincente Calderon, is the only Spanish football ground I've been to. I saw Atletico lose to Celta Vigo there about 10 years ago. My Spanish is rudimentary, but you couldn't miss the vitriolic abuse aimed at the then Atletico coach, who I think was Claudio Ranieri. Not surprising, really: Atletico were rubbish.)
The abuse suffered by Pongolle made me think of the very real advances made in the English game to eradicate racism which, particularly in the stands (and the fans must take some of the praise for this) is much better than it was in the 1970s or 1980s. Watching a West Brom match from the late 70s on ESPN Classic, the post-match interview with then-manager Ron Atkinson revealed his dim-witted 'praise' of Cyrille Regis's and Laurie Cunningham's efforts along the lines of 'they were a credit to their race'; and this was a man whose elevation of the 'Three Degrees' (the other being Brendon Batson, who West Brom converted from an ordinary Arsenal midfielder to a very classy full back) was markedly progressive for the time, and whose later spell at Aston Villa was characterised by the number and quality of Black British and overseas players in the squad.
Arsenal have a long tradition now of Black British youth players who make the first-team squad. Among the first was Paul Davis. Bizarrely, he first registered with me when I watched (green with envy) an episode of Jim'll Fix It in the early 1980s, when Jimmy Saville arranged for a young lad to play a 10-minute mock game with Arsenal players - at Highbury! Paul Davis was one of those players.
He would be central to George Graham's Arsenal; strangely enough, as he was not a power-running midfielder like Michael Thomas or an all-energy wide player like the late David 'Rocky' Rocastle. Paul Davis was elegant, a thoughtful passer, a player without ego or flashiness, a player who would have fitted in perfectly with Arsene Wenger's teams. He provided the 'cultured' midfield play that separated George's Arsenal from other long-ball teams of the time, but his lack of ego, his ability to be the team hub, meant that he was never in the England reckoning. Like another excellent passing midfielder of the same period, Everton's Paul Bracewell, his very qualities left him overlooked. Any England team of the late 80s or early 90s would have been improved by Davis's presence; think of how bad Graham Taylor's England was. (Compare him to workaday players like Geoff Thomas, or Carlton Palmer.)In the 1991 season, when Arsenal played Tottenham at Highbury, Davis had tyro Paul Gascoigne in the opposition midfield. Not only did Paul Davis put Gascoigne in his pocket that day, marking him out of the game, he then went on to outplay and outpass his opponent. Arsenal won on the way to the title.
Sometimes it's metnioned that Paul Davis spent a long part of one season banned for an incident caught on television, but missed by the referee. Playing Southampton, he punched and broke the jaw of Glenn Cockerill, a mouthy (if skilled) midfielder. For Paul Davis, not exactly fiery of temeperament, to have done that, one can only surmise that the preceding 90 or so minutes had been full of abuse, niggling fouls, and, perhaps, even racism. Only the two of them know that for sure. But I was shocked when I saw the punch. A punch? Paul Davis?
He also scored one of greatest goals I have ever seen watching the Arsenal at Highbury. It was in the run-in to the 1989 championship season, a home game in March 1989 against Charlton. It was in the week of my birthday, so me, Ed and my very good friend Simon all went to see a midweek evening game. (This would have been the Easter vacation.) The game ended 2-2, and it was one of several times that Spring where we thought the Arsenal had blown it. (The later 1-0 home defeat to Derby, right at the end of the season, was the last and worst of these, and seemed to confirm Liverpool's title.) But, defending a corner, Arsenal broke away down the left. We were in the West Stand, as usual, watching, climbing to our feet, as Paul Davis sprinted towards the Clock End to support the break. Over came the cross, and Davis flung himself full length, a spectacular diving header, all the more stunning for its singularity: unlike Michael Thomas, who surged through oppsing defences regularly to score, Davis was not a prolific scorer. But this goal epitomised him: skill, drive, and total commitment to the Arsenal cause.
It seems now that Arsenal will lose Matthieu Flamini and Aleksandr Hleb to AC Milan and Inter Milan respectively this summer. Paul Davis was a one-club man, a wonderful and perhaps neglected footballer. How the Arsenal could do with a player of his skill, intelligence and commitment next season.
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