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Could the US be the surprise package to win the World Cup? Answer: not at all. But on the eve of the greatest show not on ice, I found the best and only man to suggest otherwise, author Robert Andrew Powell. This blog is not on that though, it’s a shameless headline to drag in your now irate eyeballs. Bear with me.
My sports book of last year, This Love Is Not for Cowards, happens to be published by Bloomsbury. Pure coincidence, and I assure you I had zero to nothing to do with it, as our counterparts at Bloomsbury USA published it. It’s one of those genres US writers do so well: journalistic non-fiction. Think Stefan Fatsis’s Word Freak on the word-burgling nerd-world of competitive Scrabble. Here Powell moves to the murder capital of Mexico to follow a football team. It is absolutely brilliant, and if I can recommend just one book in my hyperbolic life, today it is this one. If you have a gratuitous interest in cartel violence, a love of Mexican football or you are just highly suggestible, read it.
Having finished it I struck up a little email conflab with the author, shamefully confessing from the off that I had started it because Breaking Bad had ended and I needed a Mexican-cartel fix.
Ciudad Juárez is basically the other half of the Texan city of El Paso (or vice versa), but sitting on the southern side of the border in Chihuahua, Mexico. In 2008 the city’s football team the Indios rose to the Primera, Mexico’s top league. For such a small team, from such a crime-ravaged city, their place was never going to last. The fans’ faith held them in it a while, and Powell was there to track their last 12 months in the big time. I’ve been describing it to people as the opposite of a sports movie, instead of the underdog fighting hard, appearing as if they’re going to lose, then miraculously winning it all, the team just loses. I asked Powell if that was how he saw it:
Robert Andrew Powell: I would have been happy to follow the standard sports movie script. At one point, early on, I was like, ‘Can you guys please start winning? For me and my little book project here? Please?’ But it didn’t take too long for me to recognise that the team and its losing streak formed an almost perfect metaphor for the city at large. The Indios players were lesser talents cast off from better teams. They lost and lost. But every day they still stepped onto the field and kept fighting for the team, the city and for their own personal pride. Ciudad Juárez at the time was so very horribly violent, and it was somehow getting worse, yet most people in the city got up in the morning and went to work and tried their best to live a normal life. As a fan, I would have enjoyed it tremendously if the Indios had strung together some wins and stayed in Mexico’s top league. But that isn’t how life generally works. Miracles are rare. That’s why we celebrate them, and remember them. The Indios, when I embedded with them, were real and human. They struggled, as most of us do. And that honourable struggle came to be what I loved most about them.
I guess the most obvious questions relate to ‘what happened next’: for you, the Indios, the players and Juárez. The Indios appear to have ‘dissolved’ according to Wikipedia after ‘financial problems’. Do you know any more on this? Have the fans found a suitable new object for their affections? Are you in touch at all with the old Karteleros (the Indios’ ultra fans)? Have you been back? How is Juárez without the Indios? How are those ex-Indios players getting on?
The team suffered relegation while I was there. Not much more than a year later, they folded altogether. Without TV revenue and with attendance way down – and with the murder rate still sky high – owner Francisco Ibarra couldn’t keep the team afloat. He’d told me he would never, ever sell the team. Yet he did sell, in the end.
The players scattered across Mexico. Marco Vidal, the American midfielder who was a central character in the book, ended up back in the top league with a team called Pachuca. But he eventually dropped back down to the minors, where he remains. He’s 28 years old now. I doubt he’ll climb back up. The allegiances of fans in Juárez drifted to other teams, like Chivas in Guadalajara and Pumas in Mexico City.
Two years after the Indios folded, a replacement team finally stepped forward to represent the city. This new team, also called the Indios – traditionally every sports team in Juárez is called the Indios – are sponsored by the local university, and play at the same stadium. But in the lowest minor league. Attendance is light. The quality of play is way, way down. The team is nowhere close to ever returning Juárez to the top league.
I remain in close contact with a lot of people from the book. From players like Marco to the Ibarras to many of the fans who followed the team when I was there. I’ve gone back to the border frequently, most recently just a few weeks ago. Juárez is quite different these days. The murder rate – which is still high – has dropped significantly from the eye-popping numbers of 2010. Many more bars and restaurants light up the night, and people feel a lot more comfortable going out. It’s not like the city’s problems have been solved, though. Corruption remains endemic. And thousands and thousands of murders from the past six-plus years remain unsolved. These murders were never even investigated, really. The ghosts of the dead haunt the city. One can’t pretend the killing never happened, or is just some vague memory from the past.
