let's (not) talk tactics
from The Absolute Game issue 23 (1991)
Tactics
come and tactics go. These days, they mostly go. Painful as it may
be to admit, for some time now the world game has sadly lacked the kind
of innovative thinking which is its legacy, as anyone who managed to stay
awake through the whole of Italia 90 will attest. Not a single interesting
tactical development came out of the last World Cup, unless you include
the wanderlust of one R Higuita, which frankly seems more of a mental
illness than anything to do with tactics.
Perhaps the most innovative development of the entire tournament
was the ‘strategy’ to ignore the normal method of deciding winners and
losers and instead pin one's hopes on emerging victorious in a penalty
shoot-out. This approach was mastered by the Argentinian manager Carlos
Bilardo and, combined with use of the tried and trusted Diego favourite,
the ‘unintentional’ hand-ball, propelled his heinous lot into the Final,
where of course they were just a dodgy penalty away from another World
Championship.
Over a century ago, though, football revelled in radical shifts
in thinking and bold new tactical approaches which fundamentally changed
the way the game was played. These included kicking, dribbling, and heading.
Maradona's penchant for surreptitious handling aside, we don't see too
many revolutionary methods of propelling the ball these days, although
I await with keen anticipation the day when clothing manufacturers wise
up to the possibilities of heavily elasticised football socks. Any goalkeeper
wracked with remorse over letting in a soft goal could stuff the ball
down one stocking, run the length of the pitch, and walk the ball into
the net, thus atoning for his earlier mistake with the most breathtaking
of goals. Of course, certain referees (you probably know which ones they'd
be) would interpret such a bold approach as infringing on the principles
of gentlemanly conduct, and in its first season or two they'd be inclined
to disallow such spectacular efforts. The FA would need to make use of
any spare ice floes in the Arctic Ocean to take care of these fuddy-duddies.
No doubt a great many of you remember the innovative Queen's Park
side of the 1870s which became famous for inventing the subtle technique
of passing. As word spread of the benefits to be gained by players not
holding onto the ball for all eternity, jealous rivals began to copy the
Queen's Park approach to teamwork. Eventually the method came to be known
as the ‘Scottish style’, implying that other less enlightened nations
spent the entire 90 minutes attempting to dribble round teammates and
opponents alike to score a mandatory unassisted goal. Where have such
quantum leaps in thinking gone?
Back in these halcyon days, even formations seemed far more interesting
than those of today. The earliest matches must have resembled quite closely
the children's games I used to referee, in which a dense cluster of 20
screaming youths would chase the ball up and down the pitch, with the
poor goalkeepers left to rue their luck at not being able to join in.
Of course in such contests what is needed is not so much a tactical revolution
as the prevalence of common sense, and it was from these beginnings that
many millions of folk, armed with a bit to spare in the grey matter department,
contrived to make football the defensive, negative game it is today. Oh
for the days when each team put ten men in attack, leaving the luckless
goalie to organise his defence by shouting at himself!
Even more recently, some fairly shrewd minds have brought us innovative
tactical approaches from the most unlikely nations. Switzerland's footballing
success of the 50s, such as it was, rested with the revolutionary verrou (bolt) system, with a fullback playing behind the rest of the defence.
What an ingenious development this must have been — so ingenious, in fact,
it gave birth to a modem-day sweeper. That, though, was almost 40 years
ago. Why haven't the Swiss developed something else in the meantime? A
rivet system, perhaps, or a staple formation? Nowadays we get nothing
in footballing terms out of Switzerland except a bloody stupid-looking
kit. Even their chocolate's not as good as it used to be.
Italy then took the harmless verrou and perversely twisted
it into their dreaded catenaccio. A revolutionary tactical adaptation,
yes, but not one worth your applause unless your idea of football consists
of watching two teams make pretty passes for 89 1/2 minutes and trying
to score a goal in the remaining 30 seconds. The football-mad denizens
of this peninsular nation sure have lot to answer for. Their league is
rife with international talent, their matches subjected to the most rigorous
of scrutiny. Yet just what have they been scheming to develop tactically?
Ways of improving on a 0-0 defensive performance? Oh come on now. Would
Bon Accord have even thought of playing catenaccio against Arbroath?
Of course, since much of football in general is steeped in legend,
legendary tactical methods can be shrouded in myth. The fabulous Dutch
side of the seventies, for instance, are widely credited with having developed
a system of ‘total football’, in which each player could be called upon
to play in any position over the course of the match. A cursory examination,
however, reveals this to be not strictly true, unless I missed the occasions
when Johan Cruyff threw on the goalkeeper's jersey and stood between the
sticks for a bit as Jan Jongbloed roamed the midfield. Sadly, total football,
to whatever degree it was actually played, never caught on as it deserved
to. After reaching the World Cup Finals in 1974 and 1978 Holland changed
their World Cup system from total football to total failure, one which
they still clung to as late as last year.
Another tactical approach which some might consider to be a myth
is that Scotland's World Cup sides actually employed a goalkeeper, but
upon that topic I shall refrain from being drawn into debate.
Whilst musing over formations and techniques, let us not forget
those persons responsible for for the great tactical innovations, of their
day. I'm talking about folk like Herbie ‘Policeman’ Roberts of Arsenal,
who redefined the centre half's position in the 1920s. Arsenal, of course,
redefined it again to a degree in the 1980s, requiring their centre half
to stand still and shoot an arm up in the air at random intervals in the
match, a practice which they employ to this day. And what about Hungary's
legendary Hidegkuti, whose deep-lying centre-forward play so unhinged
England in that memorable 1953 confrontation? These days, the question
of where a centre forward should lie usually relates to how best to win
a free kick via a swan dive onto the turf. Perhaps Jürgen Klinsmann
is a deep-lying centre forward, I don't know.
This, rumour has it, is the modem age of football. The pressure
to win, or at least not to lose, has never been greater. Coaches and tacticians
have had the benefit of well over 120 years' play to reflect on. Yet new
tactics and techniques, sadly, are the most precious of commodities. Why
must they be? Plenty of avenues remain unexplored, even if they are not
as revolutionary as, say, a cross. Why not quick kick-offs, taken suddenly
to try to catch the opposition napping? Overlapping strikers? Set pieces
from penalty kicks? Free kicks taken with the head? Four sweepers? The
goalkeeper as a deep-lying centre forward? Sure, go ahead and laugh. But
they laughed when they put a crossbar between the posts instead of a rope
— and who's laughing about that now?
©1991 The Absolute Game. Used by permission.
Last update: March 2008.
This site ©David Wangerin 2008.