Whatever happened to the magic number nine?

Kevin F(r)iend’s decision to dismiss the hormonally-deficient Jay Spearing for a firm, but ever-so-slightly reckless challenge on Moussa Dembélé was emblematic of the turning tides within domestic football. Slowly but surely the firm tackle is being eradicated from the English game, consigned to the same fate as hooliganism and the libero – relegation to the historical archives.

With the aforementioned tackle all but eliminated from existence, the ever-expanding list of anachronisms has set its sight on another unfortunate victim. And this time, it’s aimed its crosshair at something sacred.

A glance at the current list of Premier League top-scorers reveals one chilling, unsettling development. Of the nine players that have scored seven goals or more, not one can call the number nine shirt his own.

Since the introduction of shirt numbers in 1928, the ninth number, number nine, has been interwoven with the act of scoring goals. Irrespective of duties outside the box, the traditional occupant of said shirt has only really had to concern himself with one duty – the most wonderful duty of them all – sticking the ball in the back of the net (and doing it on a more frequent basis than his team-mates).

As a child of the 1990s, the number nine, for me, is synonymous with the likes of Robbie Fowler, Ian Rush, Les Ferdinand, Alan Shearer, Andy Cole and countless other goal-merchants. Eleven is reserved for pacy wide-players, ten is the domain of creative-types that may be fortunate enough to post double-digit figures and nine is saved for the one-in-two, twenty-goal-a-season men. It’s just how it is.

However, as Bob Dylan prophesised, the times are a-changin’. Of last season’s fourteen highest-scorers in the Premier League, a mere 36% possessed the sacrosanct shirt number. This season we’re on course for an even more meagre proportion than that.

Still not convinced? A quick look at the current top seven will surely change your mind.

Let’s start with league leaders Manchester City. For all the accusations levelled at Sheikh Mansour’s play-thing childhood club – of distorting the market, of creating a new brand of mercenary, of wilfully employing Garry Cook, want to know what their biggest football crime is? It’s having the unspeakable temerity to possess four world-class strikers and to still find themselves without an occupant for their number nine shirt. It’s a fucking disgrace.

Their noisy neighbours? Even more culpable. United, have taken the active step of denying their number nine, last season’s joint-top Premier League goalscorer Dimitar Berbatov, from repeating his feats of last term. One league start and four measly substitute appearances have yielded a grand total of zero goals. It’s a fucking disgrace.

Tottenham? Here’s one we can’t really pin on ‘Arry. Despite having the clinical edge over Jermain Defoe and Emmanuel Adebayor, Tottenham’s numero nueve, Roman Pavlyuchenko, flits perpetually between hot, cold, spectacular and non-existent, all while instructing his agent to moan to the Russian press on a bi-monthly basis. It’s a fucking disgrace.

Chelsea and Liverpool? Messrs Torres and Carroll, with their respective goalscoring records of five from 35 and 23 respectively, are in possession of scoring ratios that would make Robert Huth blush. It’s a fucking disgrace.

And last but not least Newcastle. They’re like Manchester City (see: above), but instead of four world-class forwards, Alan Pardew has three mediocre strikers, two Ameobi brothers and one Alan Smith. For a club that likes to harp on about Wor Jackie and Alan Shearer, it’s a particularly appropriate (fucking) disgrace.

You see people, De La Soul got it wrong. Three isn’t the magic number, nine is. Playgrounds around the world (with the possible exception of Ghanaian ones) aren’t proliferated with pre-pubescents imitating number threes – I, for one,  did not spend my formative years pretending to be Bjørn Tore Kvarme (although I must add that my sense of defensive positional discipline was equally as lax as the hapless Norwegian).

This season we could quite feasibly see a man sporting the number 45 on his back win the Premier League golden boot, in an act which would constitute the worst number nine-related crime the Premier League has seen since Chelsea issued the holy number to Dutch defender Khalid Boulahrouz. And surely that would be the biggest fucking disgrace of them all.

The margins are fine…but that’s no excuse

Not for the first time, Liverpool have finished a game with an all-too familiar feeling of what could’ve been. Profligacy, valiant defending and bad luck have combined again to cost them more precious Premier League points.

Jordan Henderson and Stewart Downing were both denied by the post, an erroneous offside decision deprived Luis Suárez of a perfectly legitimate goal, and the careful positioning of Mark Schwarzer prevented Andy Carroll from grabbing his sixth goal in a red shirt.

According to Opta statistics, Liverpool have now hit the woodwork more than any other Premier League this term (12). And Stewart Downing, who is yet to notch his first goal or assist for the club, has been denied by the woodwork on more occasions (3) than another other Premier League player.

Lady Luck may not be shining upon the Anfield side, but Liverpool are also failing to create their own luck. Suárez remains Liverpool’s most vibrant and enterprising attacking threat, but his failure to convert a larger proportion of chances that fall his way (he managed five shots at Craven Cottage but failed to beat Schwarzer) is becoming increasingly worrying – particularly when his strike partner is still suffering from particularly prominent teething problems (in Suárez’s defence, he was marshalled superbly by Brede Hangeland, who provided a masterclass in how to deal with the effervescent Uruguayan).

Although Carroll’s movement, touch and heading accuracy were all greatly improved this evening, manager Kenny Dalglish still cannot rely on a steady stream of goals from his record signing. Despite incremental flashes of his undeniable potential, there is no doubt that his presence in Liverpool’s starting XI alters the side’s approach.

The slick, interchanging passing game that Liverpool used towards the tail end of last season – indeed the style that was so wonderfully evident during the corresponding fixture last term – is clearly harder to deploy in the presence of the former Newcastle United man.

Carroll did receive the ball at his feet with greater frequency than in previous outings, but it was clear from the early stages of the match that his lack of pace and acceleration prevented him from latching onto carefully angled passes from the likes of Luis Suárez and exploiting the space between Fulham’s centre-back and full-backs.

With Spurs destroying all teams that come before with their blistering mix of pace and power, Chelsea intermittently resembling Andre Villas-Boas’ utopic vision and Arsenal making up for their abysmal early-season form, Liverpool simply cannot afford to concede more ground in the race for a Champions League spot. Kenny Dalglish’s men are clearly a work in progress, but time really isn’t on their side if they wish to claim that vital fourth-place finish.