I don’t think it will come as a surprise to any of my readers to know that I am a huge fan of cycling. Those who have followed my coverage of Le Tour over the past few years know how devastated I have been by the drug scandals, but how much I have believed in the clean teams and the clean riders.
We have been treated to a book by a rare beast.
Bradley Wiggins – Wiggo – is one of those riders who has been in a dirty Tour, seen all the rubbish – and is sure enough of the future to commit to at least one more Tour.
His book, In Pursuit of Glory, makes fascinating reading for anyone interested in sport. Any sport.
And actually any human endeavour of any kind.
Wiggins has a fascinating story – even without his recent Olympic success, and while his story would be worth reading however it was told, he has hooked up with a very distinguished journalist, Brendan Gallagher, to bring us a sports biog that is a bit classier than some.
Rather unfortunately, and this is entirely down to his editor, there is a typo in line one of the Acknowledgements. If I worked for Orion, in any capacity, I would feel humiliated that a high-profile, potentially best-selling, late season (ie published too late to make this year’s William Hill Sports Book of the Year List but therefore may be OK for next year) book has gone into its first print run with an effing typo on page one. In my day (grrr, humph, humph) such poor copy-editing would lead to a sacking.
However, these days no-one cares. And looking at the bigger picture of this book, I don’t care that much. It just niggled.
Anyway, we get into the text. It’s a very well structured book. Chapter One – emotionally for Brad, but delightfully for me is entitled “It’s Four in the Morning”. We start with something that was covered a little bit by the press – the death of Bradley Wiggins’s estranged father in Australia. This happening in the year that is one of Wiggo’s most important years in his career as a cyclist.
I opened the page, read the chapter title and just had Farron Young in my head. However, getting over my immediate reaction I launched into this book and was lost.
Bradley and Gallagher have collaborated on a book that really does do what it says on the tin. There are unbelievably frank writings on Brad’s relationship with his father. For those who don’t know the history, Brad’s father was a wild, hard-drinking, drugging Aussie who plied his trade in the hard arena of European Track cycling. He was a Madison champion and had a career, but at the expense of his various wives and families.
Having abandoned a first wife in Australia, he met Linda, Bradley’s mum, when he turned to Europe for his career. All his successes are fully detailed in this book, and although he then left Linda and their son, there is very little bitterness here.
What I find touching and moving is that despite being born in Belgium and half Australian, Bradley Wiggins has always felt totally British, and this before he started earning a living through lottery funding. It just comes through in the book that his early years, cycling and crashing in west and south London, just make him a Londoner.
A lot of this book might be dull for those not interested in cycling – there are details of training and races that only a fan really cares about, but there is much more.
The insights into the post-Athens let down are fascinating. As a fan of cycling, I thought there would be a lot of coverage of the success there, but there wasn’t and I can understand how deflated Wiggins felt.
One of the great things about this book is how much we learn about all the other people, and one who is mostly unknown is Steve Peters. I was really surprised how much of the important stuff in GB Cycling’s success is down to this totally unsung hero.
Wiggins is unstinting in his praise for the chaps who’ve helped him be the multi-Olympic champ he is, but above all others, his praise for Peters is noticeable.
Did any of you know that Peters is so highly qualified that he “is on call with police forces around the country”? That he has worked at Rampton?
Now, I’m not suggesting that our athletes need a forensic psychiatrist to deal with their problems, but after reading this book, it becomes clear that for a GB team to achieve at the highest levels, they need the best experts and GB Cycling have recognised this.
Wiggins got this, and used all the resources to overcome his personal demons.
With this help, Wiggins got back in tune with both track and road, and his book describes the heartaches of both disciplines. He is an extraordinary athlete and needs to be celebrated as such.
It is quite possible, if the UCI and ASO get together, that we could have a really good, clean tour next year.
Bradley believes in this – it’s why he will do it again, another 2500kms around France. Dragging the body over the mountains. He’s done it before and suffered the utter humiliation of being arrested and thrown off the Tour for someone else’s crap.
There are so many stories in this book – it could have been at least two books. After all, how can you compare track and road – is Hoy mightier than Cav?
In this book, Wiggins accords the same awe and regard to his track cohort Chris “The Mighty” Hoy and the Manx Express, Mark Cavendish – who blitzed the Tour this year with four sprint wins.
Underneath all the sporting details are Bradley’s truths about his family. It makes for a very coherent book. We learn about Brad from early days to total success and the importance of Cath and his children – held up against Brad’s childhood.
I wrote about Marcus Trescothick’s book last time out, and that one was more about struggle than success.
I would suggest that Wiggo’s book is all about understanding failure and searching for the support to deal with it. If Steve Peters had looked after Tres in the way he looks after the cycling boys and girls, I think Tres might never had suffered his terrible breakdowns.
AND there is one person in this review that I haven’t mentioned, which is poor. At the very beginning of Wiggo’s book, he tells the readers that his inspiration was watching Chris Boardman in the Barcelona Olympics.
Chris went on to become, and still is, an absolutely vital part of Team GB Cycling. Brad does make that plain, but if there is a weakness, or gap, in this book, it is the part that Chris plays in GB Cycling.
While I know he is a modest guy who seeks no glory, anyone who gives the slightest toss about the huge haul of medals we got at Beijing, from Nicole to Chris to Vicky to Brad, we know that Chris has done it.
If there is any justice in the sporting world, the rubbish BBC SPOTY team award will go to our cyclists, and Chris will pick up the trophy.
But this is about the book – should you read it? Yes – even if cycling means nothing to you, read about one man’s determination to be the best. Read about ridiculous cycling tournaments in Belgium when they are all pissed to the hilt.
Read about how one man’s dysfunctional upbringing can change when he becomes a father.
Read about why the Tour still matters.
But mostly read because any Mod who dares name Chapter One for Farron Young is either a genius or mad.
If I were still in London, I’d be out on my bike after reading this, and challenging my crew to beat my time for our Time-Trial. Cos I’d be so inspired that I’m sure I could do it.
Now this one isn’t up for the prize this year. Published too late, but the William Hill Shortlist does include one I’ve reviewed here earlier – Marcus Trescothick’s Coming Back to me, and Wilson’s Inverting the Pyramid has also made the shortlist. Naylor has reviewed JW’s book, so anyone interested can find it.
Me – I want JW to win, but I also want people to read me.
Enjoy.
Friday, October 31, 2008
Wednesday, October 22, 2008
World Series/Cricket – Mac Millings
Baseball’s World Series is here, and you should care. Why? Well, you shouldn’t need to ask, but as you are, I’ll tell you.
It’s a major sporting event, and as such, should command you’re the attention of anyone who loves sport played at the highest level. And if you’re a cricket fan, it should be compulsory viewing.
For baseball and cricket are genetically related; the two games, in their modern, organized form, shared a close-knit, if somewhat antagonistic, early history, and close comparisons in the way the games are both watched and played can be made.
Think of it like this: if, tomorrow, you moved to the United States for the rest of your life, and you were a football or rugby fan, then you’d have to make do with American football. But were cricket your thing, then, likely as not, you would fall in love with baseball.
This time around, the Series matches two teams with a shared tradition of futility – the Tampa Bay Rays, who, in their short existence, had never got close to winning more games in a season than they’d lost until this year, and the Philadelphia Phillies, who have won fewer World Series titles than the much romanticized, 100-years-without-a-championship Chicago Cubs, and in 2007 became the first team to lose a total of 10,000 games in the history of baseball.
Emphatically, this was not the Series the US media wanted, desperate as they were for a Red Sox-Dodgers match-up, with all the baggage that those teams would bring. I could go into it, but I won’t. I don’t care. They lost, the Phillies and the Rays didn’t, and baseball is the better for it.
Boston wouldn’t have dropped a game against LA, and yet another season would have ended in anticlimax. Phillies-Rays, on the other hand, looks like being as closely contested a World Series as we’ve seen for years.
Lazy journalists everywhere are calling the Rays favourites based on…well, not much, it seems. Most commonly cited is the fact that they emerged from the regular season atop the American League East, “the toughest division in baseball”, featuring the aforementioned Boston Red Sox, as well as perennial also-rans the Baltimore Orioles and Toronto Blue Jays, and the mighty New York Yankees.
Trouble is, the New York aren’t so mighty any more – this is the worst Yankees team in some time – and Boston, weakened by trades and injury, aren’t last year’s Sox.
The other chief, and not unrelated, reason given for the Rays favoured status is simply that they are from the American League, which has dominated the rival National League for some time. Last time I checked, however, it’s not the whole League that’s plays in the Series.
Putting aside for another day (all right, I’ll never come back to this one) the argument that the former Tampa Bay Devil Rays will win because they are being rewarded from on high for dropping the D-word from their name, one of the Rays’ real advantages lies in the fact that their line-up hits for average, hits for power, plays good defence (that is, they field well), and has good speed on the bases – in other words, they can score runs in different ways, no matter the situation. And the Phillies? Well, ditto. More importantly, both clubs feature good pitching.
There is a maxim in baseball, which happens to be true, that good pitching beats good hitting. And it’s the art of pitching that should draw cricket lovers close to this game.
We fans of the willow think of cricket as unique, the greatest game, and one of the chief reasons, I think, is the idea of the contest between bat and ball. In other sports, in football, say, or rugby, the play is fast, breathless, with physical contact, and the fans’ passion is intense and focused. Playing these sports, you don’t often get time to think, and indeed, on the occasions that you do (the full back under a swirling kick, the centre forward one-on-one with the keeper) having that time to think is often considered a curse.
Cricket, conversely, is all about the time you have to think. Because, whereas in faster sports you mostly react in an instant, on instinct, in cricket much of the time is spent waiting (in the case of a batsman) and thinking (“where am I going to bowl to him?”).
And while in football and rugby, it seems like anything could happen at any time, in cricket, only one main thing is ever going to happen; the bowler is going to bowl to the batsman. The intrigue of the game lies in waiting to see how he’s going to do it and how the batsman will react to it by finally being able to rely on every good sportsperson’s greatest talent, their innate ability to react appropriately in the moment it takes the ball to reach them from the bowler’s hand.
And that's the key to baseball as well; pitcher vs. batter, bat against ball.
It is to baseball’s advantage, I think (perhaps counterintuitively), that the options available to the hitter (and arguably, the pitcher) are even more limited than they are to their cricketing counterpart(s). The hitter, unlike the batsman, can’t just do as he pleases. 3 strikes, and you’re out. There’s a reason he’s called a “hitter” and not a “batsman”. He doesn’t have the luxury of being allowed to bat; he just has to hit. And being a good hitter isn’t just reacting to where and how the ball is thrown – making a good guess as to what’s coming before it’s thrown is a key skill.
It follows that the pitcher is always having to try and stay one step ahead of his adversary. Further, he can’t, of course, employ a tactic commonly used by bowlers – line and length. Broadly speaking, containment isn’t an option. He has to get this guy with the stick out, and quickly.
Understanding the pitcher’s place in baseball is crucial to an understanding of the game as a whole.
No single player in any team sport is as central to his team’s success as is the pitcher, not even an NFL Quarterback. The notion of “momentum”, that is, the idea that “winning is a habit”, is one that is much discussed here in the States.
Whatever its merits, there can be no doubt that the greatest momentum stopper in sport is a good pitcher – it doesn’t matter how many games in a row you’ve won if you can’t hit what this guy’s throwing at you.
Nor does he have much support. He has fielders, and his catcher, but he can’t (unlike a bowler) rely on three or four other guys to share the load. Yes, there are “relievers” in baseball - pitching teammates - but they are strictly replacements. It’s always just the one pitcher out on the mound, alone, and his team’s fortunes are in his hands (or rather, hand) and no one else’s.
And so it is the pitchers on either side who should decide this year’s (and every) World Series. In that category, I’d have to give a slight edge to the Rays.
Cole Hamels, for the Phillies, is the best pitcher on either side, but the Rays have greater strength in depth, their 2nd and 3rd starters being better than their Philly counterparts.
And yet…the Rays almost didn’t make it here at all. Cruising against Boston, they let a 7-0, 7th-inning lead slip in Game 5, and suddenly their powerful batting line-up went quiet.
Yes, I know what you’re thinking. Good pitching can halt momentum - I read what I wrote, you know - but the Red Sox weren’t pitching well and Tampa Bay had their measure. Simply put, the young, inexperienced Rays batters choked and it was their own pitching, in the form of an outstanding display from Matt Garza, that got them through.
So you know what? I’m going to go counter to almost everything I just wrote. Phillies to win in seven games. The greater experience of their batting line-up will hold them in good stead, and they should outscore their overeager opponents. Because in baseball, while pitching rules, you’ve got to hit the ball to win.
It’s a major sporting event, and as such, should command you’re the attention of anyone who loves sport played at the highest level. And if you’re a cricket fan, it should be compulsory viewing.
For baseball and cricket are genetically related; the two games, in their modern, organized form, shared a close-knit, if somewhat antagonistic, early history, and close comparisons in the way the games are both watched and played can be made.
Think of it like this: if, tomorrow, you moved to the United States for the rest of your life, and you were a football or rugby fan, then you’d have to make do with American football. But were cricket your thing, then, likely as not, you would fall in love with baseball.
This time around, the Series matches two teams with a shared tradition of futility – the Tampa Bay Rays, who, in their short existence, had never got close to winning more games in a season than they’d lost until this year, and the Philadelphia Phillies, who have won fewer World Series titles than the much romanticized, 100-years-without-a-championship Chicago Cubs, and in 2007 became the first team to lose a total of 10,000 games in the history of baseball.
Emphatically, this was not the Series the US media wanted, desperate as they were for a Red Sox-Dodgers match-up, with all the baggage that those teams would bring. I could go into it, but I won’t. I don’t care. They lost, the Phillies and the Rays didn’t, and baseball is the better for it.
Boston wouldn’t have dropped a game against LA, and yet another season would have ended in anticlimax. Phillies-Rays, on the other hand, looks like being as closely contested a World Series as we’ve seen for years.
Lazy journalists everywhere are calling the Rays favourites based on…well, not much, it seems. Most commonly cited is the fact that they emerged from the regular season atop the American League East, “the toughest division in baseball”, featuring the aforementioned Boston Red Sox, as well as perennial also-rans the Baltimore Orioles and Toronto Blue Jays, and the mighty New York Yankees.
Trouble is, the New York aren’t so mighty any more – this is the worst Yankees team in some time – and Boston, weakened by trades and injury, aren’t last year’s Sox.
The other chief, and not unrelated, reason given for the Rays favoured status is simply that they are from the American League, which has dominated the rival National League for some time. Last time I checked, however, it’s not the whole League that’s plays in the Series.
Putting aside for another day (all right, I’ll never come back to this one) the argument that the former Tampa Bay Devil Rays will win because they are being rewarded from on high for dropping the D-word from their name, one of the Rays’ real advantages lies in the fact that their line-up hits for average, hits for power, plays good defence (that is, they field well), and has good speed on the bases – in other words, they can score runs in different ways, no matter the situation. And the Phillies? Well, ditto. More importantly, both clubs feature good pitching.
There is a maxim in baseball, which happens to be true, that good pitching beats good hitting. And it’s the art of pitching that should draw cricket lovers close to this game.
