There is, of course, much to admire about the football media in this country.
There's the creative chutzpah of the transfer rumour business, a heady cavalcade of rare truth, occasional half-truth, and frequent, badly-concealed nonsense. There's the cojones it takes to attach the word EXCLUSIVE to stories so worn that Jeffrey Archer would blush. There's the inspirational patriotism that fuels England's triumphalist march to international tournaments, and the inspirational patriotism that fuels the righteous crusade against whichever hapless foreigner was at fault in the quarter-final.
Then, of course, there's the televisual analysis. Whether it's the no-nonsense narrative style of Alan Shearer - "See the ball. See the man kick the ball. See the ball go in the goal" - the light-hearted quippery of Mark "Lawro" Lawrenson, or the obscene trouser topography of Jamie Redknapp, England's pundits are second-to-none in their professionalism, their insight, and their devotion to their jobs. The latest addition to this proud lineage is Gary Neville, who finally earned his spurs this weekend after turning his educated and analytical eye toward David de Gea, Manchester United, and Tottenham Hotspur's late equaliser.
There can be no doubt that David de Gea, in general terms, is a failure. Since joining United, he has overtly and blatantly failed to be either Peter Schmeichel or Edwin van der Sar. He has failed to demonstrate the nous of a 35-year-old veteran, completely lacked the physical presence of a significantly larger man, and shown no trace of having been raised in a footballing culture that holds crosses in almost as high regard as the mistrust of foreigners. All this has been exacerbated by his habit of rotating and injuring the defenders in front of him, and his refusal to instantly turn into a significantly better player. It's no wonder that this season has been marked by risible errors, including the hilarious fumble against Sunderland, when he ushered Adam Johnson's speculative and feeble shot into the net at the near post. (That was him, wasn't it?)
Entertainingly for us all, this litany of failure has come while playing for Manchester United, which means he's on the television a lot. This, in turn, makes him a prime target for one of the proudest and most glorious traditions of English football analysis: the ancient and noble art of looking at people's faces and talking about what they look like.
The great strength of such phizognology is its flexibility. Where fussier schools of thought might require conclusions based on firm ground, or some kind of logical derivation, coupon-scrivening revels in its idiosyncrasy. The grand diversity of human expression and action means that it is impossible to be wrong. Whatever you see, you can work with. "If we pause it here, just after the goal's gone in, you can see Nemanja Vidic...
"... smiling, as he mocks the very idea of David de Gea being good enough for Manchester United."
"... crying, as he laments the once-proud institution that was Manchester United's goalkeeping shirt, currently draped around the slumped shoulders of Ferguson's folly."
"... making no movement at all, as he professionally keeps the contemptuous sneer from his features."
"... dropping to all-fours, mooing like a cow, and trying to eat the green grass of the pitch, which just goes to show the effect David de Gea's shaky presence is having on his team-mates' mental well-being. Oh look, Rio Ferdinand's trying to milk him. Silly Rio."
You have to admire the craft. As a story, 'Footballer looks angry after conceding late equaliser' ranks somewhere between Papal defecation locations and the religious leanings of Winnie-the-Pooh. But that didn't stop Neville! It was refreshing to see the former Manchester United man abandon the 'rigour' and 'insight' for which he's been developing a rather unsavoury reputation. He's learning. He's blossoming. He's starting to fully embrace how things are done.
Rational and even-handed analysis of Manchester United's retreating backline and the culpability of not only De Gea but Vidic and Antonio Valencia might have been nice. It would also have been dull. But a breakdown in trust? An expensive flop? A dressing-room divided? And all brought to you by the faultless, perfect, truth-enhancing power of television? Marvellous. Just zoom in on his face there...
