Martin Demichelis Is Pellegrini's Bad Lieutenant

Illustration by Sam Taylor

On Tuesday night, as I watched Martín Demichelis trudge from the field like a warrior who’s just found out his village is about to be burnt to the ground in front of him, I thought about what kind of player the 33-year-old Argentine represents. If football is a battlefield then the manager is the general and his players are his soldiers. Having played for Manuel Pellegrini at River Plate, Malaga and now Manchester City, Demichelis is a perfect example of the “trusted lieutenant”, the man who moves with his manager for reasons that have more to do with familiarity and emotional support than footballing ability. He’s the valued companion who’ll fight the good fight out on the pitch, the familiar face who will make the latest move from one club to another that little bit more bearable, the dressing room mole who’ll stand up for his gaffer when the other players are calling him a dick.

Whenever a manager moves club, his new club’s supporters wonder which of his old players he’ll try and sign. Demichelis is, at best, a wise head. At worst, he’s a creaking disaster who needs to be quietly and gently taken out to the back porch and eased into a rocking chair with a nice hot gourd of mate. But his presence has no doubt been an enormous help to Pellegrini, a lonely man in a strange country. Still, while he was actually quite good before he was sent off against Barcelona, he has been erratic for most of the season. The fact that he will continue to play an important part for the team this season is a reminder that, even in the midst of Sheikh Mansour’s gleaming footballing oiltopia, some human feeling remains. Demichelis may not even be as good as Joleon Lescott but he’s Pelligrini’s boy, so he’s sticking around.

At Old Trafford last summer, fans were asking the same questions about whom David Moyes might bring from Everton. Part of Moyes’ failure so far this season seems to be that it was Fellaini, not Baines, who he brought along with him from Goodison. The fact that he did it for far too much cash and has since refused to play Fellaini in his best position has only exacerbated the problem. When Roy Hodgson moved to Liverpool, he managed to mumble and bumble his way into an even worse situation, bringing not Clint Dempsey but Paul Konchesky with him from Fulham.

It seemed impossible that a man more bald and more average existed and then, just when it seemed it couldn’t get any worse, that Konchesky could be treated any more like a stray, incontinent dog by the Anfield faithful, his mum stepped in and called the people of Liverpool “Scouse Scum”. Hodgson took the flak for Konchesky but when Kenny Dalglish came in, the left-back was shipped out to the Championship, a trusted lieutenant who never should have followed his general. It must be how Roberto Soldado is feeling now AVB has gone and now that Emmanuel Adebayor, shunned by Villas Boas but embraced by Tim Sherwood, is playing instead of him. The more associated you are with a manager; the more chance there is that you will share his failures. And in football, failure is the norm.

You could say the fates of football’s trusted lieutenants were mirrored thousands of years ago on ancient battlefields. When things go well on the football pitch, trophies are won, Cristal is drunk and women are taken to expensive hotels. When things went well on ancient battlefields, trophies were plundered, undiluted wine was swilled and local women were taken to ornately decorated tents. Great generals had great right-hand men. Caesar had Mark Antony, who, upon Caesar’s death, teamed up with and was then defeated by Octavian. Octavian changed his name to Augustus and became Rome’s first emperor and his trusted strongman Marcus Agrippa became a rich and powerful man, a truly successful trusted lieutenant. Before these Romans there was a Macedonian, Alexander, who conquered half the world and who hurled a javelin through the heart of his trusted officer Cleitus following a drunken argument. Alexander regretted this pissed-up homicide for the rest of his days.

Trusted lieutenants, then, don’t always remain trusted. Jose Mourinho who, like a great general, is demanding, intense, charismatic and paranoid, has carted a few players with him from brink to brink. Ricardo Carvalho, a man who looks more like a 17th century brigand intent on robbing you in a back alley of some flea-ridden port than a footballer, has been Mourinho’s great officer, going with him from Porto to Chelsea to Real Madrid. In three different countries, Carvalho pulled shirts and kicked ankles for his boss. He is one of the greatest defenders of the last 15 years and in return for his dirty work, Mourinho gave him trophies and riches. "We haven't always agreed on things, because he is too demanding,” Carvalho said of his Special One, “but I've won a lot with him. He asked a huge amount of me, and I grew up thanks to him."

If the Mourinho-Carvalho relationship was built on pragmatism, the relationship Michael Essien had with the man he called “Daddy” always seemed more sentimental. Mourinho brought the Ghanaian to Chelsea, then to Real Madrid and then back to Chelsea in spite of concerns about his reduced potency. An image search for the two men shows them with their arms around each other in a car park, laughing at press conferences and deep in conversation. Now, Essien has gone to Milan, and while the noises from both sides are that it was an amicable and respectful parting of ways, couldn’t Mourinho have done more for his old soldier? He hasn’t put a javelin through his heart, but has he broken it? Xabi Alonso and Rafa Benitez were once so close that the midfield maestro was known as “son of Rafa”. Then Alonso missed a European tie because his wife was about to give birth, Rafa tried to swap him for Gareth Barry and a year later Alonso was on his way to Madrid, citing Rafa’s cool betrayal as his primary motivation.

At the most British end of elite British football, two easily caricatured managers, Sam Allardyce and Harry Redknapp, are well known for bringing players from club to club. This January, Harry wanted to sign Peter Crouch for a FIFTH (CAPS courtesy of the Mirror) time. Niko Kranjčar and Benoit Assou-Ekotto are both with him at QPR, as they were at Spurs (and Portsmouth, in Kranjčar’s case). His attachment to certain players is touching and oddly funny. I mean, to sign Peter Crouch once may be regarded as a misfortune, to try and sign him five times looks like mental illness.

Over at Upton Park, Big Sam’s red right hand, Kevin Nolan, continues to throw his weight around as a uniquely unsophisticated number 10, roaming between the midfield and forward lines like an enraged mammoth that has just been woken from extinction. Jussi Jääskeläinen, who spent eight of his 15 years at Bolton with Allardyce, has been the Premier League’s oldest starting goalkeeper this year and while he was once brilliant, it’s probably a good thing that Big Sam has finally wised up to the fact that the Big Finn is now not quite the player he was in the late 20th century, when Julian Casablancas was still worrying about getting his Baccalaureate, and Jääskeläinen signed for Bolton.

However hapless they can be and however sour things can turn, trusted lieutenants represent something reassuringly human in football. In a world of £300k-a-week deals and human rights abusing owners, the loyal on-pitch soldier is a reminder that football can also be about a relationship between human beings. In a game that is increasingly obsessed with pass completion ratios and the muscular durability of millionaires, the noble form of Martín Demichelis, long hair tied back, ready for action, is a reminder that footballers aren’t just a collection of attributes waiting to be slotted into a perfectly rehearsed plan.

@oscarrickettnow