I never felt I would endanger anyone with my book. Maybe that’s naive of me. I strive to ground my work in real names and place and details. For the record, nobody seems to have been hurt.
And, hey, I finally finished Breaking Bad myself just last week! Walt dies. :)
Nice spoiler. Of Breaking Bad, what did you think of the depiction of El Paso? The worst nightmare of the DEA’s Hank …
El Paso would have been the place for Hank to advance his career. For obvious reasons. As far as Marie’s description of El Paso as ‘an armpit’, well … Albuquerque isn’t all that different. Both cities are dusty, isolated and relatively small. Albuquerque is close to the beautiful little town of Santa Fe, which is nice. But I’d rather live in El Paso, personally. It’s close to a whole other country.
The book’s title, This Love Is Not for Cowards, is great. Did you have any working titles that didn’t make the cut?
The original title was On the Line, which worked in about eight different ways. The US Border Patrol uses ‘the Line’ to describe the international border. The Juárez cartel is known locally as La Línea. Marco Vidal, when asked early in the book about the high stakes of the upcoming season, says ‘our lives are on the line’. That was my alternate, more poetic title for a while, Our Lives Are On the Line. But it turns out that way too many stories about the border are entitled ‘On the Line’. The very day I handed in the final draft of the book, the New York Times Magazine put ‘Life on the Line’ over a long cover story about Juárez and El Paso. We had to come up with something else.
My editor suggested Bordertown, which I hated. What, are we talking about Detroit here? The Bordertown title stuck around long enough to appear on some early cover mock-ups, to my dismay. Time was running out, and I was frantic that I’d not find a better option when Saul Luna, one of the Karteleros in the book, suggested the title we went with. Which turned out to be perfect.
What are you working on now? I see you have a book just out-ish about running a marathon, and that it was a long time coming. You must be pleased.
I just released Running Away, a memoir about marathoning and my father and divorce and a bunch of other hopefully interesting things. I actually wrote the memoir before I moved to Juárez, but it’s taken until now to get it published. Beyond that, I’ve been working for a while on what I hope will become a book set in Miami, and more specifically on a golf course. My first three books involved American football, soccer and running. Now golf. I’m working my way through all the sports, I guess. Kind of like a literary decathlete.
Both USA and Mexico are in the World Cup, how do you fancy their respective chances? Is the competition at all in the media in the US?
I’m a big fan of the US Men’s National Team, as we call them. A real big fan. Perhaps so much a fan that my logic is clouded. I’m approaching the tournament in Brazil with guarded optimism. I can see us getting out of our group, which is a killer – Portugal, Germany and Ghana (a country that eliminated us from the previous two World Cups). We also have the toughest travel itinerary of any team in the tournament. Yet, we stunned Portugal in Korea in 2002. We beat Germany in a friendly last summer, and our coach is of course a German who’s won the cup himself. So, yeah, I’ve decided to feel good about our chances. If I had to bet, though. If you forced me to bet, I’d wager we lose all three games and finish in dead last place.
Mexico won’t have it easy in Brazil, either, not with the home team in its group. Mexico barely squeaked into the finals, too. Yet they have a far greater chance of advancing out of the group stage than the US. I want them to lose, though. Badly. To any fan of the US, Mexico is the enemy.
Yes I know how hard it was for Mexico because their final play-off was against my little country, New Zealand. We were the only undefeated team at the last (our second ever) World Cup, with three draws, and I can only wish the same for the US. Oddly I am supporting England, being resident and a dreadful Anglophile, but also Uruguay, as a Liverpool and Luis Suárez fan.
I’ve got Colombia as my backup squad to cheer for. To win I’m standing with the favourite. Brazil all the way. To me, a Brazil triumph is a mortal lock, absolutely certain. I’ve never been more confident about an outcome.
The World Cup has England giddy all over again. Who are the players to look out for on the US (Men’s National) Team? Is Donovan still the star, or are there more impressive young-bloods? The MLS is broadcast here, but I’ve never heard many people talking about it, beyond the news media’s obsession with Beckham, when he was with LA Galaxy and now with his new franchise. As a Miamian, were you a Fusion fan, and now ready to transfer your patronage to Beckham’s little startup?
