Why isn’t John Terry ashamed of himself?

In yesterday’s FA Cup semi-final, Chelsea were mistakenly awarded a goal despite the ball not crossing the goal line. John Terry, the closest Chelsea player to the incident (he was literally sprawled on the line at the time), has basically admitted that he knew the decision was mistaken.

Why isn’t this scandalous? Why does Terry not appear remotely contrite or remorseful? He has effectively admitted cheating and deception on the most public of stages.

Now, if you look closely at what he said, Terry expresses a measure of doubt. Maybe he genuinely thought the referee was in a better position to judge. But surely the incensed reaction of the Tottenham players would have cleared that up? Terry certainly wasn’t going to help the officials, as is commonplace in sports like cricket.

I’ve written about this before, but it bears repeating: sportsmen will only live up to our expectations of them. If they know that they can behave like Terry’s, and face no judgement or condemnation, then they face little incentive not to. And if we want higher standards, we have to make that clear and unambiguous.

Luck in Football: A Philosophical Analysis

The frustration of Liverpool fans at watching our team dominate match after match this season, and yet repeatedly come away without victory, is probably matched only by the irritation of those who have had to listen to us bemoan our ‘bad luck’. It is hard not to feel jinxed when you consider that Liverpool have hit the woodwork 21 times already this year (count how often the commentator uses the word “unlucky” in this video) and the slew of astonishing saves opposition goalkeepers have made in stoppage time at Anfield alone. Yet as Gregg Roughley remarked on the back of a disappointing defeat to Arsenal, “it’s got to the stage now with Liverpool that you can no longer say that they’ve been unlucky in every game that they don’t score one of many chances that they create”. Indeed, there is increasingly a lack of sympathy for Liverpool: talkSPORT magazine is typical in denouncing as “absolute rubbish” the notion that Liverpool are unlucky not to be higher up the table.

Both sides of the debate seem pretty sure of themselves, but it is far from clear what they are even talking about. The idea of luck is one that most of us feel we have a clear intuitive grasp of, but which, like so many other concepts, begins to disintegrate under philosophical scrutiny. If we are to make sense of a claim like ‘Liverpool have been unlucky this season’, we first need to understand what it means for a football team to be lucky.

A minimal definition of luck contrasts it with things that we cannot control, or are not responsible for (these need not mean the same thing, but can probably be taken as equivalent for our purposes here). Thomas Nagel helpfully distinguishes four types of luck: antecedent causal luck, constitutive luck, circumstantial luck and resultant luck. Not all of these are equally relevant from the football fans perspective.

The first form of luck – antecedent causal luck - is the most pervasive, but also probably the least commonly observed. This is based on the determinist claim that because of inevitable causal connections and natural laws, that the world cannot be otherwise than it is. If everything is inevitable, then it is argued that it is beyond, say, Luis Suarez’s control whether he scores or misses, and so it is merely a matter of luck. His success or failure depends on a complicated mix of genetic capacities, inherited and developed psychological traits, laws of physics etc., none of which he can do anything to influence. However, this conception of luck is unhelpful as it suggests that everything is a matter of luck. ‘Unlucky defeat’ is a tautology on this view, since all defeats are due to factors beyond the control of the participants, and so all defeats are unlucky. Yet this is clearly not the everyday use of the term.

Constitutive luck is used to refer to our good or bad fortune in terms of our characteristics e.g. intelligence, physical fitness etc. Nagel describes it as “”the kind of person you are…your inclinations, capacities and temperament”. For a football club like Liverpool, the analogous idea might be the team’s location, fan base or owners. Thus in terms of constitutive luck, Liverpool fans might be considered very lucky indeed, supporting a team with the objective background conditions conducive to success, including a big name, supportive owners willing to invest large sums of money, and a quality team. Again, though, this is an unusual sense of luck that clearly doesn’t capture the meaning of Roughley, talkSPORT and the rest.

