Post discussions here.
Also - feel free to send things to my new gmail pseuds' account: pseudscorner@gmail.com
Thursday, May 17, 2007
Cotton and paper, posts about t-shirts and books
Hello all, there is talk of the creation of t-shirts featuring pseuds logos, the publishing of books of our finest tappings, and other malarkey.
Post discussions here.
Also - feel free to send things to my new gmail pseuds' account: pseudscorner@gmail.com
Post discussions here.
Also - feel free to send things to my new gmail pseuds' account: pseudscorner@gmail.com
It’s evolution baby! - file
Through the open screens, past our banana tree, on the dusty street in front of me a dark and swarthy songthaew driver is teaching his four year old son how to roundkick. Muay Thai is still passed down from father to son here in Thailand and this is a common scene in the suburbs and back sois as if the Thais are never quite sure when the Burmese might invade again.
It’s definitely sanuk (fun), the boy is giggling and the big man too is smiling, enjoying the challenges of gentleness. The boy, as boys will, sometimes gets carried away and tries to ‘chop down the tree’ in a frenzy of wobbly kicks which bounce off the man's calf like baby moths off a Boeing and inevitably lead to a tumble. It’s another occasion for another defining Thai concept; ‘Jai yen yen’ (keep a cool heart) from Dad.
These are my neighbours to the left, Dad is, confusingly, called Boy and the boy is known as Dam which means black because his skin is dark. Mum is evidently busy somewhere frying up chilies and shrimp paste and my eyes sting and water so I close up the front of the room, anyway it’s nearly mosquito feeding time.
Later, when the air has cleared and Dam has been exhausted, his older brother Boon goes off to the end of our soi to play Takraw with his mates. Takraw is every bit as ubiquitous as Muay Thai here and might loosely be defined as a team game like volleyball without the hands.
There’s a patch of cleared ground there which does for them and an empty plastic Coke bottle which serves as a takraw. Takraw is a game and takraw is a varnished rattan ball about the size of a cantaloupe melon, takraw is also the generic name for any basket; ‘sai takraw’ in Thai means to throw in the bin.
They’ve got a ‘net’ that could be an interpretation of badminton regulations, except that its made from two T-shirts hung over a string tied on one side to a papaya tree. In common with the old ‘sweaters-as-goalposts’ rules football, the boundaries of the ‘court’ are in the mind of the beholder. This is the norm for street-takraw and you can probably predict yourself the fierce disputes over these imaginary lines in the more serious games; motorbike taxi driver gangs vs. the police for instance. Crazy huh? Ask a Parisian longitudinalist where the Greenwich meridian should be.
I digress, you can watch the game everywhere here; among the corrugated aluminium and cardboard shanty towns that line the canals of Raemkaengpaeng and Klong Toey as well as purpose built courts in Chiang Mai University’s woody campus. From under the heaving expressways of Bangkok, in lead blue clouds, to the crew deck and lapis skies of those rusting ferries that cross the gulf of Siam between Surat Thani and Ko Samui. Anywhere there’s a gap of unused clear and flat-ish space a gang of Thai males might well congregate of an evening to play or watch Takraw.
Not just in Thailand either, my only personal experience of playing Takraw was on the banks of the Mekong in Vientiane, Laos. Apparently it’s all over Asia and historically it probably spread out from China around the 11 century, though this is hotly disputed by Malays and Indonesians in these days of the sports growing organization and commercialization.
As you might expect from an ancient Asian folk game played in a land of defiantly laughing scofflaws, a clear definition is a tad tricky to pin down. A website I read for this piece suggests that I ‘Cross soccer with volleyball and mix in a bit of gymnastics and kung fu’, another site emphatically and enigmatically describes Takraw as ‘a startling game in which players must neither touch the ball nor let it hit the ground’. (sic)
The game the lads play round our way is a bit simpler than that though; to them it’s a sort of kick ball keepie-uppie which is more about enjoyment than winning. You don’t have to pass and you don’t have to try and hit the other teams ground, but you may. Athletic displays of juggling are roundly appreciated and ‘score’ just as highly as vicious spikes and smashes. It may be appreciated by some that popular agreement over artistic impression is broadly accepted as the preferred arbiter and critical acclaim is not often easy to win.
Therefore while Boon and his team play hard for points they are at peace with the knowledge that it might not win them the game and regularly sacrifice scoring for skill. This is quite radically different from most western game constructs but just part of the reframing necessary for farang to understand Takraw and Thai (Asian) culture as a whole.
Which is a shame because it’s a great game to watch; you see flips and bobbles and tips and headers, kicks and knees and hips and elbows, toe-pokes, chests and spikes. Jumping, spinning round kicks, flying over-head bicycle and axe kicks that soar above the net. Most westerners reflect, like myself, that; ‘If he could do that in the box at Old Trafford he’d be a millionaire!’
In the feverish hands of Dr Americanstein however this diverse and challenging ancient sport became the cheap and cheerful Hacky Sack in the ‘70s. Not surprisingly it disfigured, in translation, the whole concept of Jago; the archetypal proud cockerel that so fiercely drives the martial artists of Penjak Silat, inspiring mercurial Robin Hoods all over south-east Asia and providing an individualistic point of balance in a prevalent group mind.
There are similarities between Takraw and Muay Thai too. In traditional Muay Thai and Burmese Boxing of the 11th and 12th centuries the hands were originally thought of as ‘weak’ weapons, compared to elbows, knees or shins, unless they were rapped in hemp and broken glass and in Takraw the hands are forgotten completely. High kicks are valued in both disciplines as is the spinning physical dynamic of generating power. The grace and composure too, which characterize much of Thai culture, can be seen in the square rings of the Lumpini stadium as well as on the street corner Takraw courts of Lopburi.
As the light fades the kids return home, stopping to take a few penalties between the gateposts of Boons house. ‘Bekkum’ cries the smallest of them as he charges up for a prodigious strike; it sails over the gate, house and into the field behind in a chilling reenactment of the Euro 2004 quarter-final.
Football came to Thailand in 1897 and the Thai FA was set up in 1916 and nowadays it is by far the most popular spectator sport here even though the local clubs play before nigh-empty stands. Everyone here supports Man U or Liverpool or some such and the persistent visitor will eventually not be surprised by kids who claim their undying, and frankly bizarre, loyalty to Nottingham Forest or Swindon Town. There is fantastically intense criticism and support here that really supersedes even the hyperboly of the European press who often refer to the ‘fantastically intense criticism and support’ in Asia. If you didn’t watch that game (Germany 1 England 5) in a broken karaoke bar in a Bangkok slum you have no idea of what those words mean.
Unless you were in a pub in Toxteth of course…
Thailand have never qualified for a world cup but often do well in the SEA games and Tiger Cup. This year they lost in a bitterly contentious 2 legged final to Singapore but have recently won twice under the guidance of the glazed-eyed scouser; Peter Withe, who was at Nottingham Forest at the same time as the present Singapore manager Raddy Avramovitch was at Notts County. Coincidence? You decide.
In Brazil, the first sports club was set up in Sao Paulo in 1888 and as a direct result of the pioneering work of Charles Miller the Brazilian FA was formed in 1914, two years earlier than the Thai organisation. While Brazilians went on to inspire the world with their ‘beautiful game’ and to dominate world football competitions almost since their inception, the Thais stayed at home. But what made the Brazilians so adept, creative and unstoppable?
Surely natural physical characteristics has had a role to play but perhaps the key contributing factors were from an indigenous culture that cherished rhythm, grace, flexibility and physical artistic expression. Indigenous, not of South America originally but of 16th centuryAfrica, from where the Bantu traditions of Angola evolved to become both Samba and Capoeira and which now define Brazilian style.
What effect did the existing styles of movement have on the development of Brazilian football? It is interesting to note that one ‘plays’ Samba just like one ‘plays’ Capoeira and that Europeans exhibit far less of the characteristics of ‘play’ in their attitude to the game of football than their South American cousins. It is also, perhaps, significant that one of the threads leading to the development of Pele’s beautiful game is the amazingly acrobatic martial art of Capoeira. The spinning, rolling, jumping and range of motions are unlike anything in European physical culture and add a whole different dimension to the potential of a football player.
Another feature of the evolution of football style of play is the economic conditions in which it ferments. In Europe the riches accumulated from the colonies and the Industrial Revolution brought accelerated social prosperity driving football slowly from its working class roots and redefining leisure time. Whereas in Brazil the economic conditions which conspired to produce today’s stars are not so very different from those of Charles Millers protégés.
In short; the incumbent culture on which football came to lay in Brazil can be defined by its playfulness, alternative ranges of motion and social hardship, not so very different from that of Thailand really.
At the moment the Thai’s are still generally quite physically small compared to Europeans or South Americans but that whore of a factile which reveals that the average height of the Japanese has increased by 7 feet since the end of World War II may also be indicative of what could happen here as socio-economic conditions improve. Also the recent history of the Thai FA has been a catalogue of perceived incompetence and corruption and there is still a long, long way to go before Thai domestic football reaches anything like its potential. That said, there is no reason to think that things will not get better.
Watching little Dam from my front room I see the power of play, watching his brother Boon on the makeshift Takraw court I see the perseverance and awesome range of skills. Then watching him and ‘Bekkum’ taking penalties till the sun goes down I think I can see clearly which way they are going ... towards the evolution of a new style of football that you haven’t yet seen, the promise of tomorrow's beautiful game.
It’s not probable but it is possible, you might just want to set your cryogenic alarm clocks so you can surprise the living daylights out of your great-great-great-grandchildren as they are sitting watching Thailand beat England in the 2102 World Cup Final by bursting out of your ice box and shouting ‘Takraw!’
It’s definitely sanuk (fun), the boy is giggling and the big man too is smiling, enjoying the challenges of gentleness. The boy, as boys will, sometimes gets carried away and tries to ‘chop down the tree’ in a frenzy of wobbly kicks which bounce off the man's calf like baby moths off a Boeing and inevitably lead to a tumble. It’s another occasion for another defining Thai concept; ‘Jai yen yen’ (keep a cool heart) from Dad.These are my neighbours to the left, Dad is, confusingly, called Boy and the boy is known as Dam which means black because his skin is dark. Mum is evidently busy somewhere frying up chilies and shrimp paste and my eyes sting and water so I close up the front of the room, anyway it’s nearly mosquito feeding time.
Later, when the air has cleared and Dam has been exhausted, his older brother Boon goes off to the end of our soi to play Takraw with his mates. Takraw is every bit as ubiquitous as Muay Thai here and might loosely be defined as a team game like volleyball without the hands.
There’s a patch of cleared ground there which does for them and an empty plastic Coke bottle which serves as a takraw. Takraw is a game and takraw is a varnished rattan ball about the size of a cantaloupe melon, takraw is also the generic name for any basket; ‘sai takraw’ in Thai means to throw in the bin.
They’ve got a ‘net’ that could be an interpretation of badminton regulations, except that its made from two T-shirts hung over a string tied on one side to a papaya tree. In common with the old ‘sweaters-as-goalposts’ rules football, the boundaries of the ‘court’ are in the mind of the beholder. This is the norm for street-takraw and you can probably predict yourself the fierce disputes over these imaginary lines in the more serious games; motorbike taxi driver gangs vs. the police for instance. Crazy huh? Ask a Parisian longitudinalist where the Greenwich meridian should be.
I digress, you can watch the game everywhere here; among the corrugated aluminium and cardboard shanty towns that line the canals of Raemkaengpaeng and Klong Toey as well as purpose built courts in Chiang Mai University’s woody campus. From under the heaving expressways of Bangkok, in lead blue clouds, to the crew deck and lapis skies of those rusting ferries that cross the gulf of Siam between Surat Thani and Ko Samui. Anywhere there’s a gap of unused clear and flat-ish space a gang of Thai males might well congregate of an evening to play or watch Takraw.
Not just in Thailand either, my only personal experience of playing Takraw was on the banks of the Mekong in Vientiane, Laos. Apparently it’s all over Asia and historically it probably spread out from China around the 11 century, though this is hotly disputed by Malays and Indonesians in these days of the sports growing organization and commercialization.
As you might expect from an ancient Asian folk game played in a land of defiantly laughing scofflaws, a clear definition is a tad tricky to pin down. A website I read for this piece suggests that I ‘Cross soccer with volleyball and mix in a bit of gymnastics and kung fu’, another site emphatically and enigmatically describes Takraw as ‘a startling game in which players must neither touch the ball nor let it hit the ground’. (sic)
The game the lads play round our way is a bit simpler than that though; to them it’s a sort of kick ball keepie-uppie which is more about enjoyment than winning. You don’t have to pass and you don’t have to try and hit the other teams ground, but you may. Athletic displays of juggling are roundly appreciated and ‘score’ just as highly as vicious spikes and smashes. It may be appreciated by some that popular agreement over artistic impression is broadly accepted as the preferred arbiter and critical acclaim is not often easy to win.Therefore while Boon and his team play hard for points they are at peace with the knowledge that it might not win them the game and regularly sacrifice scoring for skill. This is quite radically different from most western game constructs but just part of the reframing necessary for farang to understand Takraw and Thai (Asian) culture as a whole.
Which is a shame because it’s a great game to watch; you see flips and bobbles and tips and headers, kicks and knees and hips and elbows, toe-pokes, chests and spikes. Jumping, spinning round kicks, flying over-head bicycle and axe kicks that soar above the net. Most westerners reflect, like myself, that; ‘If he could do that in the box at Old Trafford he’d be a millionaire!’In the feverish hands of Dr Americanstein however this diverse and challenging ancient sport became the cheap and cheerful Hacky Sack in the ‘70s. Not surprisingly it disfigured, in translation, the whole concept of Jago; the archetypal proud cockerel that so fiercely drives the martial artists of Penjak Silat, inspiring mercurial Robin Hoods all over south-east Asia and providing an individualistic point of balance in a prevalent group mind.
There are similarities between Takraw and Muay Thai too. In traditional Muay Thai and Burmese Boxing of the 11th and 12th centuries the hands were originally thought of as ‘weak’ weapons, compared to elbows, knees or shins, unless they were rapped in hemp and broken glass and in Takraw the hands are forgotten completely. High kicks are valued in both disciplines as is the spinning physical dynamic of generating power. The grace and composure too, which characterize much of Thai culture, can be seen in the square rings of the Lumpini stadium as well as on the street corner Takraw courts of Lopburi.
As the light fades the kids return home, stopping to take a few penalties between the gateposts of Boons house. ‘Bekkum’ cries the smallest of them as he charges up for a prodigious strike; it sails over the gate, house and into the field behind in a chilling reenactment of the Euro 2004 quarter-final.
Football came to Thailand in 1897 and the Thai FA was set up in 1916 and nowadays it is by far the most popular spectator sport here even though the local clubs play before nigh-empty stands. Everyone here supports Man U or Liverpool or some such and the persistent visitor will eventually not be surprised by kids who claim their undying, and frankly bizarre, loyalty to Nottingham Forest or Swindon Town. There is fantastically intense criticism and support here that really supersedes even the hyperboly of the European press who often refer to the ‘fantastically intense criticism and support’ in Asia. If you didn’t watch that game (Germany 1 England 5) in a broken karaoke bar in a Bangkok slum you have no idea of what those words mean.
