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The Forgotten Truth of Gary Sprake
by Stuart Sprake & Tim Johnson
Tempus, £9.99
Reviewed by Huw Richards
From WSC 248 October 2007 

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Some decent sporting careers are damned by a single error. Bill Buckner, a just-this-side-of-great baseball player, has for 21 years been defined by the fielding error that extended the Boston Red Sox’s interminable wait to win a World Series. Gordon Smith will have to make one heck of a splash running the Scottish FA to efface memories of his miss in the 1983 FA Cup final. Such judgments are often undeserved, however, and the authors here aim to prove that Gary Sprake, Stuart’s uncle, merited better.

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Dear WSC
The substitutes’ bench at a football stadium should be exactly that – a rickety, splintered wooden structure, also housing an elderly physio with a smoker’s cough, that players will be only too keen to get away from. Yet several Premier League clubs, including Newcastle and Spurs, have comfortable seats for the substitutes that look like something from the executive class on an aeroplane. These players won’t feel motivated to leave their padded headrests with optional vibro-massage function in order to run around in the wind and rain. What next – soothing music piped in through headsets? Treat them mean to keep them keen, for God’s sake.
Glyn Teasdale, via email

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Dear WSC
Oh blast, nearly made it, Huw Richards (Reviews, WSC 248). Six paragraphs of something approaching even-handedness towards Leeds United in your review of Gary Sprake’s biography but then, with the finishing line in sight, you can soar above the gravity of glib public opinion no more: “They were indeed dirty, cheating bastards.”It’s not that I’m a Leeds fan, nor that I unreservedly dispute these allegations. I was in my naive early teens when Revie’s men were in their pomp, so I could easily have been oblivious to the more devious methods of what was still one of the most effective teams I’ve ever seen. If they are to be criticised 30 years on, however, then can it at least be in a manner consistent with modern times? Consider one Roy Keane, for example. Occasional thug, habitual hothead, a cynical intimidator who went after what he wanted regardless of whether it did more harm than good to those around him. How many times have you witnessed a debate on the Irishman kick off with one of these themes, only to undergo a remarkable transformation as your local Keane apologist enters? By the time he has stressed Keane’s honesty, perfectionism and dedication, you’re being invited to believe that Sunderland’s gain was the Vatican’s loss. Whatever side of the argument you take, its structure certainly works to Keane’s advantage. Get the Mr Hyde stuff out of the way first, then finish the discussion on a high, firmly focused on Dr Jekyll. And if it’s good enough for Roy, it’s good enough for Leeds United. So next time your writers are let loose on the Elland Road archives, can we have a gentlemen’s agreement that they get the whole snidey, paranoid, Machiavellian thing out of the way early on and then close with two simple points: that Revie’s team were one of the best passing and possession sides this country has ever produced and that anyone who thinks you can merely cheat your way to two League titles, League and FA Cups, plus two European trophies from five finals, wants their head examining?
Jeffrey Prest, via email

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Goalkeepers have always been slow to admit responsibility for any goal their team concedes, but the way they demonstrate this has changed across the ages. Cameron Carter charts the history of these complex blame-shirking gestures and what happens when it all gets too much for them

The Fatalist
If you consider footage from the 1960s and 70s, you will notice that the goalkeeper of this era is a more mild and resigned sort of person in the face of personal failure. After Georgie Best or Jimmy Greaves has sashayed round him and slipped the ball home, our isolated chum will invariably plod into the back of the net and simply tidy up his goal by kicking the ball downfield for the restart. It is as if he is thinking: “Well, this was bound to happen sooner or later. The ball is round, several people out there are intent on getting it into my net. I’m surprised this type of thing doesn’t happen more often.” There is no finger-pointing, no petit mort of the goalmouth lie-down, just a gentlemanly acceptance of the inevitable. Gradually, pioneering individuals such as Gary Sprake would introduce a bit of hands-on-hips action as an aperitif, but it was still a case of fumbling around for the ball afterwards and getting on with the game.

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The European Union is expanding as rapidly as the waistlines of retired footballers. Al Needham puzzled over an event that brought the two together

The Europe United Masters tournament was held at the London Arena on a miserable October Sunday, wedged between the Disney Channel Kids Awards and Beauty and the Beast On Ice. It had a weird premise: the Foreign Office decided that the best way to mark the admission of ten new coun­tries to the European Union was to organise a kick­about for retired foot­ballers, some of them not exactly re­nowned for their Europhilia (one of the British Masters squad once said living in Italy was like being in a foreign country and another famously told Norway to “Fuck off”). Mind you, if you needed reminding that there have been worse ideas, we’re only a stone’s throw away from the Millennium Dome.

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