Arsenal vs Chelsea: Praise to Arsene Wenger for having the courage of his convictions

The Last Word: Arsenal’s attempt to defeat Chelsea for the first time in 13 matches under Wenger has rare authenticity

Michael Calvin
Saturday 25 April 2015 23:56 BST
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Wenger and Mourinho’s rivalry has been soured by a clash of styles and personality
Wenger and Mourinho’s rivalry has been soured by a clash of styles and personality

Poses were struck, prejudices were confirmed. Arsène Wenger wore a Mona Lisa smile and was politely provocative. Jose Mourinho charmed with cheap comedy and was artfully disrespectful. It felt formulaic, over-familiar, over-played.

Thankfully, on Sunday the preliminaries will be put into perspective. Arsenal’s attempt to defeat Chelsea for the first time in 13 matches under Wenger has rare authenticity as a contest between clubs and teams at either end of the philosophical spectrum.

The focus is personal. Football managers are lionised and criticised with greater intensity than ever, since their personalities and pronouncements fill the vacuum left by the cautious, commercially expedient blandness of the modern player.

The temptation is to portray Wenger in quasi-religious terms, a prophet burdened by the weight of principle trudging towards his personal Calvary. Depiction of him as a tortured soul, a slave to beauty who gladly suffers for his art is a variation on a theme.

I view him in a softer, more positive light, as the type of teacher who moulds lives and shapes personalities by his passion for his subject, the breadth of his knowledge and the strength of his communication skills.

His fictional equivalent would be John Keating, the inspirational English teacher played by Robin Williams in the film Dead Poets Society. He rationalises doubt, resists the pressure of convention and promotes the power of dreams.

Arsene Wenger and Jose Mourinho clash after Gary Cahill's tackle on Alexis Sanchez

Many Arsenal fans would roll their eyes at such presumption, since they understandably resent the neutral’s inexpensive privilege of unconditional faith. Wenger has created an existential crisis through his belief in winning being a consequence of excellence rather than its solitary justification.

He is infuriatingly stubborn, the last of the benevolent dictators. His misfortune was to concentrate on building a stadium in his image as Roman Abramovich was emerging from the social, political and economic chaos of post-Yeltsin Russia to change the Premier League’s value systems.

Chelsea evoke envy and generate offence. Mourinho comes across as sour, saturnine. A personal suspicion is that he is too busy playing a role to be true to himself. He is privately courteous, empathetic; after all, he once taught children with severe learning difficulties. How can we reconcile the professional bully with the socially concerned parent whose charitable work involves supporting food programmes in Africa and his homeland, Portugal?

There is counter-intuitive brilliance to his coaching, the rejection of the orthodox belief, enshrined in Wenger’s philosophy, of the ball being an inseparable friend. He views it as an ally of convenience, to be manipulated rather than cherished. Space is the luxury item, to be compressed and exploited with speed and surgical precision. The fascination in their rivalry lies in the truth of boxing lore that styles make fights. Mourinho is the cagey counter puncher, Wenger an on-the-toes classicist.

The Arsenal manager acknowledges miracles and wonders in an age of lucrative mediocrity and institutionalised cynicism. Idealists like him are no longer accepted at face value. Their motivation is questioned, their ambition scorned. Is it really so wrong to promote, pursue and protect a principle? His legacy cannot be compromised. Mourinho, by contrast, leaves little trace; the two clubs with which he won the Champions League, Porto and Inter Milan, have no quantifiable impression of his presence.

Ultimately, it comes down to personal taste, a choice between a missionary and a mercenary. Since football has a show-us-your-medals culture, Chelsea’s third title under Mourinho will carry far greater weight than Arsenal retaining the FA Cup under Wenger.

One demands and deserves respect, the other invites admiration. I’d happily emulate Keating’s prep school pupils, stand on a desk at the Emirates, and proclaim Wenger as “captain, my captain”. Carpe Diem, boys. Seize the day.

Bradford’s silent courage

Football fell still on Saturday to mark the 30th anniversary of the Bradford fire. The silence was eloquent, infused with the spirit of the Cenotaph. It was moving, heartfelt and symbolic, since it represented overdue solidarity with a city torn asunder by the death of 56 supporters on a fateful afternoon at Valley Parade. Bradford has a different dimension to Hillsborough, but the emotions are no less raw. Sadness has even been infected by anger. This was the first time the fire had been commemorated nationally, and healing will hopefully be part of the process of renewal.

A minute's silence is held at Valley Parade to remember the Bradford fire 30 years ago

Martin Fletcher has antagonised many Bradford fans by the conclusions he draws from a powerful recreation and forensic examination of the disaster which claimed three generations of his family. His book, 56, bears witness to a tragedy which has led to safer stadia. In raising concerns the fire may not have been an accident, he has, at the very least, reinstalled events in the national consciousness.

It took a generation for Hillsborough’s relatives, who fought for justice, to be truly recognised. Fletcher deserves to be mentioned alongside such campaigners as the late Anne Williams. Ordinary people, with extraordinary moral courage, are capable of unforgettable achievement. As trite as it seems to state the obvious, football is in their debt.

AP and the hidden heroes

AP McCoy ended his career on Saturday with the hymns and Hosannas of a capacity crowd ringing in his ears. Davy Condon ended his career two days earlier with the dire warnings of a neurologist ringing in his ears.

Condon suffered spinal concussion for the second time in a year when falling from Portrait King in this month’s Grand National. He has disc problems in his neck and, at 30, has been told he must never ride again, professionally or recreationally.

Tony McCoy on Box Office during his final ride before retirement

There, in the chasm between private despair and public adoration, lies the bitter truth of life as a national hunt jockey. The affinity between champion and journeyman, painfully acquired, is central to a sport which produces hidden heroes.

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