Unless you were in a pub in Toxteth of course…
Thailand have never qualified for a world cup but often do well in the SEA games and Tiger Cup. This year they lost in a bitterly contentious 2 legged final to Singapore but have recently won twice under the guidance of the glazed-eyed scouser; Peter Withe, who was at Nottingham Forest at the same time as the present Singapore manager Raddy Avramovitch was at Notts County. Coincidence? You decide.
In Brazil, the first sports club was set up in Sao Paulo in 1888 and as a direct result of the pioneering work of Charles Miller the Brazilian FA was formed in 1914, two years earlier than the Thai organisation. While Brazilians went on to inspire the world with their ‘beautiful game’ and to dominate world football competitions almost since their inception, the Thais stayed at home. But what made the Brazilians so adept, creative and unstoppable?
Surely natural physical characteristics has had a role to play but perhaps the key contributing factors were from an indigenous culture that cherished rhythm, grace, flexibility and physical artistic expression. Indigenous, not of South America originally but of 16th centuryAfrica, from where the Bantu traditions of Angola evolved to become both Samba and Capoeira and which now define Brazilian style.
What effect did the existing styles of movement have on the development of Brazilian football? It is interesting to note that one ‘plays’ Samba just like one ‘plays’ Capoeira and that Europeans exhibit far less of the characteristics of ‘play’ in their attitude to the game of football than their South American cousins. It is also, perhaps, significant that one of the threads leading to the development of Pele’s beautiful game is the amazingly acrobatic martial art of Capoeira. The spinning, rolling, jumping and range of motions are unlike anything in European physical culture and add a whole different dimension to the potential of a football player.Another feature of the evolution of football style of play is the economic conditions in which it ferments. In Europe the riches accumulated from the colonies and the Industrial Revolution brought accelerated social prosperity driving football slowly from its working class roots and redefining leisure time. Whereas in Brazil the economic conditions which conspired to produce today’s stars are not so very different from those of Charles Millers protégés.
In short; the incumbent culture on which football came to lay in Brazil can be defined by its playfulness, alternative ranges of motion and social hardship, not so very different from that of Thailand really.
At the moment the Thai’s are still generally quite physically small compared to Europeans or South Americans but that whore of a factile which reveals that the average height of the Japanese has increased by 7 feet since the end of World War II may also be indicative of what could happen here as socio-economic conditions improve. Also the recent history of the Thai FA has been a catalogue of perceived incompetence and corruption and there is still a long, long way to go before Thai domestic football reaches anything like its potential. That said, there is no reason to think that things will not get better.
Watching little Dam from my front room I see the power of play, watching his brother Boon on the makeshift Takraw court I see the perseverance and awesome range of skills. Then watching him and ‘Bekkum’ taking penalties till the sun goes down I think I can see clearly which way they are going ... towards the evolution of a new style of football that you haven’t yet seen, the promise of tomorrow's beautiful game.
It’s not probable but it is possible, you might just want to set your cryogenic alarm clocks so you can surprise the living daylights out of your great-great-great-grandchildren as they are sitting watching Thailand beat England in the 2102 World Cup Final by bursting out of your ice box and shouting ‘Takraw!’
Wednesday, May 16, 2007
Will the West Indies fans turn up? - leeroycal
One of the most starkly apparent things about the last time West Indies were on these shores, apart from Robert Key's beergut, was that the crowds were so predominantly white. Even at the Oval, traditionally home to scenes of West Indian fans' bluster and noise had only a mere smattering of old timers, staring blankly into their rum as their beloved team crumpled to a comprehensive 10 wicket defeat and an unthinkable 4-0 series loss.
Why is this the case? Is it simply that the team keeps losing, or is it something deeper? Have the West Indians in the UK fallen out of love with cricket?
The answer lies within the personnel of local and county cricket, and the number and type of ethnic minority players that are coming through the academy system. There are very few Afro-Caribbean players in county and league squads and it does not take a detailed and painstaking analysis to realise that the bright young things in English cricket are either white or Asian. Whilst struggling to remember an Afro-Caribbean prospect of any note since Alex Tudor, a list of young Asians leaps off the tongue far more easily: Solanki, Habib, Rashid, Bopara, Kabir Ali, Panesar, Mahmood; all evidence points to a large swathe of the West Indian population not engaging in the game as they once did.
Juxtapose this against the number of players of West Indian extraction breaking into professional football clubs up and down the country and you begin to see the logic of the argument, hence the crowds are not at test matches; the exception being the older generation, who still see cricket as the rallying point for the great archipelago from which they once came; the youngsters are all watching Arsenal.
The reasons are both cultural and practical. Culturally, the West Indians differ from the Asian population in that they do not originally come from a one-sport monoculture. Unlike the other test playing nations, India, Bangladesh, Pakistan and Sri Lanka make very little impact on world sport other than in cricket; and so when they came to the UK with their own unshakeable culture, a devotion to cricket remained an equally steadfast part of it. West Indian kids on the other hand have perhaps become more anglicised, and certainly more americanised. Football and basketball slowly became king; notably games that can be played anywhere. The West Indian population in England is generally located in the inner cities, areas that cricket has always struggled to reach with its lack of pitches, lack of coaches and lack of funding. These areas do not, however, suffer from a lack of basketball hoops or five-a-side football courts.
So in answer to the title of this piece, no, I do not expect there to be large West Indian crowds in this test series. But I certainly hope that initiatives such as Chance To Shine can go some way to reverse the sad trend of the last 15 years.
Why is this the case? Is it simply that the team keeps losing, or is it something deeper? Have the West Indians in the UK fallen out of love with cricket?
The answer lies within the personnel of local and county cricket, and the number and type of ethnic minority players that are coming through the academy system. There are very few Afro-Caribbean players in county and league squads and it does not take a detailed and painstaking analysis to realise that the bright young things in English cricket are either white or Asian. Whilst struggling to remember an Afro-Caribbean prospect of any note since Alex Tudor, a list of young Asians leaps off the tongue far more easily: Solanki, Habib, Rashid, Bopara, Kabir Ali, Panesar, Mahmood; all evidence points to a large swathe of the West Indian population not engaging in the game as they once did.
Juxtapose this against the number of players of West Indian extraction breaking into professional football clubs up and down the country and you begin to see the logic of the argument, hence the crowds are not at test matches; the exception being the older generation, who still see cricket as the rallying point for the great archipelago from which they once came; the youngsters are all watching Arsenal.
The reasons are both cultural and practical. Culturally, the West Indians differ from the Asian population in that they do not originally come from a one-sport monoculture. Unlike the other test playing nations, India, Bangladesh, Pakistan and Sri Lanka make very little impact on world sport other than in cricket; and so when they came to the UK with their own unshakeable culture, a devotion to cricket remained an equally steadfast part of it. West Indian kids on the other hand have perhaps become more anglicised, and certainly more americanised. Football and basketball slowly became king; notably games that can be played anywhere. The West Indian population in England is generally located in the inner cities, areas that cricket has always struggled to reach with its lack of pitches, lack of coaches and lack of funding. These areas do not, however, suffer from a lack of basketball hoops or five-a-side football courts.
So in answer to the title of this piece, no, I do not expect there to be large West Indian crowds in this test series. But I certainly hope that initiatives such as Chance To Shine can go some way to reverse the sad trend of the last 15 years.
Tuesday, May 15, 2007
No time for games - nestaquin
During the cold and wet winter of 1971, Sir Donald Bradman and newly appointed Australian cricket captain Ian Chappell held an extraordinary and historic press conference in Adelaide. The meeting was held to communicate to the world that Australian cricket was withdrawing its invitation to South Africa for the coming summer’s tour.
The reasons given were simple and from the heart. Chappell, Bradman and many of their contemporaries were appalled by apartheid. They were frustrated in particular with the Australian Government’s refusal to impose trade sanctions on the racist regime. The government had been lobbied and pressured by cricketers for near on a decade.
The movement was led coherently by Richie Benaud who returned from his first tour of South Africa in 1958 disturbed by what he had witnessed. Bradman in his prepared speech said “The feeble government reaction to this abhorrent regime is despicable. Cricket is the face of this young nation and not for the first time we will stand as one and try by whatever means possible to make a difference”.
It took a further six years before the rest of the Commonwealth fell into line. At the CHOGM conference at Gleneagles in 1977 it was finally agreed that the nations involved would discourage sporting ties with the apartheid regime as part of a wider campaign against racism. Australia and the Caribbean nations wanted an outright ban but the other Commonwealth countries led by Great Britain and supported curiously by many African members were more comfortable with the weak and malleable verb, discourage.
Seventeen years passed but eventually the hideous apartheid regime was toppled. It took longer than a quarter century to achieve but eventually the compassionate stone that Benaud through into the geopolitical pond generated a wave that swamped and defeated the inhumanity of European supremacism in South Africa.
You would think that after such a long struggle lessons would have been learned, not only by the citizens of the Southern continent but by members of all nations.
Apparently not.
Just a fortnight ago, at the same time that the victorious Australian cricket team returned with the gleaming golden World Cup trophy, the United Nations allowed Zimbabwe to be elected to head the UN's commission on Sustainable Development.
Two days later Zimbabwean opposition leader Sekai Holland arrived at Sydney’s Kingsford-Smith airport in a wheelchair to be treated for injuries sustained in a brutal police beating.
She was scathing in her attack on the Mugabe regime and lifted her shirt to show the dark purple bruising that several untreated broken ribs had caused. She also was nursing a broken wrist and leg. Fortunately for the 63 year old grandmother, her Australian husband with the help of the Foreign Affairs Department were able to aid her getaway in an air ambulance whilst under house arrest in Harare. It has been reported that Zimbabwean President Mugabe was furious at Sekai’s escape.
With the World Cup back on the dry, red earth of the Australian continent and the players in the news, it was inevitable that the media would again ask questions about Australia’s next Zimbabwean tour. It didn’t take long. In the very first public presentation of the glistening trophy a reporter asked Ricky Ponting if he was comfortable about touring Zimbabwe in September for three one day internationals. Punter in his best diplomatic performance to date emphatically said, “No, I am not comfortable.” and the celebrating green and gold throng fell silent and under a cloudless sky a sombre tone descended. Ricky ever perceptive, noticed this, flashed his mischievous grin and retorted, ‘On second thoughts mate I’d rather play golf’. The crowd began talking and laughing again but the issue of Zimbabwe and Australian collective cricketing morality was not easily dismissed.
The future consequence of Australia’s finest filling Mugabe’s pockets with gold quickly became a major concern. The players were badgered about their views and Matthew Hayden’s thoughts were typical. He said that when Australia last visited Zimbabwe in 2004 he thought about boycotting, like Stuart MacGill. "I was seriously considering my position this time, as to whether I would go if the tour went ahead.”
"I considered not going last time but went in the end. I now regret it. This time I was considering it a lot more heavily. I think this time it could have been a case of once bitten, twice shy. While I felt our safety was compromised a bit, I just felt compromised in general. The whole tour became a farce."
With the players concerns now well known the spotlight turned to Cricket Australia, the governing body of Australian cricket. Under pressure the CEO James Sutherland threw up his arms in despair at being continually questioned about the morality of touring Zimbabwe.
“We are not a political organisation. That doesn't for one moment suggest that we don't operate oblivious to issues that are going on in those parts of the world, but we don't have a mandate to be making decisions on those grounds.’
He then promptly put the problem neatly in the foyer of the ICC’s offices in Dubai.
“If we do not tour, the ICC under current contracts in relation to the Future Tours Programme, have the authority to levy a fine of 2.4 million dollars onto Cricket Australia that would be paid indirectly to the Zimbabwean Cricket Union.”
Whilst Malcolm Speed and his cronies prepared their abysmal response to the moral challenge that confronted them, private talks between Cricket Australia and the Federal government were taking place. Initially the Prime Minister announced that the Treasury would pay the fine but had second thoughts when reminded that the cash would have little chance of filtering through to Zimbabwe cricket and would only enhance the regime’s bank balance.
In an election year with his government hanging on by its fingernails, the Machiavellian mind of the Prime Minister soon turned this moral dilemma to his political advantage.
Government lawyers were dispatched to Dubai to find a loophole. They reported back that indeed there was a loophole in the process that allows an exemption for any team banned from touring by their sovereign government, a clause that was necessitated by India and Pakistan's stand-off during the 1980s and 1990s.
Last weekend the Australian Prime Minister traveled without entourage to seek counsel from Ricky Ponting on this sordid affair. While Ricky’s gorgeous wife Rhianna prepared a sumptuous seafood lunch, the PM and Punter discussed the repercussions of not abiding by the ICC’s amoral agenda. On national television the next morning the Prime Minister announced that with Ricky Ponting’s blessing, during the next parliamentary session, legislation will be introduced prohibiting Australian cricketers from playing against Zimbabwe in September.
This sets what may become a dangerous precedent but in light of the ICC’s refusal to forfeit the fine the Australian people were left with little choice. If the cricketers toured, Mugabe pockets the funds. If they do not tour the ICC would effectively act as Mugabe’s agent and he still gets the cash. In legislating against the tour Mugabe gets nothing except more international condemnation and the besieged Australian government can pretend it has a moral conscience.
The populace now expect the Australian Government to also pass legislation in regards to trade sanctions and humanitarian aid distribution in Zimbabwe. The opposition have already stated that they will enact such legislation if given office later this year.
In an election year the government has little choice but to follow suit.
Of course Australia’s refusal to tour Zimbabwe will make little difference in the short term to the citizens of that country. But once again the Australian cricketing community has had to make a stand because the leaders of more powerful nations will not. History indicates that this small protest is the belated beginning of the end for Mugabe and his sycophantic minions.
Robert Mugabe is a cunning calculated dictator, and is it not time that the international community stopped allowing this thuggish tyrant to play us off, nation against nation, culture against culture, until the core of the issue - Mugabe's loathsome regime - is lost in the bickering?
The oft-misunderstood Ponting at today’s press conference stated, “I understand that no government in the world has a perfect record on human rights but Zimbabwe at the moment is beyond the pale. As far as this situation is concerned, I'm comfortable that the Australian government has taken the responsibility for making international affairs decisions on behalf of the country. As captain of Australia I've never had a problem playing against international cricketers from Zimbabwe. Hopefully the board can arrange for us to play them at a neutral venue.”
It took 40 years for Benaud’s dream of equal rights for all to be enacted in South Africa. I pray as do many of my compatriots, that it takes a lot less time to emancipate the dispossessed people of it’s northern neighbour.
The reasons given were simple and from the heart. Chappell, Bradman and many of their contemporaries were appalled by apartheid. They were frustrated in particular with the Australian Government’s refusal to impose trade sanctions on the racist regime. The government had been lobbied and pressured by cricketers for near on a decade.