The clear current star of the US team is a midfielder named Michael Bradley. Perhaps you’ve heard of him. If not, well, then that says everything about the American squad. Our captain, Clint Dempsey, isn’t nearly as sharp as back when he played for Fulham. And Donovan? Man. As I type this, he’s in real danger of not making the final roster cut for Brazil. He’s been overweight and off his game. Our training camp is essentially a game of Survivor. Seven players currently in camp will be voted off the team before the plane lifts off for Brazil.
The possibility of Miami Beckham United FC or whatever they’re going to call it fascinates me. I loved his big announcement that he’d decided to place his expansion team in Miami. Like, what other American city was he going to choose? Indianapolis? St Louis? Of course he was going to pick Miami. Whether Miami will support him is a real question. This city bows to celebrity star-power, but Miamians are sophisticated soccer fans. Top teams, both club and international, come through here all the time. (Prior to the World Cup, England will be in Miami for tune-up games against Ecuador and Honduras. Ghana and South Korea plan to play a game here, too.) The World Cup will be broadcast into every restaurant in town, every day. Lunch hours will be extended all month long, and the whole city will follow the tournament closely. I’ve long felt that the Fusion failed here in large part because the team’s quality of play – and the quality of the league – was simply substandard. MLS is a minor league.
(Not to piss on MLS. I like the league for what it is. I’ve been to a few Seattle Sounders games, in Seattle, and have marvelled at the support that city gives its team. The games I watched were sell-outs, and it was a ton of fun to stand with the supporters, who are sophisticated soccer fans in their own right.)
Then there’s the whole issue of Beckham. He and his people boast that a team in Miami will be an extension of his brand, his soccer franchise to go along with his Haig Club whiskey and his Instinct cologne for men and his H&M underwear line. That’s all good for his portfolio, but I’ve started to wonder what would happen if he’s hit by a bus. Or if, say, perhaps, he gets caught blowing rails of cocaine in the boardroom of a Premier League club. Just to say. Take away Beckham, talk merely about a MLS team coming here, and I don’t think Miami would have much interest.
Finally, do you ever call the game ‘football’? Is it a bit pretentious in the States to do so? Using the word ‘soccer’ gets me mocked in Britain (in New Zealand, rugby is the only ‘football’), and they love to laugh at the US terminology used in the game. My favourite was your word ‘defenceman’ in the book for a defender. I have amused a few Britons passing this one on. Do you have any other humorous US soccer terminology for us to have a chuckle at?
It’s becoming more and more common for the game in the States to be called football. The cool kids call it football, as do I about half the time. It depends who I’m talking to. It can get confusing, like trying to figure out what kind of handshake you’re supposed to give a guy. I have no problem at all with the term soccer, nor with any Brits making fun of Americans for using it. It’s who we are, it’s what we play. As for ‘defensemen’: that was a total mistake! Nobody in North America uses that term! It comes from ice hockey, a sport I played competitively through university. I slipped it into the book accidentally, reflexively, never noticing until someone pointed out my mistake after publication. I switched it back to ‘defender’ in the paperback, my cheeks red with shame.
A pity to change the word, I think. It’s part of the colour that makes the book: that alternate-universe thing that is ‘soccer’ from a US perspective. Ultimately of course it is the human story, and the act of living for the Juarenses amid so much tragedy, rather than the sport, that makes This Love Is Not for Cowards so compelling. I can only recommend it, and if you won’t buy it, can I at least lend you my copy?
Take a sneaky peak at this gripping insider-read into Sports Marketing, written by the former Chief Marketing Officer at FC Barcelona, Esteve Calzada.
Publishing this month, Show Me the Money! is everything you’ll want to know about the big business of football and will give you an insight into why players like Real Madrid’s new signing Gareth Bale can be valued at a staggering £85 million…
I was 11 years old when I first started supporting Manchester United; an arbitrary decision to annoy my Liverpool-supporting older brother, but also linked to the football sticker swapping craze which had spread through the school playground. It was the peer-pressure of youth, centred around the Merlin’s Official Premier League 94 football collection, which led me to give my allegiance to the Red Devils. While most girls’ pin-ups were Take That and East 17, mine were to be Ryan Giggs, Eric Cantona and Andrei Kanchelskis, followed later by Beckham, Scholes, Nicky Butt and the Neville brothers … and many more besides. Heroes in my eyes.
But where would the club be with out the the gaffer, the manager, the boss? Throughout my years as a Manchester United supporter, though players have come and gone, there has always been the constant of Sir Alex Ferguson. Indeed, anyone in their early thirties and younger will never have known any different, but with Sir Alex’s retirement announced this morning after 26 years in charge, a new era is nevertheless dawning. But who will take over? A daunting challenge for even the most experienced.
