Football has become all about athleticism and too little about artistry. Get Dimitar Berbatov back in.
Who’s this then?
Dimitar Ivanov Berbatov is a 39-year-old Bulgarian striker from Blagoevgrad, who remains the most expensive Bulgarian footballer ever. He’s also his country’s top goalscorer, and captained the national side between 2006 and 2010.
And he’s won Bulgarian Footballer of the Year a record seven times
He started out at CSKA Sofia in 1998, scoring 38 times in 65 games before moving to Bayer Leverkusen in 2001. There, he scored 91 times in 201 games. He was part of their fabulous 2001/02 team, runners-up in the Bundesliga, Champions League and German Cup.
In 2006, a £10.9 million transfer to Spurs followed.
He played 70 times in north London, netting 46 goals, won the League Cup and was their 2008/09 Player of the Year. This brought him to the attention of Manchester United who, in a controversial transfer, paid just over £30million for his signature on deadline day.
In four years he was to score 56 times in 149 games, winning two Premier League titles, a League Cup, two Community Shields, a FIFA Club World Cup and a second Champions League runners-up medal.
There followed two years at Fulham and another 20 goals to his tally in 54 games, winning their 2012/13 Player of The Year. He played his career out at AS Monaco for two seasons, winning their 2014 Player of the Year – spot the pattern – then at PAOK for one campaign and Kerala Blasters in India for nine games under new manager David James, whose tactics he later described – somewhat unsurprisingly – as “absurd”.
He called it a day in 2019 after 665 games and 281 goals.
He is a sponsor of children’s charities in his native Bulgaria, supporting five care homes, and he’s just written his autobiography which revealed he was once kidnapped by Bulgarian mafia types.
In a recent 5 Live interview he came across as a thoughtful, sensitive fella, revealing that much of his quiet reticence was geared by being shy, which was often misinterpreted as arrogance.
In his time, he was a unique player with a unique style for which he was both admired and feted.
Why the love?
An almost unbelievably cool and very good-looking guy, he has the sort of dark eyelashes that makes it look as though he’s wearing mascara. At 6′ 2″ he was a tall, elegant and unhurried player, blessed with magic feet and an almost supernatural ability to slow down the space-time continuum. He seemed to operate on a different plane of existence, where there was always plenty of time to do whatever he wanted to do. Quite how he did this remains a mystery but time and again, he found acres of space, so there was no-one around him as he received a ball and laid it off with instant control and perfect weighting.
This is how easy the game was for him:
It’s not as though he’s showing off. He’s not one for ‘look at my tekkers,’ rather it is all just instinctive for him. He can’t actually help control the ball with consummate ease. Indeed, it looks as though it would be harder for him to lose control of it. His first touch, time and again, is magnetic. Somehow, the ball becomes a slave to his feet in an instant.
Though tall, his game was rarely overtly physical. This wasn’t a beast pounding up and down the pitch, sweating his bollocks off. He glided, quick when he absolutely needed to be; he preferred to use his intellect to find the right position. And when he found that position, he could score any sort of goal. A back heel, a volley, a free-kick curler, a header, a one-on-one dink, a 25-yard belter, a nerveless penalty.
There really was nothing he couldn’t do – except track back and sweat those hard defensive yards. That wasn’t his gig. Leave such things to the grunt labour. His ‘keep calm and pass me the ball’ mantra wasn’t just wilful hipness, it was probably his side’s best tactic.
On his day he was always the footballer most likely to be called ‘languid’ and it wasn’t hard to see why, but when at the peak of his form this would just lull the opposition into a false sense of security.
Naturally, in the English game, which has for too long valued graft over artistry, some just accused him of being lazy and of drifting out of games for long periods of time. In that 5 Live interview he defended himself against such misconceptions:
“Everybody is different in the way they see the game and play. My difference was that sometimes you would see I might not be into the game, but at the same time I was scanning the pitch to see where to position myself at the right moment, at the right time in a pocket of space – and you can give me the ball so that I have more time to myself and not have someone on my back. When I have that time and space I have more time to think about where to put the ball. Some people don’t understand it, but if you are clever in your head, even if you are slow in speed, you can still be quick. You can position yourself better and be of even more use to your team.”
Thinking about the game? What sort of madness is this? He is the absolute antidote to the poison that now runs through the football body which asserts the game is better today because players are fitter and can run 14km.
Also liked a crafty fag which, as we know, is illegal for footballers today.
A bulging sack of beautiful Berbs love this week. Because everybody loves someone who plays football with the grace of a ballroom dancer and the mystery of an illusionist. When he left the stage, there really wasn’t – and still isn’t – anyone to replace him. There is no new Berba.
With a net worth estimated to be around $19.5million, he’s not in any hurry to do anything other than live for pleasure. Maybe he’ll go into coaching, maybe he won’t.
“All football players think we are going to be great coaches, which is of course far from the truth. I have my A licence already and I’m going to go for my pro licence later this year hopefully. You never know. I would at least like to be prepared for the future, whatever that may be. If that is as a coach, I know I will be prepared. At the moment, though, I am spending more time with my kids and family.”
With at least 50 years ahead of him, it would be nice to think that his style might yet provide inspiration and influence on a game that has become all about athleticism and too little about artistry.
Nobody goes to watch football to see a middle-distance runner; we go to see players with an air of the infinite who rise above the white noise and clutter of ordinariness. Berbatov was a heavenly player and one whose brilliance gave sparkle many lives. Long may he smile at us with those lovely eyes.
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By John Nicholson (Football365.com)
Edited by Tiyani wa ka Mabasa