And with that, the international window ends and we return to association football. Or, as Gareth Bale calls it, vacation time!
The Welsh wizard was one of last week’s standout stars as he emerged in a puff of smoke to lead his country to a World Cup play-off final. Bale’s performance for Wales was met with the now-customary disdain in Madrid, where many doubt that the intense passion he shows for his national team is matched by his commitment to his club.
Real Madrid pays almost 700,000 euros a week for Bale’s services, for which they got exactly 270 minutes of football this season. That’s about the same time it takes for a leisurely round of golf, which coincidentally is exactly what Bale would rather do than run around the Bernabéu on a weekend.
To the player’s annoyance, Spanish newspaper Marca last week portrayed Bale as a ‘blood-sucking Welsh parasite’. After Bale scored Wales’ first goal against Austria, he shouted: “Suck that!” in a message to his critics down the lens of a television camera, seemingly unaware of the sight of him scoring a stunning free-kick into the top Corner shoots – just days after missing El Clasico due to a mysterious illness – tended to prove her point.
Whatever the reason Bale continues to troll football’s most pompous institution, the flip side – his zealous devotion to Wales – is part of a broader theme: a romantic nationalism that has rejuvenated international football, as has increasingly fetid commercialism of club sport has never made it seem less attractive.
Interpret Bale’s story broadly, and it’s about man’s search for meaning in the grueling materialism of modern society, not that of a simulating freeloader in a golf buggy. At some point, Bale decided unequivocally to reject Madrid and all its pomp and channel all of his emotional energy into the mind-boggling joys of guiding his pals from home on nights of sweaty glory. Good job if you can get it.
But if you look around the international scene now, you see the same serious passion everywhere.
It’s evident in Stephen Kenny’s Ireland team, for example, in the way the manager has attempted to mold his vision away from the gritty functionalism of the British game. Kenny squarely resisted the notion that the Ireland team would forever inhabit the spirit of a strong midfield championship and so enjoyed a surge of homegrown support. One of his most popular players is Chiedozie Ogbene, the Nigerian-born winger whose frequent declarations of pride in playing for Ireland resonate with fans who see him as the best representation of who they are.
Or how about this quote: “I want to give hope to people where they are proud of the guys who play for the national team and that they can relate to them… We will have their identity in our game, their willingness to give everything they have to show who they are, to show who we are. These players are incredibly passionate about the national team.”
Not the words of Stephen Kenny, but of Kasper Hjulmand, the Danish head coach. Why do international managers talk like this? They sound more like bearded revolutionary leaders than ex-players who have made coaching badges.
But it seems to be working. Hjulmand led Denmark to the semi-finals at Euro 2020 and qualified for the World Cup by winning their group. In Tuesday’s friendly win over Serbia, Christian Eriksen returned to the Copenhagen stadium where he suffered his cardiac arrest last summer, an event that felt like a big national hug.
While displays of undying patriotic pride have always been a must, there used to be a slight feeling that drifting into international service was an inconvenience, particularly for those for whom the standard on and off the field was a step backwards.
Now the highest ranks of the international game are populated by grizzled patriots and chested warrior kings like 37-year-old Cristiano Ronaldo and 39-year-old Pepe, who led the way as Portugal clinched World Cup qualifiers this week. Poland’s Robert Lewandowski turns 34 at this year’s World Cup and shows no desire to spare himself in favor of his club employers.
Then there is the father of all, Zlatan Ibrahimovic, who came back to play for Sweden at the age of 39 after retiring four years earlier. He plans to continue with Sweden even though they failed to qualify for Qatar. “As long as I stay healthy and have something to contribute,” Zlatan said when asked how long he would continue, possibly the most humble thing he has ever said. Even in an international team as boring as Sweden, the pull of being part of something bigger is strong.
Behind all this there may be a weariness, both among fans and players, at the ongoing devaluation of the club game. While there will always be millions whose football club is a big part of who they are, it has become harder to identify with those who have morphed from community institutions into corporations controlled by hedge funds or despotic regimes. Although international football is ultimately run by the stench kings of FIFA, it at least allows for the illusion of being part of a nobler collective enterprise.
Romantic nationalism has its roots in the 19th century, when parts of the old European empires strove for freedom. The idea was that by bringing together traditional music, literature and folklore, one could create a sense of national identity that everyone could rally behind.
Just as romantic nationalists sought to break free from the oppressive shackles of empire, international football could bring deeper meaning to a sport where anything and anyone can be bought and sold. a way of giving two fingers to the oligarchs, the sleazy agents, the greedy club managers and everyone else.
Or, as Gareth Bale might put it, to say, “Suck that!”
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