We fans of the willow think of cricket as unique, the greatest game, and one of the chief reasons, I think, is the idea of the contest between bat and ball. In other sports, in football, say, or rugby, the play is fast, breathless, with physical contact, and the fans’ passion is intense and focused. Playing these sports, you don’t often get time to think, and indeed, on the occasions that you do (the full back under a swirling kick, the centre forward one-on-one with the keeper) having that time to think is often considered a curse.
Cricket, conversely, is all about the time you have to think. Because, whereas in faster sports you mostly react in an instant, on instinct, in cricket much of the time is spent waiting (in the case of a batsman) and thinking (“where am I going to bowl to him?”).
And while in football and rugby, it seems like anything could happen at any time, in cricket, only one main thing is ever going to happen; the bowler is going to bowl to the batsman. The intrigue of the game lies in waiting to see how he’s going to do it and how the batsman will react to it by finally being able to rely on every good sportsperson’s greatest talent, their innate ability to react appropriately in the moment it takes the ball to reach them from the bowler’s hand.
And that's the key to baseball as well; pitcher vs. batter, bat against ball.
It is to baseball’s advantage, I think (perhaps counterintuitively), that the options available to the hitter (and arguably, the pitcher) are even more limited than they are to their cricketing counterpart(s). The hitter, unlike the batsman, can’t just do as he pleases. 3 strikes, and you’re out. There’s a reason he’s called a “hitter” and not a “batsman”. He doesn’t have the luxury of being allowed to bat; he just has to hit. And being a good hitter isn’t just reacting to where and how the ball is thrown – making a good guess as to what’s coming before it’s thrown is a key skill.
It follows that the pitcher is always having to try and stay one step ahead of his adversary. Further, he can’t, of course, employ a tactic commonly used by bowlers – line and length. Broadly speaking, containment isn’t an option. He has to get this guy with the stick out, and quickly.
Understanding the pitcher’s place in baseball is crucial to an understanding of the game as a whole.
No single player in any team sport is as central to his team’s success as is the pitcher, not even an NFL Quarterback. The notion of “momentum”, that is, the idea that “winning is a habit”, is one that is much discussed here in the States.
Whatever its merits, there can be no doubt that the greatest momentum stopper in sport is a good pitcher – it doesn’t matter how many games in a row you’ve won if you can’t hit what this guy’s throwing at you.
Nor does he have much support. He has fielders, and his catcher, but he can’t (unlike a bowler) rely on three or four other guys to share the load. Yes, there are “relievers” in baseball - pitching teammates - but they are strictly replacements. It’s always just the one pitcher out on the mound, alone, and his team’s fortunes are in his hands (or rather, hand) and no one else’s.
And so it is the pitchers on either side who should decide this year’s (and every) World Series. In that category, I’d have to give a slight edge to the Rays.
Cole Hamels, for the Phillies, is the best pitcher on either side, but the Rays have greater strength in depth, their 2nd and 3rd starters being better than their Philly counterparts.
And yet…the Rays almost didn’t make it here at all. Cruising against Boston, they let a 7-0, 7th-inning lead slip in Game 5, and suddenly their powerful batting line-up went quiet.
Yes, I know what you’re thinking. Good pitching can halt momentum - I read what I wrote, you know - but the Red Sox weren’t pitching well and Tampa Bay had their measure. Simply put, the young, inexperienced Rays batters choked and it was their own pitching, in the form of an outstanding display from Matt Garza, that got them through.
So you know what? I’m going to go counter to almost everything I just wrote. Phillies to win in seven games. The greater experience of their batting line-up will hold them in good stead, and they should outscore their overeager opponents. Because in baseball, while pitching rules, you’ve got to hit the ball to win.
Wednesday, October 15, 2008
Coming back to me – A review by Mimitig
As we creep closer to the Sports Book of the Year Award – trying not to care, but as happens every year, caring a bit too much, I find that I’m checking on what I’ve read.
The Long List – announced a few weeks ago - is below.
How many have you read? How many have I read?
Well, I did get started some time ago with Ed Smith’s book: What Sport Tells Us about Life – a very good read – though I would debate if it is truly a sports book. Then there was Jackie Stewart’s Winning is not Enough. A good way of passing time for a motorsport enthusiast, but not much new, to be honest. Jackie has spent so much time talking to the media that there’s little else to say.
I haven’t read the ones about the historic Olympics and I’m waiting on Moray Council to deliver Richard Moore’s cycling book. There are some football stories in the long list, and I can’t pretend that I wouldn’t be very very happy to see Jonathan Wilson’s Inverting the Pyramid winning, but that’s not because I enjoyed it most.
JW’s book, wonderful as it is, left me pretty unmoved because I don’t have an engagement with football. It’s a clever book, he’s a clever man, but as I am unengaged with his subject matter, I am prepared to throw my support behind “Coming Back to Me”.
This is Marcus Trescothick’s memoir of his career and mental breakdown.
It’s not the best-written of books – to be quite honest I wonder how much the vaunted cricket journalist, co-writer Peter Hayter, has had to do with the finished product.
The editing is pretty poor and the construction of the book is not what you would expect from a professional journalist. This leads me to suspect that this is very much Marcus’s own book – warts and all.
It opens with some rather dire early chapters about the young West Countryman’s early years – no editorial control there, I would suggest. But then when we get to Tresco’s international career, it becomes riveting.
There are insights into other players – Nasser Hussain and Graham Thorpe are drawn brilliantly and we feel their pains. But the real stuff is about Marcus and his need to withdraw from international cricket to save his mind.
I was one of many England fans who just couldn’t understand why “Banger”, the great opener, had to pull out of tours – as I, and many others thought, letting down his country.
In this book, one understands just what happened and I have had difficulty reading because his openness just makes me cry.
He writes with great detail of the horrors that descended upon him in the darkest phases of his illness. His descriptions of breaking down, on the field, in the dressing-room and most movingly at Heathrow, are harrowing. The agonies of worrying how public to go with his illness are written with no punches held. The unhelpfulness of the press is documented but excused as Marcus makes it so plain that he colluded in obfuscation.
It’s not hard to understand why he did this.
Cricket – any sport – is the home of macho maleness. For someone to write so candidly about mental illness is a sporting first – as far as I know.
All sorts of people – many may be friends of yours – suffer from one form or another of mental illness.
When I was given a diagnosis of depression I was so ashamed. It must be my fault. My sister, not a very sympathetic soul most of the time, surprised me. She said, well if you broke your leg I’d know how to help. You’ve broken your head and it’s a bit tougher to help.
Reading Marcus’s book, I realise how lucky I was to have that gal fighting my corner. Marcus has had people fighting his corner too – and he has, with support, felt able to not just win over the Black Dog, but write his story. It’s a damn good read and anyone interested in sport of any sort, let alone the cricks, should read and for those who have the wobbles sometimes, say thank you.
I’ve read a few sports books that make me wince over the stress and strain that is put upon our premier sportsmen and women but this is the first time that I have felt moved to tears by an account of someone who seemed to have it all.
With the conclusion of the book, I think it is a fact that Trescothick will never play for England again. But it seems that within the family of Somerset, he can have some fine years left at County level, and continue being a loyal servant for the county that has stood by him through his troubles.
I’m wishing him a fine season in 2009 and I’d be very surprised if “Coming Back to me” didn’t make it to the shortlist. And for utter honesty, and being prepared to blow a whistle or two, it should be in with a shout of winning.
From pure bias, of course I want Wilson to win – he’s a mate. But for opening cans of worms and doing his bit to try and help remove the stigma of mental illness, Marcus gets it.
I look forward to seeing how it all pans out.
The Sports Book of the Year Award longlist
Paul Canoville - Black and Blue (Headline)
John Carlin - Playing the Enemy (Atlantic)
Janie Hampton - The Austerity Olympics [London 1948] (Aurum)
Rebecca Jenkins - The First London Olympics 1908 (Piatkus)
Richard Moore - Heroes, Villains and Velodromes (Harper)
Haruki Murakami - What I Talk About When I Talk About Running (Harvill Secker)
Musa Okwonga - A Cultured Left Foot (Duckworth)
Rowan Simons - Bamboo Goalposts (Macmillan)
Ed Smith - What Sport Tells Us About Life (Penguin)
Jackie Stewart - Winning is not enough (Headline)
Marcus Trescothick - Coming back to me: The Autobiography (Harper)
Jeremy Whittle - Bad Blood (Yellow Jersey)
Jonathan Wilson - Inverting the Pyramid (Orion)
The Long List – announced a few weeks ago - is below.
How many have you read? How many have I read?
Well, I did get started some time ago with Ed Smith’s book: What Sport Tells Us about Life – a very good read – though I would debate if it is truly a sports book. Then there was Jackie Stewart’s Winning is not Enough. A good way of passing time for a motorsport enthusiast, but not much new, to be honest. Jackie has spent so much time talking to the media that there’s little else to say.
I haven’t read the ones about the historic Olympics and I’m waiting on Moray Council to deliver Richard Moore’s cycling book. There are some football stories in the long list, and I can’t pretend that I wouldn’t be very very happy to see Jonathan Wilson’s Inverting the Pyramid winning, but that’s not because I enjoyed it most.
JW’s book, wonderful as it is, left me pretty unmoved because I don’t have an engagement with football. It’s a clever book, he’s a clever man, but as I am unengaged with his subject matter, I am prepared to throw my support behind “Coming Back to Me”.
This is Marcus Trescothick’s memoir of his career and mental breakdown.
It’s not the best-written of books – to be quite honest I wonder how much the vaunted cricket journalist, co-writer Peter Hayter, has had to do with the finished product.
The editing is pretty poor and the construction of the book is not what you would expect from a professional journalist. This leads me to suspect that this is very much Marcus’s own book – warts and all.
It opens with some rather dire early chapters about the young West Countryman’s early years – no editorial control there, I would suggest. But then when we get to Tresco’s international career, it becomes riveting.
There are insights into other players – Nasser Hussain and Graham Thorpe are drawn brilliantly and we feel their pains. But the real stuff is about Marcus and his need to withdraw from international cricket to save his mind.
I was one of many England fans who just couldn’t understand why “Banger”, the great opener, had to pull out of tours – as I, and many others thought, letting down his country.
In this book, one understands just what happened and I have had difficulty reading because his openness just makes me cry.
He writes with great detail of the horrors that descended upon him in the darkest phases of his illness. His descriptions of breaking down, on the field, in the dressing-room and most movingly at Heathrow, are harrowing. The agonies of worrying how public to go with his illness are written with no punches held. The unhelpfulness of the press is documented but excused as Marcus makes it so plain that he colluded in obfuscation.
It’s not hard to understand why he did this.
Cricket – any sport – is the home of macho maleness. For someone to write so candidly about mental illness is a sporting first – as far as I know.
All sorts of people – many may be friends of yours – suffer from one form or another of mental illness.
When I was given a diagnosis of depression I was so ashamed. It must be my fault. My sister, not a very sympathetic soul most of the time, surprised me. She said, well if you broke your leg I’d know how to help. You’ve broken your head and it’s a bit tougher to help.
Reading Marcus’s book, I realise how lucky I was to have that gal fighting my corner. Marcus has had people fighting his corner too – and he has, with support, felt able to not just win over the Black Dog, but write his story. It’s a damn good read and anyone interested in sport of any sort, let alone the cricks, should read and for those who have the wobbles sometimes, say thank you.
I’ve read a few sports books that make me wince over the stress and strain that is put upon our premier sportsmen and women but this is the first time that I have felt moved to tears by an account of someone who seemed to have it all.
With the conclusion of the book, I think it is a fact that Trescothick will never play for England again. But it seems that within the family of Somerset, he can have some fine years left at County level, and continue being a loyal servant for the county that has stood by him through his troubles.
I’m wishing him a fine season in 2009 and I’d be very surprised if “Coming Back to me” didn’t make it to the shortlist. And for utter honesty, and being prepared to blow a whistle or two, it should be in with a shout of winning.
From pure bias, of course I want Wilson to win – he’s a mate. But for opening cans of worms and doing his bit to try and help remove the stigma of mental illness, Marcus gets it.
I look forward to seeing how it all pans out.
The Sports Book of the Year Award longlist
Paul Canoville - Black and Blue (Headline)
John Carlin - Playing the Enemy (Atlantic)
Janie Hampton - The Austerity Olympics [London 1948] (Aurum)
Rebecca Jenkins - The First London Olympics 1908 (Piatkus)
Richard Moore - Heroes, Villains and Velodromes (Harper)
Haruki Murakami - What I Talk About When I Talk About Running (Harvill Secker)
Musa Okwonga - A Cultured Left Foot (Duckworth)
Rowan Simons - Bamboo Goalposts (Macmillan)
Ed Smith - What Sport Tells Us About Life (Penguin)
Jackie Stewart - Winning is not enough (Headline)
Marcus Trescothick - Coming back to me: The Autobiography (Harper)
Jeremy Whittle - Bad Blood (Yellow Jersey)
Jonathan Wilson - Inverting the Pyramid (Orion)
Monday, October 13, 2008
Oof: the England game, a perspective - Beyond the Pale
I'm afraid that in the past few seasons when it comes to the English national team the scales have finally fallen away from my eyes--well, admittedly my eyes are failing--with a great crash.
Apart from the scoreline, which Maggie Thatcher might have liked, nothing about that game can have been calculated to please any Englishman (not to mention objective observer) who actually views football as even approximately an art form; I mean, as something other than an extension of the Falklands War, or some other imperialist war of yesteryear (I realise England has wisely crossed off truly formidable opponents from its war list, as when, a year or two ago, they allowed Russians to come in and drop plutonium tabs in everybody's drinks with impunity.)
They looked slow, ponderous, stymied and uncertain much of the time. Having to stay out of the way of Fat Frank effectively neutralises Gerrard. The only functioning offensive threats are Theo when he's getting to the byline to cross and Rooney when he's healthy.
I've always seen Defoe as a second-rate Javier Saviola, but at least El Conejito has great touch and positioning sense, can pass the ball sublimely, prefers seeing somebody else score goals, and even has a sense of humor and gives good interviews. In fact the only hope I can see for England players ever appearing interesting is for the English fans to develop the wit to give them colorful nicknames, like say:
Terry--Captain Overrated
Heskey--the Truck; the Bus
Lampard--Tubby the Overpaid One
Defoe--the Midget Garbageman
James--the Buffed Up Disaster Waiting to Happen
Upson--Mr. Nervous
Ashley Cole--The Brainlocked Peacock with Grey Feathers
And so on...
Last month's Croatia game wasn't bad because at least the opposition was worth playing against. But in this one the softball opponent was a country where, as a guy I know who works for the EPA and goes there often, puts it, you have to take your shoes off when you enter a house because the (dirt, of course) streets are aflow with human shit.
I doubt that's the case around Blenheim Palace, the domicile, I believe, of Capt. Rags to Riches Terry--who in interviews sounds like a character out of Eastenders, even when wearing his dove grey formal evening wear for royal receptions. What he needs is for the Queen to shit on his expensive Italian shoes, if she's ever feeling loose enough to manage it. And if she managed to score a direct hit, no doubt he'd have a backward injury-alibi ready to hand, eloquently demurring in the locker room: "No, mate that hangnail was no bovver."
It all makes me understand how hundreds of millions of nonwhite "England fans" around the planet, unable to erase the ancient psychological traces of imperial/colonialist domination, have to make themselves sick drinking warm beer in pseudo-pubs in order to even pretend to endure England games.
