How to Watch Soccer Read online

  PENGUIN BOOKS

  HOW TO WATCH SOCCER

  Ruud Gullit was born in Amsterdam in 1962. He was the captain of the Netherlands team that won the 1988 European Football Championship and played in the 1990 World Cup. He was named “European Footballer of the Year” in 1987 and “World Soccer Player of the Year” in 1987 and 1989. After he retired from the field, he managed the LA Galaxy and several other teams around the world. He currently works as a broadcaster regularly covering soccer matches on television in the United States, the United Kingdom, Germany, France, the Netherlands, and across the Middle East.

  PENGUIN BOOKS

  An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC

  375 Hudson Street

  New York, New York 10014

  penguin.com

  First published in Great Britain under the title How to Watch Football by Viking (UK), a division of Penguin Random House UK, 2016

  Published in Penguin Books 2017

  Copyright © 2016 by Ruud Gullit

  Translation Copyright © 2016 by Sam Herman

  Penguin supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin to continue to publish books for every reader.

  ISBN 9781524704575 (e-book)

  Cover design: Albert Tang

  Cover photograph: Robert Mora / Major League Soccer / Getty Images

  Version_1

  Contents

  About the Author

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Foreword

  Getting to the top

  To Italy

  To England

  Manager

  How to watch soccer

  The dead ball

  Systems

  Patterns of play

  Positions

  Soccer cultures

  Everything to win

  Psychology

  National teams

  New developments

  Epilogue

  Photographs

  Ruud Gullit profile

  Foreword

  All soccer players have their own style. That goes for soccer analysts too. Some analysts are provocative, some analysts are loud, and some analysts try to stay friends with everyone. When covering soccer, broadcasters like to present a mix of all these styles of commentary to give viewers a complete picture.

  When I appear as an analyst, I watch the game as a manager rather than as a player. By contrast, many fans tend to watch as spectators. It’s natural, but it’s the difference between watching a game and watching the ball.

  The first thing I look at is how the manager has lined up each team. That tells you immediately what his intentions are and how he plans to hurt the other side. Then as the match starts you watch whether each team manages to execute its game plan, and how the other side has anticipated this plan. From the pattern of play you can see which team is dominating and is able to take an advantage on the basis of its formation and tactics. Now you’re already a few minutes into the game and you’ve hardly even looked at the ball.

  As the game continues, I watch for details and look for reasons why things go wrong. Everyone can see the mistake; the point is, why did it happen? Where and why do teams slip up? Often the fault is not with the person who made the error, such as the last defender or the goalkeeper; it starts way before. Not everyone watching the screen can see that. And that’s where the analyst comes in: to show things which may not be obvious but that have a crucial impact on the course of the game. I also try to explain how a mistake should have been avoided. I do this without looking for scapegoats. I’m critical, I base my comments on what I see, and stay respectful. There’s no need to score points in the media with your remarks.

  My approach to soccer is positive. After all, I owe soccer a lot. The sport has given me everything. I’ve no desire to air dirty laundry in public; I try to analyze as objectively as possible. I must admit that it’s hard to talk about some former teammates such as Frank Rijkaard, Carlo Ancelotti and Marco van Basten objectively. I’m always positive about these guys—I give them the benefit of the doubt, maybe even support them.

  I prefer technical, well-planned, attacking soccer, yet the objective must always be to win. It’s great to see teams throwing everything into the attack. But it doesn’t always pay off, so last season it was not the favorites, FC Barcelona and Borussia Dortmund, who won the Champions League and Europa League. Both teams lacked the shrewdness of the bread-and-butter player whose overriding objective is to win. Even if that means going against the grain and taking on a different identity should the situation demand it.

  I enjoy watching Barcelona, but at the same time I hate it when other sides lie down and submit to the supremacy of Messi & Co. You have to do everything that’s necessary to win, within the rules, even against Barça.

  That’s why I loved watching Atlético Madrid in the quarterfinals of the 2015/16 Champions League. What possible reason could Atlético have had to play Barcelona’s game and offer themselves up to the slaughter? Because that’s what neutral spectators wanted? If there’s no way to win by playing soccer, other weapons besides sheer talent have to make up the difference: such as tactics, and mental and physical strength. It’s all about winning.

  Diego Simeone’s team adapted on various levels to make sure it got through to the semifinals of the Champions League; eventually Atlético managed to outmaneuver the supposedly indestructible Barcelona with tough, macho soccer.

  At the same time I also enjoyed watching Manchester City in those quarterfinals. Unlike Atlético, Manuel Pellegrini’s side didn’t look to defend, but went on the attack to eliminate Laurent Blanc’s stronger Paris Saint-Germain.

  Circumstances forced Jürgen Klopp’s Liverpool to choose another approach to beat a superior Borussia Dortmund side in the Europa League quarterfinals. Twice Liverpool found themselves lagging behind by an almost hopeless margin (2–0 and 3–1) at Anfield only to pull out all the stops in an all-or-nothing offensive. Under constant attack by a Liverpool team fired by boundless energy and a never-say-die mind-set, the Germans found themselves 4–3 down deep into injury time.

