Titus Chalks Premier-League-Kolumne (2)
Flaming Youth
Text: Titus Chalk Bild: Imago
Unser Kolumnist Titus Chalk wird bald 30, hört Schallplatten von Bruce Springsteen und fühlt sich auch sonst recht alt. Grund genug, mal über die Jugend in der englischen Premier League zu sinnieren.
When does a boy become a man? It is a question I have asked myself recently as my 30th birthday draws ever closer. Already the proud owner of power tools, a broken heart and numerous Bruce Springsteen albums; there are many clues that the boy I once was is giving way to the plumper, more wrinkly, more rueful adult me.
But it’s not just when you fall in love with Bruce Springsteen, that you realise you're growing up. There seems to be a pivotal life moment when the football you watch switches from being a game played by older idols, to one being played by cheeky rascals all younger than you. For me, it was the 2005 Champions League final. Watching Liverpool's Steven Gerrard hoist that big-eared trophy aloft at a year my junior plunged me into an existential crisis about what I had achieved in my years on this relentlessly spinning rock.
My crisis persists, as does the worrying trend of footballers looking younger to my eyes, but this season I am not alone in feeling a rare excitement about the Premier League's precocious little mites. For several reasons, there is a sense of curiosity, enthusiasm and well, desperation, surrounding the teenage tykes eagerly fighting for five minutes on the pitch.
25 senior players, eight of them »home-grown«
The first reason is England's dismal World Cup. The squad that got so convincingly blasted by Germany's counter-attacking Tor-minators was the oldest in South Africa and delivered a suitably geriatric performance. Nothing like the bright young things of the Nationalmannschaft (have you decided on a nickname yet or what?), who prospered with technical ease and explosive energy. As soon as Fabio Cappello returned home, he was bombarded with calls for a team like Germany’s. Considering he could have been bombarded with rotten fruit, he got off fairly lightly.
Concurrently, new Premier League rules have come into force about squad composition. Each club’s squad must now include a maximum of 25 senior players, eight of them »home-grown« – plus any number of players aged 21 or under.
The kids have never had a better chance to shine
Home-grown is a woolly term, meaning a player of any nationality who was registered with an English (or Welsh) club for at least three years before turning 21 – but still, it has meant a chance for talented youngsters to make the match day ranks. Yes, as Arsene Wenger argues, it might diminish the Premier League's quality; yes, as Roy Hodgson says, it inflates the already crazy prices of English players – but fans don't care. What they want is to believe that in four years, if not two, some wonderfully talented young whippersnappers are going to retire England's overpaid and under-performing »Golden Generation« and give everyone a right spanking at a major tournament. With frugality also in fashion (barring at nouveaux riche Manchester City), the kids have never had a better chance to shine.
This weekend they certainly did – particularly at the top division’s most played fixture: Aston Villa v Everton, a tie contested 190 times before Sunday’s kick-off. In the starting line-up for Villa was Marc Albrighton, 20 and for Everton Jack Rodwell, 19. Both put in assured performances in what turned out to be a nail-biting 1-0 win for Villa.
