The most personal conversation I ever had with a chairman was when he recommended a restaurant
There was a time when the media were guaranteed a soundbite from a football club owner even when a club was on a downward spiral. Those days, however, are long gone. We have no idea what Roman Abramovich thinks of Fernando Torres, are completely in the dark when it comes to Malcolm Glazer's long-term plans for Manchester United and, much to the Arsenal supporters' frustration, know nothing about what Stan Kroenke makes of Arsenal's worst start to a season in more than half a century.
The reality, of course, is that club ownership is a very different affair from what it was 20 years ago. Since the Premier League began, the local millionaire businessman has been relieved of the responsibility of keeping his hobby afloat by some of the richest individuals and private equity firms on the planet and, in most cases, not because of a shared passion for the club.
The new money pouring in has transformed the football landscape in this country; there are new stadiums, state-of-the-art training grounds and a fair share of the world's finest players because of the huge wages on offer (the rest of us have done all right out of it as well).
Yet the relentless swagger of progress has left behind plenty of casualties; higher ticket prices, a depleted national team and insolvent clubs to name but three. Delve deeper and somewhere beneath the ashes of a sheepskin coat and an old Rolls Royce are the remains of a forgotten chairman with local ties who knew the importance of communicating with supporters and was willing to speak his mind.
In recent years, the protests at Old Trafford and Liverpool have highlighted the importance of club ownership among supporters. At Stamford Bridge, Abramovich's takeover of Chelsea is often derided as nothing more than a rich man's "plaything", yet it is undeniable that the Russian's billions have delivered huge success. The only question is, what happens if he gets bored with it?
A chairman whose club I played for years ago loved showing off "his" club to friends. We'd be in the changing room before a big game and there'd be famous people wandering around, drink in hand, talking to you about whatever they wanted. It annoyed many of the lads that were trying to go through their pre-match routine and so a team-mate suggested to me that we should always try to greet any friend of the chairman completely naked, as if they'd caught us in the middle of getting changed. And that's exactly what we did.
Together we have shaken hands with some of the most famous people wearing nothing more than a smile. My friend, being more confident than me, would take their hand and keep shaking it, tightening his grip and talking to them until the embarrassment became excruciating and the victims' host would have to come to the rescue. For some reason though, he kept bringing them in. If in doubt, show them your "plaything", I guess.
We knew we could get away with our behaviour by dressing it up as an occupational hazard. It was harmless fun and, generally, nobody would dream of directly insulting the chairman, no matter how much they wanted to. What is true for a player at any club is that if the chairman or owner takes the time to chat, you must listen as if what he is about to say is the most important thing anybody will ever say to you. And when he is finished acknowledge him with: "Thank you, Mr Chairman."
If, like me, you find the wealth of these people fascinating, you'll be disappointed to hear that on the many occasions that I, and others, have tried to enter into a conversation with them about money or materialistic pleasures or even social debate, it is like the bulletproof glass coming down at the bank as the place is held up by armed robbers. Their answers become distant, sheepish and curt.
I have never asked anything as crude as: "How much money do you have?" And I never would. But I have always found it a pity that for everything these men have done in their lives, the most personal conversation I have had with any one of them was about a great restaurant our chairman was recommending to me. He finished the conversation abruptly when I asked what he had ordered; I had only inquired to show I wasn't a complete idiot when it came to knowing the difference between foie gras and a filet mignon.
Today, fans tend to get even less from the man at the top. The Premier League has evolved and noticeable divisions within it are clearer than ever.
In line with these changes are the revised ambitions of thousands of supporters who share an acceptance that not every club is able to compete in terms of wages, transfer fees and trophies. The least those fans are entitled to expect of their owner, though, is that they will respect the club and its traditions and run it responsibly so there will always be a team to support. Players, on the other hand, wouldn't care if the only time they came into contact with the owner was while signing a new deal.
Just prior to my first "big" game as a professional, our chairman marched in to the changing room prior to kick?off to bark out his battle cry. This being something of a first, our manager took exception and, lifting the chairman up by the scruff of the neck, pausing only to ask our goalkeeper if he'd kindly open the door, threw him out into the corridor. He turned back to us with a straight face and said: "Fucking tight arse."
I'm not sure if that's an affectionate term only used between managers and chairmen but there is nothing to make you try harder than when someone subliminally lets you know that your replacement is being sought. If Kroenke chose to break his silence, he would probably tell you that too.
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Source: http://www.guardian.co.uk/football/blog/2011/sep/23/the-secret-footballer-chairman
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