The movement was led coherently by Richie Benaud who returned from his first tour of South Africa in 1958 disturbed by what he had witnessed. Bradman in his prepared speech said “The feeble government reaction to this abhorrent regime is despicable. Cricket is the face of this young nation and not for the first time we will stand as one and try by whatever means possible to make a difference”.
It took a further six years before the rest of the Commonwealth fell into line. At the CHOGM conference at Gleneagles in 1977 it was finally agreed that the nations involved would discourage sporting ties with the apartheid regime as part of a wider campaign against racism. Australia and the Caribbean nations wanted an outright ban but the other Commonwealth countries led by Great Britain and supported curiously by many African members were more comfortable with the weak and malleable verb, discourage.
Seventeen years passed but eventually the hideous apartheid regime was toppled. It took longer than a quarter century to achieve but eventually the compassionate stone that Benaud through into the geopolitical pond generated a wave that swamped and defeated the inhumanity of European supremacism in South Africa.
You would think that after such a long struggle lessons would have been learned, not only by the citizens of the Southern continent but by members of all nations.
Apparently not.
Just a fortnight ago, at the same time that the victorious Australian cricket team returned with the gleaming golden World Cup trophy, the United Nations allowed Zimbabwe to be elected to head the UN's commission on Sustainable Development.
Two days later Zimbabwean opposition leader Sekai Holland arrived at Sydney’s Kingsford-Smith airport in a wheelchair to be treated for injuries sustained in a brutal police beating.
She was scathing in her attack on the Mugabe regime and lifted her shirt to show the dark purple bruising that several untreated broken ribs had caused. She also was nursing a broken wrist and leg. Fortunately for the 63 year old grandmother, her Australian husband with the help of the Foreign Affairs Department were able to aid her getaway in an air ambulance whilst under house arrest in Harare. It has been reported that Zimbabwean President Mugabe was furious at Sekai’s escape.
With the World Cup back on the dry, red earth of the Australian continent and the players in the news, it was inevitable that the media would again ask questions about Australia’s next Zimbabwean tour. It didn’t take long. In the very first public presentation of the glistening trophy a reporter asked Ricky Ponting if he was comfortable about touring Zimbabwe in September for three one day internationals. Punter in his best diplomatic performance to date emphatically said, “No, I am not comfortable.” and the celebrating green and gold throng fell silent and under a cloudless sky a sombre tone descended. Ricky ever perceptive, noticed this, flashed his mischievous grin and retorted, ‘On second thoughts mate I’d rather play golf’. The crowd began talking and laughing again but the issue of Zimbabwe and Australian collective cricketing morality was not easily dismissed.
The future consequence of Australia’s finest filling Mugabe’s pockets with gold quickly became a major concern. The players were badgered about their views and Matthew Hayden’s thoughts were typical. He said that when Australia last visited Zimbabwe in 2004 he thought about boycotting, like Stuart MacGill. "I was seriously considering my position this time, as to whether I would go if the tour went ahead.”
"I considered not going last time but went in the end. I now regret it. This time I was considering it a lot more heavily. I think this time it could have been a case of once bitten, twice shy. While I felt our safety was compromised a bit, I just felt compromised in general. The whole tour became a farce."
With the players concerns now well known the spotlight turned to Cricket Australia, the governing body of Australian cricket. Under pressure the CEO James Sutherland threw up his arms in despair at being continually questioned about the morality of touring Zimbabwe.
“We are not a political organisation. That doesn't for one moment suggest that we don't operate oblivious to issues that are going on in those parts of the world, but we don't have a mandate to be making decisions on those grounds.’
He then promptly put the problem neatly in the foyer of the ICC’s offices in Dubai.
“If we do not tour, the ICC under current contracts in relation to the Future Tours Programme, have the authority to levy a fine of 2.4 million dollars onto Cricket Australia that would be paid indirectly to the Zimbabwean Cricket Union.”
Whilst Malcolm Speed and his cronies prepared their abysmal response to the moral challenge that confronted them, private talks between Cricket Australia and the Federal government were taking place. Initially the Prime Minister announced that the Treasury would pay the fine but had second thoughts when reminded that the cash would have little chance of filtering through to Zimbabwe cricket and would only enhance the regime’s bank balance.
In an election year with his government hanging on by its fingernails, the Machiavellian mind of the Prime Minister soon turned this moral dilemma to his political advantage.
Government lawyers were dispatched to Dubai to find a loophole. They reported back that indeed there was a loophole in the process that allows an exemption for any team banned from touring by their sovereign government, a clause that was necessitated by India and Pakistan's stand-off during the 1980s and 1990s.
Last weekend the Australian Prime Minister traveled without entourage to seek counsel from Ricky Ponting on this sordid affair. While Ricky’s gorgeous wife Rhianna prepared a sumptuous seafood lunch, the PM and Punter discussed the repercussions of not abiding by the ICC’s amoral agenda. On national television the next morning the Prime Minister announced that with Ricky Ponting’s blessing, during the next parliamentary session, legislation will be introduced prohibiting Australian cricketers from playing against Zimbabwe in September.
This sets what may become a dangerous precedent but in light of the ICC’s refusal to forfeit the fine the Australian people were left with little choice. If the cricketers toured, Mugabe pockets the funds. If they do not tour the ICC would effectively act as Mugabe’s agent and he still gets the cash. In legislating against the tour Mugabe gets nothing except more international condemnation and the besieged Australian government can pretend it has a moral conscience.
The populace now expect the Australian Government to also pass legislation in regards to trade sanctions and humanitarian aid distribution in Zimbabwe. The opposition have already stated that they will enact such legislation if given office later this year.
In an election year the government has little choice but to follow suit.
Of course Australia’s refusal to tour Zimbabwe will make little difference in the short term to the citizens of that country. But once again the Australian cricketing community has had to make a stand because the leaders of more powerful nations will not. History indicates that this small protest is the belated beginning of the end for Mugabe and his sycophantic minions.
Robert Mugabe is a cunning calculated dictator, and is it not time that the international community stopped allowing this thuggish tyrant to play us off, nation against nation, culture against culture, until the core of the issue - Mugabe's loathsome regime - is lost in the bickering?
The oft-misunderstood Ponting at today’s press conference stated, “I understand that no government in the world has a perfect record on human rights but Zimbabwe at the moment is beyond the pale. As far as this situation is concerned, I'm comfortable that the Australian government has taken the responsibility for making international affairs decisions on behalf of the country. As captain of Australia I've never had a problem playing against international cricketers from Zimbabwe. Hopefully the board can arrange for us to play them at a neutral venue.”
It took 40 years for Benaud’s dream of equal rights for all to be enacted in South Africa. I pray as do many of my compatriots, that it takes a lot less time to emancipate the dispossessed people of it’s northern neighbour.
Monday, May 14, 2007
The Finest Established Permanent Floating Taproom on the Net - Zephirine
(with apologies to Frank Loesser, the composer of ‘Guys and Dolls’)
Scene: Cyberspace. With four-part harmony and feeling, a motley crew of Pseuds sing the following:
"GU's the best known in the land, but our friends keep on getting banned.
And they’ve now got a Com Mod in town, who’s even got Guitougoal down.
There's a 606 thing at the BBC, but the quality of the company’s in doubt,
And things being how they are, the site from the police station is out.
So the GU sports blog was the one, but even Nesta thinks it’s no longer any fun…
”Why, it's good old reliable Ebren, Ebren, Ebren, Ebren’s our man,
If you're looking for blogging, he'll give you a spot,
Even when the heat is on, it's never too hot.
But for good old reliable Ebren, oh there’s no need for you to fret,
He’s got the finest established permanent floating taproom on the net.
There are sports-mad bloggers everywhere, everywhere,
There are brilliant bloggers everywhere,
And a hit of pakalolo for the fellow who can get us there.
If he only had a GU of his own, he could be a millionaire.
”Oh the good old reliable Ebren, Ebren, Ebren, Ebren’s our man,
If your offtopic postings you want to increase,
He’ll let you just ramble on in quiet and peace,
In a hideout provided by Ebren, for the international set
It's the finest established permanent floating taproom on the net.
Where's the action? Where's the blog?
Gotta have the blog in the name of dog.
It's the finest established permanent floating taproom on the net.”
Scene: Cyberspace. With four-part harmony and feeling, a motley crew of Pseuds sing the following:
"GU's the best known in the land, but our friends keep on getting banned.
And they’ve now got a Com Mod in town, who’s even got Guitougoal down.
There's a 606 thing at the BBC, but the quality of the company’s in doubt,
And things being how they are, the site from the police station is out.
So the GU sports blog was the one, but even Nesta thinks it’s no longer any fun…
”Why, it's good old reliable Ebren, Ebren, Ebren, Ebren’s our man,
If you're looking for blogging, he'll give you a spot,
Even when the heat is on, it's never too hot.
But for good old reliable Ebren, oh there’s no need for you to fret,
He’s got the finest established permanent floating taproom on the net.
There are sports-mad bloggers everywhere, everywhere,
There are brilliant bloggers everywhere,
And a hit of pakalolo for the fellow who can get us there.
If he only had a GU of his own, he could be a millionaire.
”Oh the good old reliable Ebren, Ebren, Ebren, Ebren’s our man,
If your offtopic postings you want to increase,
He’ll let you just ramble on in quiet and peace,
In a hideout provided by Ebren, for the international set
It's the finest established permanent floating taproom on the net.
Where's the action? Where's the blog?
Gotta have the blog in the name of dog.
It's the finest established permanent floating taproom on the net.”
England's Silver Generation - Ebren
In 1996 a wonderful Czech team came second to Germany in the European Championships. The team of Nedved, Berger, Poborsky and others became known as the "Silver Generation", and went on to thrill us at tournament after tournament.
This summer England's "Golden Generation" took to the fields in Germany and thrilled no one. At all.
Since then a change of coaches has seen a home draw with Macedonia, an away loss to Croatia, a draw with Holland, a loss to Spain, and a scoreless draw with Israel – England's worst run of results ever.
Looking at a team of multi-millionaire superstars struggle against the policemen of Andorra I got to thinking about the men that didn't make it into the England squad. The silvers.
Managed by Sam Allardyce, the coach that brought 4-5-1/4-3-3 to the Premiership (a formation that most of the first team play with their clubs), can we build a team that would qualify for the European Championship?
The first thing we have to do is rule out the first team, which currently reads: Robinson, Foster, Carson; Barry, Ferdinand, Terry, Woodgate, Carragher, Richards, Cole, Neville; Carrick, Lampard, Gerrard, Lennon, Downing, Hargreaves, Dyer, Parker; Defoe, Johnson, Rooney, Nugent.
I think to be fair Owen, Joe Cole and Crouch (and others) should be ruled out as well as the only reason they aren't in this squad line up is that they are injured/recovering from injury.
Building from the back who stands between the sticks?
Easy, the man with the most clean sheets in Premiership history. I give you David James. Robert Green and Chris Kirkland as back up.
Back four then. Glenn Johnson, Ledley King, Sol Campbell, Nicky Shorey. On the bench for the defence, Andrew Taylor of Boro, Joleneon Lescott, Laeighton Baines, Luke Young, and Paul Konchesky. Danny Mills didn't look too bad in the 2002 world cup, and Perry and Thatcher both captained the under-21s if we need a bit more experience.
The midfield central three, needing two defensive midfielders and a Gerrard/Lampard type.
Pretty simple really. In Nicky Butt we have one of the players of 2002 (according to Pele). He's in. Let's put a passer next to him in the Alonso role. Step forward Tom Huddlestone. The forward midfielder - Joey Barton is an excellent player, but I'm not picking that sort of a git in my team. Sorry, Sam's team. Assuming we can't coax Scholes out of retirement (and I would be on the phone, sorry, Sam would be), that leaves quite a few options.
Leon Osman is an underrated player, he could do a job. Nicky Barmby is still about, just because he's playing for Hull doesn't mean he's lost any of the ability 23 caps and pay £19.75 million for him across his career.
But with Big Sam in charge, it will have to be Kevin Nolan.
Bench pick between Jagilka, Harper, Sidwell, McCann, Reo-Coker and those mentioned above. Oh, and Beckham might make it. Perhaps ahead of Nolan in the starting 11, only if he can play the system that is, I'm not Sven here.
The two wide midfield/forwards next.
On the left Etherington could do a job, if a little lightweight. Kieran Richardson has pace to spare, and scored two goals on his England debut. Lita and Bent are full of running and would score plenty. But James Milner gets it. With Matty Taylor on if we need a more defensive option.
On the right there are more Options than in the hot-chocolate aisle of Sainsbury's.
Bentley, Pennant, and Smith are all good enough. Bowyer was top goalscorer in the Champions League from midfield. He's there or there abouts. Wenger plays Walcott from the right, and Bent and Lita are there again. But Bentley wins. He's really rather good.
So all we are left with is the line leader. The Drogba figure.
Smith has excellent first touch, and will hold the ball for the on-rushing midfielders well (remember the Roma game?), I've mentioned Lita, and I really rate him. Dean Ashton is not fit yet, but would get a run out in a friendly at least. Robbie Fowler would be on if we needed a goal in the final 30, and Sheringham is still playing and scoring with more cunning, touch and vision than anyone since Bergkamp did one to Holland. I won't mention Emile Heskey and his 43 caps.
But the best English line-leader is Kevin Davies. And he's the closest thing we have to Drogba to make this system work.
So there you have it: James; Johnson, Campbell, King, Shorey; Butt, Huddleston, Nolan; Milner, Bentley, Davies.
Managed by Big Sam.
Fight, flair, pace, technique, solidity at the back.
This silver second-choice team has the ability to comfortably qualify for the European championships, and they would probably have a decent shot at winning it, or at least beating Northern Ireland.
The question is, is silver better than gold?
This summer England's "Golden Generation" took to the fields in Germany and thrilled no one. At all.
Since then a change of coaches has seen a home draw with Macedonia, an away loss to Croatia, a draw with Holland, a loss to Spain, and a scoreless draw with Israel – England's worst run of results ever.
Looking at a team of multi-millionaire superstars struggle against the policemen of Andorra I got to thinking about the men that didn't make it into the England squad. The silvers.
Managed by Sam Allardyce, the coach that brought 4-5-1/4-3-3 to the Premiership (a formation that most of the first team play with their clubs), can we build a team that would qualify for the European Championship?
The first thing we have to do is rule out the first team, which currently reads: Robinson, Foster, Carson; Barry, Ferdinand, Terry, Woodgate, Carragher, Richards, Cole, Neville; Carrick, Lampard, Gerrard, Lennon, Downing, Hargreaves, Dyer, Parker; Defoe, Johnson, Rooney, Nugent.
I think to be fair Owen, Joe Cole and Crouch (and others) should be ruled out as well as the only reason they aren't in this squad line up is that they are injured/recovering from injury.
Building from the back who stands between the sticks?
Easy, the man with the most clean sheets in Premiership history. I give you David James. Robert Green and Chris Kirkland as back up.
Back four then. Glenn Johnson, Ledley King, Sol Campbell, Nicky Shorey. On the bench for the defence, Andrew Taylor of Boro, Joleneon Lescott, Laeighton Baines, Luke Young, and Paul Konchesky. Danny Mills didn't look too bad in the 2002 world cup, and Perry and Thatcher both captained the under-21s if we need a bit more experience.
