It was spring 1980. Everton of the old English First Division were taking on West Ham of the Second Division in the FA Cup semi-final. Everton were naturally expected to win. They didn't. The first match was drawn and in the replay Frank Lampard (senior) sealed the win for West Ham with two minutes of extra time remaining. West Ham went to Wembley and beat Arsenal in the final.
There is an alternative version of events. This one was played out not at Villa Park, the location for the first match, but in a flat above WH Smith in Ealing, West London. A toss of the coin gave me Everton, which might have appeared to have been a disadvantage. The blue shirts and white shorts of this Everton had come with the original box, as had the red shirts and white shorts of, say, Manchester United. West Ham were to be a later acquisition. They were all intact. Everton were not. The odd limb (arm) was missing. Some had needed to be glued back into position. They had been victims of being inadvertently trodden on or sat on by the dog.
The semi-final was to defy normal Subbuteo rules of what were then twenty-five minutes each half. It was over the full ninety minutes. Despite the handicap of one-armed Asa Hartfords or Gary Megsons, Everton routed West Ham. Brian Kidd scored five, and the final result was an 11-0 victory.
West Ham were not novices, one should point this out. But what happened on that spring afternoon was that Everton turned on a display of Total Subbuteo. There had never been such flickery-trickery before. At least where I was concerned. Such were the heights attained that I decided that the time had come to retire. I hung up my little plastic footballers for the last time, aware that I could probably never again reach the levels of that eleven-goal thrashing. I have not played Subbuteo ever since.
Subbuteo was the only table (or floor) football game to come anywhere near resembling the actual game. There were other attempts, such as the Chad Valley, the one with plastic players on rubber bases pressed into sockets. If you levered a player back too much, he popped out of the socket and smacked you in the eye. Not as realistic and potentially more hazardous.
In 2000, Hasbro, which by then owned Subbuteo, pulled the plug: "The decision to cease production has been made as a result of the huge number of football-related products which have flooded the market in recent years, but the possibility remains that the Subbuteo brand may make a return at some stage in the future." Which is what happened. Subbuteo did return and is flourishing once more, not least in Mallorca (well, sort of).
There is a team called Mallorca Águilas de Llucmajor. It is the only team from the Balearics to be in the Spanish league or indeed to take part in the European champions league. Formed six years ago, the Mallorca "Eagles" are based at the sports centre in Arenal. In November they went off to Rome to take part in La Champions League. There were three Spanish sides in all: the Eagles plus Tiburones FM and CAP Ciudad de Murcia.
Things didn't go too well. On the website of the Asociación Española de Jugadores de Fútbol de Mesa, a report says that it should be noted that there was "little fair play" by the powerful teams. This didn't extend to removing an arm or two from the opposition, but the implication was that some teams "were allowed" to win. The Federation International of Sports Table Football is said to be aware of these "facts", and the long-term future of the Champions League seems to be in danger.
The facts aren't disclosed, however. All one can ascertain is that the powerful teams come from where the power resides in European Subbuteo, which is Italy, a nation never in the past of course involved in anything remotely shady when it comes to football (the real thing, that is).
Anyway, Bari Reggio Emilia went on to win the tournament, the fourth time they have done so since the Champions League started in 2010. As for the Eagles, they failed to qualify for the final stages. They had to settle for being in the consolation tournament, the Europa League, in which they came ... well, unfortunately they came last.
There wasn't an eleven-nil disaster awaiting. The worst result was a nine-nil defeat for one of the four-member team against the Bologna Tigers (and they only play fifteen minutes each half nowadays). But the Eagles live to flick another day. Maybe they should re-name themselves the Toffees.
Showing posts with label Subbuteo. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Subbuteo. Show all posts
Tuesday, December 13, 2016
Tuesday, July 26, 2011
Flick When You're Winning
Spain have failed to add a further World Cup title to the nation's list of footballing honours. They were knocked out in the semi-finals, going down three-one (on aggregate) to Belgium who then succumbed to Italy in the final, the home nation being crowned the 2011 Subbuteo World Cup champions.
The World Cup was played over the last weekend in Palermo. It has fallen in the midst of Mallorca's fiesta season during which all manner of table games are played. Pollensa's Patrona, for instance, has more or less a whole day of such games.
Table football games, eclipsed by PlayStation and what have you, still hold a place in nations' affections, and the Spanish are one of these nations. The most obvious of the games is table football itself, a crash-bang-wallop of wrist action and toe-ended attempts on goal. Though some finesse is required, as in the manoeuvring of the ball under close control in order to set up the shot, it is a deeply unsatisfactory game. It is inflexible, a rod of players that can only ever move in formation, square across the pitch, as though they were Ray Wilkinses on a steel pole.
Table football, though, is a survivor. It is still with us in bars in Mallorca and elsewhere. And here, as with with the full English breakfast tradition, is an opportunity for Bar Brits. International table football tournaments. Put them on over a few days in a resort like Alcúdia and they would be a recipe for fierce national pride and considerable drinking among any number of nationalities.
But more sophisticated, more refined, more skilful would be the Subbuteo tournament. Though there is greater potential for harm to be caused to Subbuteo players than to those on a rod of iron, there is a code of conduct that is applied by the Federation of International Sports Table Football, of which the Spanish Association Española de Jugadores de Futbol de Mesa is a member. Anyone guilty of snapping an arm or the legs of a Subbuteo player is subject to disciplinary procedures (I'm not kidding, you can have a look for yourselves on the federation's website).
