The VAR farce
What is it good for? Absolutely nothing.
When I launched this website I had a few rules for myself to operate by in mind: Never write something unless I felt I could add something to the topic, that the writing should always look to speak to the soul not just call for clicks, and that under no circumstances would I be writing about draining, dreary, mundane nonsense like VAR.
This piece threatens to break all of those rules.
The third of the three was smashed as I wrote the headline. And significant questions remain over the other two. Is this a topic I can add anything to? Almost definitely not from pure expertise, but you will have to be the judge of that. And, lastly, is it even possible to write from the soul on a theme as fundamentally soulless as VAR? Again – you are the judge, jury and executioner. It’s too late to turn back now, but whatever dignity I have is on the line.
It’s the 63rd minute of the 90 at Nottingham Forest’s City Ground. The stakes could hardly be higher and they are being felt acutely by everyone within the stadium: players, club staff and, certainly, fans. The game is goalless. Both sides have played with the safety catch on. Much of the action thus far has been under the looming terror of mistakes rather than the enthusiasm for glory that could come with braver decisions. It has, in large part, been a cost-benefit-analysis exercise run by a pessimist. Gameplay designed by a frugal auditor.
The nerves of the occasion somehow emanate from TV screens, too. We can feel it at home – as if separated from the game by more than distance. When the Sky feed drops out it almost seems fitting. Like these are glitches in a simulation, rather than interruptions to a pulsating live event.
When fans are roused by moments of promise from players in red the noise comes with a caveat of doubt – the dampening fear that being so close to the end of the season, with little form to speak of and in such a finely balanced position brings. There is a strange sense of the lack of an occasion and heartbeats might be raised but they beat much more slowly than you are used to feeling and more heavily, too – they are mournful rather than energetic; they don’t thump and pound relentlessly as they perhaps should when everything is on the line.
Vitor Pereira, the Forest manager, used half-time to try to force change onto the static stasis of the game. On come Dan Ndoye and Omari Hutchinson, two wingers whose reputations have been made on creating and scoring goals, not demonstrating the dutiful due-diligence of following defensive details. Later follows Taiwo Awoniyi – a bringer of chaos who can break any occasion for good or ill with a moment of madness or brilliance. Pereira’s changes sum up his stewardship so far. He has been proactive, he has been flexible, and he has been positive. However, he hasn’t had any of the luck he has deserved. And that is to continue.
After a decent show of strength from sub-striker, Awoniyi, Reds’ full back Neco Williams takes a ball on his chest and lofts a side-footed pass over the top of the Fulham defence in one fluid motion – a show of poise that belies the moment and the evidence of the game so far. Another sub, Dan Ndoye, is alive in the situation. He drifts inches across his marker, Kenny Tete, and then slips elegantly into the gap between Tete and centre-half Calvin Bassey, who has been dragged out of position. As is so often the case for those players who have the instinct for these moments, Ndoye’s movement is just a collection of shifts of limbs and of the body. Nothing is exaggerated, wild or profound. And the rest just looks like pure muscle memory. Even for a player who has had limited game time and even less success following his move from Serie A to the Premier League. Ndoye bears down on goal keeping all options for a finish open before shifting his body at the last minute to carefully and convincingly slot right-footed past the keeper.
It is not just a beautifully taken goal. It is so much more than that. It’s a remarkable release from the thousands in red at the City Ground. It is a wave of enormous relief felt by every fist-punching supporter on a sofa at home or in the pub. And, in the moment, it feels near-definitive. This is it. This is the goal that secures the win that begins the run. Forest go to Spurs with a sense of confidence that two wins in two could be on the cards. Everything changed in a split second. Our future is different to – brighter than – the one we feared.
And then everything changed again.
Celebrations turned to slumps. People mutter “VAR” bleakly under their breaths.
Flurries of text messages are sent. In the stadium they beg friends at home for intelligence – for reassurance. And at home, while furiously messaging group chats, we are actually alone and we go through the stages of grief with only our TVs and our anxiety for company.
Denial.
Anger.
Bargaining.
Depression.
We go through the stages at an alarming rate. Our hearts and minds are still trying to learn how to adapt to the way football has changed. To have these memories dismantled – taken away after they have already been crystallised in those crucial seconds and even minutes – goes against everything we know about this game. Everything learned and everything that became instinct.
I will never get used to it. And I will never allow myself to.
