By Michael Park
Given the relative lack of interest in this story outside the British media, I feel that it might be pertinent to start by setting the scene here.
It was a dark and stormy night when the miserly old man, his cold eyes matte against the light of the candle, picked up the telephone. The clunk of the circular dialler as his wizened finger forced the old ring around cut through the silence of his chambers. The deep hollow of the ringer hurt his ear.
Eventually, the sound of children’s laughter and the warm glow of a life well lived fell through the receiver. An effete voice articulated itself over the commotion. “Hello?”
“Hello, David. It’s Psycho.” The hunched figure spoke, its rasping voice hammered by decades of bellowing. There was a silence towards the end of which the voice began to laugh uncontrollably. The laugh grew into a cacophony of overlapping notes punctuated by the occasional cough and splutter. “You didn’t make the squad.”
The line went dead.
At least, that’s the way the media are reporting Stuart Pearce’s decision to leave Saint David of Beckham sitting in the stands during the Men’s Olympic Football event.
Words that I wrote about one of football’s great self-publicists.