The midfield central three, needing two defensive midfielders and a Gerrard/Lampard type.
Pretty simple really. In Nicky Butt we have one of the players of 2002 (according to Pele). He's in. Let's put a passer next to him in the Alonso role. Step forward Tom Huddlestone. The forward midfielder - Joey Barton is an excellent player, but I'm not picking that sort of a git in my team. Sorry, Sam's team. Assuming we can't coax Scholes out of retirement (and I would be on the phone, sorry, Sam would be), that leaves quite a few options.
Leon Osman is an underrated player, he could do a job. Nicky Barmby is still about, just because he's playing for Hull doesn't mean he's lost any of the ability 23 caps and pay £19.75 million for him across his career.
But with Big Sam in charge, it will have to be Kevin Nolan.
Bench pick between Jagilka, Harper, Sidwell, McCann, Reo-Coker and those mentioned above. Oh, and Beckham might make it. Perhaps ahead of Nolan in the starting 11, only if he can play the system that is, I'm not Sven here.
The two wide midfield/forwards next.
On the left Etherington could do a job, if a little lightweight. Kieran Richardson has pace to spare, and scored two goals on his England debut. Lita and Bent are full of running and would score plenty. But James Milner gets it. With Matty Taylor on if we need a more defensive option.
On the right there are more Options than in the hot-chocolate aisle of Sainsbury's.
Bentley, Pennant, and Smith are all good enough. Bowyer was top goalscorer in the Champions League from midfield. He's there or there abouts. Wenger plays Walcott from the right, and Bent and Lita are there again. But Bentley wins. He's really rather good.
So all we are left with is the line leader. The Drogba figure.
Smith has excellent first touch, and will hold the ball for the on-rushing midfielders well (remember the Roma game?), I've mentioned Lita, and I really rate him. Dean Ashton is not fit yet, but would get a run out in a friendly at least. Robbie Fowler would be on if we needed a goal in the final 30, and Sheringham is still playing and scoring with more cunning, touch and vision than anyone since Bergkamp did one to Holland. I won't mention Emile Heskey and his 43 caps.
But the best English line-leader is Kevin Davies. And he's the closest thing we have to Drogba to make this system work.
So there you have it: James; Johnson, Campbell, King, Shorey; Butt, Huddleston, Nolan; Milner, Bentley, Davies.
Managed by Big Sam.
Fight, flair, pace, technique, solidity at the back.
This silver second-choice team has the ability to comfortably qualify for the European championships, and they would probably have a decent shot at winning it, or at least beating Northern Ireland.
The question is, is silver better than gold?
Sunday, May 13, 2007
The start of It - Mimitig
So all does not begin well for Scotsman Chris Hoy as he makes his attempt to break Arnaud Tournant's world record for the kilo. By fractions of a second - something only possible to measure with today's technology - Hoy falls outside the Frenchman's 7 year old time.
Given the travel problems that have beset Hoy on his journey to Bolivia, I am stunned that he was even in fit state to make an attempt on the record on Saturday (Bolivian time). What should have been a straight-forward journey became complicated by delays caused by unfavourable weather conditions - Latin American fog frustrates sporting excellence could easily be another headline coming so soon after the chaos in Argentina for the rally-drivers.
As I write, I understand that Chris will be going for it again tomorrow, and maybe, tomorrow and tomorrow until he breaks through the barrier. How his body will stand up to this is a real journey into the unknown, and whether he will be in a state to attack the 200m and 500m in subsequent days, must now be in doubt.
What is in no doubt is that a time of 59.103 seconds when not fully fit and properly prepared for the kilo is stunning.
More anon.
Given the travel problems that have beset Hoy on his journey to Bolivia, I am stunned that he was even in fit state to make an attempt on the record on Saturday (Bolivian time). What should have been a straight-forward journey became complicated by delays caused by unfavourable weather conditions - Latin American fog frustrates sporting excellence could easily be another headline coming so soon after the chaos in Argentina for the rally-drivers.
As I write, I understand that Chris will be going for it again tomorrow, and maybe, tomorrow and tomorrow until he breaks through the barrier. How his body will stand up to this is a real journey into the unknown, and whether he will be in a state to attack the 200m and 500m in subsequent days, must now be in doubt.
What is in no doubt is that a time of 59.103 seconds when not fully fit and properly prepared for the kilo is stunning.
More anon.
Saturday, May 12, 2007
Good Evening Fellow Scoundrels - Mouth of the Mersey
332 years ago, Samuel Johnson warned us that "patriotism is the last refuge of the scoundrel" and the intervening period has borne out his point rather well. So how has sport become the last refuge of the patriot? (Betting without the Eurovision Song Contest, on television as I write!)
If we discount Athens vs Sparta some time ago, England vs Scotland football internationals were possibly the first platforms for flag-waving, but that's more the kind of patriotism we see at the Song Contest, so I'll date the start of scoundrel-patriotism with Leni Riefenstahl's extraordinary "Olympia" created to celebrate the Nazi hijacking of Berlin's 1936 Olympiad, but more accurately described as a love poem to the human body in motion as http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KwmYFz01MxA demonstrates. The character of Great Art is its very otherness and I find myself so transported by the beauty of the subject and the technical command and innovation of the film-makers, that it takes the jarring cutaways to the Nazi elite to remind me of Fraulein Riefenstahl's purpose.
Fast-forward seventy-odd years and millions of deaths in the service of misguided patriotism to the most cliched image in sport:
How I long for an Olympic winner to do a much more modest version of Tommie Smith's raised, gloved fist salute by throwing the flag back into the crowd and grabbing the five rings of the Olympic movement, however tainted that symbol may be. No chance of that! More chance of the winner grabbing a flag displaying the Nike swoosh. Here's a reminder of a more potent use of the platform sport provides:
Finally, the next 10 days in England will be filled with football phone-ins and journalism demanding that us English get behind Liverpool's attempt to win a sixth Big Cup in Athens. Leaving aside the dubious "Englishness" of Liverpool as a club (or, perhaps, even as a city), shouldn't every fan of any other English club be willing Maldini and friends to the victory? Frankly, the money earned by Milan from a Big Cup win would be unlikely to be spent on James Vaughan of Everton, but Liverpool's winnings might. And that's enough for me to wish Hannibal and friends well, but hope that they come home disappointed to a Premiership just a little more competitive next year for their defeat.
If we discount Athens vs Sparta some time ago, England vs Scotland football internationals were possibly the first platforms for flag-waving, but that's more the kind of patriotism we see at the Song Contest, so I'll date the start of scoundrel-patriotism with Leni Riefenstahl's extraordinary "Olympia" created to celebrate the Nazi hijacking of Berlin's 1936 Olympiad, but more accurately described as a love poem to the human body in motion as http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KwmYFz01MxA demonstrates. The character of Great Art is its very otherness and I find myself so transported by the beauty of the subject and the technical command and innovation of the film-makers, that it takes the jarring cutaways to the Nazi elite to remind me of Fraulein Riefenstahl's purpose.
Fast-forward seventy-odd years and millions of deaths in the service of misguided patriotism to the most cliched image in sport:
How I long for an Olympic winner to do a much more modest version of Tommie Smith's raised, gloved fist salute by throwing the flag back into the crowd and grabbing the five rings of the Olympic movement, however tainted that symbol may be. No chance of that! More chance of the winner grabbing a flag displaying the Nike swoosh. Here's a reminder of a more potent use of the platform sport provides:
Finally, the next 10 days in England will be filled with football phone-ins and journalism demanding that us English get behind Liverpool's attempt to win a sixth Big Cup in Athens. Leaving aside the dubious "Englishness" of Liverpool as a club (or, perhaps, even as a city), shouldn't every fan of any other English club be willing Maldini and friends to the victory? Frankly, the money earned by Milan from a Big Cup win would be unlikely to be spent on James Vaughan of Everton, but Liverpool's winnings might. And that's enough for me to wish Hannibal and friends well, but hope that they come home disappointed to a Premiership just a little more competitive next year for their defeat.
Friday, May 11, 2007
Football saved Sky - Margin
Sky’s 1000th Premiership match was nearly a dull reserve game between the next FA Cup finalists. Fortunately a postponed Spurs v Blackburn with two goals and rattling woodwork saved us that embarrassment. But how did we get to 1000 games so fast?
Rupert Murdoch’s Sky had a simple aim when it bought football. It sought to save its failing business model by producing content that people would finally pay to watch. High BBC standards in documentaries, comedies, dramas and news meant there was little scope for Pay TV in Britain, and Sky was struggling with low subscriptions. Even films couldn’t stop the rot as people rented videos.
In the years after screening the first match, the same company bought up more and more football. It bought rights to lower league games to stop terrestrial channels offering any games for free. And it had to. Unless it was your team any game from any league would do on a Sunday afternoon.
The plan worked. Within a few years Sky grew its subscriber base on the back of football and used that base to sell more channels, more services, more movies, and most importantly more football.
Thinking back to the first Sky game, in which Teddy Sheringham scored the only goal in a Forest win over Liverpool, it is hard to grasp Sky’s vision. Amid howls of horror and the controversy of Brian Clough declaring he’d stay home to east his Sunday roast instead of manage his team for TV, it was hard to imagine what would follow.
No one would have paid for televised English football back then. Most games were dull. Most teams dogmatically adhered to long ball ‘pragmatism’. And going to home games cost a pittance anyway. People only watched on Sundays because the pubs closed early and the other three channels offered little alternative.
But Sky had an idea.
Depriving terrestrial viewers of live matches was not enough and they knew it. The brand had to improve so they improved the brand big time.
BBC pundits offering stereotypes in place of analysis were replaced by young and enthusiastic ‘presenters’ who scribbled on screens with electronic pens. And out went a range of three angles from three mounted cameras, which allowed for an occasional missed goal they had not caught. To replace that came thirty cameras facing every which way, offering wide shots and close ups spliced together as the action unfolded.
Slow motion replays and Andy Gray’s scribbles rightly drew derision. But they paved the way for computer generated offside lines, animated tactical diagram’s, and the option to watch from the angle of your choice. And that has all been good for us viewers.
But all this was still just gloss over a sadly grim picture. The game itself was awful. Tactics, technique and fitness had stagnated since the seventies. Grounds were dilapidated. And in 1992 the biggest foreign signing the game had known was still that of two Argentineans 1978 that led many to accuse Spurs of effectively cheating.
The game had to change. Attitudes had to change. And Sky had one tool with which to do change things. Money.
Pouring cash into the sport helped. It allowed sides to buy aging stars like Klinsmann and Vialli. And those aging stars bought with them new ideas about training and diet that overcame early resistance and rubbed off on managers and players alike. It even allowed sides to bring in foreign managers like Wenger, who overcame a ‘nine pints a night’ culture to make arsenal; the fittest team in England.
The cash did something else too. It enabled clubs to rebuild their grounds. I often lament the loss of great venues like the Baseball Ground or Roker Park. But the Kop is better now than when it was little more than a large bike shed, and White Hart Lane’s futuristic roof-mounted screens are a sight to behold even now they are ten years old.
As the game started to fix itself Sky profited from its vision. The early days of aged stars picking up pensions have long gone. Instead young stars from across the globe queue up to play here.
Ronaldo, widely touted among the world’s best players, has signed a new five year contract to stay in England long term. Cesc Fabregas left Spain to learn his trade at Arsenal. And Essien overlooked Italy to play for Chelsea? That would have been unthinkable in 1992, and for that we should all thank Sky.
Of course there are down sides.
It is now rare to watch a game at three o’clock on Saturday afternoon. People wrongly consider themselves experts about players they have only seen through a cameraman’s lens. Games and players are over-hyped by a medium that needs every game to draw big crowds. And controversy has expanded beyond reality with any contentious refereeing decision, even absolutely correct ones, turned into ‘drama’ for the sake of selling.
But other complaints are fatuous.
Sky money did not create lazy, pampered and over paid stars. Complaints about them have existed for years with little evidence ever offered in the form of concrete examples. And the foreign stars it bought in didn’t invent cheating. John Barnes moved to Liverpool from Watford and admitted he had to get used to going down instead of shooting in the box.
And the most fatuous complaint of all is that Sky has hurt attendances. The oft said truth that gates have fallen this season has been ludicrously linked with football on TV. Yet common sense says that if Wigan, Watford and Reading replace Sunderland, Leeds and Birmingham, attendances must inevitably be lower.
Of course that misdiagnosis is partly Sky’s fault. After all, who are Birmingham, Sunderland and Leeds? Are they on a different channel?
Rupert Murdoch’s Sky had a simple aim when it bought football. It sought to save its failing business model by producing content that people would finally pay to watch. High BBC standards in documentaries, comedies, dramas and news meant there was little scope for Pay TV in Britain, and Sky was struggling with low subscriptions. Even films couldn’t stop the rot as people rented videos.
In the years after screening the first match, the same company bought up more and more football. It bought rights to lower league games to stop terrestrial channels offering any games for free. And it had to. Unless it was your team any game from any league would do on a Sunday afternoon.
The plan worked. Within a few years Sky grew its subscriber base on the back of football and used that base to sell more channels, more services, more movies, and most importantly more football.
Thinking back to the first Sky game, in which Teddy Sheringham scored the only goal in a Forest win over Liverpool, it is hard to grasp Sky’s vision. Amid howls of horror and the controversy of Brian Clough declaring he’d stay home to east his Sunday roast instead of manage his team for TV, it was hard to imagine what would follow.
No one would have paid for televised English football back then. Most games were dull. Most teams dogmatically adhered to long ball ‘pragmatism’. And going to home games cost a pittance anyway. People only watched on Sundays because the pubs closed early and the other three channels offered little alternative.
But Sky had an idea.
Depriving terrestrial viewers of live matches was not enough and they knew it. The brand had to improve so they improved the brand big time.
BBC pundits offering stereotypes in place of analysis were replaced by young and enthusiastic ‘presenters’ who scribbled on screens with electronic pens. And out went a range of three angles from three mounted cameras, which allowed for an occasional missed goal they had not caught. To replace that came thirty cameras facing every which way, offering wide shots and close ups spliced together as the action unfolded.
Slow motion replays and Andy Gray’s scribbles rightly drew derision. But they paved the way for computer generated offside lines, animated tactical diagram’s, and the option to watch from the angle of your choice. And that has all been good for us viewers.
But all this was still just gloss over a sadly grim picture. The game itself was awful. Tactics, technique and fitness had stagnated since the seventies. Grounds were dilapidated. And in 1992 the biggest foreign signing the game had known was still that of two Argentineans 1978 that led many to accuse Spurs of effectively cheating.
The game had to change. Attitudes had to change. And Sky had one tool with which to do change things. Money.
Pouring cash into the sport helped. It allowed sides to buy aging stars like Klinsmann and Vialli. And those aging stars bought with them new ideas about training and diet that overcame early resistance and rubbed off on managers and players alike. It even allowed sides to bring in foreign managers like Wenger, who overcame a ‘nine pints a night’ culture to make arsenal; the fittest team in England.