Circumstantial luck will be more familiar to football fans. This is luck in “the kind of problems and situations one faces”. So, for example, this might cover things like weather or pitch conditions (whether you face Stoke on a benign summer afternoon, or he infamous wet Tuesday night). Perhaps more significant is circumstantial luck in terms of the opposition you play, and how well they perform. Consider the fact that Liverpool have played Arsenal twice this season. The first time, in August, Arsenal had suffered a number of injuries, and were just about to be pummelled 8-2 by Manchester United. Earlier this month, they had the momentum of a rousing 5-2 victory against Spurs. We played much better in the more recent match; yet we one the first and lost the second. This, I think, would be recognised as luck by most football fans, though it is rarely discussed. It could be that these things ‘even out’, but it is also possible that some teams have to contend with more in-form teams raising their game.

Finally, there is resultant luck: luck “in the way things turn out”. This is used to describe occasions where basically the same action has different consequences. Nagel’s example is of a reckless driver whose actions are much more significant if a child runs in front of their car. Things like deflections, or uneven bounces and ricochets, what is often called ‘the run of the ball’ will come under this. So will incidents like speculative shots, where a player connects well with then ball, and hopes that their shot is accurate enough.

However, to treat all resultant luck alike is to miss something important. Commentators often respond to flukey goals with the observation that “If you don’t buy a ticket, you can’t win the lottery”. In other words, people deserve credit for the success of calculated gambles. This intuition is recognised by philosophers in the distinction between brute and option luck. Ronald Dworkin argues that option luck – “whether someone gains or loses through accepting an isolated risk he or she should have anticipated and might have declined” – is morally unproblematic, unlike other forms of luck. Brute luck comprises the various forms of uncertainty that we do not have any control over. Winning the lottery is a form of option luck, while inheriting a large sum of money is brute luck. I think most people would recognise that there is a relevant difference between brute luck and option luck in football, between sheer randomness and calculated risks paying off.

Yet as Kasper Lippert-Rasmussen observes, the dividing line between brute and option luck is not always a clear one: there are often cases when we have no sure bets, and are forced to choose between different risky alternatives. For example, a footballer may find himself in a situation where he is one-on-one with the goalkeeper. He could try to to chip the goalkeeper, with x% chance of success; try to shoot under their body, with y% probability of scoring; or try to take the ball around them, with z% success rate. To treat any outcome as option luck ignores the fact that there is no choice but to gamble. Lippert-Rasmussen argues that “we should often think of a given piece of luck as a mixture of brute luck and option luck where the exact mixture depends on the extent to which one could influence the expected value of the outcome of one's choice”.

With this caveat, I think the best account of luck in football is the difference between the actual success of a team, and the outcome you would expect given their performance – their tactics, effort, decisions etc. A team is lucky if it does better than its expected outcome, and is unlucky if it does worse. The notion of ‘expected outcome’ might still be a bit vague, but I think it is intuitively captured by the idea of ‘playing the percentages’ – you are unlucky to the extent that you play the percentages and lose.

If this definition of luck is a good one, then it means that the concept is often invoked inappropriately. I don’t think there is anything unlucky about a team dominating possession or territory, but failing to win (As Spurs did against Man Utd, or as United themselves did against Liverpool). This means that they have failed to create chances, which obviously lower. the outcome they can expect. Similarly, creating a lot of chances and failing to convert them is often not unlucky – it simply demonstrates poor finishing. The winning teams in such games certainly enjoy circumstantial luck, in that giving away many chances usually spells defeat – but there can be no such excuse for the losers.

It should be clear, though, that it is very hard to differentiate bad finishing from bad luck. Striking the woodwork usually means doing everything almost perfectly. But striking the woodwork as often as Liverpool have done suggests a more fundamental problem with the team. The arguments will doubtless rage on, because we will never know enough to know who is truly unlucky,

Does the public know enough to condemn or acquit Luis Suarez?

To many, Liverpool’s continued defence of Luis Suarez despite his eight match ban for racial abuse is transparent and shameful. For them, the club is clearly putting petty footballing concerns above the serious matter of fighting racism, indulging their star striker’s bigotry as though it were just another idiosyncrasy. It might just be my pro-Liverpool bias, but I think there’s more to the story than that.

Something that most people seem to have ignored is that Liverpool F.C., its manager and players almost certainly know more about the case than anybody else. There are all sorts of ambiguities and uncertainties about both the incident and the judgement, which only Liverpool, Manchester United and the commission really understand. Since both the commission and Man Utd. have kept silent so far, Liverpool’s statement in response to the verdict is the most direct account of the facts that the public have to go on. Of course, it is hardly likely to be neutral, but it raises a few questions that need to be answered by the official report.