In our new book, Standing on the Shoulders of Giants (publishing next month) – a history of Manchester United from its origins as Newton Heath in 1878 to the present day – the author Søren Frank dedicates the last chapter to Alex Ferguson and the legacy he has created, but also discusses the possible replacements for the (un)enviable position as manager of one of the world’s greatest football clubs.
So who will fill Sir Alex’s shoes? For a quick insight, click on the cover for a sneak preview of some of the top candidates…
In light of the controversy surrounding the Manchester United v Real Madrid match last night and the sending off of Nani by referee Cuneyt Cakir, we asked Keith Hackett, author of You are the Ref: a Guide to Good Refereeing for his reaction. It makes fascinating reading, and raises a number of points not currently being discussed in the media.
‘There are clearly two standards of Law interpretation operating between English officials and the rest of Europe. In European games there is a lower tolerance level for the ‘raised boot’ challenge which will be punished with either a yellow card (Reckless) or red card if the Referee deems it to be serious foul play. English teams therefore have to adapt to these differences in law interpretation.
If the challenge in the game last night was met with a swift yellow card no one would have complained. The referee however decided to give himself a lot of thinking time and may have consulted with his colleagues to receive their view before surprising the majority of spectators by issuing a red card. Our coaching of Referees at the top level is to advise that we do not want any surprises of this type, and UEFA continue to hold regular training camps for Referees. Through the use of video clips we aim to get uniformity of decision making involving all Referees.
However, the question I pose is what homework did the clubs do on the Referee? If they had done their research then they would have understood the high probability of a red card from this referee in particular. He demonstrates great courage on the BIG decisions – that is why he is rated highly amongst his peers.
You are the Ref: A Guide to Good Refereeing covers in detail the law on foul challenges. Managers. Coaches Referees and Spectators should purchase a copy!’
Keith Hackett is a former international referee and now General Manager of the Professional Game Match Officials Ltd (PGMOL) - the referee’s governing body and, is the Referee Ambassador for the FA, Premier League and UEFA.
Paul Trevillion, renowned artist and illustrator provides the stunning images.
I have been reading a good book on the evolution of human nature and culture that I’ll not provide a link to here as Bloomsbury don’t publish it and I’m that petty. One piece of social science research it unearths troubles me, and it’s something it seems has long been taken for granted when psychologists discuss the supporters of team sports. We are all desperately, unthinkingly and arbitrarily tribal. Which is to say, we are concurrently members of as many tribes as we can find connections to: from people, say, of the same religion as us to those that like the same guitar-strewn ne’er-do-wells or brand of cat litter. And once in a tribe, we will bias favouritism towards anyone we feel that tribal link to. Uh-huh, me too! I like GrittyKitty! You’re all right, you!
When it comes to supporting a sports team, the biases of tribalism explode. Various chin-strokers suggest that the mini-wars of sports teams, facing each other in packs and defending a home structure, fit so easily with our Paleolithic wiring that we experience the same fervour and bias as if it was in actuality our small band of spear-wielding nudists taking on the appalling cannibals from across the river (i.e. Millwall). This they say explains the popularity of round and oval ball sports, and even prim-white-jumpered cricket.
It’s all in good fun of course, so why bother to give pause? No one is actually getting a spear through her netball bib after all. Perhaps, but a couple of things still stick in my craw. The delusion that the accomplishments/failures of the team I support directly transfer their glory/shame to me creates a worryingly arbitrary pendulum to which to fix my emotional life. No, actually, this I’m OK with, glory being otherwise hard to come by. It is odd though, the unreality of my link to the team, and the fact I would NEVER consider shifting my allegiance. Jerry Seinfeld sums it up well:
Loyalty to any one sports team is pretty hard to justify. Because the players are always changing, the team can move to another city, you’re actually rooting for the clothes when you get right down to it. You know what I mean, you are standing and cheering and yelling for your clothes to beat the clothes from another city. Fans will be so in love with a player but if he goes to another team, they boo him. This is the same human being in a different shirt, they hate him now. Boo! Different shirt!! Boo. [intro to the Seinfeld episode ‘The Label Maker’]
If there proves to be any truth to the preposterous rumour that Liverpool’s goalkeeper Pepe Reina might be transferred to Manchester United I would respond like that I think. Boo! Different shirt!! A traitor would’ve crossed a line that I personally could never even consider pretending to sniff like cocaine à la Robbie Fowler. Bringing me to the other worry: the unthinking approval-bias towards the behaviour of fellow tribespeople (fans, players) and its corollary, the unthinking bias against the behaviour of the enemy. … I have just deleted a paragraph or two as I dove knees-first into a few of the illustrative sticking points between Liverpool FC and Manchester’s second best club. I delete as I want to move past the bias – as level-headed and good-natured as I imagine my bias to be. There are at least two sides to any story, and since I would want people to be open-minded toward ‘our’ side when it contradicts public or media opinion, I should be prepared to be just as open-minded in the reverse situation. I’m not quite there yet.