Really, in short, I'd much rather watch Jamaica play; at least they sport a colorful bit of kit and don't have to continually buy slack from their apologists in order to deceive and disappoint.
If a Jamaica or a Honduras or a Chile or a Uruguay doesn't make it to South Africa because the decks are still stacked in favor of boring and underperforming once-dominant Euro sides like England, 'twould be an actual shame.
Let's have our football in technicolor, kill those three lions, and hire the England kit design out to Benetton, for pity's sake. When you've dropped out of the top of a high building, are halfway down and finally realise it's time to change your life, you ought at least give it a try.
Apart from the scoreline, which Maggie Thatcher might have liked, nothing about that game can have been calculated to please any Englishman (not to mention objective observer) who actually views football as even approximately an art form; I mean, as something other than an extension of the Falklands War, or some other imperialist war of yesteryear (I realise England has wisely crossed off truly formidable opponents from its war list, as when, a year or two ago, they allowed Russians to come in and drop plutonium tabs in everybody's drinks with impunity.)
They looked slow, ponderous, stymied and uncertain much of the time. Having to stay out of the way of Fat Frank effectively neutralises Gerrard. The only functioning offensive threats are Theo when he's getting to the byline to cross and Rooney when he's healthy.
I've always seen Defoe as a second-rate Javier Saviola, but at least El Conejito has great touch and positioning sense, can pass the ball sublimely, prefers seeing somebody else score goals, and even has a sense of humor and gives good interviews. In fact the only hope I can see for England players ever appearing interesting is for the English fans to develop the wit to give them colorful nicknames, like say:
Terry--Captain Overrated
Heskey--the Truck; the Bus
Lampard--Tubby the Overpaid One
Defoe--the Midget Garbageman
James--the Buffed Up Disaster Waiting to Happen
Upson--Mr. Nervous
Ashley Cole--The Brainlocked Peacock with Grey Feathers
And so on...
Last month's Croatia game wasn't bad because at least the opposition was worth playing against. But in this one the softball opponent was a country where, as a guy I know who works for the EPA and goes there often, puts it, you have to take your shoes off when you enter a house because the (dirt, of course) streets are aflow with human shit.
I doubt that's the case around Blenheim Palace, the domicile, I believe, of Capt. Rags to Riches Terry--who in interviews sounds like a character out of Eastenders, even when wearing his dove grey formal evening wear for royal receptions. What he needs is for the Queen to shit on his expensive Italian shoes, if she's ever feeling loose enough to manage it. And if she managed to score a direct hit, no doubt he'd have a backward injury-alibi ready to hand, eloquently demurring in the locker room: "No, mate that hangnail was no bovver."
It all makes me understand how hundreds of millions of nonwhite "England fans" around the planet, unable to erase the ancient psychological traces of imperial/colonialist domination, have to make themselves sick drinking warm beer in pseudo-pubs in order to even pretend to endure England games.
Really, in short, I'd much rather watch Jamaica play; at least they sport a colorful bit of kit and don't have to continually buy slack from their apologists in order to deceive and disappoint.
If a Jamaica or a Honduras or a Chile or a Uruguay doesn't make it to South Africa because the decks are still stacked in favor of boring and underperforming once-dominant Euro sides like England, 'twould be an actual shame.
Let's have our football in technicolor, kill those three lions, and hire the England kit design out to Benetton, for pity's sake. When you've dropped out of the top of a high building, are halfway down and finally realise it's time to change your life, you ought at least give it a try.
Monday, October 6, 2008
Respect Respect: Referees are human too (honest) - Mountainstriker
How many of you have actually refereed a real football match? I mean an eleven a-side, league or cup match (friendlies don’t count) with linesmen, nets, cards in pocket, watch on wrist and whistle in hand. Being a recently retired player of many years, and something of a club stalwart (read ‘mug’), I’ve stepped into this particular breach on several occasions in the last few years. Each time I’ve done so with considerable reluctance because refereeing is an absolutely awful experience. I consider myself a competent referee and I’ll defend my impartiality to anyone, but the fact is that the moment you blow the whistle you become fair game for insults, abuse and, on one occasion verbal, and physical intimidation. And that was just from our team. I can’t for the life of me understand why anyone would want to subject themselves to this on a regular basis.
So it was with some interest that I viewed the introduction of the FA’s Respect campaign back in the summer. Perhaps the principal outcome of a massive FA consultation exercise, Respect is long overdue. Anyone who’s been involved in the game for a while knows the stories: referees who’ve been attacked on the pitch, damaged vehicles, anonymous phone calls, written threats, excrement posted through letter boxes. One that sticks in my mind was of a young female referee who was forced into a locked cupboard after the match, her changing room was ransacked and her possessions flushed down the toilet. It sticks because I noted that the people who told me thought the whole thing hilarious. In any other context they would’ve been appalled. But, see, she was a referee, right? Fair game. Serves her right.
When Respect was announced the media spent some time analysing how different sports treated their officials - the most common comparison being of course with rugby union. For all its social pretensions, rugby has, at its heart, a propensity for serious violence. Anyone who’s read Martin Johnson’s description of how his Leicester team would pass the hours on the bus by punching each other in the face, or Ben Kay’s description of skulduggery in the scrum during England’s 2007 World Cup semi final against France, can be under no illusions on this score. Yet, even at the highest levels, it’s not uncommon to see a six foot seven forward, hands behind his back, head meekly forward, saying, ‘Yes sir, I understand sir’ while a referee wags a finger gamely at his chest. Compare that with Rooney, Terry, Ashley Cole, Roy Keane et al obscenely disputing every throw-in and the difference couldn’t be more marked.
The most commonly advanced argument for this difference is class. In England and Scotland rugby players tend to come more from families in the middle and upper income brackets. This manifests itself in the choice of school and the games played therein. Football on the other hand is largely considered to be a working class game and as such its player inherently more unruly.
Arguments about social Darwinism aside, I’m not so sure about this. I grew up in South Wales in the 70s and 80s where there was no question that rugby not football was the workingman’s game of choice. Yet the difference between how the two sports treated their officials was just as marked. You didn’t argue with the referee in rugby, in football it was considered rude not to. Nor can this argument be transferred overseas. In The Italian Job, a comparative analysis of the football cultures of England and Italy, Gianluca Vialli notes that in Italy players tend to come from more wealthy backgrounds and are better educated. Yet the treatment of referees in Italy is, if anything, worse. Not only are referees routinely abused by staff, players and spectators but the consensus is that the majority are corrupt as well. In England it is simply not acceptable to question the integrity of a match official. Their competence or parentage however? Well, that’s a different matter.
I think a better explanation lies in how these sports - and I mean this in the widest sense to include the media that report them - view their officials and what they expect from them. I would argue that football referees are expected to be inhuman and are criticised if they are not. In rugby the opposite is true. A few examples - how often have you heard a criticism that a referee is being too fussy, or is not letting the game flow? How often is a referee criticised for not implementing the laws in exactly the same way from game to game or differently from how another referee interpreted the laws in a similar situation?
Personally, I don’t think any of these expectations are realistic and it is the failure of football as a game to understand this that leads to referees being so routinely criticised. No two instances are identical, often they happen very quickly and the referee must make an instant decision. Unsurprisingly the referee will sometimes get it wrong. Exactly the same criteria apply in rugby, but it is at this point that the difference in expectation becomes manifest. In rugby there is an acceptance that the referee is human and makes mistakes, in football there is not. This is grotesquely unfair because within the game this expectation is carried by referees and referees alone. Everyone accepts that Ronaldo can have an off day, that John Terry can miss an easy tackle or that Rafa can stuff up his selection. Mike Riley can’t miss an offside call however, because ‘there’s now so much money riding on these games.’ If he does, he’ll need a police escort to get off the pitch, and can expect to be hounded by the referees' nemesis Andy Gray and the rest of the media.
There are several consequences. The first and most debilitating is that an expectation of perfection from referees appears to absolve players and managers from accepting their own responsibilities. A referee who has carded players for dangerous play early in a match must continue to do so throughout the rest of the game or else be accused of inconsistency. If so there is a responsibility on players to understand this and adapt their play accordingly. Rarely does this logic seem to apply however. Perhaps the best example in recent years was the match between Holland and Portugal in the 2006 World Cup. Having carded several players for blatant fouls early in the match, the referee Vlentin Ivanov had little choice but to carry on when both sides continued to kick lumps out of each other. Costinha was sent off for a second yellow card when he virtually caught the ball on the half way line, Deco went, also for a second yellow, when he launched himself two footed at Heitinga from all of five feet away. In the end, both sides were lucky to finish with nine players still on the pitch. However whom did the media, the teams and FIFA President Sepp Blatter blame for ruining what was potentially a thrilling match? The players who had virtually assaulted each other? Nope. Perhaps it was the coaches who allowed them to do it? Don’t be silly. It was entirely the referee’s fault. He lost control. He was card happy. He was sent home in disgrace.
A second consequence is that this expectation puts off sensible people from becoming referees. Why would anyone give up his or her weekends to be verbally and physically abused trying to achieve perfection? You’d have to be nuts and I don’t think it’s a coincidence that a significant proportion of football referees in this country tend to be, (how can I put this so not to offend or unnerve? Oh well, in for a penny…) – attention seeking geeks. Appropriate apologies for gross generalisations of course, and there are exceptions, Steve Bennett looks and sounds relatively sensible, but Mike Riley must know how camp he looks when he skips around in his tight schoolboy shorts. If not, someone tell him please. Graham Poll, the man who dedicated his autobiography to ‘The people of Tring for their unfailing support…’, was dropped by the BBC the moment it became apparent that he was an inarticulate buffoon. And do I have to mention Uriah Rennie? At the grassroots level, I can say with all candour that there aren’t too many company directors, policemen, fireman or natural leaders of the community wearing the black. Many of them play but very few go into refereeing afterwards. They're too sensible. On the other hand, I’m always struck by the fact that rugby referees at all levels seem to have more natural authority than their football counterparts. The reason? Rugby attracts and retains people more suited to the role.
It is here that the Respect campaign really has its work cut out. It is one thing to insist that communication with referees is limited to captains. It’s excellent that referees at all levels are now being supported against physical intimidation and verbal abuse. It is high time that the likes of Ferguson and Mourinho were prevented from attempting to influence the behaviour of referees with pre match comments and being given carte blanche to criticise their performance afterwards. However, if Respect is really to deliver there has to be a change in expectations which would relegate the importance of the referee’s performance to a point where it was regarded as having no more importance than other playing conditions like the length of the grass or the weather. Not least this would attract better people to the black. Referees are human too. Football needs to accept this and modify its expectations accordingly.
So it was with some interest that I viewed the introduction of the FA’s Respect campaign back in the summer. Perhaps the principal outcome of a massive FA consultation exercise, Respect is long overdue. Anyone who’s been involved in the game for a while knows the stories: referees who’ve been attacked on the pitch, damaged vehicles, anonymous phone calls, written threats, excrement posted through letter boxes. One that sticks in my mind was of a young female referee who was forced into a locked cupboard after the match, her changing room was ransacked and her possessions flushed down the toilet. It sticks because I noted that the people who told me thought the whole thing hilarious. In any other context they would’ve been appalled. But, see, she was a referee, right? Fair game. Serves her right.
When Respect was announced the media spent some time analysing how different sports treated their officials - the most common comparison being of course with rugby union. For all its social pretensions, rugby has, at its heart, a propensity for serious violence. Anyone who’s read Martin Johnson’s description of how his Leicester team would pass the hours on the bus by punching each other in the face, or Ben Kay’s description of skulduggery in the scrum during England’s 2007 World Cup semi final against France, can be under no illusions on this score. Yet, even at the highest levels, it’s not uncommon to see a six foot seven forward, hands behind his back, head meekly forward, saying, ‘Yes sir, I understand sir’ while a referee wags a finger gamely at his chest. Compare that with Rooney, Terry, Ashley Cole, Roy Keane et al obscenely disputing every throw-in and the difference couldn’t be more marked.
The most commonly advanced argument for this difference is class. In England and Scotland rugby players tend to come more from families in the middle and upper income brackets. This manifests itself in the choice of school and the games played therein. Football on the other hand is largely considered to be a working class game and as such its player inherently more unruly.
Arguments about social Darwinism aside, I’m not so sure about this. I grew up in South Wales in the 70s and 80s where there was no question that rugby not football was the workingman’s game of choice. Yet the difference between how the two sports treated their officials was just as marked. You didn’t argue with the referee in rugby, in football it was considered rude not to. Nor can this argument be transferred overseas. In The Italian Job, a comparative analysis of the football cultures of England and Italy, Gianluca Vialli notes that in Italy players tend to come from more wealthy backgrounds and are better educated. Yet the treatment of referees in Italy is, if anything, worse. Not only are referees routinely abused by staff, players and spectators but the consensus is that the majority are corrupt as well. In England it is simply not acceptable to question the integrity of a match official. Their competence or parentage however? Well, that’s a different matter.
I think a better explanation lies in how these sports - and I mean this in the widest sense to include the media that report them - view their officials and what they expect from them. I would argue that football referees are expected to be inhuman and are criticised if they are not. In rugby the opposite is true. A few examples - how often have you heard a criticism that a referee is being too fussy, or is not letting the game flow? How often is a referee criticised for not implementing the laws in exactly the same way from game to game or differently from how another referee interpreted the laws in a similar situation?
Personally, I don’t think any of these expectations are realistic and it is the failure of football as a game to understand this that leads to referees being so routinely criticised. No two instances are identical, often they happen very quickly and the referee must make an instant decision. Unsurprisingly the referee will sometimes get it wrong. Exactly the same criteria apply in rugby, but it is at this point that the difference in expectation becomes manifest. In rugby there is an acceptance that the referee is human and makes mistakes, in football there is not. This is grotesquely unfair because within the game this expectation is carried by referees and referees alone. Everyone accepts that Ronaldo can have an off day, that John Terry can miss an easy tackle or that Rafa can stuff up his selection. Mike Riley can’t miss an offside call however, because ‘there’s now so much money riding on these games.’ If he does, he’ll need a police escort to get off the pitch, and can expect to be hounded by the referees' nemesis Andy Gray and the rest of the media.
There are several consequences. The first and most debilitating is that an expectation of perfection from referees appears to absolve players and managers from accepting their own responsibilities. A referee who has carded players for dangerous play early in a match must continue to do so throughout the rest of the game or else be accused of inconsistency. If so there is a responsibility on players to understand this and adapt their play accordingly. Rarely does this logic seem to apply however. Perhaps the best example in recent years was the match between Holland and Portugal in the 2006 World Cup. Having carded several players for blatant fouls early in the match, the referee Vlentin Ivanov had little choice but to carry on when both sides continued to kick lumps out of each other. Costinha was sent off for a second yellow card when he virtually caught the ball on the half way line, Deco went, also for a second yellow, when he launched himself two footed at Heitinga from all of five feet away. In the end, both sides were lucky to finish with nine players still on the pitch. However whom did the media, the teams and FIFA President Sepp Blatter blame for ruining what was potentially a thrilling match? The players who had virtually assaulted each other? Nope. Perhaps it was the coaches who allowed them to do it? Don’t be silly. It was entirely the referee’s fault. He lost control. He was card happy. He was sent home in disgrace.