Are the facts in dispute?

The first confusion is thrown up by Liverpool’s defence of Suarez. Much of the coverage of the tribunal suggested that the words uttered were accepted by both sides, and that the case depended on their interpretation, Suarez’s defence hanging on cultural differences. Yet in their statement, Liverpool placed a great deal of significance on the fact that there were no witnesses. Now if Suarez and Evra agree on what was said, it’s not clear why the fact that nobody else heard their conversation should matter. Surely it’s only if there is some doubt about the facts of the event that anybody should find it “extraordinary that Luis can be found guilty on the word of Patrice Evra alone”.

Words or intent?

There is an ambiguity in the F.A.’s statement which might have some bearing on the offensiveness of Suarez’ crime. The F.A. claims that Suarez is being punished for using “insulting words” against Evra. But of course, how insulting certain words are often depends as much on how they are said as on the words used themselves. It is unclear at this moment in time whether Suarez is being punished because the words that he used are never acceptable, or because he said them in a way that were clearly intended to be insulting. The former is clearly much more understandable and defensible as it would suggest that Suarez merely erred in his understanding of what sort of language is acceptable, rather than acting in a fundamentally inexcusable way. Liverpool’s claim that “Patrice Evra himself in his written statement in this case said: ‘I don't think that Luis Suarez is racist.’ and that “The FA in their opening remarks accepted that Luis Suarez was not racist”, if true, seem to favour the idea that all sides accept that Suarez meant no wrong.

How significant was cultural context?

It may well be that all the talk of cultural differences is a smokescreen, and that Suarez used insulting language in a plainly insulting way. But many of the reports seem to suggest that cultural questions are relevant, and that certain mitigating factors should be considered. For a start, the conversation in question appears to have taken place in Spanish. Secondly, the offensive word used has been reported to be either ‘negro’ or ‘negrito’. The latter isn’t even a word in English.

A number of people have suggested, along with Henry Winter, that “for somebody who has lived in northern Europe for four years, including three years in Holland with Ajax, the Liverpool striker should have understood the sensitivity towards the word “negro”. But Suarez used a Spanish word in the context of a Spanish conversation, that argument hardly seems to apply. Especially if the word used doesn’t even exist in English.

It is possible that the cultural question never really arose in the course of the tribunal. But if it did, there certainly seems to be a plausible defence open to Suarez.

Liverpool need to ‘calm down’

Perhaps I’m being too credulous, but I think that the ferocity with which Liverpool have reacted to the ban is evidence that they genuinely believe that Suarez has not done wrong. However, if that is the case, it would be a good idea for them to pick a line of defence and stick to it. Wide eyed conspiracy theories about how the F.A. wanted to make scapegoat of Suarez make them look paranoid and desperate, even if there is a hint of plausibility to them. Unless they are sure that Patrice Evra is lying, questioning his credibility and calling for him to be banned looks desperate.

In fact, the club’s treatment of Patrice Evra, regardless of Suarez’ guilt and innocence seems shoddy. It is clear that Evra was hurt and upset by what was said, and it would have been good to see some sort of apology for the distress caused, even if it was unintended. Moreover, it is possible that Liverpool’s vilification of Evra is sending the wrong message to fans. It would be good to see the club condemning the sickening abuse Evra has received on twitter from Liverpool supporters.

How guilty is Suarez, and what is he guilty of?

Ultimately, even if we accept the F.A.’s decision, there is a lot more we need to know before we judge Suarez and those who support him. The first key question is whether the facts of the case are in dispute. The second is whether Suarez is being punished merely for the words he used or for the suspected intent behind them. Finally, does the F.A. buy the portrait of Suarez as a confused foreigner mistaking the mores of his new country, or was his crime more serious?

Distributive Justice and Premier League TV rights

What I often do on this blog is take some big news story, and try and show how ethics or political theory can shed some light on it, or how it highlights some argument within those disciplines. I do this partly to convince myself I’m not wasting my time in studying these subjects, and partly because I am obsessed with them, and see their echoes everywhere. Either way, I’m not sure how convincing I am when I try to persuade you of the relevance of moral and political philosophy.

