Legendary sports pundit Jim Flack, now fully recovered from a long and damaging addiction to furniture polish, writes exclusively for Row Z.
This week, Jim turns the spotlight on youth... And so another season skitters to an end. But even as the last few drops of action plop into the pan of history, I, Jim Flack, feel duty bound to wipe clean the slate of last season before washing my hands and going back downstairs where my dinner guests are waiting. I remember a conversation I had with my good, good pal, Pele during the 1970 World Cup. I was trying to flog some jewellery I'd 'obtained' from a source in Bogota, Columbia (no names, no pack-drill) and was trying to get him interested in a particularly nice Rolex Oyster over a glass of sangria at the Intercontinental Hotel in Guadalajara. "Pele, mate," I said, "Football really is the beautiful game." "You're so bloody right, Jim" said Pele. I can say, even now, and without fear of contradiction, that's a phrase the Pelmeister grew 'fond' of! But sadly, as we approach the end of the 2002/03 season, I have to say that the beautiful game has been blighted (how long before we hear that expression passing the lips of a certain footballing icon. Who is from Brazil. And appeared in Escape to Victory). The beautiful game. Blighted. By youth. What has concerned me is the lack of discipline among some of our so-called young starlets. Call me old fashioned but it didn't happen in my day. I can't help thinking the reintroduction of national service would get some of these so-called 'footballers' into shape. I mean, look, there's drinking, violence, sex scandals, drugs - fair enough, that's the army for you - but something must done. And done NOW! At times like this I often wonder what the legendary Alfie Bassington, manager of the great Warrington sides of the late 1920s, would have made of today's pampered pros. I'm particularly minded of the now-legendary story of the time a young apprentice stood up in the dressing room before one match and questioned whether it was really necessary for the players to drink four pints of turpentine before every game. Alfie said not a word. He simply grabbed an open razor, drew it calmly across the young whippersnapper's throat and forced the other players to watch the agonizing death throes of their team-mate. Not a drop of turps remained undrunk. I can't help thinking Arsenal might have won the title if Arsene Wenger had shown similar managerial strength. | 
Row Z 