The cash did something else too. It enabled clubs to rebuild their grounds. I often lament the loss of great venues like the Baseball Ground or Roker Park. But the Kop is better now than when it was little more than a large bike shed, and White Hart Lane’s futuristic roof-mounted screens are a sight to behold even now they are ten years old.
As the game started to fix itself Sky profited from its vision. The early days of aged stars picking up pensions have long gone. Instead young stars from across the globe queue up to play here.
Ronaldo, widely touted among the world’s best players, has signed a new five year contract to stay in England long term. Cesc Fabregas left Spain to learn his trade at Arsenal. And Essien overlooked Italy to play for Chelsea? That would have been unthinkable in 1992, and for that we should all thank Sky.
Of course there are down sides.
It is now rare to watch a game at three o’clock on Saturday afternoon. People wrongly consider themselves experts about players they have only seen through a cameraman’s lens. Games and players are over-hyped by a medium that needs every game to draw big crowds. And controversy has expanded beyond reality with any contentious refereeing decision, even absolutely correct ones, turned into ‘drama’ for the sake of selling.
But other complaints are fatuous.
Sky money did not create lazy, pampered and over paid stars. Complaints about them have existed for years with little evidence ever offered in the form of concrete examples. And the foreign stars it bought in didn’t invent cheating. John Barnes moved to Liverpool from Watford and admitted he had to get used to going down instead of shooting in the box.
And the most fatuous complaint of all is that Sky has hurt attendances. The oft said truth that gates have fallen this season has been ludicrously linked with football on TV. Yet common sense says that if Wigan, Watford and Reading replace Sunderland, Leeds and Birmingham, attendances must inevitably be lower.
Of course that misdiagnosis is partly Sky’s fault. After all, who are Birmingham, Sunderland and Leeds? Are they on a different channel?
Wednesday, May 9, 2007
Argentinos Juniors and the city of goals - ericverschoor
Speak of “City of God” and everybody knows where to look in an atlas. What about “City of Goals”? I am sure many would put in a shout for that title. Cold numbers show that Buenos Aires has the highest number of League Grounds within it’s limits, bar one (sorry, you’ll have to google it, or guess).
Of course this doesn't guarantee you will get a netbashing fest whatever match you decide to attend. Studying this semester’s fixtures, I went for a season ticket at the Diego Armando Maradona Stadium; recently refurbished and enlarged (2004) home of Argentinos Juniors. River, Racing, Boca and San Lorenzo were due a visit. Wallet health played a part too.
Surely the words “Maradona Stadium” , “refurbished” and "enlarged" got your imagination going. A Great stadium to honour the the Great(est) player. Hold it. Next thing you know a Tsunami will be needed to get you closer to reality. Think of it as an indigent’s Highbury. Small pitch, bang in the middle of a neighborhood.
Yesterday it was Boca Juniors’ turn.
On Saturday night San Lorenzo, top of the heap, 4 points clear of Boca, unexpectedly lost against the “Villan’s” Velez. Boca decided to hand in a full strength teamsheet in what could be a key game in their persuit of the “Double” (League+Libertadores). Argentinos had already harvested 6 points from games againt River and Racing in their allotment-size pitch. Riquelme, part of the last golden batch from the Argentinos quarry, snatched by Boca at 16, would be playing his first game in La Paternal. Omens were good.
Argentinos presented a rigid 4-4-2 a la Graham’s Arsenal. Boca, 4-3-Riquelme-2. It was clear from the start thar Boca would have control of the ball and Argentinos sit back looking to counter attack. Lured by the unusual size of the goal when viewed from half way, Boca started to put people forward indiscriminately and it wasn’t long before Argentinos had 2 clear chances (1 wrongly invalidated score). Boca controlled leather and ground, but appeared to be just a sum of individual efforts. Clearly, the team on the pitch was Argentinos.
Like a bully who doesnt realise it is being outwitted, Boca kept on going forward idea-less, only to find out that Argentinos had fine tuned its finishing and deservedly were two goals up (Choy and Nunez). Both scores were textbook fast breaks: deep middfield ball recovery, short one-touch offload, quick long square pass for a wide open player who would storm down the pitch and cross the ball for the forwards, loosely marked one-on-one by returning defenders. Twice the ball went from boot to hair to nylon. Argentinos’ tactics proved to be spot-on (horrid Boca defending aside). Maybe too successful. 65 minutes still ahead.
Surprisingly it was Argentinos who appeared to be fazed by the unexpected state of the affair. An over-zealous result-preservation instinct kicked in. A robust 4-4-2 turned into a bus-like 6-3-1. With only a lone striker to fear, Boca started the siege. Boca had only managed to muster a string of half chances when their deficit was halved 10 minutes before halftime: it had to be something special. It was. A majestic long range shot, ball crossing the line up there, where spiders web (Cardozo). By half time you couldnt avoid the feeling that everything was set for an epic comeback.
Nothing changed at the start of the second half. Argentinos’s dicipline and efectiveness was a distant memory. Boca placed men wide open on both flanks and its fullbacks resembled well oiled pistons of a powerful V12. Defending was’t bad, but the Law of Probability plays against you when crosses shower. 15 minutes into the half Palermo (B) pounced onto the inevitable missclearance and the game was tied. 30 minutes to go.
The stands drapped in blue and gold were roaring. More so five minutes later when Ibarra (B-rigthback), who has the habit of scoring decisive wondergoals, dribbled past a defender and 25 meters out, launched an unstoppable left foot missile. We all saw it comming. A minute later Pontirolli (A-Gkeeper) saved a free header. Could Argentinos stop the rot?
There was plenty of time left (25 min), but the players in red had the semblance of a convict on death row. It was their manager who triggered a change in attitude when the substituted the man in charge of Riquelme with an offensive midfielder (Cordoba x Ortigoza). The gamble paid off 7 minutes later. From a free kick gained by himself, Cordoba crossed and found the head of Joy...sorry Choy, who placed the ball superbly. 3 red headers, 3 goals.
Still circa 15 minutes left and this game had new life in it. The home team could see that their opponents, despite greater quality, started to show the effects of playing middweek, and accepted the blow for blow proposition. Both teams had now a 4-2-4 shape. Middfield was mere transit area and both sets of fans were chanting their guts out.
Palermo had it once, saved by Pontirolli. Argentinos had it twice, the last one just a whisper wide (another header). Amid frantic tempo last resort defending was king.
In the end it was a tie. There was something for everyone in it. Boca came back from 2 down to shave off at least a point from San Lorenzo’s lead. Argentinos certified once again that its castle has thick walls. I enjoyed 6 nice goals and great entertainment. And Buenos Aires has strengthened its claim to be the “City of Goals”.
Man of the Match: Choy (A). Riquelme? I will have to check in the newspapers if he actually made it to the stadium.
Of course this doesn't guarantee you will get a netbashing fest whatever match you decide to attend. Studying this semester’s fixtures, I went for a season ticket at the Diego Armando Maradona Stadium; recently refurbished and enlarged (2004) home of Argentinos Juniors. River, Racing, Boca and San Lorenzo were due a visit. Wallet health played a part too.
Surely the words “Maradona Stadium” , “refurbished” and "enlarged" got your imagination going. A Great stadium to honour the the Great(est) player. Hold it. Next thing you know a Tsunami will be needed to get you closer to reality. Think of it as an indigent’s Highbury. Small pitch, bang in the middle of a neighborhood.
Yesterday it was Boca Juniors’ turn.
On Saturday night San Lorenzo, top of the heap, 4 points clear of Boca, unexpectedly lost against the “Villan’s” Velez. Boca decided to hand in a full strength teamsheet in what could be a key game in their persuit of the “Double” (League+Libertadores). Argentinos had already harvested 6 points from games againt River and Racing in their allotment-size pitch. Riquelme, part of the last golden batch from the Argentinos quarry, snatched by Boca at 16, would be playing his first game in La Paternal. Omens were good.
Argentinos presented a rigid 4-4-2 a la Graham’s Arsenal. Boca, 4-3-Riquelme-2. It was clear from the start thar Boca would have control of the ball and Argentinos sit back looking to counter attack. Lured by the unusual size of the goal when viewed from half way, Boca started to put people forward indiscriminately and it wasn’t long before Argentinos had 2 clear chances (1 wrongly invalidated score). Boca controlled leather and ground, but appeared to be just a sum of individual efforts. Clearly, the team on the pitch was Argentinos.
Like a bully who doesnt realise it is being outwitted, Boca kept on going forward idea-less, only to find out that Argentinos had fine tuned its finishing and deservedly were two goals up (Choy and Nunez). Both scores were textbook fast breaks: deep middfield ball recovery, short one-touch offload, quick long square pass for a wide open player who would storm down the pitch and cross the ball for the forwards, loosely marked one-on-one by returning defenders. Twice the ball went from boot to hair to nylon. Argentinos’ tactics proved to be spot-on (horrid Boca defending aside). Maybe too successful. 65 minutes still ahead.
Surprisingly it was Argentinos who appeared to be fazed by the unexpected state of the affair. An over-zealous result-preservation instinct kicked in. A robust 4-4-2 turned into a bus-like 6-3-1. With only a lone striker to fear, Boca started the siege. Boca had only managed to muster a string of half chances when their deficit was halved 10 minutes before halftime: it had to be something special. It was. A majestic long range shot, ball crossing the line up there, where spiders web (Cardozo). By half time you couldnt avoid the feeling that everything was set for an epic comeback.
Nothing changed at the start of the second half. Argentinos’s dicipline and efectiveness was a distant memory. Boca placed men wide open on both flanks and its fullbacks resembled well oiled pistons of a powerful V12. Defending was’t bad, but the Law of Probability plays against you when crosses shower. 15 minutes into the half Palermo (B) pounced onto the inevitable missclearance and the game was tied. 30 minutes to go.
The stands drapped in blue and gold were roaring. More so five minutes later when Ibarra (B-rigthback), who has the habit of scoring decisive wondergoals, dribbled past a defender and 25 meters out, launched an unstoppable left foot missile. We all saw it comming. A minute later Pontirolli (A-Gkeeper) saved a free header. Could Argentinos stop the rot?
There was plenty of time left (25 min), but the players in red had the semblance of a convict on death row. It was their manager who triggered a change in attitude when the substituted the man in charge of Riquelme with an offensive midfielder (Cordoba x Ortigoza). The gamble paid off 7 minutes later. From a free kick gained by himself, Cordoba crossed and found the head of Joy...sorry Choy, who placed the ball superbly. 3 red headers, 3 goals.
Still circa 15 minutes left and this game had new life in it. The home team could see that their opponents, despite greater quality, started to show the effects of playing middweek, and accepted the blow for blow proposition. Both teams had now a 4-2-4 shape. Middfield was mere transit area and both sets of fans were chanting their guts out.
Palermo had it once, saved by Pontirolli. Argentinos had it twice, the last one just a whisper wide (another header). Amid frantic tempo last resort defending was king.
In the end it was a tie. There was something for everyone in it. Boca came back from 2 down to shave off at least a point from San Lorenzo’s lead. Argentinos certified once again that its castle has thick walls. I enjoyed 6 nice goals and great entertainment. And Buenos Aires has strengthened its claim to be the “City of Goals”.
Man of the Match: Choy (A). Riquelme? I will have to check in the newspapers if he actually made it to the stadium.
Tuesday, May 8, 2007
Is Football Tart? - file
Which should swiftly be distanced from other, similar but (equally) preposterous, questions such as is football a tart? Are footballers' tarts? Or even is football art?
Is it sour is it sharp, is football tart?
Each game is its very own TV dinner portion of sweet and sour stir-fry pineapple and bitter capsicum, plump chicken breast and sharp spring onions. Each tackle, each, cross, each goal, each mouthful is both dolce and amarone in the mouths of the be-eaters, one mans nasty is another mans nectar depending on their faith in Ronaldo or in Nesta.
Every season is a swashbuckling smorgasbord of perceived and individual delicacies and this one has been no different. The salty caviar of the MU Roma win, the dry and grassy Sauvignon Blanc of Steve Coppell, the wafer-thin slices of pink Sir Alex garnished with tangy Rooney horseradishes, the frankly bizarre smokey bacon flavour goings on at West Ham.
How was your season? Cod and chips and a Cornetto, smoked salmon canapés and papillote of rascass, or sushi and steak tartare? When you burp now what's the overriding flavour? Is it tart?
Sometimes I feel as if I can really taste peoples gastronomic auras, every time I listen to Wourinho I get the strongest bite of green gooseberries, Wenger – prunes, Mark Lawrenson – Heinz tomato soup
I've even started to categorize, it's important because the saccharine experience of a Stevie G volley for a 'pudlian is different again from the thick syrup of an Essien recovery for a pensioner. If one event smacks of ripe mangoes then the other is surely molasses. One Pompey fans gritty trip up to St James's Park is altogether other than the saltiness of a trip across Landan to watch your former manager's new and present manager's old team beat you 4-0. Ready salted crisps and anchovies seem to have been seperated at birth.
Some folk have slipped down the bittery slope of resenting those lucky rich clubs and to them everything they do tastes of cold black coffee and cloves and while it's true that the capitalist gorgon has turned all those unsuspecting blue meanies to stone it is also true that they are as happy as pigs in shit with their eels and mash. But when will they, and all of us, taste freedom from economic servitude? When indeed…
Dave Whelan might argue that footie is not tart enough on rule breakers and it may be true that South American contractual flavours have yet to hit the Lancashire greasy spoons, but it will surely leave a sour taste in his mouth. Can't see how the EPL (Duck Stew) can override an independently commissioned QC (Duck Liver and Port Pate) or how public courts will rule on Premiership points or regulations (Duck Fricassee).
What taste was in De Nilsons mouth after Fererros dainty amuse bouche on Sunday? The sweet peachiness of a run out at the Emirates or just raw rhubarb. What about Alfe Inga Haalands palate or Roy Keanes, cold quiche or vicious vol-au-vent?
How exactly does the Dennis and Ken on-again, off-again romance fit on the menu? Dennis Wise reminds me most of a sociopathic Bangkok motorcycle taxi driver of my acquaintance but if I really had to taste him, at gunpoint for example, then mouse-shit chili's wouldn't surprise me. Ken Bates should naturally be kept in cold storage with the other tubs of I-Can't-Believe-It's-Not-Butter. Leeds is definitely my Pernod. There were, truth be told, some good times but I can't look at them anymore without feeling nauseous.
You've sat at the last supper of the feast of football on the eve of Armageddon, you've eaten the food and drank the wine, some of it was good and some of it was Jean-Alain Boumsong but what was it? Roast beef and yorkies with lashings of English mustard or Meurguez and Harrissa? Sticky rice and tofu or champagne and oysters?
For me its whisky sour with cherries and tequila lime slammers from rusty baked bean cans – tart.man, tart.
Is it sour is it sharp, is football tart?