A second consequence is that this expectation puts off sensible people from becoming referees. Why would anyone give up his or her weekends to be verbally and physically abused trying to achieve perfection? You’d have to be nuts and I don’t think it’s a coincidence that a significant proportion of football referees in this country tend to be, (how can I put this so not to offend or unnerve? Oh well, in for a penny…) – attention seeking geeks. Appropriate apologies for gross generalisations of course, and there are exceptions, Steve Bennett looks and sounds relatively sensible, but Mike Riley must know how camp he looks when he skips around in his tight schoolboy shorts. If not, someone tell him please. Graham Poll, the man who dedicated his autobiography to ‘The people of Tring for their unfailing support…’, was dropped by the BBC the moment it became apparent that he was an inarticulate buffoon. And do I have to mention Uriah Rennie? At the grassroots level, I can say with all candour that there aren’t too many company directors, policemen, fireman or natural leaders of the community wearing the black. Many of them play but very few go into refereeing afterwards. They're too sensible. On the other hand, I’m always struck by the fact that rugby referees at all levels seem to have more natural authority than their football counterparts. The reason? Rugby attracts and retains people more suited to the role.
It is here that the Respect campaign really has its work cut out. It is one thing to insist that communication with referees is limited to captains. It’s excellent that referees at all levels are now being supported against physical intimidation and verbal abuse. It is high time that the likes of Ferguson and Mourinho were prevented from attempting to influence the behaviour of referees with pre match comments and being given carte blanche to criticise their performance afterwards. However, if Respect is really to deliver there has to be a change in expectations which would relegate the importance of the referee’s performance to a point where it was regarded as having no more importance than other playing conditions like the length of the grass or the weather. Not least this would attract better people to the black. Referees are human too. Football needs to accept this and modify its expectations accordingly.
Tuesday, September 30, 2008
It’s alright with the world again – Mimitig
Oh how short is a week in sport? Last week I was in despair, now I am in joy and in between have been the mad days of Newcastle.
First to deal with the madness – and I don’t think I can. The soap opera of St James’s Park is so unutterably weird that even I can’t try and explain why Joe Kinnear is there. He was appointed as caretaker, said that before long Shearer and Kev would be back and then we remembered, and it’s a long memory this, that he still has touchline bans going back to his days at Nottingham Forest!
How does that play out?
Just as well that the weekend held other sporting moments really. When the Premiership sinks to such depths, it has to be right to seek out other highs. And boy, oh boyo did we get them this weekend.
I don’t have many opportunities to metaphorically wrap myself in my nation’s flag and crow. 2005 was a good moment and earlier this year my boys did it again in the rugby. When Nicole Cooke stood on the top step of the podium in China, I thought that was about as good as it got.
No. She did it again in Varese. Just utter talent and self-belief, and a strong team around her, and Nicole stood, smiling more than ever, and took the Rainbow jersey.
I cried with tears of joy to celebrate her win. So hard fought, so deserved, but so unexpected. No-one has done the double of Olympic Gold and World Champion before.
Could the weekend get better? There was one opportunity to bring more joy.
Formula One is very keen to be accessible to European audiences when it crosses time zones. Everything was in place for the first ever night race from Singapore. A showdown between McLaren and Ferrari. What they forgot was that earlier in the day the hottest show in motorsport was on the box.
Waking at 5.30am to see the World Championship up for grabs – two wheels, no compromise, no circus. Just Rossi doing what he does the best.
Motegi is a spectacular track – always has been. Fast, technical and this year bound to be a battle of tyres. Rossi wasn’t on the front row – but that never matters. He rides like a god and I knew, I just knew that however hard Casey Stoner fought, it wouldn’t be enough.
What a fight! Wheel to wheel, rubber against rubber and legs all over the place. When Vale took the lead on lap 14, we knew it was all over.
The Doctor did it. In style. From the front. He didn’t have to do this. He could have cruised to the bottom step of the podium and still have taken the spoils. But that’s not Rossi’s way.
Scusate – written on his winner’s T-shirt. Vale apologises for the delay in winning his sixth, record-breaking title. His celebration involved getting an office desk to the track and the cameras watching as Rossi signed a new deal with his helmet suppliers. It was so Rossi, so Valentino and so enjoyable.
For those of us who care a lot about our sport, to see Vale winning like this was worth getting up at 5.45am to do. When many hours later we watched the four-wheeled racers in Singapore, it just didn’t have the edge.
I am glad Alonso got a win, and I’m glad that Hamilton and McLaren take the lead in the Championship, but it couldn’t compare to the raw emotion and utter joy of Rossi.
And even Valentino’s joy is edged out this weekend by Nicole. A Welshwoman at the absolute peak of her powers winning the title all road-racers dream of. Way to go Nicole! And way to go Vale – my joy of sport is back.
Scusate – my friends. I am tearful now.
First to deal with the madness – and I don’t think I can. The soap opera of St James’s Park is so unutterably weird that even I can’t try and explain why Joe Kinnear is there. He was appointed as caretaker, said that before long Shearer and Kev would be back and then we remembered, and it’s a long memory this, that he still has touchline bans going back to his days at Nottingham Forest!
How does that play out?
Just as well that the weekend held other sporting moments really. When the Premiership sinks to such depths, it has to be right to seek out other highs. And boy, oh boyo did we get them this weekend.
I don’t have many opportunities to metaphorically wrap myself in my nation’s flag and crow. 2005 was a good moment and earlier this year my boys did it again in the rugby. When Nicole Cooke stood on the top step of the podium in China, I thought that was about as good as it got.
No. She did it again in Varese. Just utter talent and self-belief, and a strong team around her, and Nicole stood, smiling more than ever, and took the Rainbow jersey.
I cried with tears of joy to celebrate her win. So hard fought, so deserved, but so unexpected. No-one has done the double of Olympic Gold and World Champion before.
Could the weekend get better? There was one opportunity to bring more joy.
Formula One is very keen to be accessible to European audiences when it crosses time zones. Everything was in place for the first ever night race from Singapore. A showdown between McLaren and Ferrari. What they forgot was that earlier in the day the hottest show in motorsport was on the box.
Waking at 5.30am to see the World Championship up for grabs – two wheels, no compromise, no circus. Just Rossi doing what he does the best.
Motegi is a spectacular track – always has been. Fast, technical and this year bound to be a battle of tyres. Rossi wasn’t on the front row – but that never matters. He rides like a god and I knew, I just knew that however hard Casey Stoner fought, it wouldn’t be enough.
What a fight! Wheel to wheel, rubber against rubber and legs all over the place. When Vale took the lead on lap 14, we knew it was all over.
The Doctor did it. In style. From the front. He didn’t have to do this. He could have cruised to the bottom step of the podium and still have taken the spoils. But that’s not Rossi’s way.
Scusate – written on his winner’s T-shirt. Vale apologises for the delay in winning his sixth, record-breaking title. His celebration involved getting an office desk to the track and the cameras watching as Rossi signed a new deal with his helmet suppliers. It was so Rossi, so Valentino and so enjoyable.
For those of us who care a lot about our sport, to see Vale winning like this was worth getting up at 5.45am to do. When many hours later we watched the four-wheeled racers in Singapore, it just didn’t have the edge.
I am glad Alonso got a win, and I’m glad that Hamilton and McLaren take the lead in the Championship, but it couldn’t compare to the raw emotion and utter joy of Rossi.
And even Valentino’s joy is edged out this weekend by Nicole. A Welshwoman at the absolute peak of her powers winning the title all road-racers dream of. Way to go Nicole! And way to go Vale – my joy of sport is back.
Scusate – my friends. I am tearful now.
Monday, September 22, 2008
Back on home ground – Mimitig
These last few months have been unsettling. So many wins and winningest performances as the journalists say when grudgingly admitting that the Brits are pretty damn good at some sports.
We went to Beijing with some ridiculous target of medals that was based on doing well in track and field. FAILED!
Redeeming our fortunes were some rather spectacular performances in the cycling – both track and road, one old hand in a boat - Ben Ainslie turned up trumps - and some muscular girls and chaps in rowing boats.
Then came the Paralympics. No longer could we rely on Tanni to do the biz for Britain. Lots of new faces and bodies were out there.
Spectacularly Ellie Simmonds (13 years old!) won hearts and minds with her amazing swims. Dave Roberts backed up the Welsh talent with a couple of golds and again we celebrated home triumphs.
On the back of an Olympic Games that brought more medals overall than had been dreamt of, the Paras did the same. Second in the table.
What a wonderful springboard for 2012 and the Games coming home to London.
There were plenty of reasons to celebrate two months of sporting excellence and yet plenty of questions.
Why didn’t track and field athletes win the medals that were targeted in either games? What was the touch of gold that brought every success to our cyclists – in both games?
However much we enjoyed the successes, we come back to normal sports and see that Britain isn’t as good as we thought we were.
This weekend has thrown up some real problems in our sporting world. Liverpool failed to get a goal against Stoke! Almost enough to send me searching for the Valium. How could that be? Villa puts two in the net against West Brom. Weird.
And more seriously, because, yes, my friends, there are sporting questions more pressing than the Premier League….
Because Britain only has one world-class tennis player (Andy Murray), we have crashed out of the World group of Davis Cup nations and will be forced to play countries that we’ve never heard of for about four years.
And we’ve surrendered the Ryder Cup to a nation of war-mongering fools who think it’ll be a great idea to vote in another Republican this year because they believe that Iran is a misprint on the map.
Am I feeling jaded, sad and pissed off? Yes. You bet. When we achieve sporting excellence it doesn’t just make me feel good. It makes the nation feel good. When Chris Hoy got his third gold medal it was on the front page of every Scottish paper – even the sodding Sun (bumping the obligatory “We’ve found a Paedophile” story onto page 2).
Sporting failure is given headline treatment too. Tomorrow’s tabloids will lead with “Faldo’s Failure” and “Murray’s heroics all in vain”. Or some such garbage.
Every wonderful success in August will be forgotten – yesterday’s chip wrappings as the sharking sports writers go into a feeding frenzy of the weekend’s failures.
There will be no time for reasoned consideration. Very few inches will be given to those who excelled in a losing cause and not for the first time, when I read the sports pages, I will raise my hands to my head and feel like sobbing for the lost cause that is the fun of sport.
We went to Beijing with some ridiculous target of medals that was based on doing well in track and field. FAILED!
Redeeming our fortunes were some rather spectacular performances in the cycling – both track and road, one old hand in a boat - Ben Ainslie turned up trumps - and some muscular girls and chaps in rowing boats.
Then came the Paralympics. No longer could we rely on Tanni to do the biz for Britain. Lots of new faces and bodies were out there.
Spectacularly Ellie Simmonds (13 years old!) won hearts and minds with her amazing swims. Dave Roberts backed up the Welsh talent with a couple of golds and again we celebrated home triumphs.
On the back of an Olympic Games that brought more medals overall than had been dreamt of, the Paras did the same. Second in the table.
What a wonderful springboard for 2012 and the Games coming home to London.
There were plenty of reasons to celebrate two months of sporting excellence and yet plenty of questions.
Why didn’t track and field athletes win the medals that were targeted in either games? What was the touch of gold that brought every success to our cyclists – in both games?
However much we enjoyed the successes, we come back to normal sports and see that Britain isn’t as good as we thought we were.
This weekend has thrown up some real problems in our sporting world. Liverpool failed to get a goal against Stoke! Almost enough to send me searching for the Valium. How could that be? Villa puts two in the net against West Brom. Weird.
And more seriously, because, yes, my friends, there are sporting questions more pressing than the Premier League….
Because Britain only has one world-class tennis player (Andy Murray), we have crashed out of the World group of Davis Cup nations and will be forced to play countries that we’ve never heard of for about four years.
And we’ve surrendered the Ryder Cup to a nation of war-mongering fools who think it’ll be a great idea to vote in another Republican this year because they believe that Iran is a misprint on the map.
Am I feeling jaded, sad and pissed off? Yes. You bet. When we achieve sporting excellence it doesn’t just make me feel good. It makes the nation feel good. When Chris Hoy got his third gold medal it was on the front page of every Scottish paper – even the sodding Sun (bumping the obligatory “We’ve found a Paedophile” story onto page 2).
Sporting failure is given headline treatment too. Tomorrow’s tabloids will lead with “Faldo’s Failure” and “Murray’s heroics all in vain”. Or some such garbage.
Every wonderful success in August will be forgotten – yesterday’s chip wrappings as the sharking sports writers go into a feeding frenzy of the weekend’s failures.
There will be no time for reasoned consideration. Very few inches will be given to those who excelled in a losing cause and not for the first time, when I read the sports pages, I will raise my hands to my head and feel like sobbing for the lost cause that is the fun of sport.
Thursday, September 18, 2008
Better (and cheaper) than the Test Card: Major League Baseball on Five - mountainstriker
In his mid 90s pomp as TV critic of the London Evening Standard (Eldorado: ‘They said wait until December. Well it is December. And I have watched it. And it stinks.’), Victor Lewis-Smith campaigned vigorously for the return of the daytime test card. You know, the spooky one in which the girl with the preternatural smile plays noughts and crosses with her ghoulish clown doll. Anything, he argued, was better than Going for Gold, Neighbours, Home and Away, Esther,Vanessa,… It’s hard to argue.
VLS was writing at a time when most people were restricted to just four terrestrial channels. Today, with thousands of channels required to broadcast 24/7 on budgets that won’t stretch to a round of drinks, I wonder just how much TV executives must long to broadcast ol’ Spooky and Chucky for 18 hours a day.
Anyone who surfs the sports channels after 10pm can see the consequences: Bolivian football, Masters football (i.e. old blokes playing five-a-side at the local leisure centre), lacrosse, poker, pool, synchronised diving, golf. This summer, Sky discovered the beach: beach volleyball, beach cricket, beach football – beach anything as long as it’s cheap, goes on a bit and gives an excuse to broadcast some more ads for price comparison sites, car insurance, text dating services and Carol Vorderman (or sometimes that bloke who used to play James Herriot) offering to solve your money problems.
It’s fair to say that this is a world in which quality is not high. Presenters often have only a passing knowledge of their subject – this is where former Blue Peter presenters come to die – production values are low and coverage involving more than one camera a rarity. But frankly, who cares? Would you like to save money on your car insurance/flirt with lots of hot girls/consolidate all your debts into one, easy, affordable payment? Step up. Right here. Now where did I put that phone?
In this sea of lost souls, perhaps the last place you expect to find hope is Channel 5’s baseball coverage. But there it is. Every Wednesday and Sunday night (actually Thursday and Monday morning) from April to the end of October, Jonny Gould and Josh Chetwynd follow the 162 games of the regular season, culminating in the post-season play offs and the World Series, offering insight, knowledge and not a few laughs.
The format, relatively unchanged since its 1997 début, is fairly straightforward. Channel 5 has access to full ESPN coverage and, for the majority of the show, this is pumped straight into your living room. Games from the east coast and central states usually have a delay of one or two hours, games from the West Coast are often broadcast live.
Sunday Night Baseball with Jon Miller, Joe Morgan and Peter Gammons is an ESPN flagship and it is simply sports broadcasting of the highest quality. Miller and Morgan in particular have that enviable ability to appear to be just chatting over a beer while never missing a play. Every possible angle is covered and the technology - K Zone, super-slo-mo and a bewildering array of stats - is fully, but not intrusively, deployed. Not least, the overhead views of the ball parks are often stunning and live pictures from a glorious day in San Francisco, Chicago or New York often offer stark contrast to the dark night drizzling down your window.
