You know how I love a
surreal XI stalwart
Surreal Football Approved XI: Paolo Montero
‘Paolo Rónald Montero Iglesias’ would be the introduction used by most when writing a tribute, because they think it does a number of things. In their head, it implies that they had done research, and that they had a deeper understanding of the game compared to you. Really, it does none of those things. What it does mean is that they missed the point of Paolo Montero, and that they were going to offer the usual, par for the course tat.
This site clearly enjoys violence, but violence isn’t the reason to enjoy Paolo Montero. His brutal tackles are to be admired in retrospect, but it’s his sheer masculinity, not his fouls, that matter.
The finest of Alex Ferguson’s teams was not the 2008 Champions League winners, nor the second coming of the Busby Babes. The most satisfying team was his first great side. The side of bastards. If football is decided in part by skill and tactics, then what separates teams at the line is character.
Teams are so good that leagues (though not cups) are decided by spirit and talent in equal ratio. And football is such a miserable exercise because although footballers become ever more skillful and athletic, they seem even more committed to being the most objectionable humans ever assembled. The Surreal Football XI is founded on the team’s mutual respect of masculinity - a homoerotic kick against the pricks. This is the reason to celebrate Montero.
He calmly demonstrates the reasons why modern football is so disastrously poor. Just as England and particularly London utterly lost its moral compass and headed with determination up its own fundament, so football has followed. Paolo Montero is of the final generation before masculinity disintegrated. This is no appeal to bring back the leg breakers and gonzo arseholes who finished careers. It is simply an appeal to bring men who aren’t so soft they get bullied by Jamie Carragher.
Clearly, I don’t know how to be a real man, but Paolo Montero offers guidance.
One: be Uruguayan. Is John Terry Uruguayan? Exactly. If you wonder if there’s anything better than a classic Italian defender, the answer is yes, one thing, a Uruguayan defender.
Two: be a left back. We have made it clear that the left-back is the home of the unorthodox scoundrel, the cornerstone of any great team. Pundits and fans insist that the spine of the team is where the game is won, but try to think of a team worth a damn with a tedious left back.
Three: also be a centre back in one of the finest defences of all time, and hold your own. Fabio Cannavaro – the most beautiful defender of a generation, Ciro Ferrara – the most elegant, and Lilian Thuram – the one who mocks Sarkozy the most. He partnered them all, and didn’t let any of them down. Imagine John Terry playing with any of these. He couldn’t.
Four: play in the coolest league of the 90s. When James Richardson used to be OK, he offered a window to the first truly sexual experience of teenagers of the 1990s. Thrillingly new, and often a let down, this wasn’t losing your virginity, it was Italian football. Paolo Montero was a reassuring presence for the whole jaunt.
Five: be Zinedine Zidane’s best friend at Juventus. Our XI is a team of bastards, but we don’t want them chinning each other.