Each game is its very own TV dinner portion of sweet and sour stir-fry pineapple and bitter capsicum, plump chicken breast and sharp spring onions. Each tackle, each, cross, each goal, each mouthful is both dolce and amarone in the mouths of the be-eaters, one mans nasty is another mans nectar depending on their faith in Ronaldo or in Nesta.
Every season is a swashbuckling smorgasbord of perceived and individual delicacies and this one has been no different. The salty caviar of the MU Roma win, the dry and grassy Sauvignon Blanc of Steve Coppell, the wafer-thin slices of pink Sir Alex garnished with tangy Rooney horseradishes, the frankly bizarre smokey bacon flavour goings on at West Ham.
How was your season? Cod and chips and a Cornetto, smoked salmon canapés and papillote of rascass, or sushi and steak tartare? When you burp now what's the overriding flavour? Is it tart?
Sometimes I feel as if I can really taste peoples gastronomic auras, every time I listen to Wourinho I get the strongest bite of green gooseberries, Wenger – prunes, Mark Lawrenson – Heinz tomato soup
I've even started to categorize, it's important because the saccharine experience of a Stevie G volley for a 'pudlian is different again from the thick syrup of an Essien recovery for a pensioner. If one event smacks of ripe mangoes then the other is surely molasses. One Pompey fans gritty trip up to St James's Park is altogether other than the saltiness of a trip across Landan to watch your former manager's new and present manager's old team beat you 4-0. Ready salted crisps and anchovies seem to have been seperated at birth.
Some folk have slipped down the bittery slope of resenting those lucky rich clubs and to them everything they do tastes of cold black coffee and cloves and while it's true that the capitalist gorgon has turned all those unsuspecting blue meanies to stone it is also true that they are as happy as pigs in shit with their eels and mash. But when will they, and all of us, taste freedom from economic servitude? When indeed…
Dave Whelan might argue that footie is not tart enough on rule breakers and it may be true that South American contractual flavours have yet to hit the Lancashire greasy spoons, but it will surely leave a sour taste in his mouth. Can't see how the EPL (Duck Stew) can override an independently commissioned QC (Duck Liver and Port Pate) or how public courts will rule on Premiership points or regulations (Duck Fricassee).
What taste was in De Nilsons mouth after Fererros dainty amuse bouche on Sunday? The sweet peachiness of a run out at the Emirates or just raw rhubarb. What about Alfe Inga Haalands palate or Roy Keanes, cold quiche or vicious vol-au-vent?
How exactly does the Dennis and Ken on-again, off-again romance fit on the menu? Dennis Wise reminds me most of a sociopathic Bangkok motorcycle taxi driver of my acquaintance but if I really had to taste him, at gunpoint for example, then mouse-shit chili's wouldn't surprise me. Ken Bates should naturally be kept in cold storage with the other tubs of I-Can't-Believe-It's-Not-Butter. Leeds is definitely my Pernod. There were, truth be told, some good times but I can't look at them anymore without feeling nauseous.
You've sat at the last supper of the feast of football on the eve of Armageddon, you've eaten the food and drank the wine, some of it was good and some of it was Jean-Alain Boumsong but what was it? Roast beef and yorkies with lashings of English mustard or Meurguez and Harrissa? Sticky rice and tofu or champagne and oysters?
For me its whisky sour with cherries and tequila lime slammers from rusty baked bean cans – tart.man, tart.
Monday, May 7, 2007
Offgrass&Greenside - The Bandy Legs Inn
Outside: A sign reads "FOR THIS NIGHT ONLY - PAKALOLO GALORE!!!"
Inside: A suspiciously Tasmanian-looking bloke arranges suspicious-looking foodstuffs on a corner table. Offside sits on a bar stool, teaching a kangaroo to sing "Waltzing Matilda" in Tahitian. Mimi, filling in for Ingrid, is lining them up on the bar.
Greengrass: A pint of off-topic, please, luv.
Offside: I'll have six pints please, Mimi. And the same for my friend here. He's got a title to celebrate and I have to drown my sorrows. Tonight's a night for licking wounds and celebrating togertherness. Let's leave the door open. Everyone is welcome and we need some fresh air.
Inside: A suspiciously Tasmanian-looking bloke arranges suspicious-looking foodstuffs on a corner table. Offside sits on a bar stool, teaching a kangaroo to sing "Waltzing Matilda" in Tahitian. Mimi, filling in for Ingrid, is lining them up on the bar.
Greengrass: A pint of off-topic, please, luv.
Offside: I'll have six pints please, Mimi. And the same for my friend here. He's got a title to celebrate and I have to drown my sorrows. Tonight's a night for licking wounds and celebrating togertherness. Let's leave the door open. Everyone is welcome and we need some fresh air.
Friday, May 4, 2007
The fate of La Volpe - Paulita
Football needs villains and Ricardo La Volpe most certainly embodies one of the best ones, or better said, the evilest ones.
Having a target to whom address sporting frustrations in the form of whistling or light verbal abuse, is common, some might even argue healthy for the fan that suffers from pressing nerves. That is assuming the villain lies in the opposite side. Other is the story when the evil wears the very same shirt you adore. Then the villain becomes venomous, intoxicating your pure intentions to stay by your colors no matter what.
That is the case of Ricardo ‘el loco’ Lavolpe. Nobody hates him more than the fans of teams he has worked for, except maybe for many of the footballers he has coached.
Media of course can’t resist such a colorful character and Lavolpe’s first approach is alluring. He will enter any press room confidently, or looking like it, act games with bottles, and offer detailed explanations of moves and tactical decisions. Sport journalists and thorough fans love this exception to the rule of silent coaches reluctant to disclose any information that could actually inform.
The spiky hair, sparser as his defeats mount, the concave moustache, the religious golden pendants leaping out of his flashy attire, the lit cigarette that hides between his fingers, the volatile gestures that he makes during the games, all add to the charm. Until he is somehow contradicted and the jovial aura vanishes. Mexican journalists, as (little) innocent as journalists elsewhere, were told they knew nothing, received insults (Don’t break my balls, fucking idiots) and some got their equipment wet by El Loco. And then, the feud with Hugo Sánchez and Cuauhtémoc Blanco sealed the villainy that resulted in the interrogative ‘Why should we have an Argentine coach?’.
Obsessed with tactics as he is, he finds that saturating players with obligations and endless repetitions of plays is not enough. For the unforeseen events, he wears something red. But destiny rebels and settles the least wanted scenario: Argentina vs Mexico in the world cup. He stays away when the anthems are sang but fate, hostile once again, authorize Maxi Rodriguez’s deadly shot.
His tactical flexibility won him much praise, in his words: ‘Pele and Cruyff told me Mexico was ten times superior to Argentina’. Argentina was not as eulogistic but he gained the respect that he had lacked during the thirty years he spent as coach in Mexican clubs (with one title). A respect that made him the replacement of Alfio Basile at Boca Juniors, after his departure to the national team. The several stories of confrontations with Mexican footballers were muffled by the expectation that this character can arise.
But the stay at Boca was far from thriving. It kicked off with the blown up chance of matching the record of consecutive victories in the league, it followed downhill with the early elimination of the South American Cup (Boca was the last champion with almost the same squad), the 3 – 1 defeat against River and it culminated in a championship shamefully lost in the end. Quivering, Boca had managed to maintain in the league the advantaged obtained with Basile but slowly lost the victor impulse and wasted three opportunities to claim the crown. The functioning of the team had been scrapped, defenders oscillated disoriented between a line of three, four and five, many forwards were thrown on the field so that Boca formed a tangle unable to knit an attack. The playoff was rightfully won by Estudiantes de la Plata and Boca’s fans swallowed their pride together with the newborn venom to applaud the new champions.
La Volpe resigned as he had previously said he would if he lost the title. He then signed for Velez and Velez’s coach (destiny?) signed for Boca.
Several months before it finally happened, La Volpe was asked if he would like Riquelme to come back to Boca. ‘I’d say don’t bring him. Riquelme wouldn’t play in my team’. He later added that football is no longer played with enganches, with tens, and turning to the journalist that refuted his statement: ‘you should stop lying to the people and just retire’.
And venom finally found its way out through an unwelcome chant towards La Volpe when Boca and Velez met last night for the Libertadores Cup at la bombonera. And the non existing Riquelme scored the first goal, followed by a curtain of applause, and also received imperturbable, while organizing the play, the violent mark of Velez. The score was 3 – 0 and the venom, out and forgotten, at least until the next leg.
But La Volpe vows to have the last word. He has said on the sly to be keeping something to himself, something about the lost championship that he will reveal when this season is over, when the work of the villain is ultimately fulfilled.
Having a target to whom address sporting frustrations in the form of whistling or light verbal abuse, is common, some might even argue healthy for the fan that suffers from pressing nerves. That is assuming the villain lies in the opposite side. Other is the story when the evil wears the very same shirt you adore. Then the villain becomes venomous, intoxicating your pure intentions to stay by your colors no matter what.
That is the case of Ricardo ‘el loco’ Lavolpe. Nobody hates him more than the fans of teams he has worked for, except maybe for many of the footballers he has coached.
Media of course can’t resist such a colorful character and Lavolpe’s first approach is alluring. He will enter any press room confidently, or looking like it, act games with bottles, and offer detailed explanations of moves and tactical decisions. Sport journalists and thorough fans love this exception to the rule of silent coaches reluctant to disclose any information that could actually inform.
The spiky hair, sparser as his defeats mount, the concave moustache, the religious golden pendants leaping out of his flashy attire, the lit cigarette that hides between his fingers, the volatile gestures that he makes during the games, all add to the charm. Until he is somehow contradicted and the jovial aura vanishes. Mexican journalists, as (little) innocent as journalists elsewhere, were told they knew nothing, received insults (Don’t break my balls, fucking idiots) and some got their equipment wet by El Loco. And then, the feud with Hugo Sánchez and Cuauhtémoc Blanco sealed the villainy that resulted in the interrogative ‘Why should we have an Argentine coach?’.
Obsessed with tactics as he is, he finds that saturating players with obligations and endless repetitions of plays is not enough. For the unforeseen events, he wears something red. But destiny rebels and settles the least wanted scenario: Argentina vs Mexico in the world cup. He stays away when the anthems are sang but fate, hostile once again, authorize Maxi Rodriguez’s deadly shot.
His tactical flexibility won him much praise, in his words: ‘Pele and Cruyff told me Mexico was ten times superior to Argentina’. Argentina was not as eulogistic but he gained the respect that he had lacked during the thirty years he spent as coach in Mexican clubs (with one title). A respect that made him the replacement of Alfio Basile at Boca Juniors, after his departure to the national team. The several stories of confrontations with Mexican footballers were muffled by the expectation that this character can arise.
But the stay at Boca was far from thriving. It kicked off with the blown up chance of matching the record of consecutive victories in the league, it followed downhill with the early elimination of the South American Cup (Boca was the last champion with almost the same squad), the 3 – 1 defeat against River and it culminated in a championship shamefully lost in the end. Quivering, Boca had managed to maintain in the league the advantaged obtained with Basile but slowly lost the victor impulse and wasted three opportunities to claim the crown. The functioning of the team had been scrapped, defenders oscillated disoriented between a line of three, four and five, many forwards were thrown on the field so that Boca formed a tangle unable to knit an attack. The playoff was rightfully won by Estudiantes de la Plata and Boca’s fans swallowed their pride together with the newborn venom to applaud the new champions.
La Volpe resigned as he had previously said he would if he lost the title. He then signed for Velez and Velez’s coach (destiny?) signed for Boca.
Several months before it finally happened, La Volpe was asked if he would like Riquelme to come back to Boca. ‘I’d say don’t bring him. Riquelme wouldn’t play in my team’. He later added that football is no longer played with enganches, with tens, and turning to the journalist that refuted his statement: ‘you should stop lying to the people and just retire’.
And venom finally found its way out through an unwelcome chant towards La Volpe when Boca and Velez met last night for the Libertadores Cup at la bombonera. And the non existing Riquelme scored the first goal, followed by a curtain of applause, and also received imperturbable, while organizing the play, the violent mark of Velez. The score was 3 – 0 and the venom, out and forgotten, at least until the next leg.
But La Volpe vows to have the last word. He has said on the sly to be keeping something to himself, something about the lost championship that he will reveal when this season is over, when the work of the villain is ultimately fulfilled.
Cycling's latest disaster - Mimitig
Or as I might have titled this: Who's Next to Break my Heart?
When I read a while ago, that Ivan Basso had been signed to Discovery, my heart sank. He had been hugely implicated in Operacion Puerto, he had withdrawn (or been withdrawn) from the 2006 Tour de France, the new drug-free European teams wouldn't touch him and yet, yet, Lance Armstrong's team took him on. This week we here he's "resigned" and will take no further part in the ProTour. What stronger admission do we need? What is happening between the Spanish police and other bodies is not known to me in any detail, but the revelation that Basso may be required to give DNA suggests that the investigation has taken a further turn. His decision to "retire" from competition this year can only lead me to a negative conclusion.
Proof must be decisive and open before any condemnation is made, but as with Jan Ullrich's decision earlier this year to retire from the sport, it does not make for happy reading. If these riders are innocent of the accusations made against them, why would they turn away from the sport they have both loved and earned their livings from?
I have always seen the best in road and track cycling, but in these last years, so many times my heroes have been found wanting. Marco Pantani, the Elephant, was one of my great favourites. I followed his exploits with awe and admiration. When questions were raised, I was at the forefront of his defenders. I couldn't believe he would cheat. But he did, and paid the greatest price - his life. Going back in the history of cycling, others have paid the same price. Tom Simpson was one of the first that we absolutely know gave his life for his wrongly judged quest for success.
And this brings me back to my heartbreak in a sport that I still love. Lance Armstrong signed Ivan Basso. Basso appears to be a drug cheat - though that is still to be proved in the courts of law, if not in the courts of the media. Lance was, and is a cycling hero. He did what no-one has done before - he won the Tour 7 times. Allegations of doping have been an integral part of Lance's career (mostly led by L'Equipe), but there has never been any proof against him and I always believed him to be clean. Sadly, his support of the tainted Basso has caused me to question his ethics, if not his career, and that, for me, is the ultimate betrayal.
When I read a while ago, that Ivan Basso had been signed to Discovery, my heart sank. He had been hugely implicated in Operacion Puerto, he had withdrawn (or been withdrawn) from the 2006 Tour de France, the new drug-free European teams wouldn't touch him and yet, yet, Lance Armstrong's team took him on. This week we here he's "resigned" and will take no further part in the ProTour. What stronger admission do we need? What is happening between the Spanish police and other bodies is not known to me in any detail, but the revelation that Basso may be required to give DNA suggests that the investigation has taken a further turn. His decision to "retire" from competition this year can only lead me to a negative conclusion.
Proof must be decisive and open before any condemnation is made, but as with Jan Ullrich's decision earlier this year to retire from the sport, it does not make for happy reading. If these riders are innocent of the accusations made against them, why would they turn away from the sport they have both loved and earned their livings from?
