He picks up cautions like an industrial magnet attracting metal shavings and stands out like a neon minaret on Goodison’s green turf; Moyes recently called him the league’s best midfielder, and he isn’t far from becoming just that. Marouane Fellaini was whisked in just before the transfer window closed in 2008, Evertonians had been baying for blood after a barren summer and the Belgian was Moyes’ great white hope. The only problem was that Fellaini didn’t look like a ÂŁ15 million player, he was – and still is – very young, a lanky foal with ridiculous hair who throws a teenage strop whenever free-kicks are given against him.
If you don’t hit the ground running in the Premier League a swarm of criticism will hunt you down – Fellaini was being played out of position, but still many journos insisted on reading this book by its cover – to them he was pricey with big hair – only now are they realizing just what a prospect he is.
The focus has slowly drifted down from the frizz to his feet this season. Defensive midfielders are a strange genus; the gifted Michael Essien once told an interviewer that he sleeps for 14 hours a night to top up his superhuman stamina. Fellaini, in his deep midfield role, is as fastidious as a suspicious border guard, running checks on all attackers – yet when you stand in the Park End car park watching the players arrive you see a man as feral as Mowgli who looks like he sleeps 14 hours a month, barely wearing his suit, unshaven, wearing no socks and a bewildered gaze. He’s an ‘if you want something done properly, do it yourself’ kind of player – in many ways he plays just like a fan that has somehow found his way onto the pitch. Elbows flay with every leap, ill-advised challenges fly in and cards are dished out – he lives life with the sleeves rolled up.
The hair brings Fellaini instant recognition: from referees a wave of frowns and yellow cards, from fans a rash of copycat wigs pepper the stands, and from opponents fear. Robinho’s final collapse as a Premier League player coincided with his team’s visit to Goodison – when running toward Fellaini and his wrecking-ball hair, Robinho chickened out of the challenge. Perhaps the litmus test of any suspect foreign player’s abilitiy to thrive in the rough and tumble of the Premier League, should no longer be whether he can come through a bitter Wednesday night at Bolton, but whether he can handle Marouane Fellaini.
Any delight at Kyriagos seeing red in the derby was quickly annuled by loosing Fellaini to injury. The Belgian sets the pace for our midfield, and his injury changed the whole team’s persona. Bringing on Mikel Arteta transformed us, it’s been a year since he played a full game, and tossing him into the derby meant exchanging two entirely different players, like swapping a Dodge Ram for a Ferrari. At a stroke our midfield turned from a swarm of ultra-violent footballing droogs to a neutered group of middle-management drones.
Arteta, yet to reach match-fitness, didn’t (and shouldn’t have been expected to) throw himself around, lunging and lusting for the ball like Fellaini had done – and as the Spaniard is still rehabilitating his knee he wasn’t going to match Fellaini’s tempo. What we got was a more cerebral player, soaking up possession, always looking to play balls on the deck – and it somehow stunted us. The king had returned, but certain players shrank in his presence – Pienaar and Osman seemed to be subservient to him in terms of creativity. These worries were washed away by our win over Chelsea, and if we can meld Arteta, with his plastic Ken-doll hair and glorious portfolio of passes, with Fellaini – a player made of frogs and snails, and puppy-dogs tails, we could have one of the best midfield pairings in the league.