  Without denying Liverpool’s obvious achievement, it was no less Borussia Dortmund’s fault for allowing the English side to wreak unbridled havoc. By failing to finish them off by scoring more goals or by slowing down the pace to frustrate the other side, they allowed themselves to be drawn into an open game and simply forgot to close it down. There were no minor infringements by the German side: no time-wasting or silly tricks at the corner flag, no one rolling about theatrically on the ground. Those kinds of tactics may not be fun to watch, but after all there’s a Europa League semifinal at stake, and that’s as good an excuse as any. To allow yourself to be drawn into an English game against an English side is asking for trouble, and in this case the result was defeat and elimination.

  I find it fascinating to watch teams stretch themselves to their maximum potential. Atlético Madrid are a great example. They may not be the best players individually, but they manage to go deeper than other teams and to play with more discipline than the other side on the day.

  When they play a weaker team that then in turn adapt to their game, it’s Atlético that find it difficult to dominate. It is always easier to respond to the other side’s game. In the round of sixteen of the Champions League, Atlético were on the point of collapse
. PSV almost had the Madrilenians on the floor, only to be defeated in the penalty shootout. While PSV adapted, Atlético had to take the initiative and that’s what the team found problematic.

  As an analyst watching Atlético Madrid–Barcelona, I was looking to see if Barça had a response to Atlético’s driven soccer. Clearly not, since they never really got going and never showed the same level of commitment as their opponents. Barcelona’s forwards kept dribbling the ball; that’s exactly what you shouldn’t do in a confined space. The result is that you lose the ball. Instead you should be trying to keep possession as long as possible, with one or two touches, keeping up the pace. Waiting to create a space and to exploit it. That’s how to avoid tackles and fouls. I was disappointed to see a great team like Barcelona with all those world-class stars unable to use common sense as the game developed. Plan A had been perfected, but it wasn’t working, and there was no plan B. Well, in fact sending their tall center back Gerard Piqué to use his height up front turned out to be plan B. It was a desperate measure that they obviously hadn’t practiced, since Piqué’s teammates barely fed him any long, high balls from the touchline or the back. For me, this exposed Barcelona’s true weakness.

  Tactics is about responding to the specific qualities of those who determine play, whether in your own team or in the opposing side. Paris Saint-Germain thought they could camouflage the absence of various midfield players by fielding a 3-5-2 formation against Manchester City while still providing support for Zlatan Ibrahimović. Laurent Blanc’s tactical adjustment caused chaos in the squad. I suspect that no one at PSG had ever played in that formation. Each player’s position and task are different. As a result, their automatic reactions were all wrong. By piling pressure on the three defenders, Manchester City were able to gain the advantage.

  Feeling lost in their 3-5-2 formation, PSG were unable to achieve any depth in their game. Manchester City played their familiar 4-2-3-1 formation and waited patiently for their chance. Paris Saint-Germain hardly got started. The solution should have been to move one of the three defenders forward to provide more structure. They could afford to do that, since City were playing with a single striker, Sergio Agüero, which meant that two French defenders would have been sufficient. But they didn’t do that, with the result that Zlatan, their best player, remained marooned in the French half. He threatened on only two occasions—two set pieces—and PSG were unable to stop Manchester City eliminating them from the competition.

  As you can see with Atlético, Man City and Liverpool, there’s more than one way to skin a cat. Sometimes the solution is not technique, or tactics, or strategy, but simply giving it everything you’ve got. Soccer purists don’t like to hear that, but if you’re not the better side in absolute terms then it may be the only way to win that crucial game.

  Getting to the top

  In the end, soccer is all about winning. That’s how you play, how you train, how you coach, how you watch. But that’s not how it begins. It begins with the ball.

  The ball is sacred when you’re a youngster. It’s totally different from the way you experience the game later, as a professional soccer player, manager/coach or analyst. Supporters and fans view soccer like I did as a kid. They watch the ball. That’s the essential beauty of the game. It’s why I loved going to the playground when I was growing up in Amsterdam. I’d spend the whole day there, from early morning until late evening, until the light faded and my mother came and dragged me home. That’s how I got into soccer as a young lad. The ball was my obsession.

  Junior at Meerboys, DWS and Young Orange

  When I was eight, I used to mess about with the ball in the local playground with little sense of what was happening around me. I developed skills with the ball, moves, tricks, trying to outsmart the others. In those tiny playgrounds in Amsterdam I wasn’t the star. On a real pitch I found playing much easier: I was big for my age and there was plenty of space to sprint past everyone with my long legs. That was at Meerboys, a stone’s throw from the Ajax stadium. Three years later I moved from Amsterdam’s Jordaan to West Amsterdam and joined DWS, well-known in those days as a small professional club, though now amateur.

