Marlon Harewood: Hero or Villan?

My opinion on Marlon Harewood has fluctuated more wildly than the stock exchange, and I thought I'd give a brief history of my views on this very divisive individual.

In the early days at Forest, I can't say I had an opinion on him. I'd heard his name, but never really cared to study his form. Was he good? Was he an embarrassment to the club? I was very much in the dark.

My only real opinion of Harewood during his West Ham days came when he scored a hat trick against my beloved Villa in a humiliating 4-0 defeat. And with this being a family blog, I won't repeat those thoughts on 'ere.

So, still grossly unaware of his work - when Martin O'Neill splashed the £4m asking price and beat Wigan to his signature, I thought I'd better do a bit of research.

What I found was quite remarkable. Some fans hailed The Hare as a legendary goal-scoring machine who should be playing for his country and should be playing for his country now, dammit!
While others chastised his embarrassing misses and ridiculed his Goomba-style head, not to mention the very idea that he could play for the national side!

Who was this man? I was still none the wiser as to whether O'Neill was making a brilliantly astute signing or if he was panic-buying and landing Villa with a shockingly piss-poor bench-warmer.

It was a few games before he made an appearance, but a goal against Wrexham in the League Cup (part of a 5-0 demolition of the lowly League Two strugglers) had him pencilled into my good books in no time. Marlon Harewood a joke? Shurely shome mishtake!

Then came the Spurs game.

The occasion was very much Lilywhite-orientated. It was their 125th anniversary, and the celebrations were threatening to overshadow the game itself. Those celebrations went into meltdown when the ever-casual Berbatov gave the East London over-achievers the lead.
That lead was short-lived, and the Jumping Dane, Martin Laursen, equalised within minutes thanks to a completely out-of-character howler from Paul Robinson! Soon after, Villa were in front, after a second Robinson clanger, and just before the break we were cruising to a famous victory when Agbonlahor made it 3-1.
Half time was spent dancing around with me dad, waving claret and blue flags and laughing at the pitiful Robinson and his pitiful outfield cohorts.

In the second half, things went from good to fantastic. Craig Gardner rifled home a superb free kick, and the celebrations in the Madge family household hit their peak. Four goals away from home against a side who were not only meant to be enjoying their birthday, but were also meant to be THE team capable of breaking into the supposed Big Three*.
The Villa fans at The Lane started chanting the hilarious "Happy Birthday to you", and before long, the "You're getting sacked in the morning" chant was being aimed well and truly in the direction of the ill-fated Martin Jol.
This was brilliant. This was what it was all about. This was the Martin O'Neill effect in action, right before my eyes. This was my team, destroying another, and it was only going to get better.

Then Marlon Harewood was brought on as a substitute.

Within a matter of minutes the score was 4-2, and then Harewood decided, upon seeing Darren Bent travelling away from the goal and posing no threat whatsoever, that he would try and decapitate the over-priced forward with what can only be described as a crane kick!
Penalty. Converted. 4-3.

So at 4-3, with just 8 minutes remaining, it was officially time to panic. Hands were trembling, fingernails were being shredded, and then deep, deep, deep into stoppage time, the Spurs they did equalise.
The unthinkable had happened and my heart exploded into a million, trillion bits.

Was this a case of Villa's general inability to finish a game? Was this a case of the Gods of Fate working overtime? Was it a case of Spurs having the heart and character to fight back?

No. It was all Marlon Harewood's fault. The cone-headed twat!

It was reactionary and it was petulant, but I insisted I never wanted to see Marlon Harewood in a Villa shirt again. I felt hurt and confused. This guy didn't seem so bad. He'd scored for us earlier in the season. And now he'd broken my heart and shattered my dreams. How could he do this to me? Why would he do this to me?!

I meant what I said, and I wasn't prepared to give Harewood another chance. He'd been given the opportunity to become a Holte End Hero and he'd blown it. Nothing he could do from now on could make up for that. Nothing.

In fact, I thought I would be enduring a severe case of deja vu when he was brought on as a substitute against Blackburn. We were away from home. We were three goals up. We were playing quality football and toying with the European places.
"If Harewood comes on, who knows what could happen?" I remarked.
He scored a few minutes later (his 100th league goal) and we won 4-0. But I was stubborn and I was sticking to my guns. Nothing he could do from now on could ever make up for the Spurs game. Nothing.

Then came Liverpool v Villa.

I'll be honest and I'll say it now. In this game, we were absolutely fucking awful. We were without Gareth Barry for the first time in 3858943 games and we looked like it. There was no leadership, there was no heart, and there was NO distribution at all.
We'd win the ball extremely well, thanks to Nigel Reo-Coker, but we'd pass it straight to a red-shirted goon and find ourselves under a rather large cosh. We were a goal down at half time, and a goal down after an hour.

Then Marlon Harewood was brought on as a substitute.

I screamed, I shouted, I damn-near cried my eyes bloody! I was fuming and I didn't care who knew it. We needed to score, not attempt to murder Liverpool players with kung-fu. Why was this sorry excuse for a Villa player being brought on? Something did seem different, but still, it was all over now, surely? The transcript with my father probably went something like this:

"Harewood?! No! Why is he bringing him on?"
"He'll probably score"
"He wont! He's shit! I can't believe he's bringing Harewood on! Have you forgotten the Spurs game? He nearly killed Darren Bent with that kick and - blimey, he looks quite pumped up and ready to play - I hate him"

He was on the field for 5 minutes, if that, and all of my ludicrous fears were allayed.

Marlon Harewood scored what could be the greatest goal of his career, and in doing so, redeemed himself completely. I leapt higher than O'Neill in celebration and all was forgiven. Mighty Marlon had emerged and bygones were bygones.
Three minutes after Marlon's spectacular overhead volley, we were in front and the roof of my house still hasn't recovered. Thanks to Harewood and his pumped up, passionate attitude, we had turned the game on its head and were looking at a crucial victory.
As it turned out, we were pegged back ourselves three minutes from time and it finished 2-2, but that really is by the by. In hindsight, it was a point from a game in which we'd played an hour of terrible football and probably should have lost.
And it was all thanks to the man I'd previously turned my back on. The man who I didn't want to see playing for my club again. The man who I'd decided was a true waste of £4m.

The man I now utterly adore.

Since the Liverpool game, he hasn't stopped endearing himself to me, the crazy scrunch-faced loon!

He hit the bar against Blackburn, shone in a poor team performance against Fulham, and totally changed the game against Newcastle (One nil, and you fucked it up!), even being described as a 'bully' by the very non-Messianic Kevin Keegan.
To be truthful, I'm still not totally sure a starting place for Harewood is a good idea, as he is a player who seems to thrive on making an impact as a super-sub, but there's still a strong case for a Carew/Harewood partnership in the starting 11.

And now, there really isn't a lot left for me to wax lyrical on as far as The Hare is concerned, other than to apologise. To make amends for all my previous criticism and hatred. To retract my derogatory comments and to embrace this superb player as a true Aston Villa legend.

Marlon Anderson Harewood, I salute you!

* There is no Big Four. And if there is, historically speaking, we're already part of it, babAy.