I have always seen the best in road and track cycling, but in these last years, so many times my heroes have been found wanting. Marco Pantani, the Elephant, was one of my great favourites. I followed his exploits with awe and admiration. When questions were raised, I was at the forefront of his defenders. I couldn't believe he would cheat. But he did, and paid the greatest price - his life. Going back in the history of cycling, others have paid the same price. Tom Simpson was one of the first that we absolutely know gave his life for his wrongly judged quest for success.
And this brings me back to my heartbreak in a sport that I still love. Lance Armstrong signed Ivan Basso. Basso appears to be a drug cheat - though that is still to be proved in the courts of law, if not in the courts of the media. Lance was, and is a cycling hero. He did what no-one has done before - he won the Tour 7 times. Allegations of doping have been an integral part of Lance's career (mostly led by L'Equipe), but there has never been any proof against him and I always believed him to be clean. Sadly, his support of the tainted Basso has caused me to question his ethics, if not his career, and that, for me, is the ultimate betrayal.
Thursday, May 3, 2007
What is it about sports I don't understand? - Mimitig
I've been entranced tonight by a game of which I know very little, and sort of fascinated by a game at which I am a mere amateur fan. The latter distracting me from a thrilling quarter-final in the former. That is enough to tell you what I'm talking about. Yes, the snooker and the football.
Snooker is an absorbing pastime. It is also a debate: is it a sport, or is it the bar game that I was banned from even trying at after ripping up the baize with a poorly advised thrust of the cue? Well, having spent several years following the career of the dynamic Ronnie O'Sullivan, I think it is a sport and gloriously on-the-edge entertainment. You can never write the script for what Ronnie will do, and as a watcher, although one who barely knows the rules of which order the colours have to be pocketed, I can assure you, it is riveting to watch.
Unfortunately tonight, for me, there was another contest underway that clashed with the Rocket's time at the table. I tried, very very hard, to follow Man U on R5 Live at the same time as watching what happened on the green baize, but for once my multi-tasking abandoned me. It's not that the football was that exciting - for goodness sake, after the first AC goal, the plot was a foregone conclusion, but I had to hold on, just in case Fergie's boys could pull the rabbit out of the hat. By the time the match was done, so was Ronnie. Higgins through, Rocket going home.
What it did leave me with was an absolutely classic nerve-trembling match between two young lads that I've barely heard of. Carter and Selby. Who they? Well, I don't know much more now, but the final few frames were far more exciting than the football I'd focussed on earlier in the evening. In fact, they were as thrilling as a penalty shoot-out - oops, probably shouldn't mention that in front of Chelsea fans!
So that leaves me now with the semis and the final of the snooker to enjoy, and the Champions League final in Athens which I hope, will give Liverpool the unprecedented 6th European title. Open-topped buses await at the John Lennon airport.
Do I spend hours trying to understand all the rules and peculiarities of the games before then? Do I buggery! Just watch and enjoy.
Snooker is an absorbing pastime. It is also a debate: is it a sport, or is it the bar game that I was banned from even trying at after ripping up the baize with a poorly advised thrust of the cue? Well, having spent several years following the career of the dynamic Ronnie O'Sullivan, I think it is a sport and gloriously on-the-edge entertainment. You can never write the script for what Ronnie will do, and as a watcher, although one who barely knows the rules of which order the colours have to be pocketed, I can assure you, it is riveting to watch.
Unfortunately tonight, for me, there was another contest underway that clashed with the Rocket's time at the table. I tried, very very hard, to follow Man U on R5 Live at the same time as watching what happened on the green baize, but for once my multi-tasking abandoned me. It's not that the football was that exciting - for goodness sake, after the first AC goal, the plot was a foregone conclusion, but I had to hold on, just in case Fergie's boys could pull the rabbit out of the hat. By the time the match was done, so was Ronnie. Higgins through, Rocket going home.
What it did leave me with was an absolutely classic nerve-trembling match between two young lads that I've barely heard of. Carter and Selby. Who they? Well, I don't know much more now, but the final few frames were far more exciting than the football I'd focussed on earlier in the evening. In fact, they were as thrilling as a penalty shoot-out - oops, probably shouldn't mention that in front of Chelsea fans!
So that leaves me now with the semis and the final of the snooker to enjoy, and the Champions League final in Athens which I hope, will give Liverpool the unprecedented 6th European title. Open-topped buses await at the John Lennon airport.
Do I spend hours trying to understand all the rules and peculiarities of the games before then? Do I buggery! Just watch and enjoy.
Wednesday, May 2, 2007
The Right Stuff - Nesta
With the World Cup back under southern skies the Australian cricket selectors have wasted no time in getting back to work. David Boon, Merv Hughes, Jamie Cox and Andrew Hilditch announced yesterday the list of contracted players that will represent the national side over the next 12 months. With the retirements of Damien Martyn, Justin Langer, Shane Warne and Glenn McGrath, and the omission of Simon Katich and Michael Kasprowicz several young players have been rewarded for excellence at first class level.
BATSMEN
Michael Clarke - NSW; Matthew Hayden - QLD; Brad Hodge - VIC; Michael Hussey - WA; Phil Jaques - NSW; Ricky Ponting - TAS; Chris Rogers - WA; Adam Voges - WA
KEEPERS
Adam Gilchrist - WA; Brad Haddin - NSW
ALLROUNDERS
James Hopes - QLD; Andrew Symonds - QLD; Shane Watson - QLD; Cameron White - VIC
BOWLERS
Cullen Bailey - SA; Nathan Bracken - NSW; Stuart Clark - NSW; Daniel Cullen - SA; Jason Gillespie - SA; Ben Hilfenhaus - TAS; Brad Hogg - WA; Mitchell Johnson - QLD
Brett Lee - NSW; Stuart Magill - NSW; Shaun Tait - SA
There are few surprises within the squad but two selections do stand out. Jason Gillespie, after being in the wilderness for 18 months has returned to provide more experience to the fast bowling ranks. And sensibly the fetished selection of four wrist spinners to try and cover the loss of Shane Warne. I’m afraid four may not be enough but the inclusion of 22 year old South Australian Cullen Bailey is the stand out.
A super fit, committed Christian with MENSA membership, the modest Bailey is a complete contrast in personality and manner to the great S.K.Warne. However, the crucial thing they do have in common is the mentorship of Terry Jenner. Bailey has been under Jenner’s tutelage since age 14 and Terry unsurprisingly speaks very highly of his young charge.
Jenner describes Bailey as a spinner similar in style to Richie Benaud and the most treasured Australian captain has been making regular trips to Adelaide in the last 18 months to offer advice and groom the young spinner.
Richie has praised the youngster's analysis of the game and points to Bailey’s insightful columns on the Redback’s website as evidence. He is most impressed with his insatiable curiosity and I suspect that Benaud sees a fair bit of himself in the young South Australian.
Whilst senior citizens around the country are rushing to have their cholesterol checked to ensure they are around to witness Benaud Mark II, Stuart Magill will be expected to fill the gap until Bailey is ready for international cricket. Jenner is of the opinion that the selectors mustn’t rush the erudite Bailey and insists that he needs more time to hone his craft.
"I think it would be devastating for a young player to follow Warne straight in, and the reputation and aura and records that come with that," Jenner said. "Stuey has a very important job now. I do believe that Bailey has the ability and the work ethic to be a successful Test bowler, but he needs to be given a chance to develop."
Magill, after more than a decade of playing second fiddle to Warne is now presented with a very important role to play for the successful future of Australian cricket. In the short term, as the spinning spearhead and in the longer term as the bridge to the next generation.
This was emphasised by Chairman of Selectors Andrew Hilditch at yesterday’s press conference, “Australian cricket is very lucky to have someone like Stuart," the solicitor said. "We obviously think he is a very valuable player for us and that is why we have placed a fair bit of faith in him."
He also added probably to Jenner’s horror and Bailey’s delight that the young Redback was well in the frame for international selection. "He has put together a couple of solid seasons now," Hilditch added. "Sometimes these things happen quickly."
With India touring later this year it will be tempting for the selectors to play Bailey in the Sydney Test as Magill’s spinning accomplice. This echoes of the Indian tour of 1991/92 when a young, tubby, inexperienced leggie with peroxided locks from Victoria was given his first baggygreen. That match was a baptism of fire for Warne and I expect the selectors will throw Bailey into the same inferno to see if he really is made of, the right stuff.
BATSMEN
Michael Clarke - NSW; Matthew Hayden - QLD; Brad Hodge - VIC; Michael Hussey - WA; Phil Jaques - NSW; Ricky Ponting - TAS; Chris Rogers - WA; Adam Voges - WA
KEEPERS
Adam Gilchrist - WA; Brad Haddin - NSW
ALLROUNDERS
James Hopes - QLD; Andrew Symonds - QLD; Shane Watson - QLD; Cameron White - VIC
BOWLERS
Cullen Bailey - SA; Nathan Bracken - NSW; Stuart Clark - NSW; Daniel Cullen - SA; Jason Gillespie - SA; Ben Hilfenhaus - TAS; Brad Hogg - WA; Mitchell Johnson - QLD
Brett Lee - NSW; Stuart Magill - NSW; Shaun Tait - SA
There are few surprises within the squad but two selections do stand out. Jason Gillespie, after being in the wilderness for 18 months has returned to provide more experience to the fast bowling ranks. And sensibly the fetished selection of four wrist spinners to try and cover the loss of Shane Warne. I’m afraid four may not be enough but the inclusion of 22 year old South Australian Cullen Bailey is the stand out.
A super fit, committed Christian with MENSA membership, the modest Bailey is a complete contrast in personality and manner to the great S.K.Warne. However, the crucial thing they do have in common is the mentorship of Terry Jenner. Bailey has been under Jenner’s tutelage since age 14 and Terry unsurprisingly speaks very highly of his young charge.
Jenner describes Bailey as a spinner similar in style to Richie Benaud and the most treasured Australian captain has been making regular trips to Adelaide in the last 18 months to offer advice and groom the young spinner.
Richie has praised the youngster's analysis of the game and points to Bailey’s insightful columns on the Redback’s website as evidence. He is most impressed with his insatiable curiosity and I suspect that Benaud sees a fair bit of himself in the young South Australian.
Whilst senior citizens around the country are rushing to have their cholesterol checked to ensure they are around to witness Benaud Mark II, Stuart Magill will be expected to fill the gap until Bailey is ready for international cricket. Jenner is of the opinion that the selectors mustn’t rush the erudite Bailey and insists that he needs more time to hone his craft.
"I think it would be devastating for a young player to follow Warne straight in, and the reputation and aura and records that come with that," Jenner said. "Stuey has a very important job now. I do believe that Bailey has the ability and the work ethic to be a successful Test bowler, but he needs to be given a chance to develop."
Magill, after more than a decade of playing second fiddle to Warne is now presented with a very important role to play for the successful future of Australian cricket. In the short term, as the spinning spearhead and in the longer term as the bridge to the next generation.
This was emphasised by Chairman of Selectors Andrew Hilditch at yesterday’s press conference, “Australian cricket is very lucky to have someone like Stuart," the solicitor said. "We obviously think he is a very valuable player for us and that is why we have placed a fair bit of faith in him."
He also added probably to Jenner’s horror and Bailey’s delight that the young Redback was well in the frame for international selection. "He has put together a couple of solid seasons now," Hilditch added. "Sometimes these things happen quickly."
With India touring later this year it will be tempting for the selectors to play Bailey in the Sydney Test as Magill’s spinning accomplice. This echoes of the Indian tour of 1991/92 when a young, tubby, inexperienced leggie with peroxided locks from Victoria was given his first baggygreen. That match was a baptism of fire for Warne and I expect the selectors will throw Bailey into the same inferno to see if he really is made of, the right stuff.
Monday, April 30, 2007
Where Now for the ICC World Cup? - leeroycal
Media and fans alike are tearing at the fetid remains of the Cricket World Cup like a pack of rabid Hyenas. The difference being that Hyenas usually laugh; there is no amusement to be had here at all. But can we take a rib from the bones of this tournament and create a whole new being, as God apparently did with Eve: a thing of beauty, a tournament fit for purpose, something people actually want to watch?
Forgetting the obvious ICC cock-ups, the biggest problem with the World Cup is the cricket itself. There are not enough truly competetive fixtures from the outset, in that teams can lose a number of matches and still get to the semis. The crowds know this and the players know this, threfore there is no intensity from the players and thus no interest from the spectators. I have been watching this tournament throughout (unfortunately), and I can count on two fingers the number of conversations I have had about it: it is too long and too many matches inconsequential to care.
The ICC simply have to find a way of harnessing the games that are happening all over the world as teams tour and play each other. The cricketing calendar is currently an endless merry-go-round of triangular series' and back to back ODIs that mean very little; these could and should be used as some kind of qualifying regime.
This would take the form of a two division World League, with the top eight teams in Division 1 and the next eight in Division 2. A schedule of games would then be agreed over a 4 year period in which points are accrued; nations could of course arrange fixtures outside of this schedule as well. This would lead to a seeded 16-team straightforward knockout competition at the end of the qualifying period. Imagine that - a World Cup that is only 15 games long: more flexible scheduling; an end to the comedy Duckworth Lewis nonsense in the big games; no need for semi finals to be played midweek.
Of course this format could increase the risk that top teams could go out early, and if it does so what? This is sport, and it just may reduce this risk as it will force big teams to get their game faces on early.
Forgetting the obvious ICC cock-ups, the biggest problem with the World Cup is the cricket itself. There are not enough truly competetive fixtures from the outset, in that teams can lose a number of matches and still get to the semis. The crowds know this and the players know this, threfore there is no intensity from the players and thus no interest from the spectators. I have been watching this tournament throughout (unfortunately), and I can count on two fingers the number of conversations I have had about it: it is too long and too many matches inconsequential to care.
The ICC simply have to find a way of harnessing the games that are happening all over the world as teams tour and play each other. The cricketing calendar is currently an endless merry-go-round of triangular series' and back to back ODIs that mean very little; these could and should be used as some kind of qualifying regime.
This would take the form of a two division World League, with the top eight teams in Division 1 and the next eight in Division 2. A schedule of games would then be agreed over a 4 year period in which points are accrued; nations could of course arrange fixtures outside of this schedule as well. This would lead to a seeded 16-team straightforward knockout competition at the end of the qualifying period. Imagine that - a World Cup that is only 15 games long: more flexible scheduling; an end to the comedy Duckworth Lewis nonsense in the big games; no need for semi finals to be played midweek.
Of course this format could increase the risk that top teams could go out early, and if it does so what? This is sport, and it just may reduce this risk as it will force big teams to get their game faces on early.
Alan Ball. A trailblazing modern footballer - Margin
Dave Mackay was the most gifted player in the Spurs double winning side, and once described life after 61. The players, he said, ceased to be the men they were. They became ‘The Double Winners.’ - Superstars of a whole new order.
The modern footballer was effectively born as they ‘cashed in’ with free suits from London tailors and other such modest benefits. Alan Ball was 16 at the time, and probably wasn’t watching very closely.
In 1966 eleven men ceased to be men and became ‘The World Cup Winners’. This time Alan Ball was among them aged just 21.