However, there are occasions when the argument doesn’t have to be forced, the parallels don’t have to be stretched: the issue that people are talking about is almost exactly the same as the one we discuss in our seminar rooms. Events behind the scenes of the English Premier League this week have provided me with one of those rare joyous occasions, as the administrators of England’s elite football clubs unconsciously replay an old debate between the political philosophers John Rawls and Robert Nozick.

The philosophical question which divided Rawls and Nozick, and which has caused the rift between the Premier League clubs is basically whether egalitarian distributive principles can be justified to the most talented or productive. Or, to put it more bluntly, how can the rich be persuaded to share with the rest of us?

While Rawls and Nozick were of course pitching their discussion at the level of society, Liverpool F.C.’s managing director, Ian Ayre, has posed a similar question to the Premier League. As things stand, the twenty clubs of the English Premier League collectively sell the rights to broadcast their matches on television, and share the money more or less equally. Ayre has argued that this is unfair on the bigger, more famous and more successful clubs like Liverpool, who he believes contribute more to the quality of the Premier League, and so should receive greater reward.

For Rawls, the question of distributive justice arises in a society because it is a “cooperative venture for mutual advantage”. Everyone in society contributes in some way, and everybody is better off in virtue of the fact that the cooperative scheme exists. The problem then is how to divide the proceeds of their cooperation.

The Premier League is a perfect example of a cooperative venture for mutual advantage. The twenty clubs each play thirty-eight games every season, and are all better off as a result of participation in the league than they would be out of it. Liverpool need the Premier League if for no other reason than to provide competitive opposition to play every week. So each club plays a role in putting together the product that is the Premier League, which is packaged and sold all over the world. But how to divide the proceeds?

Rawls’ answer is that

“since everybody’s well-being depends upon a scheme of cooperation without which no one could have a satisfactory life, the division of advantages should be such as to draw forth the willing cooperation of everyone taking part in it, including those less well situated. Yet this can be expected only if reasonable terms are proposed”

The “reasonable terms” that Rawls suggests is his ‘difference principle’: inequalities can be justified only if they benefit the worst off members of society. In the Premier League context, at least, I can’t think of any such justifications for inequality, so a Rawlsian approach to the question of TV revenues would almost certainly endorse the present arrangement, equal shares.

But as Nozick observes, though distributing the fruits of cooperation equally is certainly one way to elicit the willing participation of all, it is only one of many possible arrangements. Presumably, many Premier League clubs would be willing to play for much less than an equal share of the TV revenue. A Rawlsian principle, as he sees it, arbitrarily advantages the worst endowed. The ‘worst endowed’ in Rawlsian terminology basically means the least productive, those capable of adding the least value. Thus the Manchester Uniteds and Chelseas, with their skill and glamour are well-endowed, while teams like Norwich, who draw much fewer people to the league, are badly endowed.

Nozick argues that the badly endowed gain more from cooperation than the well endowed. If Liverpool were to unilaterally resign from the Premier League, this would make it much less attractive to fans across the world, and so would harm clubs like Queens Park Rangers. If QPR were to leave the league, they could be easily replaced (as might well happen if they are relegated at the end of the season). As Nozick would doubtless insist, QPR need Liverpool more than Liverpool need QPR.

In this context, Nozick would see it as cheek for the less endowed small clubs to hold the rest of the league to ransom and demand an equal share of the Premier League spoils. The obvious alternative is to pay clubs according to their marginal product – give them the full value that they add to the league. So, for example, Liverpool would be paid as money as the league would lose by their absence.

Ian Ayre’s argument is Nozickian in tone:

"Is it right that the international rights are shared equally between all the clubs? Some people will say: 'Well you've got to all be in it to make it happen.' But isn't it really about where the revenue is coming from, which is the broadcaster, and isn't it really about who people want to watch on that channel? We know it is us. And others”.

He acknowledges that all the clubs are dependent on each other for the scheme of cooperation to work, but insists that the bigger clubs deserve more money because they contribute more to the value of the league.