In the States, the numerous breaks in play - end of innings, pitching changes, 7th innings stretch – are filled with commercials. In the UK, we return to the 5 studio where Jonny and Josh go through their paces.
Jonny Gould really should be presenting the beach cricket by now. He still has the habits of the daytime TV quiz host he once was - the cheesy catch phrases ‘Goooood eeeevening fellowbaseballnuts!’, the bouffant hair and the voice modulation, but somehow he seems to have been liberated by an injection of self-awareness which allows the viewers and his co-host to rib him mercilessly.
Perhaps the highlight of this season was when Josh claimed that the JG bouffant had, literally, peaked. This led to comparisons with Eddie Munster for which photographic evidence was immediately demanded and supplied. As the studio crew guffawed loudly in the background, you had to admit it was a decent likeness. He regularly refers to his ‘Sportsman’s 2:2’ and blatantly provokes viewer derision by extolling the virtues of Chelsea FC, Surrey CCC, the Atlanta Braves and, criminally, wearing a selection of appalling, garish, short-sleeved shirts.
The baseball expertise is provided by Josh Chetwynd. A former college and minor league catcher and, until 2007, an active player for the London Mets, Chetwynd has a gift for explaining the mechanics of this most technical of games - be it the difference between a slider and a curve ball, or why you should never pitch Manny Ramirez inside on a 3-2 count. Even better, unlike Mark Lawrenson, whose unscripted ‘jokes’ often meet a slow and agonising death on the Football Focus floor, he understands that Gould is the professional broadcaster, not him. The result is that both are completely comfortable in their roles and seem genuinely to like and respect each other. It’s worth comparing the warmth of their banter with the death stare that Manish Bhasin often seems to be sending dear old Lawro.
A key strength is that the show understands that its audience chiefly comprises baseball obsessives, students, the parents of newborn children, insomniacs and security guards. As such, it’s able to welcome their input without ever being patronising. Those watching live are referred to as ‘Hardcore’ while those of us who follow on tape are ‘Softcore’ but welcome none the less. A student drinking game has apparently built up around Gould’s numerous catch phrases ‘Josh’s favourite part of the show’, ‘It’s time foooor...7th innings stretch’ and he’s happy to oblige on cue every time. He’s also become increasingly obsessed with his fantasy baseball team. Josh remains unconvinced.
Less it be thought that it’s all knock about banter, both Gould and Chetwynd are happy to express an opinion when needed. When Barry Bonds finally overtook Hank Aaron’s all time home run record last season, Gould was keen to state that the achievement was tainted by the allegations surrounding Bonds’ use of steroids. Nor are they slow to point out when a pitcher has deliberately hit a batter, or a runner raised his cleats or dropped a shoulder when trying to reach base. When you’ve listened to Motson insisting endlessly that John Terry has ‘just gone for the ball there’ while the opposition clear up the dismembered limbs, such candour can come as a something of a shock.
So, next time you’re sitting there, glass or can in hand, wondering whether you really care if Graham Hick can knock this next ball from Sir Richard Hadlee into the Indian Ocean, I recommend that you give the baseball a try. Failing that, you can always go to bed.
VLS was writing at a time when most people were restricted to just four terrestrial channels. Today, with thousands of channels required to broadcast 24/7 on budgets that won’t stretch to a round of drinks, I wonder just how much TV executives must long to broadcast ol’ Spooky and Chucky for 18 hours a day.
Anyone who surfs the sports channels after 10pm can see the consequences: Bolivian football, Masters football (i.e. old blokes playing five-a-side at the local leisure centre), lacrosse, poker, pool, synchronised diving, golf. This summer, Sky discovered the beach: beach volleyball, beach cricket, beach football – beach anything as long as it’s cheap, goes on a bit and gives an excuse to broadcast some more ads for price comparison sites, car insurance, text dating services and Carol Vorderman (or sometimes that bloke who used to play James Herriot) offering to solve your money problems.
It’s fair to say that this is a world in which quality is not high. Presenters often have only a passing knowledge of their subject – this is where former Blue Peter presenters come to die – production values are low and coverage involving more than one camera a rarity. But frankly, who cares? Would you like to save money on your car insurance/flirt with lots of hot girls/consolidate all your debts into one, easy, affordable payment? Step up. Right here. Now where did I put that phone?
In this sea of lost souls, perhaps the last place you expect to find hope is Channel 5’s baseball coverage. But there it is. Every Wednesday and Sunday night (actually Thursday and Monday morning) from April to the end of October, Jonny Gould and Josh Chetwynd follow the 162 games of the regular season, culminating in the post-season play offs and the World Series, offering insight, knowledge and not a few laughs.
The format, relatively unchanged since its 1997 début, is fairly straightforward. Channel 5 has access to full ESPN coverage and, for the majority of the show, this is pumped straight into your living room. Games from the east coast and central states usually have a delay of one or two hours, games from the West Coast are often broadcast live.
Sunday Night Baseball with Jon Miller, Joe Morgan and Peter Gammons is an ESPN flagship and it is simply sports broadcasting of the highest quality. Miller and Morgan in particular have that enviable ability to appear to be just chatting over a beer while never missing a play. Every possible angle is covered and the technology - K Zone, super-slo-mo and a bewildering array of stats - is fully, but not intrusively, deployed. Not least, the overhead views of the ball parks are often stunning and live pictures from a glorious day in San Francisco, Chicago or New York often offer stark contrast to the dark night drizzling down your window.
In the States, the numerous breaks in play - end of innings, pitching changes, 7th innings stretch – are filled with commercials. In the UK, we return to the 5 studio where Jonny and Josh go through their paces.
Jonny Gould really should be presenting the beach cricket by now. He still has the habits of the daytime TV quiz host he once was - the cheesy catch phrases ‘Goooood eeeevening fellowbaseballnuts!’, the bouffant hair and the voice modulation, but somehow he seems to have been liberated by an injection of self-awareness which allows the viewers and his co-host to rib him mercilessly.
Perhaps the highlight of this season was when Josh claimed that the JG bouffant had, literally, peaked. This led to comparisons with Eddie Munster for which photographic evidence was immediately demanded and supplied. As the studio crew guffawed loudly in the background, you had to admit it was a decent likeness. He regularly refers to his ‘Sportsman’s 2:2’ and blatantly provokes viewer derision by extolling the virtues of Chelsea FC, Surrey CCC, the Atlanta Braves and, criminally, wearing a selection of appalling, garish, short-sleeved shirts.
The baseball expertise is provided by Josh Chetwynd. A former college and minor league catcher and, until 2007, an active player for the London Mets, Chetwynd has a gift for explaining the mechanics of this most technical of games - be it the difference between a slider and a curve ball, or why you should never pitch Manny Ramirez inside on a 3-2 count. Even better, unlike Mark Lawrenson, whose unscripted ‘jokes’ often meet a slow and agonising death on the Football Focus floor, he understands that Gould is the professional broadcaster, not him. The result is that both are completely comfortable in their roles and seem genuinely to like and respect each other. It’s worth comparing the warmth of their banter with the death stare that Manish Bhasin often seems to be sending dear old Lawro.
A key strength is that the show understands that its audience chiefly comprises baseball obsessives, students, the parents of newborn children, insomniacs and security guards. As such, it’s able to welcome their input without ever being patronising. Those watching live are referred to as ‘Hardcore’ while those of us who follow on tape are ‘Softcore’ but welcome none the less. A student drinking game has apparently built up around Gould’s numerous catch phrases ‘Josh’s favourite part of the show’, ‘It’s time foooor...7th innings stretch’ and he’s happy to oblige on cue every time. He’s also become increasingly obsessed with his fantasy baseball team. Josh remains unconvinced.
Less it be thought that it’s all knock about banter, both Gould and Chetwynd are happy to express an opinion when needed. When Barry Bonds finally overtook Hank Aaron’s all time home run record last season, Gould was keen to state that the achievement was tainted by the allegations surrounding Bonds’ use of steroids. Nor are they slow to point out when a pitcher has deliberately hit a batter, or a runner raised his cleats or dropped a shoulder when trying to reach base. When you’ve listened to Motson insisting endlessly that John Terry has ‘just gone for the ball there’ while the opposition clear up the dismembered limbs, such candour can come as a something of a shock.
So, next time you’re sitting there, glass or can in hand, wondering whether you really care if Graham Hick can knock this next ball from Sir Richard Hadlee into the Indian Ocean, I recommend that you give the baseball a try. Failing that, you can always go to bed.
Wednesday, September 17, 2008
Murray in mint condition - Allout
Despite the Scotsman’s loss in the US Open final, victory in a Grand Slam event should come sooner rather than later.
The praise was fulsome after Andy Murray outplayed Rafael Nadal, the World No. 1, last week in the semi final of the US Open. “This will go down as the defining afternoon in Murray's career” wrote Lawrence Donegan in the Guardian. Yet, for all that the victory over Nadal, and the style it was achieved in, was impressive, what is even more striking is the fact that it was not surprising after Murray’s performances over the summer. In short, this summer has seen Murray join the tennis elite and, although his straight sets defeat at the hands of Roger Federer in the US Open final was disappointing, it will surely not be long before Murray is playing in his next Grand Slam final.
Earlier in the summer the situation was different. Murray had bombed out of the Australian Open in the first round and followed this up with a third round exit in the French Open. He was hovering just outside the top 10 in the rankings and it seemed he had stood still for a couple of years. Many observers contrasted this with Murray’s friend and contemporary Novak Djokovic, who was seen as being at a similar level to Murray at the start of 2007, but who stepped into the higher echelons of the game by reaching the final of the 2007 US Open and winning the 2008 Australian Open. Murray had never reached the last eight of a Grand Slam event and many said it was high time to talk about fulfilment rather than potential.
Looking back now, it can be seen that Murray has made a similar leap this summer to Djokovic’s last year. It started at Wimbledon where he reached his first Grand Slam quarter-final. Just as importantly for his future he came back from two sets down to beat Richard Gasquet in the fourth round, thus giving him an indication of what was possible if he retained his self-belief during adversity. That game also seemed a watershed in the terms of his relationship with the SW19 crowd who, until then and perhaps because of some perceived anti-English comments previously, had not cheered Murray to the same degree as they had Tim Henman.
Rather than resting on his laurels after this Murray went on to produce a great hard court season. In the Toronto Masters he beat Djokovic on the way to the semi-finals. In the Cincinnati Masters he beat Djokovic again but this time in the final as he won comfortably his biggest career victory to date. Hopping over a poor Olympics campaign (everybody is entitled to one poor tournament) Murray then became the first Brit in over a decade to reach a Grand Slam final. Focussing on the Nadal match would be understandable, given that he outplayed the World number 1, but there were also encouraging signs elsewhere. Murray looked notably fitter than his opponent in victories over Jurgen Melzer and Stanislas Wawrinka (the former another comeback from two sets to love down) and also beat the talented Juan Martin del Potro. That achievement should not be underestimated – the Argentine not only has a big serve and a powerful forehand but came onto the match on a 23 game winning streak.
Further reason for optimism is that Murray now seems to be an all-round player. As a teenager his natural talent was obvious but it was equally easy to spot his weaknesses. The most damaging of these was a fitness level below other top professionals which was rectified by hard work. Following the US Open run (as well as the matches against Wawrinka and Melzer there was little sign of Murray missing anything in this department against Nadal, generally regarded as the fittest tennis player in history) this criticism can now definitively be written off. A couple of years ago Murray also lacked physical strength but over the last twelve months he has worked hard in this area and, although the circumference of his biceps is never likely to match Nadal’s, he can now hold his own against most opponents in this department. The last area that Murray has worked on in his mental approach. Often seen as stroppy and temperamental, Murray has been able to curb that side of his character recently, and possibly with it, the tendency to drop off mentally at crucial points during the game.
All of this is not to say that Murray must not continue the hard work. His powerful serve, for instance, is erratic; his fabulous performance against Nadal unsurprisingly coincided with him getting an unusually large percentage of first serves in. This percentage dropped significantly in the final with predictable consequences. Murray, however, knows this himself and straight after the US Open final, the only topic he mentioned more than the continued need for hard training was praise for Federer.
This rounded all-round game should give Murray a chance in all Grand Slam events, although the French Open would seem the least likely avenue for success. Murray spent some crucial teenage years at the Sánchez-Casal Academy in Barcelona so he is no stranger to clay, but the continued excellence of Nadal on this surface and the tough competition provided by continental clay-court specialists means that a quarter final appearance is as much as can reasonably be expected in Roland Garros in the immediate future.
Things are different, though, in the three other Grand Slam events where Murray has come out himself since the US Open final and said that he feels he has a chance of winning any of the three. His performances on hard courts this year provide ample evidence to support that assumption as far as the Australian and US Open are concerned whilst, with extra experience and the continued backing of the crowd, it is a distinct possibility that he can build on his Wimbledon quarter final finish this year.
Murray himself feels that his best chance is at the US Open, a tournament he has described as his favourite since his junior days. Lawrence Donegan in his GU blogs seemed to find it amusing that a young man from the small town of Dunblane in Central Scotland feels at home in New York, but perhaps it is exactly the contrast with his own background that Murray finds exciting. New York seems to provide a form of mental rush for Murray. At the same time the tournament is more relaxed than the palace of pomp and pageantry that is Wimbledon, an atmosphere which meant that Murray, starting out as a young Scot, didn’t feel totally relaxed there despite it being ostensibly his “home tournament”.
As an aside, Murray’s mother, Judy, explained recently to BBC Sport that when Murray feels comfortable with his surroundings it brings out his best form, which also explains why it is realistic to expect him to produce his best performances in the US Open. It also provides an explanation as to why his current coaching set-up, lead to Miles Maclagan, a mediocre former player little known outside of Scotland, has resulted in his career’s best form. Murray has come under fire in certain sections in the media for not having a big name coach but the results he has produced this summer prove that he has chosen his back-up team well and that lesser lights can also lead to top results if the personal chemistry is right.
In the comparison with his direct rivals there are also opportunities for Murray. Federer, despite re-discovering his all-round excellence in the closing stages of the US Open, is not the player he was a couple of years ago and, even if he manages to fully resurrect his game, he has surely little more than two years left at the top. Nadal, on the other hand, is still young at 22 but is, in my view, currently around his peak. The Majorcan matured early physically and already has considerable experience, meaning that he has less scope for developing his game than Murray has for his. Further, Nadal puts an immense amount of physical and mental energy into each point of every tennis match – contrast his slightly jerky hitting and general intensity to the languid, fluid and cerebral style of Federer. Problems directly or indirectly associated with physical and/or mental “burn-out” are therefore a real possibility and I therefore expect Nadal to be able to spend less time at the top than the Swiss maestro.
This all bodes well for Murray but there are still plenty of obstacles. Djokovic, his contemporary, already has a Grand Slam win to his name. Other young players (for example Del Potro) are likely to push hard for titles as Federer fade away. However, the most promising sign for Murray this summer is that with the form he has shown he seems to have conquered his most difficult opponent, a person he has played more than any other. That person: himself.