This blog arises as we are soon to publish a book on Manchester United’s history: Standing on the Shoulders of Giants. I was sick at the thought of it and made sure that all related work was pushed onto my long-suffering colleague Sarah. And have since been hiding my arms under my desk. But no, give them fair credit, the club’s rise is a powerful story, and their achievements continue to break records we should all be impressed by. They have had many excellent players, and also David Beckham. Ho ho. No, he too was more than the shrill stripper naysayers mock. His boots had a genius for spatial geometry, and his best free kicks will be long remembered.
I will say no more lest I chew through my own tongue, but this is a start. Biases should remain on the field, giving us our vicarious jollies through the length of the ritualised skirmish. Go our colourfully dressed little war-party, sack and plunder! Beyond that, let calm and sense be the things of greatest value.
The legacy of the Olympics and Paralympics some have hoped aloud is that more of us, still all geed up and whooping, will take part in sport. When I say ‘us’ imagine instead the unspoken target: some pre-teen lazybones hunched over her smartphone. Suddenly she’s shot-putting her pillowcase of junk food out the window and joining squadrons of her kind in the streets, hurdling bins, moonwalking like dressage horses, going all Beth Tweddle on lamp-posts. Healthiness being the age’s religion, this is seen as a good thing. Sport is good for you. It makes you a fitter biomechanical machine, and a fitter body is happier, lives longer and, though I have gone too far already, contributes more to society. Here I am at a sports publisher, and such a groundswell of interest in sport should have me licking my chops – moo-ha-ha! Allow me instead to pooh-pooh.
But why? Why emit a sales-sapping grump of a blog? Am I so cynical, so sour of puss, so easily prepared to kill joy and rain on the parade of something community-spirited and optimistic, something right-headed and good. I would hope so, yes.
And now I hold up exhibit A, my left ring finger in a splint. This is what sport has done to me. A detached tendon suffered while keeping goal in five-a-side football. Do not, I suggest, try to block a cannonball using your ring finger like a pool cue, tip first. The digit has contracted the deformity known as mallet finger and is now permanently bent at the top joint. It may never fully heal, and in the meanwhile I am forced to wear my plastic finger hat of shame – for weeks.
My question is this: In the light of such a catastrophe, how can anyone of passing sanity suggest that sport is good for you?
Like most people involved in such things I have an atlas of injury remnants across my body: from bone bruises and dicky joints to multiply shucked toenails. We are not alone. Sport leads to a continuous barrage of impacts, crunches, wrenches and body damage. They don’t call them tennis elbows nor swimmer’s shoulders for nothing. One of the Olympic equestrian team was discussing how commonly they break fingers after being thrown. A recent crash in the Tour de France was called the Massacre at Metz for the mangled piles of bodies and bikes it left behind, all their skimpy little bike vests in tatters, with gravel-rash oozing horribly through the holes. None of this is strictly speaking good for you, is it. And I suspect it is only the very luckiest of sportspersons who will not wear the brunt of some injury or other to the grave.
Sport is bad for you. So should we wish it upon pubescent slobs and those less disposed towards physical movement? I don’t know. The only reason I can imagine, and probably the real impetus behind our participation anyway, is – no not self-esteem, goal-orientation, team-cooperative-learning-enhancement or some other policy-speak codswallop – fun. Sport is fun. Play it if you want. Unfortunately I will continue to.
I became a five-a-side goalkeeper for the usual reason – sloth. Five minutes into any game, wheezing, glossy, highlighter-pink, I would sub myself into goal to grab a breather. Some other slob would soon come in and replace me, but five desperate minutes later, having chased the ball around dutifully like an aging Labrador, I would limp back into the safety of the goal area. With the back of a downcast head heaving gasped wordless lungfuls at my replacement, I would, more instructively, indicate with a finger the universal signage for I-am-dying-please-allow-me-this-one-favour. Over the years, however, something transpired. I will be 40 in 2013 and perhaps in sport-years an old dog. But learnt I have.
