Finger-painting and hakuna matata

7 Oct, 2010 Eric Fultz England, Premier League

After wrapping up last season with a yawn and indifference, my attention turned to the holy grail of sporting events; June progressed and the World Cup slowly warmed the cold, cynical recesses of my heart. I was, after all, sitting on my couch in the midst of a sweltering summer thousands of miles away from the frigid stands in South Africa. But eventually the spectacle wore to a close, yielding to a transfer market mustering its usual insanity. And then, like Sir Elton John serenading Simba, we witnessed the rebirth of a new Premier League season.

Rather than pinch the newborn’s cheeks and coo over the inevitable cuteness of the infant (even Wayne Rooney wasn’t always an ogre), let’s conveniently fast forward seven weeks into the future. The season is beginning to take shape and teams are beginning to find their feet: Chelsea is telling everyone they want to be champions when they’re older, West Ham is struggling with the concept of pants. Very good, nothing new to see here, move along. Newly promoted West Brom is level on points with Arsenal?! Liverpool and Everton share a relegation spot?! It’s as if the kid who eats paste has swapped roles with the teacher’s pet.

If I were to assign the fledgling 2010/2011 English Premiership Table a mark for its work so far, I believe it has earned a solid “WTF” – for the children out there let’s assume that stands for “What is This Football”. While the season is far too young to assign winners and losers, the table haphazardly finger-paints a confusing portrait of reds, whites, clarets and blues. Just what is this thing supposed to be? This bit here looks sort of like a trophy in West London and that might be comeuppance headed Gold and Sullivan’s way, but what is the rest of this mess?

Dimitar Berbatov has become a Bulgarian to fear rather than shrug your shoulders at, but Manchester United can’t seem to buy an away win anywhere in Liverpool, Fulham, or Sunderland. Suddenly it seems money can buy you titles (or at least runners-up medals) in the bluer half of Manchester. Blackpool supporters find their lives enlightened not only by Premiership matches again but quality football at that, while Mersey-side has suddenly become a black abyss regardless of your colors.

Premier League seasons have a way of sorting themselves out as they mature, trying on different phases while they figure out who they are. The Baggies might say they want to be Prime Minister now and Liverpool may look foolish until they realize they can’t grow up to be a dinosaur, but 38 rounds of games tend to teach a hard lesson or two even the worst students can understand. Until then, I plan on enjoying the new cycle of matches as they unfold every week. Don’t forget kid, hakuna matata; you can be anything you want to be. And while you’re up, bring your uncle a beer. He’s got football to watch.