Broken Talisman
Duncan is not what he was 

18 January 2002

I worshipped Duncan Ferguson.  In his heyday, when most Premiership clubs would have snapped him up, he had an Everton crest — chosen by his adoring fans — tattooed for life onto his arm.  He was a blue and he was one of us.  Goodison is the only place in his adult career where he has truly been at home and he wanted to stay for the rest of his playing days.

I don't need to remind anyone reading this of the arrogance of his swagger, the fire in his belly and his sheer presence that scared opposing defenders witless.  Every blue has his or her own favourite memory of him: mine was when he flattened Peter Schmeichel in the 1995 FA Cup final; at that moment I knew we'd be back for the Charity Shield.  What Duncan did for us blues between 1994 and 1998 should never be underestimated and for that I will be eternally grateful to him.

Dismay was what I felt when he was sold.  As quickly as he had come to us he was taken away.  How could our club sell our hero?  I felt as if an old friend had mugged me.

In August 2000, I found myself on holiday when the rumours, then the obligatory transfer saga, precipitated in his return.  I had very mixed feelings about him coming back.  My heart leapt, he was back, roll on the next derby.  My brain thought that it smacked of desperation; was it a token gesture by an incoming cash-strapped board to cajole us fans at the end of our tether?  

Due to a succession of injuries, he had hardly set St James' Park on fire.  I am cynical by nature, but deep down I just couldn't wait to see him.  Duncan next wore the royal blue against Charlton and how he was he up for it.  He had come home and we welcomed him like General Custer would have welcomed re-enforcements.  We weren't worth three points that night, but that's what he gave us and in the process he received an injury from a vicious tackle that ultimately ruined his season.  Typically rotten luck.

But that was then and this is now.  The fact is that Duncan Ferguson isn't the Duncan Ferguson we once had.  All I can judge a player by is by what I see on the pitch and, whether it is due to a lack of fitness, appetite for the game, or the relentless pounding his frame has taken over the years, he looks a spent force.  He doesn't snarl and sneer like he once did... and why is he always the first down the tunnel at full time?  

Whistle happy referees, combined with the futile service he receives, don't help him.  With the long ball when his back is to goal and a centre half pushing in tight, one of two things happen: the ball will bounce aimlessly off his head or he will concede a free kick.  Both surrender possession and put us back on the defensive.

Looking at the positives, his ability to hold up play and his distribution on the deck remain good and he still out-jumps virtually all centre-halves.  Only once in his Everton days has he got the kind of service he thrives on and, at the age of 30 this is even more vital if we are ever to get the best out of him again.

So what of Duncan today?  My brain says get him off the pay roll... but, where football is concerned, the heart rules the head.  My heart reckons there is plenty of life in the old dog yet.  We have recently signed Jesper Blomqvist, a player who can supply balls accurately into real danger areas from the by-line.  For years this is what Duncan has been crying out for.  If he stays fit, Duncan Ferguson can book Jesper Blomqvist's seat to the World Cup.  If this happens, Jesper Blomqvist could be the man to re-ignite the fire in Big Dunc's belly and give us our old Duncan Ferguson back.

My brain is often wrong; I hope my heart is right.

Nick Armitage

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