I played football, or soccer as we ignorantly called it, for the first 17 years of life, representing my New Zealand province up to under-18 level. The fact that barely 11 under-18s played football in North Otago helped enormously. I was also the only left-footed player so a shoo-in for the larboard wing. But as the full blast of adolescence raged through my bloodstream, all nonconformist radical (with football inappropriate haircut), I packed it in. Another 17 years passed, and the chance arose to play ‘indoor soccer’ at work. Brilliant I thought. I will be great again. I will hot-knife through these rugby-addled fools like butter. Running onto the pitch, the ball rolled in my direction. Here was my moment. I visualized the sinuous run upfield, drifting, jinking, feigning. Moving to trap the ball, I instead stood on the front of it and face-planted into the Astroturf. My 17-year-old body had deserted me. I looked down in dismay: When had I become so bell-shaped, so ambling?
But I kept at it, and, moving to Britain, played more and more. My stints in goal grew longer. Yet I still saw these as time-outs, a less boring subs’ bench. In my head I was a winger, a glory-hound glory-bound. Besides, others were better than me in goal … not that I was that bad.
One team in an annual company-wide tournament last year needed a goalie. I had been playing a bit more goal for my five-a-side league team, Red Star White City, who were at the time bottom of the bottom division in the BBC league. So I volunteered. The tournament was catalytic to a realisation. We won our group, and I was getting a lot of praise for my keepering. We won our quarter final. (Push play on ‘Eye of the Tiger’.) We brick-bottled it in the semi and exited. But throughout I was diving, rushing, making myself big, cutting down the angles, sticking a leg out. We were drawing a crowd, and I was the instigator of a pleasing percentage of the oohs and applause. Perhaps – I blinked, shuddering – I was actually better in goal.
Pushing into the Brad Friedel years I have accepted my role. The occasional run-out is always appreciated, but first and foremost, I’m the goalie. Red Star White City ascended into the second tier of our league the season before last, and then narrowly avoided relegation back down. This season (a ten-week period) we’re sitting mid-table. It’s hard to believe. We are not particularly hot, skill-wise, and our league is packed with scarily good players. One or two of us have some tricks and pace, but if we keep possession for more than four phases it’s a miracle. Where we excel is organisation. We are in fact like the undefeated New Zealand team in the 2010 World Cup. A bunch of Ryan Nelsons everyone expects to walk over, but who somehow hang in there through sheer will and constant harrying. Defence, we do well. And the heart of the defence is the lunk with the gloves on. Last night we won 3-0 against our arch-enemies Refine United. And in doing so I reached the highest height of my goalkeeping career so far. A bunch of saves all around the area, including three (not entirely over-egged) diving fingertip numbers and a classic backwards-stuck-out-leg-having-gone-the-wrong-way-initially, giving us the clean sheet. In the morning report, I received not only man of the match, but player of the week in all fixtures, and the goalie spot in the (fabled pantheon of) team of the week. I am literally choking in goalie glory. Next week of course I will let in a stupid one at the near post or fumble a back-pass into my own net, but before a fall comes some rather lovely pride.
I still resent my inability to nip, dart or achieve anything approximating fitness, but like Brad on the cover of The Soccer Goalkeeping Handbook, by legendary keeper-coach Alex Welsh, I am aging not ungracefully.
I asked Alex Welsh what he thought the key skills for a five-a-side goalie were compared to that of the full-size version. He summarised it beautifully:
Goalkeeping in Five-a-Side – Alex Welsh
In terms of the goalkeeping issues for five-a-side, the key principles remain the same, but the keeper has less time and space. With a quicker game constrained by the below-head-height and goal-area rules, the following points need to be considered:
- Constantly adjust your position as the ball moves so that you are always in the right place as the opponent shoots; and always be ready.
- Adopt a low, ready position and become a good exponent of the collapsing and low-diving saves.
- If not making a clean catch, parry or deflect into safety zones (wide of the goal).
- Develop good blocking techniques for close-range shots.
- Catch the ball safely before
- Scanning to select the target. Choose the appropriate throwing technique (roll or sling) before
- Counter-attacking to advantage. If counter-attacking, throw to the back foot (the one closest to the opponent’s goal) and if seeking to retain possession throw to the safe side. Remember a pass is a present so don’t give the receiver a control problem.