  The manager put me in defense. I got the ball from the keeper, started to run, and kept going until I saw the other goal up ahead. My legs at full stretch. That was my tactic, although I didn’t know it was a tactic. A tactic with an expiry date, however. Because when you’re playing at the highest professional level, you can’t get away with that kind of unorthodox style. In fact it isn’t really soccer. Still, the scouts noticed those huge sprints. And so I ran my way into all kinds of teams, from Amsterdam’s juniors to the Dutch youth team, and I just kept on running past everyone. All the way from the back. With no idea about positions on the field, or coordination with other players; I didn’t even see the other side: I ran past them all.

  It was in Amsterdam’s youth team that I first encountered players from Ajax, while I was a youngster from small, modest DWS. Those Ajax players had an air of superiority. And they could play well, but they were a bit too self-assured, a little arrogant even. Being big and able to run fast, I held my own quite easily. It was when I tried to get involved in the quick, technical combinations of the Ajax players that they had me at a disadvantage, but they had no answer to my physical approach and my speed. I had little trouble making my presence felt among kids who had far more talent with the ball than I had. It was all going so smoothly that by the time I was twelve I was thinking: hey, maybe I’m a soccer player. It had never occurred to me before, but finding a way to respond to this new style of playing had enabled my own qualities to surface.

  A natural progression in 1978 was to the Dutch youth team, but I had to work hard to fit in at that level. This time more was expected of me than physical strength and pace. Once again I discovered that I had to become a better soccer player, technically and in close combinations.

  I was surprised when the Dutch managers didn’t automatically put me in defense. They saw me more as a midfielder and a forward. Yet how could I release my energy in these positions? From central defender at DWS to midfielder for the Dutch youth team was quite a change. Out in midfield, I was in unfamiliar territory. I didn’t really understand the positions and I hardly knew what to do. But I was big and strong, so I thought: if I just start running and keep on running, it’ll drive the other side crazy. The tactic worked and I held my own on the pitch. I could easily keep going the whole game, I was so big and strong compared to others of the same age.

  The Netherlands were known in those days for technically refined combination soccer. I was different. So it was hardly surprising that I spent much of my first year with the Dutch youth team—for players aged twelve to fourteen—on the bench. They always sent me on later in the game, though. Another player in that team was Erwin Koeman, older brother of Ronald Koeman and later his brother’s assistant at Southampton and Everton. Erwin was a technically skilled midfielder with an excellent left foot. In 1988, we won the European Championship together.

  In the Dutch youth sides they moved me all around the pitch. I played in many different positions, mostly as a sub. The way you play depends when you’re sent on, and whether the team is behind or ahead. I had to be able to adapt to the situation, and I also had to play in different positions on the field. When I was young that could be frustrating, but as a professional it became my real strength.

  Having carved out a place in the Dutch youth squad, I was shifted to a higher age group. I was only fourteen and suddenly I was playing in a team with sixteen-, seventeen- and eighteen-year-olds. Once again I had to adapt. I was a kid, but I didn’t let anyone intimidate me. Not physically, and not mentally either. At that age I had to prove myself on the pitch and to find a place in the team hierarchy. I was always ready with a quick reply. Growing up in Amsterdam—a big city where you had to act tough on the streets—that came easy.

  First professional club: Haarlem


  In 1979, Dutch first-division club Haarlem snapped me up from DWS and I got my first professional contract. As the last outfield defender: center back. For the first time I came face-to-face with people who played for a living. A whole other world than the one I was used to, messing about with kids of the same age. This was far more intense. The manager, Barry Hughes, a Welshman who had played for West Bromwich Albion, had found out that Ajax were considering signing me. So he waited outside our door all night to get me to sign for him.

  Hughes took me under his wing. I was seventeen years old, and he put me in the heart of Haarlem’s defense; I was their John Terry. On the pitch I did whatever came naturally. It was pure intuition. Hughes loved it whenever I went on one of my runs. He was old-school English style: more motivation than tactics. Hughes got us all worked up and made sure the whole team was ready to devour the other side. Now whenever we get together he tells fantastic stories about the old days. “A long ball came in from the other side, Ruud chested it down in his own penalty area. He controlled the ball, a capital crime so close to your own goal of course, but Ruud could get away with it. And then he started to run and run and run until he reached the goal at the other end and smashed the ball into the top corner.” Hughes tells it as if I knew exactly what I was doing. That’s not how it felt though. Often I just did stuff and because it worked I kept doing it over and over. For the other players, it was fine as long as we kept winning: that meant a bigger bonus and bread on the table.

  In my second season at Haarlem, Hans van Doorneveld joined as manager. He moved me up front. Precisely the position I had never played before. With my pace and strength I soon made the center-forward role my own. I scored a lot of goals. I had no trouble adapting to new situations. I still can’t explain why.

  In those days I was often surrounded by older players on the pitch. Some were twice my age. They liked having a kid on their side, a cheeky youngster who wasn’t afraid to answer back. The older guys always helped me.