Subbuteo was always the Barcelona of table football to the hard-working, long-ball, huff-and-puff of table football itself. The spin around an opposing player to effect a deft touch on the ball, a push to the right with a gentle flick by the index finger and, in seemingly one movement, the unleashing of a shot past a despairing goalkeeper, skewered like a kebab on the end of a thin metal rod of his own (or in more modern versions, a plastic controller).
My own Subbuteo career spanned some fourteen years. I was only 25 when I decided to hang up my plastic men on plastic domes. It was not an injury that caused my retirement, it was not that I had been unable to cope with the stardom and had gone off the rails in a George Best style (and Subbuteo never produced a drunken George as such). I called it a day because I knew I had reached my peak.
In 1980 I played the perfect Subbuteo game, one of high tempo, fabulous flicking, slick spinning and passing. It was the enactment of the Everton-West Ham FA Cup semi-final. My hapless Hammers opponent was brushed aside; he was given a Subbuteo footballing lesson. It was his Hidegkuti and Puskas moment. Brian Kidd bagged five, and the result was 11-0.
In the World Cup just played, Spain had a player called Flores. He was the one to register the one in the 3-1 aggregate loss to Belgium. In an otherwise dull encounter (2-0, 1-0, 2-1 to the Belgians in the three other match-ups), Flores trounced Dehur 10-2. Subbuteo has flowered thanks to the Spaniard Flores, just as it had 31 years ago. And despite going out in the semis, it proved that Subbuteo is alive and flicking in Spain.
With this in mind, I propose a grand Subbuteo bar tournament, one to bring the nations of Mallorca together. But I would only be a spectator. I've had my day. It's a young man's sport now, demanding highly trained index fingers as opposed to those whose training was mainly confined to curling around a pint glass. But I would hope that an English champion could emerge, one who could be encouraged by our singing "flick when you're winning, you only flick when you're winning". Because in Subbuteo, if you are not flicking then you cannot be winning.
Any comments to andrew@thealcudiaguide.com please.
The World Cup was played over the last weekend in Palermo. It has fallen in the midst of Mallorca's fiesta season during which all manner of table games are played. Pollensa's Patrona, for instance, has more or less a whole day of such games.
Table football games, eclipsed by PlayStation and what have you, still hold a place in nations' affections, and the Spanish are one of these nations. The most obvious of the games is table football itself, a crash-bang-wallop of wrist action and toe-ended attempts on goal. Though some finesse is required, as in the manoeuvring of the ball under close control in order to set up the shot, it is a deeply unsatisfactory game. It is inflexible, a rod of players that can only ever move in formation, square across the pitch, as though they were Ray Wilkinses on a steel pole.
Table football, though, is a survivor. It is still with us in bars in Mallorca and elsewhere. And here, as with with the full English breakfast tradition, is an opportunity for Bar Brits. International table football tournaments. Put them on over a few days in a resort like Alcúdia and they would be a recipe for fierce national pride and considerable drinking among any number of nationalities.
But more sophisticated, more refined, more skilful would be the Subbuteo tournament. Though there is greater potential for harm to be caused to Subbuteo players than to those on a rod of iron, there is a code of conduct that is applied by the Federation of International Sports Table Football, of which the Spanish Association Española de Jugadores de Futbol de Mesa is a member. Anyone guilty of snapping an arm or the legs of a Subbuteo player is subject to disciplinary procedures (I'm not kidding, you can have a look for yourselves on the federation's website).
Subbuteo was always the Barcelona of table football to the hard-working, long-ball, huff-and-puff of table football itself. The spin around an opposing player to effect a deft touch on the ball, a push to the right with a gentle flick by the index finger and, in seemingly one movement, the unleashing of a shot past a despairing goalkeeper, skewered like a kebab on the end of a thin metal rod of his own (or in more modern versions, a plastic controller).
My own Subbuteo career spanned some fourteen years. I was only 25 when I decided to hang up my plastic men on plastic domes. It was not an injury that caused my retirement, it was not that I had been unable to cope with the stardom and had gone off the rails in a George Best style (and Subbuteo never produced a drunken George as such). I called it a day because I knew I had reached my peak.
In 1980 I played the perfect Subbuteo game, one of high tempo, fabulous flicking, slick spinning and passing. It was the enactment of the Everton-West Ham FA Cup semi-final. My hapless Hammers opponent was brushed aside; he was given a Subbuteo footballing lesson. It was his Hidegkuti and Puskas moment. Brian Kidd bagged five, and the result was 11-0.
In the World Cup just played, Spain had a player called Flores. He was the one to register the one in the 3-1 aggregate loss to Belgium. In an otherwise dull encounter (2-0, 1-0, 2-1 to the Belgians in the three other match-ups), Flores trounced Dehur 10-2. Subbuteo has flowered thanks to the Spaniard Flores, just as it had 31 years ago. And despite going out in the semis, it proved that Subbuteo is alive and flicking in Spain.
With this in mind, I propose a grand Subbuteo bar tournament, one to bring the nations of Mallorca together. But I would only be a spectator. I've had my day. It's a young man's sport now, demanding highly trained index fingers as opposed to those whose training was mainly confined to curling around a pint glass. But I would hope that an English champion could emerge, one who could be encouraged by our singing "flick when you're winning, you only flick when you're winning". Because in Subbuteo, if you are not flicking then you cannot be winning.
Any comments to andrew@thealcudiaguide.com please.
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