The oldest argument in any dressing room and the only one that is genuinely about football: one man thinks another is not putting enough in. It is also the row a manager privately does not mind having happened.
“Thirty minutes, door closed, everything said. We shook hands after.” Whatever was in the room stayed in the room, and Hassan Al-Ahmadi trained the next morning like a man with less to carry.
Sanousi Al-Hawsawi and a teammate said things this week that will take longer than a week to unsay. It was not about football, and both of them play on Saturday.
The oldest argument in any dressing room and the only one that is genuinely about football: one man thinks another is not putting enough in. It is also the row a manager privately does not mind having happened.
Another week, another link, another denial nobody quite believes. Damac know the market decides these things, not the back pages — but the back pages are louder.
154 days on the estimate, and a long, private, unglamorous year of a rehabilitation nobody watches. Damac lose a footballer; he loses considerably more than a season.
Sanousi Al-Hawsawi was at the centre of it, and by the time it was pulled apart there were three or four others involved. Training grounds are small places and long seasons make them smaller.
Not now, not at any price the club was prepared to say out loud. Al-Ittihad have kept their man, and Damac go back to a list with one name crossed off it.
Somebody said out loud what several people thought about how hard another man trains, and Belal Al-Dawaa was in the middle of it. The one dressing-room argument that is genuinely about football.
Fee agreed, terms agreed, medical booked. Arseny Chuzhikov will be somebody else’s player by the weekend, and around Damac the goodbyes have quietly begun.
“Things were said to me before I signed. I am not going to repeat them, but I remember all of them.” Damac have not answered, which is an answer of sorts.
Somebody said out loud what several people thought about how hard another man trains, and Belal Al-Dawaa was in the middle of it. The one dressing-room argument that is genuinely about football.
“I have nothing bad to say about this place. I just need to be somewhere else.” It is in writing now, which changes what Damac can pretend not to have heard.
Somebody said out loud what several people thought about how hard another man trains, and Arseny Chuzhikov was in the middle of it. The one dressing-room argument that is genuinely about football.
None of them will be seen by anybody outside the training ground for three years, most of them will never play a senior match, and one of them might change the club. That is the whole proposition, and it is why academies exist.
“I was told straight, and I would rather have it straight.” The manager at Damac has been clear about where Waleed Al-Sulami stands, which is more than many ever get.
The offer from Al-Khaleej for Ibrahim Al-Zahrani was heard out and sent back the same day. First bids are rarely meant to succeed; they are meant to find out how loudly the door closes.
The clubs have agreed terms, and what remains is formality: a medical, a photograph, a signature. Nobody at Damac is pretending he will be back in the shirt.
It was not about football and everybody who saw it knows that. Two men who have to play together on Saturday said things at Damac this week that will take longer than a week to unsay.
The oldest argument in any dressing room and the only one that is genuinely about football: one man thinks another is not putting enough in. It is also the row a manager privately does not mind having happened.
It has been denied twice and printed three times, which is the usual arithmetic. Until Khaled Al-Sumairi signs something — a contract at Damac or anywhere else — this column belongs to him.
Numbers do not stay secret in a dressing room and never have. He is not asking for more than he is worth; he is asking why somebody beside him is worth more, and at Damac that is a harder question to answer.
Public backing, and the sort that costs a manager something if it turns out to be wrong. Sanousi Al-Hawsawi has been told in front of everybody that the shirt is his.
In brief
SquadThe training reports on Akmal Ganiev are not good
The words a physio says slowly. 18 days is what the club will announce and everybody who has heard this diagnosis before knows the number is the least of it: the knee comes back before the player does.
Jonathan Okita and a teammate said things this week that will take longer than a week to unsay. It was not about football, and both of them play on Saturday.
The oldest argument in any dressing room and the only one that is genuinely about football: one man thinks another is not putting enough in. It is also the row a manager privately does not mind having happened.
The window is open, and with it the only month of the year when a supporter’s hopes are limited by nothing but arithmetic. The board know the arithmetic; the supporters know the hopes.
“Thirty minutes, door closed, everything said. We shook hands after.” Whatever was in the room stayed in the room, and Ehsan Ebrahimi trained the next morning like a man with less to carry.
25 days on the announcement, and a year of quiet, unwatched rehabilitation behind it. Damac lose a player for a season; he loses something harder to name.
The clubs have agreed terms, and what remains is formality: a medical, a photograph, a signature. Nobody at Damac is pretending he will be back in the shirt.
Jonathan Okita was at the centre of it, and by the time it was pulled apart there were three or four others involved. Training grounds are small places and long seasons make them smaller.
Somebody said out loud what several people had been thinking. Arseny Chuzhikov is at the centre of it, and the squad will now find out whether the standard rises or the pair of them simply stop speaking.
The speculation has reached the stands, and the stands have answered. Damac would like this settled before it becomes the only thing anybody asks about.
“Thirty minutes, door closed, everything said. We shook hands after.” Whatever was in the room stayed in the room, and Ehsan Ebrahimi trained the next morning like a man with less to carry.
The clubs have agreed terms, and what remains is formality: a medical, a photograph, a signature. Nobody at Damac is pretending he will be back in the shirt.
“This is not anger. I have thought about it for months, and nothing that has happened lately changed my mind.” The request is on a desk at Damac, and it is not being withdrawn.
Somebody said out loud what several people had been thinking. Ibrahim Al-Zahrani is at the centre of it, and the squad will now find out whether the standard rises or the pair of them simply stop speaking.
It has been denied twice and printed three times, which is the usual arithmetic. Until Ibrahim Al-Zahrani signs something — a contract at Damac or anywhere else — this column belongs to him.
“Judge me on him.” Managers do not say that kind of thing by accident — it moves the pressure from David Kaiki’s shoulders onto his own, and both of them know it.
Every paper's favourite story and every manager's least. What happened is being dealt with internally, which is the phrase clubs use when they would rather nobody asked again.
Jonathan Okita and a teammate said things this week that will take longer than a week to unsay. It was not about football, and both of them play on Saturday.
Somebody said out loud what several people thought about how hard another man trains, and Belal Al-Dawaa was in the middle of it. The one dressing-room argument that is genuinely about football.
It is never announced and it is entirely visible: the biggest afternoons of the season keep containing him. A press box works this out long before anybody at the club confirms a word of it.
A conversation in the manager’s office, and a commitment that came out of it. Promises like that are cheap to make and expensive to break, and Ibrahim Al-Zahrani has written the date down.