The praise was fulsome after Andy Murray outplayed Rafael Nadal, the World No. 1, last week in the semi final of the US Open. “This will go down as the defining afternoon in Murray's career” wrote Lawrence Donegan in the Guardian. Yet, for all that the victory over Nadal, and the style it was achieved in, was impressive, what is even more striking is the fact that it was not surprising after Murray’s performances over the summer. In short, this summer has seen Murray join the tennis elite and, although his straight sets defeat at the hands of Roger Federer in the US Open final was disappointing, it will surely not be long before Murray is playing in his next Grand Slam final.
Earlier in the summer the situation was different. Murray had bombed out of the Australian Open in the first round and followed this up with a third round exit in the French Open. He was hovering just outside the top 10 in the rankings and it seemed he had stood still for a couple of years. Many observers contrasted this with Murray’s friend and contemporary Novak Djokovic, who was seen as being at a similar level to Murray at the start of 2007, but who stepped into the higher echelons of the game by reaching the final of the 2007 US Open and winning the 2008 Australian Open. Murray had never reached the last eight of a Grand Slam event and many said it was high time to talk about fulfilment rather than potential.
Looking back now, it can be seen that Murray has made a similar leap this summer to Djokovic’s last year. It started at Wimbledon where he reached his first Grand Slam quarter-final. Just as importantly for his future he came back from two sets down to beat Richard Gasquet in the fourth round, thus giving him an indication of what was possible if he retained his self-belief during adversity. That game also seemed a watershed in the terms of his relationship with the SW19 crowd who, until then and perhaps because of some perceived anti-English comments previously, had not cheered Murray to the same degree as they had Tim Henman.
Rather than resting on his laurels after this Murray went on to produce a great hard court season. In the Toronto Masters he beat Djokovic on the way to the semi-finals. In the Cincinnati Masters he beat Djokovic again but this time in the final as he won comfortably his biggest career victory to date. Hopping over a poor Olympics campaign (everybody is entitled to one poor tournament) Murray then became the first Brit in over a decade to reach a Grand Slam final. Focussing on the Nadal match would be understandable, given that he outplayed the World number 1, but there were also encouraging signs elsewhere. Murray looked notably fitter than his opponent in victories over Jurgen Melzer and Stanislas Wawrinka (the former another comeback from two sets to love down) and also beat the talented Juan Martin del Potro. That achievement should not be underestimated – the Argentine not only has a big serve and a powerful forehand but came onto the match on a 23 game winning streak.
Further reason for optimism is that Murray now seems to be an all-round player. As a teenager his natural talent was obvious but it was equally easy to spot his weaknesses. The most damaging of these was a fitness level below other top professionals which was rectified by hard work. Following the US Open run (as well as the matches against Wawrinka and Melzer there was little sign of Murray missing anything in this department against Nadal, generally regarded as the fittest tennis player in history) this criticism can now definitively be written off. A couple of years ago Murray also lacked physical strength but over the last twelve months he has worked hard in this area and, although the circumference of his biceps is never likely to match Nadal’s, he can now hold his own against most opponents in this department. The last area that Murray has worked on in his mental approach. Often seen as stroppy and temperamental, Murray has been able to curb that side of his character recently, and possibly with it, the tendency to drop off mentally at crucial points during the game.
All of this is not to say that Murray must not continue the hard work. His powerful serve, for instance, is erratic; his fabulous performance against Nadal unsurprisingly coincided with him getting an unusually large percentage of first serves in. This percentage dropped significantly in the final with predictable consequences. Murray, however, knows this himself and straight after the US Open final, the only topic he mentioned more than the continued need for hard training was praise for Federer.
This rounded all-round game should give Murray a chance in all Grand Slam events, although the French Open would seem the least likely avenue for success. Murray spent some crucial teenage years at the Sánchez-Casal Academy in Barcelona so he is no stranger to clay, but the continued excellence of Nadal on this surface and the tough competition provided by continental clay-court specialists means that a quarter final appearance is as much as can reasonably be expected in Roland Garros in the immediate future.
Things are different, though, in the three other Grand Slam events where Murray has come out himself since the US Open final and said that he feels he has a chance of winning any of the three. His performances on hard courts this year provide ample evidence to support that assumption as far as the Australian and US Open are concerned whilst, with extra experience and the continued backing of the crowd, it is a distinct possibility that he can build on his Wimbledon quarter final finish this year.
Murray himself feels that his best chance is at the US Open, a tournament he has described as his favourite since his junior days. Lawrence Donegan in his GU blogs seemed to find it amusing that a young man from the small town of Dunblane in Central Scotland feels at home in New York, but perhaps it is exactly the contrast with his own background that Murray finds exciting. New York seems to provide a form of mental rush for Murray. At the same time the tournament is more relaxed than the palace of pomp and pageantry that is Wimbledon, an atmosphere which meant that Murray, starting out as a young Scot, didn’t feel totally relaxed there despite it being ostensibly his “home tournament”.
As an aside, Murray’s mother, Judy, explained recently to BBC Sport that when Murray feels comfortable with his surroundings it brings out his best form, which also explains why it is realistic to expect him to produce his best performances in the US Open. It also provides an explanation as to why his current coaching set-up, lead to Miles Maclagan, a mediocre former player little known outside of Scotland, has resulted in his career’s best form. Murray has come under fire in certain sections in the media for not having a big name coach but the results he has produced this summer prove that he has chosen his back-up team well and that lesser lights can also lead to top results if the personal chemistry is right.
In the comparison with his direct rivals there are also opportunities for Murray. Federer, despite re-discovering his all-round excellence in the closing stages of the US Open, is not the player he was a couple of years ago and, even if he manages to fully resurrect his game, he has surely little more than two years left at the top. Nadal, on the other hand, is still young at 22 but is, in my view, currently around his peak. The Majorcan matured early physically and already has considerable experience, meaning that he has less scope for developing his game than Murray has for his. Further, Nadal puts an immense amount of physical and mental energy into each point of every tennis match – contrast his slightly jerky hitting and general intensity to the languid, fluid and cerebral style of Federer. Problems directly or indirectly associated with physical and/or mental “burn-out” are therefore a real possibility and I therefore expect Nadal to be able to spend less time at the top than the Swiss maestro.
This all bodes well for Murray but there are still plenty of obstacles. Djokovic, his contemporary, already has a Grand Slam win to his name. Other young players (for example Del Potro) are likely to push hard for titles as Federer fade away. However, the most promising sign for Murray this summer is that with the form he has shown he seems to have conquered his most difficult opponent, a person he has played more than any other. That person: himself.
Saturday, September 6, 2008
Why We Shout - Mac Millings
Some Mouthy bloke recently posted the following on a popular sportblog comment thread: “If they get the ticketing right (and they probably won't) I expect the London crowds to be very non-jingoistic….It would be awful if the Games’ crowds were versions of Wimbledon's and not versions of a London primary school's parents' evening.”
It was the Wimbledon part that struck me. Similar sentiments had been expressed during The Championships; for while some revelled in the screaming support for Andy Murray, most expressed dismay that this wasn’t what Wimbledon was about, and that the antics of “the Surrey Set” made a nation cringe. But why, I wondered, is deafeningly enthusiastic fan fervour at a football match the least you would expect, but the same on Centre Court is faintly embarrassing? What accounts for the differences in appropriate fan reaction at football and tennis, or, for that matter, any (top level – and I emphasise that I’m considering only the top level of the sports I mention) popular modern sport? In short, why do we shout more at some types of sporting event than others?
Let’s start with the contention that the character of the Wimbledon Centre Court crowd is a function of the class of its constituent members.
"They don't sit on their hands, they actually use them to clap." So said Martina Navratilova about the famous Sunday Centre Court crowd of 1991. We (yes, I was among them), the ordinary folk, had been let in for a tenner, and we were a little rowdier than the regular patrons of the place. This, it is supposed, led to the increasingly vocal, almost football crowd-like behaviour of today’s Wimbledon ticket buyers.
But is that really what’s happening? Nationality is the key here. The crowd only truly goes crazy for Murray, as it did for Henman before him, and I suspect Roger Taylor used to get something similar. If there’s no Brit on court (although a particular crowd favourite, like Agassi, can stir almost as strong a response) even in these modern times, the crowd reverts to the norm – silent before points, applause after. And, more or less, that’s how we behaved on that Sunday long ago. A little louder, to be sure (especially for Connors), but still respectful of the etiquette of the tennis crowd – which is not based on class, but on the fact that the game of tennis requires such etiquette. That’s what you do as a spectator of a sport whose participants take turns.
The crowd at a game of snooker is about as far removed, class-wise, as you can get from that watching a Centre Court match, and yet their behaviour is remarkably similar; generally speaking; silence before a shot, applause after a successful one. Rowdier cheering is reserved for crowd favourites (and of course, at crucial junctures of a match, which is common behaviour throughout the quieter sports).
National bias, which inspires much of the loudest crowd noise in tennis, is, of course, less apparent in snooker because of the paucity of foreigner players. However, both national bias and player favouritism are merely modifiers – they increase the noise levels when they are present, but aren’t the dominant factors regarding crowd etiquette. And as for the type of people who watch – well, why we’re sometimes quiet at sporting events has little to do with class, and much to do with the type of sport we’re watching. In snooker, the players take turns, and we who watch are quiet. In tennis, we are quiet, too – but slightly less so, because the turns are taken more quickly.
Well, you might say, a tennis serve is a shot, like a snooker or a golf shot, that requires concentration, and so quiet is necessary to allow the player to focus. But does a penalty-taking footballer, or a player taking a free throw in basketball, not need to concentrate on his big moment? He doesn’t get to, though, especially not in an away game.
I think what you have here is the modus operandi of a crowd, whose sport usually demands noise, overwhelming what are essentially individual sporting moments. For we are not quiet based on the difficulty of the game. The penalty takers and free throw shooters, whose shots aren’t significantly (if at all) less difficult than those of golfers and snooker players, suffer simply from being participators in two of the noisy sports.
There are, in terms of crowd noise, essentially three kinds of sport. There are the shouting, singing, constant noise (unless the home side aren't doing so well) sports - football, rugby chief among them. Stateside (which, as I'm here, I sort of follow, but sort of don't really understand), the major equivalents are the other football and basketball, which maintain the noise levels, and lack only the singing.
Then you have the constant chatter sports; cricket (with chants - if not outright singing - emerging in recent years. I speak here of English cricket grounds, as that is my where my personal experience lies) and baseball. The latter, I feel, is a little more raucous. For example, fans will boo certain players they don't like, or even throw objects onto the field of play - this all seems to me to be closer to the shouty sports than the chatty ones. Further, baseball being more stylised than cricket, there are certain, set moments - for example, when the home side is potentially one pitch away from wrapping up the game - that lend themselves to jeering and cheering more than any in cricket (although the cheering and clapping of a player as he is on the threshold of a 100 in cricket is a parallel). On the whole, though, baseball approximates cricket in the way that the spectators treat it as much as a social, chatting-and-drinking-with-your-friends day out.
Then there are the silent ones, the reverential sports – among them tennis, golf and snooker.
There is, it seems to me, a clear correlation between the nature of the games in question, and the reactions they elicit from their spectators. It’s all about how each sport combines team play, possession of the ball (because we are mostly talking about ball sports), and player interaction.
In the shouty sports, when the ball is in play, the teams are at each other all the time – from passes, shots, tackles and saves, to off-the-ball pushing and shoving, it’s constant interaction.
In the chatty sports (cricket and baseball), there is only one team on the field, and they all interact with just one or two of the opposition, in very short bursts – balls/overs and pitches/innings. The passion of the crowd’s reaction varies, dependent almost entirely on the importance of the result of the burst of action; in cricket, applause for a good shot (which is of limited importance for most of the length of the match), but cheering for a wicket (which is generally more important). In baseball, some cheering for an out (of which there are plenty - usually 51 to 54 in a game – so their value is relatively small), but more for a hit (of which there are almost always far fewer), and even more for a home run (rare, relative to a regular hit).
In quiet sports such as tennis and snooker, it’s one-on-one – the protagonists take turns. The audience applauds, and sometimes cheers, a good shot, but generally tries not to do so to the disadvantage of the player on the receiving end. The applause and cheering are generally rowdier and more interruptive in tennis than snooker – this is mainly because in snooker, one player takes (or, at least, can take) several shots in a row, whereas in tennis, the shots are alternating. This means, in snooker, less of an opportunity to interrupt the other player, while tennis provides a shorter time between shots to applaud a good one (resulting in a greater likelihood of noise during the opposing player’s shot), and, more importantly, more immediate excitement, as players try to outmanoeuvre/overpower each other in a short space of time (the duration of each point).
Golf, on the other hand, is the player alone. We wait; he (or she) hits the ball; finally, we applaud, or cringe, or not much of either. These reactions are based on the golfer’s skill alone - other than in end-of-tournament pressure situations, where the scope for din and excitement is greater. An appreciation of skill alone doesn’t evoke much passion – hence golf spectators are amongst the quietest, on the whole. Only in matchplay do we find a person against person format, and it is no surprise that the time when a golf-watching crowd becomes the rowdiest, the most football crowd-like, is during the Ryder Cup, when matchplay format meets team play and national/regional pride.
One last thing. Boxing, and it’s instructive. One of the world’s oldest sports, it’s perhaps the ultimate test of an athletic individual (yes, there’s room for argument there, as there is with everything about boxing, but it is a test, you’ll grant me that). It could never be a team sport - a dozen people in the ring at one time? Where would you look? – And therefore doesn’t have the natural advantages, in terms of crowd noise, that football enjoys.
Yet, at the highest level, it can inspire passion, shouting, chanting and singing – more, maybe, than any other sport of the individual, because it’s the most interactive of all sports; it’s me or him, and either way, it’s going to hurt. In rugby you tackle, and even occasionally punch, but in boxing it is (homoeroticism alert!) the continuous mutual pursuit of two men. When there are lulls in the crowd, it’s because the fighters aren’t hitting each other; when there’s passion among the spectators, it’s because the fighters are hitting each other a lot.
But imagine. Imagine if boxing wasn’t three essentially pauseless minutes of scrapping, followed by three more, and three more, and so on. Imagine if you tossed a coin, and the winner got to punch first. Just once. Then it’s the other guy’s turn, and they keep on like that until someone falls down and can’t get up. We wouldn’t be yelling and cheering in a wall of noise. We’d wait and watch, and then our reaction would be a cheer, or a grimace, or not much, depending on the punch. Then we wait and watch again. And react. Watch and react. And it wouldn’t be boxing any more. It would be tennis. With punching.
It was the Wimbledon part that struck me. Similar sentiments had been expressed during The Championships; for while some revelled in the screaming support for Andy Murray, most expressed dismay that this wasn’t what Wimbledon was about, and that the antics of “the Surrey Set” made a nation cringe. But why, I wondered, is deafeningly enthusiastic fan fervour at a football match the least you would expect, but the same on Centre Court is faintly embarrassing? What accounts for the differences in appropriate fan reaction at football and tennis, or, for that matter, any (top level – and I emphasise that I’m considering only the top level of the sports I mention) popular modern sport? In short, why do we shout more at some types of sporting event than others?
Let’s start with the contention that the character of the Wimbledon Centre Court crowd is a function of the class of its constituent members.