As the youngest player there, and as man of the match in the final, Ball became a superstar with his career still ahead of him. A record transfer quickly took him from Blackpool to Everton, giving him a chance to win trophies.
The trophies came and Everton lifted the title in 1970, in part thanks to incredible form from the fantastic Alan Ball. He had by now evolved into a much more complete player than that fast running, hard working kid of 1966.
Sadly England then flopped in the 1970 World Cup. With high expectations the side went out in the quarter finals. And on the back of international let down, Ball cashed in.
Hummel had a new boot to publicise, and £2000 to do it with. That figure could have bought a family home in 1970, and Alan Ball offered his services. All he had to do was wear unusual boots and the money was his.
Of course he didn’t wear the boots for long. He took the money but continued to play in Adidas boots as the Hummel ones were uncomfortable. To con his sponsor he had an apprentice paint his own boots white. Then when it rained the game was up. He had to give the cash back.
Having won the title at Everton, Ball left a year later for new champions Arsenal who became the second side to break transfer records for him. He played there for several seasons, enjoying the highs of London life and splashing out on suits that Mackay might have envied.
While his club performances were great, the England side was poor. They suffered ignominy by failing to qualify for the 1974 World Cup.
By 1978 he had dropped down a league to play with Southampton. His was a key role in their promotion that year, and during this time he took to gambling. It was a habit he latter encouraged in others, taking his teams as manager to race courses to build team spirit.
And that was Alan Ball. He didn’t stay with Blackpool all his life. He did cash in on his fame and status. He gambled his riches on horses. And he celebrated the high life while it lasted.
He was a modern footballer in every sense. And he was all the more fantastic for it.
The modern footballer was effectively born as they ‘cashed in’ with free suits from London tailors and other such modest benefits. Alan Ball was 16 at the time, and probably wasn’t watching very closely.
In 1966 eleven men ceased to be men and became ‘The World Cup Winners’. This time Alan Ball was among them aged just 21.
As the youngest player there, and as man of the match in the final, Ball became a superstar with his career still ahead of him. A record transfer quickly took him from Blackpool to Everton, giving him a chance to win trophies.
The trophies came and Everton lifted the title in 1970, in part thanks to incredible form from the fantastic Alan Ball. He had by now evolved into a much more complete player than that fast running, hard working kid of 1966.
Sadly England then flopped in the 1970 World Cup. With high expectations the side went out in the quarter finals. And on the back of international let down, Ball cashed in.
Hummel had a new boot to publicise, and £2000 to do it with. That figure could have bought a family home in 1970, and Alan Ball offered his services. All he had to do was wear unusual boots and the money was his.
Of course he didn’t wear the boots for long. He took the money but continued to play in Adidas boots as the Hummel ones were uncomfortable. To con his sponsor he had an apprentice paint his own boots white. Then when it rained the game was up. He had to give the cash back.
Having won the title at Everton, Ball left a year later for new champions Arsenal who became the second side to break transfer records for him. He played there for several seasons, enjoying the highs of London life and splashing out on suits that Mackay might have envied.
While his club performances were great, the England side was poor. They suffered ignominy by failing to qualify for the 1974 World Cup.
By 1978 he had dropped down a league to play with Southampton. His was a key role in their promotion that year, and during this time he took to gambling. It was a habit he latter encouraged in others, taking his teams as manager to race courses to build team spirit.
And that was Alan Ball. He didn’t stay with Blackpool all his life. He did cash in on his fame and status. He gambled his riches on horses. And he celebrated the high life while it lasted.
He was a modern footballer in every sense. And he was all the more fantastic for it.
Sunday, April 29, 2007
At home with Duckworth and Lewis - Zephirine
[“In the sport of cricket, the Duckworth-Lewis method is a mathematical way to calculate the target score for the team batting second in a one-day cricket match interrupted by weather or other circumstance.” Wikipedia]
(A scrupulously tidy kitchen. Two BOFFINS appear, in old-fashioned dressing-gowns and pyjamas).
Lewis: Morning Duckworth.
Duckworth: Morning Lewis.
Lewis: Sleep well?
Duckworth: Sadly not. I woke up at 4.09 which meant I had to get back to sleep in less than 17 minutes in order to reach my revised target of 7 hours 45.5 minutes’ sleep.
Lewis: Did you manage it?
Duckworth: Unfortunately after 37 minutes I was still awake and I was too sleepy to recalculate before I did drop off again, so I have no idea if I’ve had a mathematically appropriate amount of sleep or not.
Lewis: My dear chap! That’s terrible. Have this average sized slice of toast. It’s been done to 3.35 minutes as you prefer.
Duckworth: Most kind.
(He takes the toast and starts to butter it, but there is very little butter left in the dish.)
Lewis: Ah. We’re going to need…. 0.235 of a pack of butter, would you say?
Duckworth: Based on a consumption of two slices each at a consistent level of greed I would say that would be a defensible target.
(Lewis gets the butter out of the fridge and measures it with a small slide-rule before cutting a section off and putting it in the butter dish.)
Duckworth: Getting back to sleep within 20 minutes should have been possible on a basis of my resources, ie tiredness level, physical exercise taken, softness of bed and pre-sleep mug of cocoa.
Lewis: I think you get a clearer set of numbers with a pre-sleep single malt, myself. Tea?
Duckworth: Thank you. I shall need an extra 0.36 grams of sugar to compensate for my estimated loss of energy through sleep deprivation. Why is the phone off the hook?
Lewis: They kept phoning up from Barbados last night and I got fed up with it. I was busy revising the calculation of how many chimpanzees it would take to write the Wisden annual.
Duckworth: How many was it, in the end?
Lewis: Chimpanzees? 73,050,025 over a period of five years. Assuming some of them are cleverer than others across a 40 percentile range.
Duckworth: I think the television needs repairing. I had the cricket on with the sound off while I did my Super Sudoku, and the picture was terribly dark.
Lewis: No, that was from Barbados, it was actually night-time. They kept going on about it.
Duckworth: Well, that’s nonsense. You can’t use our targets at night. It would require a completely new set of calculations.
Lewis: I told them that. They were quite abusive.
Duckworth: Ah well. Let them fret, our system’s only a temporary measure. Once the ICC gets all one-day internationals played in Dubai, rain won’t be a problem.
Lewis: Er-
Duckworth: Sorry, I mean it’ll be approximately 95.3 % less of a problem.
Lewis: Indeed. And we can get on with more important things. More tea?
Duckworth: Just 0.45 of a cup, thanks.
(A knock at the door. Lewis goes to open it. A DELIVERY BOY hands him an enormous bunch of flowers.)
Lewis: (surprised) Thank you. (shuts the door) How very odd. Flowers. Almost 90% unforeseeable.
Duckworth: Is there a message?
Lewis: Yes. It says: TO D & L WITH LOVE AND KISSES FROM RICKY P AND ALL THE BOYS.
Duckworth: Ah, cricketers… so charmingly unpredictable.
(A scrupulously tidy kitchen. Two BOFFINS appear, in old-fashioned dressing-gowns and pyjamas).
Lewis: Morning Duckworth.
Duckworth: Morning Lewis.
Lewis: Sleep well?
Duckworth: Sadly not. I woke up at 4.09 which meant I had to get back to sleep in less than 17 minutes in order to reach my revised target of 7 hours 45.5 minutes’ sleep.
Lewis: Did you manage it?
Duckworth: Unfortunately after 37 minutes I was still awake and I was too sleepy to recalculate before I did drop off again, so I have no idea if I’ve had a mathematically appropriate amount of sleep or not.
Lewis: My dear chap! That’s terrible. Have this average sized slice of toast. It’s been done to 3.35 minutes as you prefer.
Duckworth: Most kind.
(He takes the toast and starts to butter it, but there is very little butter left in the dish.)
Lewis: Ah. We’re going to need…. 0.235 of a pack of butter, would you say?
Duckworth: Based on a consumption of two slices each at a consistent level of greed I would say that would be a defensible target.
(Lewis gets the butter out of the fridge and measures it with a small slide-rule before cutting a section off and putting it in the butter dish.)
Duckworth: Getting back to sleep within 20 minutes should have been possible on a basis of my resources, ie tiredness level, physical exercise taken, softness of bed and pre-sleep mug of cocoa.
Lewis: I think you get a clearer set of numbers with a pre-sleep single malt, myself. Tea?
Duckworth: Thank you. I shall need an extra 0.36 grams of sugar to compensate for my estimated loss of energy through sleep deprivation. Why is the phone off the hook?
Lewis: They kept phoning up from Barbados last night and I got fed up with it. I was busy revising the calculation of how many chimpanzees it would take to write the Wisden annual.
Duckworth: How many was it, in the end?
Lewis: Chimpanzees? 73,050,025 over a period of five years. Assuming some of them are cleverer than others across a 40 percentile range.
Duckworth: I think the television needs repairing. I had the cricket on with the sound off while I did my Super Sudoku, and the picture was terribly dark.
Lewis: No, that was from Barbados, it was actually night-time. They kept going on about it.
Duckworth: Well, that’s nonsense. You can’t use our targets at night. It would require a completely new set of calculations.
Lewis: I told them that. They were quite abusive.
Duckworth: Ah well. Let them fret, our system’s only a temporary measure. Once the ICC gets all one-day internationals played in Dubai, rain won’t be a problem.
Lewis: Er-
Duckworth: Sorry, I mean it’ll be approximately 95.3 % less of a problem.
Lewis: Indeed. And we can get on with more important things. More tea?
Duckworth: Just 0.45 of a cup, thanks.
(A knock at the door. Lewis goes to open it. A DELIVERY BOY hands him an enormous bunch of flowers.)
Lewis: (surprised) Thank you. (shuts the door) How very odd. Flowers. Almost 90% unforeseeable.
Duckworth: Is there a message?
Lewis: Yes. It says: TO D & L WITH LOVE AND KISSES FROM RICKY P AND ALL THE BOYS.
Duckworth: Ah, cricketers… so charmingly unpredictable.
The big five re-emerge - Margin
When the Premiership was created it was a stitch up. The big five were warping the league to serve their own aims. Papers complained, fans despaired, and the league threw its hands up in resignation.
Those big five were United, Arsenal, Liverpool, Spurs and Everton. They were the five clubs always tipped to win something and each had a million fans or more. Other clubs would rise for a while, but these five were the giants that always came back.
Of course looking at old predictions shows the trouble with predicting. No one expected a Liverpool title drought. Spurs failed to recover from bankruptcy. And Everton just faded. Meanwhile Blackburn spent a fortune and rose to the top. Newcastle spent a fortune and rose to second. And Chelsea raised the bar for both spending a fortune and rising to the top.
But as the league starts to settle into its final shape again, there are signs the ‘big five’ is re-emerging, with Chelsea as long-term interlopers.
Two years ago Everton finished fourth. Their manager David Moyes publicly pushed to finish higher - and that gave them the edge to hold on to the end. Last year Spurs nearly did likewise, but manager Martin Jol did things different. He sheltered his players and played down expectations all season.
Spurs now look a natural fifth. Still not as good as the dominant four, they are better than the rest across all competitions. And they did that after losing their most influential player to ManU last summer.
But the more interesting story is Everton.
Everton’s overconfidence two years ago got results, but at a price. Raised expectations followed by early failures triggered a confidence crisis. At one stage they looked a certainty for relegation, and that prompted a change in attitude.
Well run for the first time in years, Everton did the unusual nd kept their good manager when times got tough. They spent money wisely to build a solid team rather than paper over cracks with aging stars.
Tactically sound and with an eye for good signings, Moyes learned an important lesson. He still exudes confidence, but protects players from expectations instead of hyping them up himself. That may sound less glorious but if it avoids collapses that last for months it will serve the club well.
Few people have noticed Everton’s revival because of that bad season last year. The resulting lack of European football drew attention away from the side. The blip was portrayed as a return to mediocre form. And no one noticed the side improve and learned from experience.
Of course eventually the old Moyes will return. Both Spurs and Everton have a big barrier to face in the next couple of years. Both sides can outplay and beat the modern ‘big four’ over 90 minutes. But their capacity to throw away commanding leads shows that neither side yet believes they are worthy.
Spurs lost leads in cup exits to Arsenal, Chelsea and Seville this season. In each game they showed a lack of belief that they were really good enough to win. They talked in terms of ‘could win’ not ‘should win’ and seemed grateful for cup runs instead of angry at defeat.
When Everton step up to match Spurs, Moyes’ instincts may serve him better. His aggressive belief and will to win backfired before, but might be fit the bill when better players have a chance to win trophies.
So with Spurs improved and Everton rising, those long wrong predictions may finally prove true. Sort of.
Those big five were United, Arsenal, Liverpool, Spurs and Everton. They were the five clubs always tipped to win something and each had a million fans or more. Other clubs would rise for a while, but these five were the giants that always came back.
Of course looking at old predictions shows the trouble with predicting. No one expected a Liverpool title drought. Spurs failed to recover from bankruptcy. And Everton just faded. Meanwhile Blackburn spent a fortune and rose to the top. Newcastle spent a fortune and rose to second. And Chelsea raised the bar for both spending a fortune and rising to the top.
But as the league starts to settle into its final shape again, there are signs the ‘big five’ is re-emerging, with Chelsea as long-term interlopers.
Two years ago Everton finished fourth. Their manager David Moyes publicly pushed to finish higher - and that gave them the edge to hold on to the end. Last year Spurs nearly did likewise, but manager Martin Jol did things different. He sheltered his players and played down expectations all season.
Spurs now look a natural fifth. Still not as good as the dominant four, they are better than the rest across all competitions. And they did that after losing their most influential player to ManU last summer.
But the more interesting story is Everton.
Everton’s overconfidence two years ago got results, but at a price. Raised expectations followed by early failures triggered a confidence crisis. At one stage they looked a certainty for relegation, and that prompted a change in attitude.
Well run for the first time in years, Everton did the unusual nd kept their good manager when times got tough. They spent money wisely to build a solid team rather than paper over cracks with aging stars.
Tactically sound and with an eye for good signings, Moyes learned an important lesson. He still exudes confidence, but protects players from expectations instead of hyping them up himself. That may sound less glorious but if it avoids collapses that last for months it will serve the club well.
Few people have noticed Everton’s revival because of that bad season last year. The resulting lack of European football drew attention away from the side. The blip was portrayed as a return to mediocre form. And no one noticed the side improve and learned from experience.
Of course eventually the old Moyes will return. Both Spurs and Everton have a big barrier to face in the next couple of years. Both sides can outplay and beat the modern ‘big four’ over 90 minutes. But their capacity to throw away commanding leads shows that neither side yet believes they are worthy.
Spurs lost leads in cup exits to Arsenal, Chelsea and Seville this season. In each game they showed a lack of belief that they were really good enough to win. They talked in terms of ‘could win’ not ‘should win’ and seemed grateful for cup runs instead of angry at defeat.
When Everton step up to match Spurs, Moyes’ instincts may serve him better. His aggressive belief and will to win backfired before, but might be fit the bill when better players have a chance to win trophies.
So with Spurs improved and Everton rising, those long wrong predictions may finally prove true. Sort of.
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