Sunday, 29 May 2016

Thoughts on Rodgers

This Summer sees the return to action of two David Brents; while Ricky Gervais resumes his role as the amicably awful office manager from The Office in the one-off Life on the Road, the spiritual personification of Brentology Brendan Rodgers returns to football management with my club, Celtic. His time in the Premier League with Swansea and Liverpool was a proverbial rollercoaster, which established a managerial legacy of impressive pragmatism and fluid, attacking football, but will be perennially marred by Liverpool’s title charge literally slipping out his grasp through, arguably, complete misfortune. The baggage of perceived narcissism and ludicrously inane soundbites also sullies what is an objectively strong resume. Conversely, his occasional lapses into caricature belies his sincerity and directness, a refreshing anecdote to the decaffeinated corporatism of modern football discourse. While his enigmatic character certainly promises off-field entertainment and drama in Scottish football next season – corroborated of course by the re-emergence of our city rivals from their murky, lower-league tomb – his on-field record is intractably the basis of such inspired optimism in the Celtic support.


Let’s be unequivocally clear; the signing of Rodgers as manager exhibits not only a remarkable coup for Celtic and Scottish football, but a laudable and bluntly necessary statement of intent from the Celtic board following a year of manifest disappointment, universal dissatisfaction, and the genuine fear of regression. While rumours circulate that the sly jibes from Rangers executives following our dismal Scottish Cup semi-final defeat was the principal stimulant for contacting Rodgers, the context is largely irrelevant. He’s here, that’s what matters; regardless of the insipid and uninformed analysis vomited up by deluded Talksport anglocentrists and 5 Live Neanderthals. Paralleled with the “Moneyball” lite appointment of Ronny Deila two years ago, Rodgers represents a marquee victory, an achievement reflected in the reportedly substantial surge in season ticket sales. Half an hour after Rodgers’s appointment was confirmed my dad messaged me affirming that he’d decided to renew, an apt synecdoche of thousands of disillusioned fans suddenly enlightened. We needed a spark, badly, and boy did we get one. Celtic fans are enormously excited about hiring such a high-profile figure, and the natural publicity his stature brings to the club. While the reputed £15 million transfer budget remains intangible, Rodgers’s singular signing whiffs of an unexpectedly dogged ambition, on a scale not seen in at least a decade, since the likes of Bellamy and Juninho were brought in for O’Neill’s final season. Incidentally, surely Rodgers symbolises the most ubiquitous figure to come to Scottish football since O’Neill himself?

Ignoring that estranged bugbear at the back of my mind that his tenure could prove disastrous, I spend much of my free (and work) time theorising how Rodgers’s team will shape up. There’s a fantastic, in-depth exploration of our potential structure on TicTactic, which I’ve linked to below[1], which suggests validly that Rodgers will implement his archetypal 4-3-3 formation. His quintessential style invokes hard-working wingers, overlapping full-backs and a dynamic midfield trio who flit from attack to defence instantaneously. A consolidation of Deila’s pressing, intensively direct game with a more sophisticated possession aesthetic will allow laborious ballplayers like McGregor – whose recent move to a deep-lying central midfield role is fruitfully redolent of Samaras’s switch from striker to winger under Lennon – and Armstrong (assuming both Biton and Johansen leave) to thrive, while Tierney and Janko effortlessly eschew the required full-back vitality. In my opinion, supposing 4-3-3 is our adopted preliminary tactic, the real position of concern is left-wing. Mackay-Steven isn’t good enough, and while I’d love to see Christie start regularly it would evidently be a case of shoehorning. A left winger, a target-man alternative to Griffiths, and some defensive backup should ideally be our transfer priorities; that along with rigorous trimming of our hideously bloated squad. With Rodgers’s record of progressing younger players delicately but meaningfully, perhaps I’m most excited about what he can do with the likes of Christie, Tierney, Janko, Roberts, and our schoolbus-load of academy promise. These are players with great potential; and while a few grew demonstrably under Deila, a few chronically stagnated, so Rodgers’s relationship with these youngsters will be a particularly interesting narrative to follow.


Besides his football, Rodgers – although principally a Sheffield Wednesday fan – comes from a devoutly Celtic family, and has a resolute respect for some of our most beloved club legends; his reverential, touching comments about Tommy Burns probably the most palpable. Dissimilar from the traditional and contentious “Celtic men” who so ardently divide the support – men who are undoubtedly fans of the club, but men overshadowed by their lack of managerial credibility and the pervasive musk of ultimate self-interest – in that he never played for the club or explicitly affiliated himself with us previously beyond his backstory. In amalgamating his fundamentally Celtic heritage with his pedigree for attacking football and developing homegrown players, he symbolises the hypothetically ideal Celtic manager. Above all else he understands the significance of managing Celtic. This is a club with an inherent politics and communalism to it – with an ideological identity that extends far beyond football – that it is utterly imperative our manager integrates with. Rodgers seems to not only appreciate this, but revel in it.

When Rodgers was presented to a Parkhead crowd of over 10,000 last Monday, he was met with an animated roar; not only of enthusiasm and buoyancy, but of immutable contentment, like a kid on Christmas morning opening every present he demanded from Santa. We’ve got what we wanted, and it feels bloody good. He may be David Brent, but he’s our David Bren

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