Brian Viner: Pulling pints holds little attraction for £40,000-a-week footballers

These days the media is to retired players what the pub trade was 30 years ago, except that it offers better pay

Sometimes the best perspective on football comes from afar.

My American friend George, for example, who has lived here for five years or so, certainly knows his Arsène from his Houllier. But his first love is baseball, he holds no candle for any particular team, and he is not culturally immersed in the game. Which is perhaps why he can sit back, as he did on the train to and from Goodison Park nine days ago (Virgin's Saturday service from London to Liverpool and back, at nigh on eight hours, affords lots of sitting-back time), and make observations that have never crossed my mind.

Is there not a danger, pondered George, as we chugged through Stafford (Virgin Trains is a slight misnomer; unlike other virgins they do go all the way at weekends, just very, very hesitantly), that top footballers are paid so much that there is less incentive for them to stay in the game as managers and coaches? It wasn't something I'd ever thought about, but he has a point. The best players of previous eras usually stayed within the game, passing on their expertise. Some were successful managers (Brian Clough, Don Revie, Bobby Robson) and some weren't (Bobby Charlton, Alan Ball, Ian St John), but lots of them had a go.

And economic imperative kept them in football as much as a passion for the game. I don't suppose Shankly earned much as manager of Huddersfield Town, nor indeed did he make a fortune at Liverpool, but it was the only way he knew of bringing home the bacon.

These days, if you'll pardon me for stretching the pig metaphor, Premiership players can live high off the hog for the rest of their lives. They don't need to earn any more money, and they certainly don't need the aggravation.

After all, in how many other professions is a man demonstrably good at his job, like Southampton manager Gordon Strachan, publicly abused, threatened and spat at, as he latterly was at Coventry? In what other walk of life could a man rescue a disastrously declining business, bring it stability, and still be forced to listen to a group of people baying for him to be sacked, as Peter Reid was on Saturday? One of the reasons Matt Busby went into management more than half a century ago was because he had a young family to provide for. These days, by contrast, the well-being of a successful ex-footballer's family is a sound reason for him not to go into management.

Of course footballers will go on becoming managers. It's an open secret that Alan Shearer is being groomed for the Newcastle United job, and in some respects players' vast earnings can assist them in a subsequent managerial career, which is why the hugely wealthy Gianluca Vialli is happy plying his trade at an unfashionable club like Watford. Nonetheless, the £40,000 weekly wage is, on the whole, a powerful disincentive to stay within football. And come to think of it, enormous wages will also force another venerable institution, the famous ex-footballer who runs a pub, into decline.

These days, the media is to retired players what the pub trade was 30 years ago. Except that it offers better pay and fewer hours. Although Andy Gray was greatly tempted by the prospect of taking over at Everton a few years back, it surprised nobody that he eventually decided to stay in Richard Keys' five o'clock shadow at Sky.

As hard as I try to avoid mentioning Everton in this column, Walter Smith is another manager who falls into the unfairly-maligned category. The team I watched wrestle a point out of Tottenham on Saturday, while lacking in flair and beauty, is surely a team too good for relegation. And for Everton managers these days, that amounts to success.

Moreover, Smith is in credit in his transfer dealings, which must be unique in the Premiership. I just watched Willie Wonka and the Chocolate Factory with my children. Smith is Charlie; impoverished, with just enough change to buy one Wonka's Whipple-Scrumptious Fudgemallow Delight which he hopes contains the golden ticket. Gérard Houllier and David O'Leary are the spoilt rich kids whose parents buy them Whipple-Scrumptious Delights by the thousand. But for Everton this season, the FA Cup might yet be our chocolate factory, that is if we can beat mighty Leyton Orient at home in Saturday's fourth round. On which subject, my thanks to Orient fan David Prowse, who e-mailed me to point out several intriguing connections between the two clubs.

For example, John Parrott is a devoted Evertonian, while Steve Davis is a director of Orient. In 1989, Orient were languishing in 17th place in the old fourth division. Then an Arsenal youth team player called Kevin Campbell arrived and his goals won them promotion. Best of all, both teams take the pitch to music with a motoring theme – Z-Cars at Goodison Park, Tijuana Taxi at Brisbane Road.

And there is one more which David overlooked. Both teams are passionately supported by theatrical giants, Bill Kenwright (Everton) and Andrew Lloyd-Webber (Orient). I hope one of them breaks a leg.

b.viner@independent.co.uk