Atlético Madrid had pulled out all the stops to celebrate its new signing: strobing lasers and sparkling fireworks and, for reasons that were not entirely clear, a couple of thrumming motorcycles. Standing in the middle of it all, waving happily at the crowd, Conor Gallagher seemed just a little dazed.
He had, after all, spent most of the last two years being treated essentially as a balance-sheet asset by Chelsea, the club where he had spent most of his career. He had fought for, and won, a place on the team. He had, at times, served as its captain. He had played for England. And still, Chelsea just kept trying to sell him.
And now, before he had even kicked a ball for the team he had eventually joined, a thousand miles from home in Spain, he was being feted as a star. He wore a broad, faintly startled grin and an Atlético jersey with his name on the back. There was just one element he did not understand: Why did the club keep referring to him as El Pit Bull?
Several players have been granted that nickname by the club over the years. Gary Medel, the combative Chilean midfielder who once claimed that the police had used a Taser on him after a particularly fractious game, for example. Or Edgar Davids, the Dutchman given the moniker because of his tenacious man-marking: Once he had locked in, the logic went, he just would not let go.
Gallagher is, it is fair to say, cast in a very different mold. He is not — as Medel and Davids were, in very different ways and, although you would not say it to Medel’s face, at very different levels — a player defined by his ferocity. The 24-year-old Gallagher’s primary traits are his energy, his industry, his indefatigability. He is not a pit bull. He is a springer spaniel, or perhaps a Labrador.
Atlético, though, had its nickname, and it was not going to give it up easily. Gallagher’s signing was trailed with a graphic of a pit bull, complete with leather jacket and spiked collar, in the style of a 4Chan meme. It was mentioned in the midst of his operatic unveiling. The fans have picked it up and run with it. “It has kind of stuck,” Gallagher has said. “I don’t mind. I see it as a compliment.”
It is meant as one. From the perspective of the Premier League, the spectacle of his presentation to Atlético’s fans last month seemed just a little overblown. By common consensus in England, Gallagher is a perfectly serviceable midfielder: hard-running and endlessly willing, but hardly a superstar.
He first came to prominence during a loan spell at Crystal Palace a couple of years ago; most observers would, at least tacitly, suggest that was a reasonably natural fit.
That he was deemed worthy of such pomp and ceremony in Spain, and that he has immediately become a central figure at one of the country’s most celebrated teams — two goals already, and most likely a pivotal role in this weekend’s Madrid derby — neatly encapsulates the current reality of European soccer’s landscape.
Such is the hold the Premier League has on the popular consciousness that, even in one of Europe’s other major leagues, enticing a player away from it is seen as a coup. Atlético’s fans were not skeptical about signing a player who had been deemed surplus to requirements by Chelsea, a team not even in the Champions League. They were, instead, enthralled by the arrival of an emissary from what is perceived as the finest domestic tournament on the planet.
The choice of nickname, for all its dubious accuracy, was telling, too. There are many ways to understand the rise of the Premier League over the last 30 years. It is a story of finance, media, developing technology, the power of marketing, the importance of language and, to some extent, kind of about soccer, too.
As much as anything, though, it is a story of trade. In the 1990s, English soccer found that its great leap into the future, bankrolled by broadcast money, was being hamstrung by a problem of history: It could not conceivably live up to its claim of being the best league in the world if, technically, its players were so obviously inferior to their foreign counterparts.
And so, with the impatience that is typical of insurgent businesses, it set about rectifying that shortfall, partly by spending time and money on improving how it produced soccer players, but mainly by buying better ones from abroad.
The Premier League was flooded with imports. First came veteran players, a little past their sell-by dates. Then the hopefuls, and then genuine stars. After a while, coaches and scouts and development staff members all started to follow. Now, the technical level of a Premier League game is essentially indistinguishable from a game in La Liga or Serie A. Often, it is notably higher.
But while it is largely true that the Premier League is no longer an English competition in any tangible way — it is a global contest that just so happens to be staged on a wet island not too far from the top left bit of Europe — it retains distinctly English elements. The pace at which it is played, most obviously. A slightly higher bar for what might constitute a foul. And a particular appreciation for the benefits of the physical side of the sport.