"They don't sit on their hands, they actually use them to clap." So said Martina Navratilova about the famous Sunday Centre Court crowd of 1991. We (yes, I was among them), the ordinary folk, had been let in for a tenner, and we were a little rowdier than the regular patrons of the place. This, it is supposed, led to the increasingly vocal, almost football crowd-like behaviour of today’s Wimbledon ticket buyers.
But is that really what’s happening? Nationality is the key here. The crowd only truly goes crazy for Murray, as it did for Henman before him, and I suspect Roger Taylor used to get something similar. If there’s no Brit on court (although a particular crowd favourite, like Agassi, can stir almost as strong a response) even in these modern times, the crowd reverts to the norm – silent before points, applause after. And, more or less, that’s how we behaved on that Sunday long ago. A little louder, to be sure (especially for Connors), but still respectful of the etiquette of the tennis crowd – which is not based on class, but on the fact that the game of tennis requires such etiquette. That’s what you do as a spectator of a sport whose participants take turns.
The crowd at a game of snooker is about as far removed, class-wise, as you can get from that watching a Centre Court match, and yet their behaviour is remarkably similar; generally speaking; silence before a shot, applause after a successful one. Rowdier cheering is reserved for crowd favourites (and of course, at crucial junctures of a match, which is common behaviour throughout the quieter sports).
National bias, which inspires much of the loudest crowd noise in tennis, is, of course, less apparent in snooker because of the paucity of foreigner players. However, both national bias and player favouritism are merely modifiers – they increase the noise levels when they are present, but aren’t the dominant factors regarding crowd etiquette. And as for the type of people who watch – well, why we’re sometimes quiet at sporting events has little to do with class, and much to do with the type of sport we’re watching. In snooker, the players take turns, and we who watch are quiet. In tennis, we are quiet, too – but slightly less so, because the turns are taken more quickly.
Well, you might say, a tennis serve is a shot, like a snooker or a golf shot, that requires concentration, and so quiet is necessary to allow the player to focus. But does a penalty-taking footballer, or a player taking a free throw in basketball, not need to concentrate on his big moment? He doesn’t get to, though, especially not in an away game.
I think what you have here is the modus operandi of a crowd, whose sport usually demands noise, overwhelming what are essentially individual sporting moments. For we are not quiet based on the difficulty of the game. The penalty takers and free throw shooters, whose shots aren’t significantly (if at all) less difficult than those of golfers and snooker players, suffer simply from being participators in two of the noisy sports.
There are, in terms of crowd noise, essentially three kinds of sport. There are the shouting, singing, constant noise (unless the home side aren't doing so well) sports - football, rugby chief among them. Stateside (which, as I'm here, I sort of follow, but sort of don't really understand), the major equivalents are the other football and basketball, which maintain the noise levels, and lack only the singing.
Then you have the constant chatter sports; cricket (with chants - if not outright singing - emerging in recent years. I speak here of English cricket grounds, as that is my where my personal experience lies) and baseball. The latter, I feel, is a little more raucous. For example, fans will boo certain players they don't like, or even throw objects onto the field of play - this all seems to me to be closer to the shouty sports than the chatty ones. Further, baseball being more stylised than cricket, there are certain, set moments - for example, when the home side is potentially one pitch away from wrapping up the game - that lend themselves to jeering and cheering more than any in cricket (although the cheering and clapping of a player as he is on the threshold of a 100 in cricket is a parallel). On the whole, though, baseball approximates cricket in the way that the spectators treat it as much as a social, chatting-and-drinking-with-your-friends day out.
Then there are the silent ones, the reverential sports – among them tennis, golf and snooker.
There is, it seems to me, a clear correlation between the nature of the games in question, and the reactions they elicit from their spectators. It’s all about how each sport combines team play, possession of the ball (because we are mostly talking about ball sports), and player interaction.
In the shouty sports, when the ball is in play, the teams are at each other all the time – from passes, shots, tackles and saves, to off-the-ball pushing and shoving, it’s constant interaction.
In the chatty sports (cricket and baseball), there is only one team on the field, and they all interact with just one or two of the opposition, in very short bursts – balls/overs and pitches/innings. The passion of the crowd’s reaction varies, dependent almost entirely on the importance of the result of the burst of action; in cricket, applause for a good shot (which is of limited importance for most of the length of the match), but cheering for a wicket (which is generally more important). In baseball, some cheering for an out (of which there are plenty - usually 51 to 54 in a game – so their value is relatively small), but more for a hit (of which there are almost always far fewer), and even more for a home run (rare, relative to a regular hit).
In quiet sports such as tennis and snooker, it’s one-on-one – the protagonists take turns. The audience applauds, and sometimes cheers, a good shot, but generally tries not to do so to the disadvantage of the player on the receiving end. The applause and cheering are generally rowdier and more interruptive in tennis than snooker – this is mainly because in snooker, one player takes (or, at least, can take) several shots in a row, whereas in tennis, the shots are alternating. This means, in snooker, less of an opportunity to interrupt the other player, while tennis provides a shorter time between shots to applaud a good one (resulting in a greater likelihood of noise during the opposing player’s shot), and, more importantly, more immediate excitement, as players try to outmanoeuvre/overpower each other in a short space of time (the duration of each point).
Golf, on the other hand, is the player alone. We wait; he (or she) hits the ball; finally, we applaud, or cringe, or not much of either. These reactions are based on the golfer’s skill alone - other than in end-of-tournament pressure situations, where the scope for din and excitement is greater. An appreciation of skill alone doesn’t evoke much passion – hence golf spectators are amongst the quietest, on the whole. Only in matchplay do we find a person against person format, and it is no surprise that the time when a golf-watching crowd becomes the rowdiest, the most football crowd-like, is during the Ryder Cup, when matchplay format meets team play and national/regional pride.
One last thing. Boxing, and it’s instructive. One of the world’s oldest sports, it’s perhaps the ultimate test of an athletic individual (yes, there’s room for argument there, as there is with everything about boxing, but it is a test, you’ll grant me that). It could never be a team sport - a dozen people in the ring at one time? Where would you look? – And therefore doesn’t have the natural advantages, in terms of crowd noise, that football enjoys.
Yet, at the highest level, it can inspire passion, shouting, chanting and singing – more, maybe, than any other sport of the individual, because it’s the most interactive of all sports; it’s me or him, and either way, it’s going to hurt. In rugby you tackle, and even occasionally punch, but in boxing it is (homoeroticism alert!) the continuous mutual pursuit of two men. When there are lulls in the crowd, it’s because the fighters aren’t hitting each other; when there’s passion among the spectators, it’s because the fighters are hitting each other a lot.
But imagine. Imagine if boxing wasn’t three essentially pauseless minutes of scrapping, followed by three more, and three more, and so on. Imagine if you tossed a coin, and the winner got to punch first. Just once. Then it’s the other guy’s turn, and they keep on like that until someone falls down and can’t get up. We wouldn’t be yelling and cheering in a wall of noise. We’d wait and watch, and then our reaction would be a cheer, or a grimace, or not much, depending on the punch. Then we wait and watch again. And react. Watch and react. And it wouldn’t be boxing any more. It would be tennis. With punching.
Thursday, September 4, 2008
Show Me The Money: why Sky spells doom for English cricket - mountainstriker
Confession time. I’m old now. I can remember Botham bouncing in, Gower with the golden hair and being puzzled by the way Bob Willis seemed to fight himself along every step of his long, strangely curving run up - a speeding supertanker with its rudder stuck. I’m dreadfully old fashioned too. Much as I love it, I believe that the football season begins in mid September and ends in mid May. The time in between belongs to cricket and, for as long as I can remember, following cricket on the telly and radio, has been an integral part of my summer.
There is a tendency now to view the BBC’s coverage, both radio and television, fondly. In retrospect it wasn’t a patch on today. Only one camera meant that 50% of the match was spent contemplating which of England’s batsman had the largest backside - Markus Berkman in Rain Men makes the case for Gooch, Botham and Lamb eloquently – no hawk-eye, stump cameras or split screens. Overseas tours were limited to 30 minutes of highlights on BBC2 broadcast around midnight (after Newsnight, before the Sky at Night). The commentary team, Peter West, Tony Lewis, Jim Laker, and Ray Illingworth were bland, curmudgeonly and, the odd twinkle from Richie (Doyen©) Benaud aside, not remotely interested in informing the uninitiated. Frankly, you were expected to know the difference between a fine leg glance, and glance through fine leg. If you didn’t - tough.
Radio was even worse. Like the Smashie and Nicey brigade on Radio 1 around the same time, the TMS team was 20, no, let’s say 30, years past its sell-by, the land of the dinosaurs. Arlott had gone by then, leaving the field for Johnson and Blofeld to prattle endlessly about cake, buses and butterflies. Worse were the experts – especially Fred ‘I have no idea what’s going on out there’ Truman - forever lamenting the demise of technique, sniping at the rise of the one day game, and dismissive of anything that did not have its origins in the sepia world of hard graft, hearty back slaps and firm handshakes.
Collectively, BBC TV and radio coverage did considerable damage to cricket in this country. Rendering it inaccessible to the uninitiated, over-intellectual, over-romanticised and aimed at an aging audience that chiefly comprised characters from an Agatha Christie novel. Not only did it seem to disapprove of the modern game, it virtually ignored cricket’s more primeval (but equally attractive) elements: the desire of a fast bowler to stick one in the batsman’s teeth, the dread of a fielder as a skier heads his way, the sledging, and the sheer joy of just slogging one out of the screws over cow corner. Tut, played across the line... Much is made of the loss of school playing fields in the 80s and 90s, but the fact is that even if they had been retained, few would have wanted to play cricket on them. Cricket was mortally uncool.
Two things happened in the 90s. First the BBC employed Johnathan Agnew. Initially just another member of Johnson’s giggling claque (‘Botham… just couldn’t get his leg over….ffnnnnarr….snnnnrk. Oh Aggers…’) his coming of age was daring to call for Atherton’s resignation over the dirt in the pocket affair in1994. The rights and wrongs were irrelevant, what was revolutionary was his rather bald statement that the England Captain, a Manchester Grammar boy and Cambridge Blue no less, was a ball tampering cheat. Indeed, he was no better than those nasty Pakistanis who did despicable things to the ball against us in 1992.
This was the point when it became acceptable to state that one of the fundamental problems with England and English cricket was the MCC, the County system, coaching standards, the facilities - in short the whole Establishment of English cricket. At that moment, BBC coverage took on a harder edge - more critical, less cosy, ultimately, less part of this same Establishment. In time, this led to the reports, shake ups, foreign coaches, central contracts and an acceptance that harking back to the 1950s all the time was never going to regain the Ashes.
It’s ironic then that one of the casualties of this harder edge was the BBC’s TV coverage. Lord knows the BBC tried to change - hiring Gower as a commentator and allowing him to muse that a reverse sweep was ‘as cheeky as the snap of a suspender belt’, ‘What?!!’ spluttered the Doyen© - but it was too little too late.
Channel 4’s coverage was everything the BBC’s was not. Initially derided as a bunch of cricket philistines, C4’s innovations – hawk-eye, slow motion analysis and the incredibly simple expedient of marking a line between the stumps to assist in the judgement of lbw - have all become standard. Better, Channel 4 actually seemed to like cricket, was prepared to explain its intricacies and didn’t regard anyone under the age of 30 as a potential ASBO. Despite the slightly awkward presence of Mark Nicholas (with his shiny shoes and nicely creased trousers he always reminded me of a Dad trying get down with the kids at the school disco - I’m convinced he and David Cameron were separated at birth) Channel 4 had something for everyone: Boycott’s ill considered (but often accurate) polemics, Simon Hughes’ equally inflammatory disco shirts, acute slow motion analysis and technical exposition and, of course, the Doyen© was there just to reassure everyone that, though some things change, Channel 4 did have standards.
By 2005 something had happened that I thought would never occur in my lifetime. Cricket was cool. It helped that the England team was actually quite good and locked in the most incredible Test Series since 1981. What was striking however was the extent to which it became common currency. Everyone was talking cricket, what a genius that Warne is (fat though) Ponting – he’s lost it, Fred, Harmy, Trescothick and all the rest. Even better, it suddenly became noticeable amongst village cricketers that our opponents were getting younger -all intensity, verbals, 4 an over and aggression. Some didn’t like it, (especially when they were bounced out for the first time in 40 years) but personally I was pleased that cricket, at last, seemed to have a future.
And then the ECB sold its soul exclusively to Sky. Faced with the loss of an integral part of my summers, I too paid the Murdoch shilling. I had held out resolutely until then – there’s plenty of good live football on terrestrial and Freeview and besides, the Premiership ain’t all that – but I comforted myself that, if I did succumb, at least my cash would contribute to the unprecedented millions that would at last be available to cricket in this country.
Sky’s cricket coverage is fantastic, everything good about Channel 4 and more. The team is wonderfully balanced. Bumble’s love of the game doesn’t hide his knowledge and experience as an international player, umpire and coach, Atherton is dry and insightful, Hussain is incendiary and insightful, Gower twinkles like the Doyen© he was born to be, Holding is coolness personified while Botham tends to his increasing girth in the hope that he will one day fill Truman’s curmudgeonly old trousers. Hot spot, hi-definition, stats, highlights, press the red button…it really is the cricket telly watchers’ nirvana.
But, where’s all the cash that so comforted me three years ago gone? Say what you like about the FA and Sky (and we do) but the cash is there for all to see at the grassroots level. My grassroots football club has received funding for both new goal posts and Under 14s kit in the last two years - over £2,000 for a relatively small operation. Our cricket club on the other hand is just as strapped as it was 20 years ago. Ask the ECB or your local County Cricket Association for cash to improve your pitch, purchase some ground equipment, sight screens, nets or changing facilities. No chance. What about expert coaching or specialist training equipment? Sorry, can’t afford it, why don’t you approach some local businesses for sponsorship?
This absence of funding for grass roots cricket is critical because now there is nothing to compensate for the absence of cricket on free to air TV. Sky dishes and subscriptions are the preserve of the adult employed and unless kids can see Fred and KP regularly how can they be inspired to emulate them? To this day, my (increasingly slow) run up is modelled on Botham’s bounce to the wicket circa 1980, but how can you want to play a flamingo pull or a switch hit unless you’ve actually seen them?
For all its faults, the BBC’s cricket coverage was accessible. Cricket needs a shop window. It may be a rather drab one like the old BBC, or it may be a shiny Sky or Channel 4 version but without it, and particularly in the absence of real grassroots funding, the Sky deal will ultimately do more damage than dear old Johnners and his cakes ever could.
There is a tendency now to view the BBC’s coverage, both radio and television, fondly. In retrospect it wasn’t a patch on today. Only one camera meant that 50% of the match was spent contemplating which of England’s batsman had the largest backside - Markus Berkman in Rain Men makes the case for Gooch, Botham and Lamb eloquently – no hawk-eye, stump cameras or split screens. Overseas tours were limited to 30 minutes of highlights on BBC2 broadcast around midnight (after Newsnight, before the Sky at Night). The commentary team, Peter West, Tony Lewis, Jim Laker, and Ray Illingworth were bland, curmudgeonly and, the odd twinkle from Richie (Doyen©) Benaud aside, not remotely interested in informing the uninitiated. Frankly, you were expected to know the difference between a fine leg glance, and glance through fine leg. If you didn’t - tough.
