The Transfer Deadline: Day for the deluded or window of opportunity ?

There is something hugely entertaining about Transfer Deadline Day.

After nearly four months to assemble their squad, clubs scramble around like a panicking teenager on the day before a new term, desperately trying to source uniform, books and a geometry set at short notice, whilst starting the homework they have had six weeks to complete.

Sky Sports devote huge resources akin to a General Election, announcing the transfer of a Sunderland squad player on  par to a moon landing, while expectant fans religiously press F5 on their favourite news sites praying for a positive update, whilst wishfully thinking ‘he could have done a job for us’ at every other clubs’ incoming moves.

Nowhere is the novelty greater highlighted than with the managers themselves, with all forms of methodical planning disappearing out the (transfer) window. In relation to most transfers, months are normally spent scouting, painstakingly studying the pros and cons of potential targets ability, strengths, weaknesses and character, whilst enquiring whether there is a Russian school nearby to educate said target’s offspring, or a respected spa to entertain the WAG in tow.

Yet on transfer window day all forms of research and long-term considerations are instantly dismissed, with clubs frantically launching a fax and mobile phone assault as the criteria widens by every hour. As the deadline approaches, an ability to possess two feet in general working order and no other pressing engagements on Saturday’s, become a sound gauge for a successful signing.

Experienced managers, those who remember when a good ol’ fashioned wheel and deal were a fundamental part of football management, thrive in these instances. In years to come, it is far more likely that Harry Redknapp will have the last day of the window named in his honour than any grandstand marking his memory. Harry and Daniel Levy must surely be the ultimate Deadline Day marriage.

Hope of excitement is not just contained to the cash-laden Premiership, though expectations are more realistically managed in the lower echelons, and more pertinently carry the fear that the star striker is about to be sold to plug finances, and bolster Wigan’s substitute bench. As long as the best players remain, lower leaguers are simply happy to see absolutely anyone arriving, as it suggests their club is not about to go into administration any time soon. And If you have previously heard of the acquisition, then that is double the jackpot.

Wind-up merchants equally flourish on Deadline Day. South East London was a buzz on whispers that a rejuvenated Charlton were boosting their squad with the addition of a player from Real, with Champions League experience under his belt. Amazingly, said player did duly arrive, but hopes of Guti or Diarra drifting over the Woolwich Ferry were crushed by confirmation that the new superstar hailed not from Real, but Welsh League side Rhyl. The Champions League experience amounted to a twelve-goal qualifying round drumming by Partisan Belgrade.

It wasn’t just The Valley where the silly season was in evidence. Airport baggage handlers, taxi drivers and hotel receptionists suddenly become the most well-connected jobs in the land for a twenty-four hour period. Suddenly ‘Uncle John’, a baggage handler at Liverpool airport, helped load the expensive luggage of an Italian superstar into a Goodison Park-bound taxi at exactly the same time that Heather’s niece Kathryn, who doesn’t really know anything about football and isn’t one to gossip, checked the same Italian into a West London hotel for a meeting with a Mr Kenyon. None, however, could beat the Severn Bridge toll worker, who whilst accepting change and lifting the barrier was asked by Jermaine Beckford how much further it was to Cardiff. The same Jermaine Beckford spotted twenty minutes earlier buying a pasty in the Bolton High St outlet of Greggs.

Of course, 99% of the rumours prove to be false, and that is what gives the day its main attraction. Gullible fans, who dared to believe the rumours carried some modicum of truth and raised their expectations to unrealistic levels, express frustration that their club didn’t make enough effort to get (non-existent) deals over the line. Their disappointment with their club, and disillusion with ‘football in general’ restored to the earlier levels.

But Sky’s roving reporters surely get the thinnest end of the wedge. Camped for eternity in the cold like a deranged rock fan holding a vigil outside their favourite artist’s hotel, they begrudgingly slip away from Man City’s training ground with disappointment that football’s latest bottomless pocket had failed to lure Barrack Obama on a lucrative four-year deal. Camera and microphone safely returned to the van, it’s now off to Boundary Park to cover the Johnson’s Paint Trophy Northern Section tie between Oldham and Accrington, holding a candle of hope that Sven will be there scouting, whilst undertaking loud telephone calls to free agents Maradona and Paul Gascoigne.

The window may well be transparent, but that does not stop it becoming a platform for unrealistic perspectives.