Those attributes, of course, are precisely what drew Atlético to Gallagher. In the course of his early games for his new team, it is the intensity of his play, his dynamism, that his coach, Diego Simeone, has singled out for praise. Gallagher has been brought to Spain to add a dash not of Premier League artistry, but of industry.
He is not alone in that. That the clubs of Germany’s Bundesliga have long seen England, in particular, as a source of undervalued young talent is well-known, and the most garlanded graduate of that particular pathway, Jude Bellingham, will face Gallagher while wearing the white of Real Madrid on Sunday.
But rather less publicized has been Italy’s gradual drift toward Scotland. Bologna, Empoli and Torino all have Scottish players on their books. Napoli added two of its own this summer, in Billy Gilmour and Scott McTominay — the latter just as much an embodiment of Premier League virtues as Gallagher.
Like Atlético, Napoli — helped by its coach, Antonio Conte, a Premier League veteran himself — has effectively recognized the modern reality of European soccer. England remains a net importer of talent. But there is no better gauge of its supremacy than the fact that it has started to export its products, too.
Those teams who wish to compete with its clubs have started to recognize that the world has turned almost full circle. The Premier League became the brand it is by becoming more international, by adding finesse and elegance to its blood and thunder. Those are the qualities that its rivals crave now. To be successful, now, is to be just a little more British.
Cassandra
As a piece of scripting, it was just a little on the nose. A few days after suggesting — admirably — that the world’s elite players might have to go on strike to get the game’s authorities to take seriously complaints about their ever-expanding workload, Rodri, the finest midfielder on the planet, sustained a serious injury to his right knee.
Quite how serious is not wholly clear. Pep Guardiola, his coach, has said only that he will be out “for a while.” His club, Manchester City, issued a statement on Wednesday clarifying that, while Rodri had a ligament injury, further tests would be needed to establish a more precise prognosis. Medicine often takes longer than journalism would like.
That he will be absent for some time, though, seems obvious. That is a blow for City, of course, albeit one not quite as devastating as has been assumed. Should Rodri miss the semifinals of the Champions League, say, then yes, it might have a material impact on the outcome of the game, the tournament and the season. In the quotidian reality of the Premier League, the difference is likely to be negligible. City will still beat Bournemouth at home with Mateo Kovacic in midfield.
Far more significant are the consequences for Rodri. It feels a bit melodramatic to suggest he might have had some sort of premonition about an imminent serious injury, but having spoken to plenty of players, male and female, who have endured long-term layoffs, they sincerely believe there is a link to fatigue. Being tired makes you more vulnerable. That is the point Rodri was making. It is one that will carry more weight with every game he misses.
Two Heads Are Not Better Than One
There is salvation on the horizon, at last, for Everton. After more than two years of genuine doubt about its viability as an ongoing concern, the club has a glimmer of hope.
Pending the approval of various regulatory bodies, Everton will soon be free from the inept ownership of Farhad Moshiri — and lingering uncertainty about a mysterious American suitor — and brought under the umbrella of the Friedkin Group, a name that will be familiar to a) fans of A.S. Roma and b) anyone who has bought a Toyota in Texas in the last few decades.
The Friedkins, Dan and Ryan, would not typically be the sort of owners who would bring fans onto the streets wearing Stetsons, pinning bluebonnets to their lapels and lobbing hunks of chicken-fried steak* into the air. They are not sugar daddies, not in the Newcastle or Manchester City sense. Their record at Roma is respectable, but not spectacular.
For Everton’s fans, though, they are a blessed, welcome relief, a guarantee that their club will remain. The doubt, now, has transferred to Roma. The Friedkins were quick to release a statement insisting that the “potential acquisition of Everton in no way changes our commitment to Roma.” The Italian club “remains at the heart of our football ambitions.”
That may be true, but the perception will be quite different. Every dollar spent on Everton will be seen as a dollar not spent on Roma. Every success enjoyed by Everton will be a success denied to Roma. (And, of course, vice versa.) That may not be true, of course. But it will be what the fans feel to be true, and that is probably more important.
The post The Sudden Appeal of the Bulldog Spirit appeared first on New York Times.
