da betsul： To say the Sunderland job is amongst the toughest in the Premier League would be a bit of an understatement. The Black Cats get by on has-beens, journeymen and short-term managerial appointments like a crackhead toking his way from one low-level crime to another in an eternal battle to feed the cycle of addiction. Fortunately enough for the tone of this article, the Wearsiders are addicted to Premier League survival, not copious rocks of Colombian import.
da doce： Today’s arrival Joleon Lescott is a prime example. A nice enough person I’m sure, yet still the most senior member of an Aston Villa side that fought relegation with about as much sincerity as a Roy ‘Chubby’ Brown whoopee cushion last season, and still a 34-year-old who had his contract terminated after just a matter of months at sixth-placed Greek Super League juggernauts AEK Athens. To paraphrase talkSPORT’s Andy Jacobs, Sunderland may as well order an early edition of the 2017/18 Championship fixture schedule.
Of course, you can never rule out a side that seemingly approaches a relegation battle in the same way most teenagers do their GCSEs, by spending Year 11 dowsing themselves in White Lightening and rendezvousing behind the bike sheds before cramming an entire year’s worth of work into a single 48-hour learning seminar that sleeplessly leads into the actual exams.
But rock bottom of the Premier League table, without a win in seven and unable to bring in the usual January reinforcements to inspire the customary last-minute push – barring Lescott, of course – the Black Cats may not have such luck at the end of May.
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There will be many causes of their expected relegation, most long-term and some short. Yet, there is a curious paradox at the Stadium of Light. For all of Sunderland’s repeated failings in recruitment, strategy and appointments, every manager to accept the challenge of Premier League preservation has somehow passed it. Gus Poyet, Paolo Di Canio, Dick Advocaat and Sam Allardyce all defied the odds to weave together a side that could somehow keep its head above water just long enough to watch relegation rivals sink to the lowly depths of the Championship.
That is, of course, every manager except the current incumbent David Moyes. I have already alluded to countless caveats throughout this article and in the context of 2016/17, they’ve been particularly extreme.
Moyes has depended on loan signings, youngsters and inadequate additions – Papy Djilobodji leading that category by quite some distance – to an unprecedented degree, even for a club that has produced two of the five worst points hauls in Premier League history. Allardyce’s departure for England infamy gave him even less time to make signings in the summer, whilst Ellis Short’s hopes of selling the club have left nothing but a stale peanut, an old coat button and a sizable amount of fluff in Sunderland’s January change pocket.
Yet, none of Moyes’ predecessors arrived upon particularly more accommodating circumstances – in fact, it could be argued the Scot has at least enjoyed the benefit of the final weeks of the summer transfer window and a full season to implement his methods on the training ground. And regardless of said stipulations, there is an unavoidable, inconvenient truth about Moyes; he’s not the same manager who earned his shot as Sir Alex Ferguson’s successor for a decade of impeccable service at Everton.
Ever the underdogs, the Toffees were very much my second team growing up and I still have a place in my heart for Leon Osman. Everton relentlessly overachieved in defiance of financial backing and an integral pillar of that was Moyes himself. A hardworking Scot, an impressive tactician and a master of polishing turds into gold – the secret is to let them harden a little first – or at least making them resemble something close to gold for ninety minutes at a time.
Underpinning Moyes’ many abilities was a ruthless determination that often manifested in an emotion verging upon anger. Looking back, that’s what stands out most about Moyes from his many years at Goodison; an aggressive tone to his voice, folded arms to highlight his indifference and of course, piercing blue eyes. Eyes like Cillian Murphy’s in Peaky Blinders; beautifully delicate in tone, yet the subliminal hint such beauty is used for evil rather than good.
Fast forward four years to the Stadium of Light dugout, and I just don’t see the same man. Sure, the physical shell known as David Moyes still walks around flailing his arms at Papy Djilobodji’s inability to hold the most basic of defensive lines, hands out his fair share of cusses to the Premier League’s typically inadequate officiating and uses every chance to address the public as an opportunity to limit expectations as much as possible. But the man who was David Moyes, the man behind the intimidating aquatic stare and typically Glaswegian timbre, just isn’t there anymore.
Ever since ascending to the United throne, we’ve seen a different, much more measured and accommodating Moyes. He’s attempted to come across as relaxed as possible with a noteworthy stench of desperation, like that fellow holidayer who tries so hard to become your new best friend.
Perhaps that’s the inevitable effects of maturity on a 53-year-old who’s been stuck in the management racket since his early 30s; perhaps he’s simply not recovered from what was undoubtedly a nightmare nine months at Old Trafford; but either way, the angry Moyes who achieved such noteworthy success despite operating on such tight purse strings at Everton is yet to turn up since he left Goodison Park. Manchester United, Real Sociedad and now Sunderland fans have a right to feel aggrieved.
The fire in his belly is missing, yet that’s exactly what Sunderland need if they’re to somehow escape the drop. The Moyes of old would’ve had Djilobodji defending for his dear life, threatened death upon Adnan Januzaj for anything less than talismanic form and literally branded Patrick van Aanholt for even thinking about moving to Crystal Palace halfway through the season – doing it all with the rage and conviction of a 6 foot 1, tactically savvy, Scottish Honey-badger.
If Moyes can rediscover the relentless angst that once made him such an icon of overachievement in the Premier League, rather than simply going through the motions, blindly staring into the distance as a new-look centre-back partnership of Djilobodji and Lescott push his side into the Championship one hilarious mishap at a time, the Black Cats might just avoid the drop this term. From what we’ve seen from Moyes over the past three-and-a-half years though, that’s a pretty big if.
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