So far as this argument goes, I have to say my sympathies are with Nozick. The mere fact of mutual dependence is an insufficient foundation for a persuasive argument in favour of egalitarianism. But just because they have the better of this argument does not mean we have to concede that Ayre’s behaviour is morally acceptable. There are, as T.M. Scanlon observes, a “diversity of objections to inequality”, and many of them are apt here. One objection is that inequality gives too much power to the rich, who can then buy off the power, and wield excessive influence. Another proceeds from the law of diminishing marginal utility, the observation that extra money is worth more to the poor. In the football context, the argument is that TV revenues are just a drop in the ocean for clubs with huge sponsorship deals, Champions’ League revenue and the like, but vital to clubs without these extra sources of income.

There is hardly space here to cover all the arguments made by philosophers on the subject of distributive justice, but it is a set of debates that Ayre and his colleagues may find interesting and familiar.

Comeback Kings

Sometimes we just need reminding. Most people who know and love sport do so because of the sheer dramatic unpredictability, the fact that nothing is ever certain. And yet we forget. Enough time elapses since the last miracle that we start to lose our faith. Sport is life in microcosm, and both sport and life seem to serve up inspirational examples to kindle the flame of hope when it is in danger of being extinguished.

The last few weeks have provided a couple of stunning reminders that in sport the apparently impossible rarely is. Earlier this month, Newcastle scored four times in 19 minutes to overcome a seemingly unassailable 4-0 deficit against Arsenal, the greatest comeback in Premiership history. And then yesterday England tied with India in the Cricket World Cup, despite being set a target of 338, finishing one run short of the third highest run chase in history.

These events bring back memories of an incredible eighteenth months in the middle of the last decade when on three separate occasions I felt like I was witnessing sporting history, epic comebacks, the likes of which I had never seen before and haven’t since. The first was the 2004 American League Championship Series, where the Boston Red Sox were an inning away from a 4-0 whitewash to their hated rivals the New York Yankees before recovering to win the series 4-3. In the process, they became the only side in Major League Baseball history to overturn a three game deficit. The second (of course) is the ‘Miracle of Istanbul’: the 2005 Champions’ League Final, where the fifth best team in England triumphed over AC Milan despite being 3-0 behind at half-time. Finally, the following March South Africa saw Australia score more runs than any cricket team had ever done before, and then went four better, in officially the greatest one-day international ever.

All of these occasions were incredibly tense and suspenseful, swinging one way then the other. In each of them, the identity of the victor was in doubt until the very end. Arsenal could have scored a winner in the dying minutes; the Yankees took game 5 to extra innings; the Champions’ League final went to penalties and both cricket matches involved nail biting final overs where all three results were possible. Yet such sporting drama is hardly uncommon: this season will have seen hundreds of last minute goals, and Twenty20 cricket matches almost inevitably end unpredictable last overs.

In a discussion of Twenty20 cricket, David Mitchell (of all people) hit upon the key point, the reason that Arsenal-Newcastle and India-England are so significant, and will live on in the memory beyond most of the other sporting action this year:

Sport is, in essence, the earliest and best form of reality TV (obviously it predates TV - before that, it was just "reality stuff you watch"). It's compelling because it's really happening and no one knows what the outcome will be, and whether it will be exciting and satisfying, a dull anti-climax, or maddeningly unjust

So when sport is thrilling, it's much more so than a Bourne film or an episode of 24, purely because it might have been boring; you've made the investment of time, you've taken the risk, so when the outcome is worth seeing, you're reaping the emotional reward. And there is simply less of that investment involved in Twenty20 than in Test cricket so it can't be as exciting - end of story. It may be a percentage choice for something relatively entertaining but it'll never hit the heights of the climax of an Ashes series because there haven't been five five-day matches over which the campaign has been waged - and that's without counting the hundred years of rivalry, and the literal years of total time spent actually playing over that period, which raise the stakes even more

The best sporting drama is the best sporting drama because it could so easily have been otherwise. Going behind 4-0 to Arsenal means that you will almost certainly lose, as does conceding 338 runs against India. The fact that many spectators left St. James’ Park after half an hour demonstrates this fact, and the implausibility of Newcastle’s recovery.

Equally significant is the likelihood that none of those fans will leave a football game early again. For the mere realisation that these things are possible means that every other game is imbued with the potential for shock and awe. It doesn’t matter how many goals/runs/points your team concedes, how dismally they play: anything is possible. This realisation shelters and protects hope against any number of unpleasant realities. And should hope’s defences weaken, the chances are that another improbable escape will occur to bolster them.

