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The Life and Times of 'Entertaining' Mario Balotelli


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Think it was Sewelly (?) who propounded that Balotelli ought to be higher up the pecking order than Dzeko last season while Dzeko was really out of form. We discussed it in circles and ended on "let's wait and see". I think Man City have kept the better, more reliable player personally. Think he's actually outscored Aguero and Tevez this season with far less game time (not that, that is the sole measure of a forward - cf Defoe).

 

Who knows what Balotelli will go on to accomplish, if anything, though. He's got talent, but not nearly enough to justify his idiocy - which is considerable.

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Farewell Mario: The Firework In Blue

Posted on January 31, 2013 by Stephen Tudor

 

The analogy may be to a sixth-form standard but it’s hard not to compare Mario Balotelli’s all-too-brief stopover to our shores as a firework; a fizzing, eruptive, exuberant Roman candle not flared through a bathroom window but ignited across our dull English skies.

 

To a fusty old nation that supposedly celebrates eccentricity he was a figure utterly beyond our comprehension; a beautiful black teen who would have dripped with the arrogance of a deity if he could be so bothered as to actually break sweat.

 

Instead he brooded, sauntered and swaggered on our pitches, boned a succession of blondes, and idled his latest supercar through Moss Side with a walletful of cash, his stone-cold belief that he was blessed with a supernatural talent entombed in a mind that perplexed the mainstream and greatly amused the rest.

 

To challenge conformity and stretch the starchy fabric of Blighty it is usually necessary to take to the streets with sticks and rocks. Balotelli merely lifted up his shirt, stood still, glared, and asked a simple question, and as he did so a frenzied mania grew around him. Myths akin to folklore spread from hamlet to hamlet whilst the tabloids appeased our conservative, sex-with-our-socks-on ways by turning football’s most compelling figure for a generation – our only punk in a league of boyband pap – into a cartoon. But as with all rare creatures our fascination with the mercurial soon enough became smothering – like Lenny from Of Mice And Men stroking a young girl’s hair – and Mario Balotelli became an alien alienated.

 

As with Cantona and Gazza before him first we are enamoured to the point of obsession. Then we demonise.

 

But it was not always us. Its one thing to become an enemy of the state – the legions of Sandra and Clives who scoff over their cornflakes at the latest, media-exaggerated ‘madcap antic’ – but it’s quite another to piss off the meat and potato supporter. Their tolerance to the pampered, multi-millionaire superstars of today is commendable in the extreme considering how sharply the modern game conflicts with their traditional idylls. But at the very least a compromise must be reached with application put in to even slightly justify the exorbitant wages. Such basic application was beneath Balo: he knew the gifts he possessed and only deigned to hint at them when in a generous mood. Whereas Cantona and Gazza produced in spades Balotelli sulked, stropped and indulged in lazy backheels into an opponent’s legs. How apt that one of his most iconic moments – the cool-as-f*** close-ranger against Norwich – was a shrug of his shoulder.

 

With the general public believing any far-fetched nonsense as fact and his own kind – football folk – now exasperated too far at his insouciance there left only his loco parentis Mancini fighting his corner. Until even the fiery City boss fought his prodigy in a training ground bust-up that brought yet more unwanted headlines and the game was royally up.

 

But that still left me, and despite reading nothing but vitriol in the past 24 hours from the haters who will miss the madness infinitely more than they realise, I’m convinced I’m not alone.

 

Mario Balotelli evokes the kind of hero-worship in me that I haven’t experienced since I was a teen poring through the NME and devouring every laconic word whispered by Ian Brown.  The Italian is a powder keg of brilliance and lunacy, genius and child, a fascinating discordance of extremes that transcends football and takes us into the realms of rock and roll, comedy, soap opera and a psychiatrist’s chair. He is the epitome of the contradictory, multifaceted nature of man that Walt Whitman once celebrated with the following words – “I am large. I contain multitudes.”

 

In a sport awash with the bland and one-dimensional he was excitement and attitude writ large. And I f***ing loved him for that.

 

To those who are glad to see the back of him not for football reasons but because the accompanying circus routinely prompted a scowl – you are a 21st century string-vest, watching Ziggy Stardust explode the minds of a generation on a black and white telly and grumpily enquiring “Is he some kind of puff or what?” You are only able to find exhilaration in the familiar and it so rarely dwells there.

 

To the others who view the past two and a half years as a waste of talent and promise your reasoning undeniably has substance but though the magic was sporadic what magic it was.

 

A man of the match performance in Manchester City’s first cup final in living memory, a goal celebration that will be forever cherished, and setting up a goal back in May that reduced me and my kin to blub out a lifetime of hurt.

 

As unsavoury a thought as this is, such moments outweigh a whole career of graft and grit from any player who bleeds the hue of his shirt.

 

Yet, in keeping with the contradictions that surround the man and myth, as much as I love Mario I’m not sorry to see him leave. In recent months the enigma had become a Where’s Wally with even the devilment absent from his few cameo appearances.

 

Maybe it’s not that though. Maybe it’s because you should always walk away from a lit firework. Watch it fizz and crackle across the sky and head back to normality, smiling as you go.

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Farewell Mario: The Firework In Blue

Posted on January 31, 2013 by Stephen Tudor

 

The reality is he isn't a good enough footballer to ever be called a "genius", workrate or not.

 

He's a good striker whose talents are overrated by gushing journalists like this one who attribute all his bad performances to a lack of effort. If he tried, we're led to believe he'd be the best player ever. They love to write about "the misunderstood genius" and "what might have been" but to make that work you have to talk up his abilities, it adds to the mystery.

 

He will get goals at AC Milan but he will never reach the heights this author suggests he can even if he does "put the effort in". I guess I just don't rate him so incredibly highly as some do.

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He has all the physical attributes: power, pace, acceleration, technique. That's why people gush over him. He just needs to put it together. People always love potential and he has as much potential as anyone else in world football.

 

What has always impressed me is his accuracy in placing the ball. He does not even need to add power much lash at the ball the way Gerrard or Lampard does. He simply takes a look at the keeper's position and place the ball at a distance that the keeper won't be able to get to. It's almost like he actually did some calculation at the back of his mind before shooting.

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Easy to forget he's only 22.

 

The fundamentals are all there. He's faster than Cisse. Stronger than Ba. He hits the ball so cleanly without much backlift. When he gets it right he's a machine. An effortless machine. It's debatable if he can ever hook it up. At 22 he's a better player than many of today's top stars including RVP.

 

 

Don't think he's over-rated at all.

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Guest icemanblue

Easy to forget he's only 22.

 

The fundamentals are all there. He's faster than Cisse. Stronger than Ba. He hits the ball so cleanly without much backlift. When he gets it right he's a machine. An effortless machine. It's debatable if he can ever hook it up. At 22 he's a better player than many of today's top stars including RVP.

 

 

Don't think he's over-rated at all.

 

Nah.

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What he said was lost in translation...

 

What he actually said was "we're going to meet the little black boy of the family"

 

Now someone like that with the name "berlusconi" should know a lot better to even hint at such a thing.

 

But unless it is used with malicious intent which i dont think it was then i dont think its racist but it is in very bad taste.

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