I was in the press box at Spurs, always something of a treat, as they do a good steak pie at half-time, and you get a free programme, a free seat, lots of fascinating pre-match stats, a copy of the team sheet and access to the press conference of each manager afterwards. Could any fan ask for more?
On the other hand, its position is poor for watching the actual game. Up in the West Stand, above the directors' box, where I have sat for years, it's much better, giving you a plain view of everything. The press box is so low down, so near the pitch, that you can't see what's happening across the other side. You lose perspective, and so miss half the game.
But being so near the action does mean you are within touching distance of the bench. You can examine close up the haircut of every sub, measure the bald spot of every coach, look into the ears of the physio, watch the manager work himself into an apoplectic rage.
I don't actually know why managers sit on the bench, when they can see so little. No wonder so many modern ones, such as Sam Allardyce, sit up in the stand, for the first half anyway, communicating by phone to the bench.
They like the immediacy, of course, the feeling of physical connection, the first-hand involvement with the players, which you do feel, at least with players on this side of the park. Those on the other side might as well be in Mongolia.
I always enjoy watching the managers screaming and shouting instructions and mostly, I suspect, failing to communicate. Players do nod back, even when they can't possibly have heard, clearly thinking, "Fucking hell, roll on the second half when
I'll be on the other side of the pitch and away from that bastard."
A lot of managers use whistling and hand signals, which presumably the players have learned to understand over the years. Perhaps they even practise them in training, after they've run through their goal celebrations and their diving in the
penalty area. Alex Ferguson has a peculiar hands-raised-together
movement, as if he's praying, which presumably means
"stay tight". Pointing to your bonce is to tell them to concentrate.
Rafael Benitez of Liverpool does a sort of hand jive that's very complicated, but he almost does it to himself, as if he knows the players won't pay any bleedin' attention.
Anyway, watching the game at Spurs the other week, I wondered how things could be improved, because, at the moment, 80 per cent of what managers and coaches shout is being totally ignored.
Written messages have been passed on to the pitch, as José Mourinho has recently done, but they're a bit slow. It also depends on a player being able to read, and in the right language.
Semaphore or some other visual symbols might be worth trying. I learned to signal in the Boy Scouts when I was 12, so surely modern players could manage it. If that's too complicated, a series of pictures could be held up, taken from the Janet and John books. Or the coaching staff could put on funny masks. Each image would indicate a new tactic. Anything to help save the manager's vocal cords.
Electronic boards might be better, like the ones the fourth official uses, and usually not very well, to tell us how many minutes of added time are to be played. Instructions would be signalled in code, so that the other team wouldn't understand. Or the big screen, which every big ground now has, could be used, as each club controls its own. Secret messages could be flashed to the home team only.
Ideally, each player would wear an earpiece, which the referees in rugby now have, so that every player could be controlled individually, like a robot. That would be every manager's dream.
Even better, some sort of remote-controlled ECT equipment which would administer a nasty electroconvulsive shock to any player making a bad pass, missing a goal or, even worse, ignoring his stupid manager screaming from the touchline. That would larn them . . .