Yet for all their improbability, the events of the last month do not come close to eclipsing the big occasions of 2004-06. While they exemplified drama and scarcity, both lack a third crucial element of truly momentous sporting landmark: a climactic place in a broader narrative. That’s why each of the three events has a dedicated Wikipedia page with a whole section devoted to their background contexts. The Red Sox’ victory was as broad a narrative as they come, prefaced by 86 years of Bostonian failure. The more immediate context was the hurt endured by the Red Sox at the hands of the Yankees a year earlier, succumbing to a last-gasp defeat at the same stage. Liverpool’s Champions’ League story began with the damning departure of Michael Owen, a clear signal that the club’s hopes of major success were too slim to hold on to (then) one of the world’s best strikers. And yet, within nine months, one of the worst teams in the club’s history had claimed the biggest prize in club football. South Africa’s victory was an exorcism too, as the perennial ‘chokers’ overcame the burden of their 1999 World Cup semi-final defeat to beat the world champions.

By contrast, India and England’s match formed part of a group stage explicitly designed to ensure both will progress, and so is of little significance in greater scheme of the tournament. Similarly, Arsenal were likely to finish second before the Newcastle game, and are likely to finish second after it. Even if the two dropped points do eventually cost them the title, there is so much left of the season that the link is unlikely to be widely made. So while the two ties gave caused much excitement, and been a powerful reminder of the wonder of sport, they are unlikely to join the canon of truly great sporting occasions.

My Acrimonious Break-up from Fernando Torres

In Fever Pitch, among the pathologies of a football fan than Nick Hornby diagnoses is the tendency to draw analogies between serious world events and the game: “I tend to over-estimate the metaphorical value of football, and therefore introduce it to conversations where it simply does not belong. I now accept that football has no relevance to the Falklands conflict, the Rushdie affair, the Gulf War, childbirth, the ozone layer, the poll tax, etc, etc”.

The last week has demonstrated to me the reverse: things that happen in football sometimes feel like serious life events. For those of you who don’t know and don’t care, last Monday Fernando Torres, Liverpool’s star striker, successfully agitated for a move to rival club Chelsea. I’ve (thankfully) never had to undergo the break-up of a relationship, but that’s the parallel I reached for straightaway. And I was not alone. On the forums they said: “we have passion for this club burning in our hearts, and when someone says they love us and then just fucks off the way he has, it is just like breaking up with a girl. It hurts, and if they leave you in sh*te circumstances then you will hate them as well”. Mawkish youtube videos of his goals had (presumably) grown men in tears bemoaning their heartbreak, like jilted lovers weeping over old photographs. And honestly, on Monday at least, it didn’t feel absurd and disproportionate.

The analogy seems to fit, too. There were early flirtations. The giddy excitement of the first union. The exhilaration of its consummation ( the goal-as-orgasm metaphor is a downright cliché by now). There were professions of undying love: "They [Atletico Madrid and Liverpool] are the only two clubs that are in my heart. I have supported Liverpool since I was a boy and I intend on staying here a very long time."

And then it started to go wrong. Comments that seemed innocuous at the time, but which suggested dormant problems stored up for the future. Desperate vows to try and make it work as tensions and frustrations bubbled up to the surface. Finally he decided enough was enough, it wasn’t working and it was time to go. First there was denial, then resignation.

So we find ourselves in this odd post-break up situation. Feeling bitter, angry and betrayed and moved to petty vandalism. Upset by the very sight of him playing for someone else. And yet there’s vulnerability, too. I find myself clinging to articles like this one which assure me “his connection with the Chelsea fans will not be what it was with Liverpool” and that deep down he isn’t happy about the move. No one will ever love him like we did, and he must be lying when he says he was faking it.

Perhaps one day we’ll replay that final scene in the hackneyed film where time has passed and the wound has healed and we’ll be able to acknowledge that the time just wasn’t right, that we had to let him go. Or maybe he’ll never be forgiven.

Cynics will say that it was simply naïve to expect loyalty or reciprocation of our affection from a modern-day professional footballer. That’s what Torres seemed to suggest when he argued that “the romance in football has gone”. But most humans, not just footballers, can be selfish and instrumental. That in itself isn’t enough of a reason to never open your heart to them. Better to have loved and lost. Or something.