Radio was even worse. Like the Smashie and Nicey brigade on Radio 1 around the same time, the TMS team was 20, no, let’s say 30, years past its sell-by, the land of the dinosaurs. Arlott had gone by then, leaving the field for Johnson and Blofeld to prattle endlessly about cake, buses and butterflies. Worse were the experts – especially Fred ‘I have no idea what’s going on out there’ Truman - forever lamenting the demise of technique, sniping at the rise of the one day game, and dismissive of anything that did not have its origins in the sepia world of hard graft, hearty back slaps and firm handshakes.
Collectively, BBC TV and radio coverage did considerable damage to cricket in this country. Rendering it inaccessible to the uninitiated, over-intellectual, over-romanticised and aimed at an aging audience that chiefly comprised characters from an Agatha Christie novel. Not only did it seem to disapprove of the modern game, it virtually ignored cricket’s more primeval (but equally attractive) elements: the desire of a fast bowler to stick one in the batsman’s teeth, the dread of a fielder as a skier heads his way, the sledging, and the sheer joy of just slogging one out of the screws over cow corner. Tut, played across the line... Much is made of the loss of school playing fields in the 80s and 90s, but the fact is that even if they had been retained, few would have wanted to play cricket on them. Cricket was mortally uncool.
Two things happened in the 90s. First the BBC employed Johnathan Agnew. Initially just another member of Johnson’s giggling claque (‘Botham… just couldn’t get his leg over….ffnnnnarr….snnnnrk. Oh Aggers…’) his coming of age was daring to call for Atherton’s resignation over the dirt in the pocket affair in1994. The rights and wrongs were irrelevant, what was revolutionary was his rather bald statement that the England Captain, a Manchester Grammar boy and Cambridge Blue no less, was a ball tampering cheat. Indeed, he was no better than those nasty Pakistanis who did despicable things to the ball against us in 1992.
This was the point when it became acceptable to state that one of the fundamental problems with England and English cricket was the MCC, the County system, coaching standards, the facilities - in short the whole Establishment of English cricket. At that moment, BBC coverage took on a harder edge - more critical, less cosy, ultimately, less part of this same Establishment. In time, this led to the reports, shake ups, foreign coaches, central contracts and an acceptance that harking back to the 1950s all the time was never going to regain the Ashes.
It’s ironic then that one of the casualties of this harder edge was the BBC’s TV coverage. Lord knows the BBC tried to change - hiring Gower as a commentator and allowing him to muse that a reverse sweep was ‘as cheeky as the snap of a suspender belt’, ‘What?!!’ spluttered the Doyen© - but it was too little too late.
Channel 4’s coverage was everything the BBC’s was not. Initially derided as a bunch of cricket philistines, C4’s innovations – hawk-eye, slow motion analysis and the incredibly simple expedient of marking a line between the stumps to assist in the judgement of lbw - have all become standard. Better, Channel 4 actually seemed to like cricket, was prepared to explain its intricacies and didn’t regard anyone under the age of 30 as a potential ASBO. Despite the slightly awkward presence of Mark Nicholas (with his shiny shoes and nicely creased trousers he always reminded me of a Dad trying get down with the kids at the school disco - I’m convinced he and David Cameron were separated at birth) Channel 4 had something for everyone: Boycott’s ill considered (but often accurate) polemics, Simon Hughes’ equally inflammatory disco shirts, acute slow motion analysis and technical exposition and, of course, the Doyen© was there just to reassure everyone that, though some things change, Channel 4 did have standards.
By 2005 something had happened that I thought would never occur in my lifetime. Cricket was cool. It helped that the England team was actually quite good and locked in the most incredible Test Series since 1981. What was striking however was the extent to which it became common currency. Everyone was talking cricket, what a genius that Warne is (fat though) Ponting – he’s lost it, Fred, Harmy, Trescothick and all the rest. Even better, it suddenly became noticeable amongst village cricketers that our opponents were getting younger -all intensity, verbals, 4 an over and aggression. Some didn’t like it, (especially when they were bounced out for the first time in 40 years) but personally I was pleased that cricket, at last, seemed to have a future.
And then the ECB sold its soul exclusively to Sky. Faced with the loss of an integral part of my summers, I too paid the Murdoch shilling. I had held out resolutely until then – there’s plenty of good live football on terrestrial and Freeview and besides, the Premiership ain’t all that – but I comforted myself that, if I did succumb, at least my cash would contribute to the unprecedented millions that would at last be available to cricket in this country.
Sky’s cricket coverage is fantastic, everything good about Channel 4 and more. The team is wonderfully balanced. Bumble’s love of the game doesn’t hide his knowledge and experience as an international player, umpire and coach, Atherton is dry and insightful, Hussain is incendiary and insightful, Gower twinkles like the Doyen© he was born to be, Holding is coolness personified while Botham tends to his increasing girth in the hope that he will one day fill Truman’s curmudgeonly old trousers. Hot spot, hi-definition, stats, highlights, press the red button…it really is the cricket telly watchers’ nirvana.
But, where’s all the cash that so comforted me three years ago gone? Say what you like about the FA and Sky (and we do) but the cash is there for all to see at the grassroots level. My grassroots football club has received funding for both new goal posts and Under 14s kit in the last two years - over £2,000 for a relatively small operation. Our cricket club on the other hand is just as strapped as it was 20 years ago. Ask the ECB or your local County Cricket Association for cash to improve your pitch, purchase some ground equipment, sight screens, nets or changing facilities. No chance. What about expert coaching or specialist training equipment? Sorry, can’t afford it, why don’t you approach some local businesses for sponsorship?
This absence of funding for grass roots cricket is critical because now there is nothing to compensate for the absence of cricket on free to air TV. Sky dishes and subscriptions are the preserve of the adult employed and unless kids can see Fred and KP regularly how can they be inspired to emulate them? To this day, my (increasingly slow) run up is modelled on Botham’s bounce to the wicket circa 1980, but how can you want to play a flamingo pull or a switch hit unless you’ve actually seen them?
For all its faults, the BBC’s cricket coverage was accessible. Cricket needs a shop window. It may be a rather drab one like the old BBC, or it may be a shiny Sky or Channel 4 version but without it, and particularly in the absence of real grassroots funding, the Sky deal will ultimately do more damage than dear old Johnners and his cakes ever could.
The Olympic aftermath in Scandinavia - Allout
Anyone following the Olympics through the British media will no doubt have picked up on the triumphant mood in the country, with Great Britain (or is that team GB nowadays) taking home a medal haul unmatched in a century.
However, not every nation has exceeded their expectations at the Olympics and in Sweden the mood at SVT (the national broadcaster) has been almost funereal, following the country’s haul of just six medals, with not even one of them being gold (which compares to four golds – most of them in the high-profile athletics competition – in Athens). To make matters worse, Sweden’s smaller Nordic rivals Norway, Finland and Denmark have all won gold medals, and the regional humiliation really would have been absolute had tiny Iceland been able to beat France in the men’s handball final. When SVT repeatedly showed coverage of Susanna Kallur falling, almost literally, flat on her face at the first high hurdle, it was difficult not to view this as a metaphor for the country’s performance as a whole.
So what lies behind the country’s poor performance? A quick look at where the gold medals were won last time in athletics shows that the talent pool was fairly small in this discipline and always potentially susceptible to injuries and bad luck. The triple jumper Christian Olsson has been plagued by injury ever since winning gold in Athens at the age of 24 and he didn’t compete in Beijing – depressingly there has been talk of him retiring. Meanwhile, high jumper Stefan Holm (another winner in Athens) had a disappointing Olympics finishing just out of the medals in fourth place.
But the biggest loss of all has nothing to do with injury. Had Carolina Klüft competed in the heptathlon (where she has dominated for over five years) it would be reasonable to expect that Sweden would have won at least one gold medal. Klüft though made a surprise announcement earlier this year that she would not to compete in this event and planned to focus on the long jump instead where, in the end, she finished well out of the medal hunt. When asked about the decision after the event Klüft was unrepentant saying that she felt it was impossible to compete in the heptathlon, having run out of desire after years at the top.
Whilst those who toil and sweat for years to get to the top may find Klüft’s decision to turn down an almost certain gold medal unfathomable, I would applaud it. A top athlete’s motivation comes as much from within as from our external surroundings and, if Klüft felt that she had none, it was appropriate to make an unconventional decision. In a way one could say it was Sweden’s bad luck that Klüft was so dominant – had she been a marginally less able all-round athlete she might have found the heptathlon challenging enough whilst still being good enough to ensure a gold medal.
Elsewhere, Sweden’s lack of a gold medal can be due to missing the crucial last bit of skill or luck as five silvers could testify. A medal in sailing where Sweden were ahead of Britain going into the last day only to be pipped at the end seems to neatly summarise the different experience of the two countries.
Over the Øresund, the mood in Denmark is also philosophical but for a different reason. Team Denmark had set a target of seven medals and this was met precisely (with two of them being gold). However, whilst it was no great surprise that the men’s lightweight fours (rowing) and the men’s cycling pursuit team won medals, the identity of most of the other medalists raised eyebrows. Denmark won first medals for decades in swimming and dressage, and whilst a medal in sailing was not unusual, the fact that it was gold for the 49er boat was as surprising as the last day of that competition was tense.
On the other hand, some high-profile entrants failed with the men’s handball team (European Champions in January) finishing a disappointing seventh; no medal being won in badminton for the first time in four Olympics; Joachim B. Olsen, a shot putter, not reaching the final; and Michael Maze, a table tennis player, being knocked out in the first round. Both Olsen and Maze had won medals in Athens and neither is especially old, although Olsen’s poor performance can be partly explained by recent injury problems.
This has led a lot of journalists to comment that those athletes receiving the most support from the public purse have performed poorly whilst many of the medal winners receive little or no support. Sports psychologists have followed this up by suggesting that generous public funding may have led to some athletes being in the comfort zone and not having sufficient motivation (an argument which will no doubt be familiar to followers of English cricket). Kai Holm, Denmark’s IOC member, suggested that instead of funding handball (where there is only one medal available) Denmark should consider funding sports where there are numerous medals up for grabs. Brian Mikkelsen, the Culture Minister, went even further when he mentioned how his British counterpart had explained to him over breakfast how Britain had consciously targeted “soft medals” with particular reference to the track cycling team and Mikkelsen suggested that Denmark could do likewise.
Overall the first issue coming out were the overall funding of elite sport, where Team Denmark were quick to point out that successful countries like Australia, Great Britain/UK and the Netherlands had increased funding significantly. It was further noted that the budget of the British sailing team was bigger than that of the whole of the Danish Olympic team.
To balance the picture of elite funding it is worth mentioning that public money is spent on grass-roots sports in Denmark where even the smallest village seems to have a multi-purpose sports hall and well-kept municipal grass pitches. I would argue that the emphasis here on increasing participation, giving a sense of belonging to a local community, and encouraging people to participate in sports themselves rather than simply spectating, with the knock-on benefits for the health of the country is a whole, is the correct one.
The second issue was whether the correct sports are being funded although, I believe, this matter is not as simple as it would first seem. Whilst the badminton team did not bring home a medal it was difficult to say the performed poorly against a strong field of ultra-motivated Asians. In the men’s singles Peter Gade performed creditably enough when bowing out to the eventual tournament winner and the men’s doubles team came within inches of a medal, even having a bronze medal point.
The handball team never came close to reaching the heights that they did in the European Championships but in many ways this simply shows that there are five or six nations in Europe of very similar ability and the eventual winner of the tournament depends on the teams’ form in the precise two weeks of the tournament and injuries to key players. And medals are not necessarily equal. Whilst Denmark’s bronze in dressage counted on the medal table the event attracted only a fraction of the interest that the handball matches did. Plus, on top of that, in supporting the handball team you are not just supporting them for the Olympics but for the biennial World Cup and European Championships as well, with Denmark’s victory in January prompting a massive reception in Copenhagen’s Town Hall Square reminiscent of the scenes following Denmark’s victory in the football European Championships in 1992.
Overall, the debate about which sportspeople to fund and how much to use in this area will continue for some time in Denmark, and the discussions in Sweden as to how to improve are likely to be even more intense. London is not the only place which has thinking to do before 2012.
However, not every nation has exceeded their expectations at the Olympics and in Sweden the mood at SVT (the national broadcaster) has been almost funereal, following the country’s haul of just six medals, with not even one of them being gold (which compares to four golds – most of them in the high-profile athletics competition – in Athens). To make matters worse, Sweden’s smaller Nordic rivals Norway, Finland and Denmark have all won gold medals, and the regional humiliation really would have been absolute had tiny Iceland been able to beat France in the men’s handball final. When SVT repeatedly showed coverage of Susanna Kallur falling, almost literally, flat on her face at the first high hurdle, it was difficult not to view this as a metaphor for the country’s performance as a whole.
So what lies behind the country’s poor performance? A quick look at where the gold medals were won last time in athletics shows that the talent pool was fairly small in this discipline and always potentially susceptible to injuries and bad luck. The triple jumper Christian Olsson has been plagued by injury ever since winning gold in Athens at the age of 24 and he didn’t compete in Beijing – depressingly there has been talk of him retiring. Meanwhile, high jumper Stefan Holm (another winner in Athens) had a disappointing Olympics finishing just out of the medals in fourth place.
But the biggest loss of all has nothing to do with injury. Had Carolina Klüft competed in the heptathlon (where she has dominated for over five years) it would be reasonable to expect that Sweden would have won at least one gold medal. Klüft though made a surprise announcement earlier this year that she would not to compete in this event and planned to focus on the long jump instead where, in the end, she finished well out of the medal hunt. When asked about the decision after the event Klüft was unrepentant saying that she felt it was impossible to compete in the heptathlon, having run out of desire after years at the top.
Whilst those who toil and sweat for years to get to the top may find Klüft’s decision to turn down an almost certain gold medal unfathomable, I would applaud it. A top athlete’s motivation comes as much from within as from our external surroundings and, if Klüft felt that she had none, it was appropriate to make an unconventional decision. In a way one could say it was Sweden’s bad luck that Klüft was so dominant – had she been a marginally less able all-round athlete she might have found the heptathlon challenging enough whilst still being good enough to ensure a gold medal.
Elsewhere, Sweden’s lack of a gold medal can be due to missing the crucial last bit of skill or luck as five silvers could testify. A medal in sailing where Sweden were ahead of Britain going into the last day only to be pipped at the end seems to neatly summarise the different experience of the two countries.
Over the Øresund, the mood in Denmark is also philosophical but for a different reason. Team Denmark had set a target of seven medals and this was met precisely (with two of them being gold). However, whilst it was no great surprise that the men’s lightweight fours (rowing) and the men’s cycling pursuit team won medals, the identity of most of the other medalists raised eyebrows. Denmark won first medals for decades in swimming and dressage, and whilst a medal in sailing was not unusual, the fact that it was gold for the 49er boat was as surprising as the last day of that competition was tense.
On the other hand, some high-profile entrants failed with the men’s handball team (European Champions in January) finishing a disappointing seventh; no medal being won in badminton for the first time in four Olympics; Joachim B. Olsen, a shot putter, not reaching the final; and Michael Maze, a table tennis player, being knocked out in the first round. Both Olsen and Maze had won medals in Athens and neither is especially old, although Olsen’s poor performance can be partly explained by recent injury problems.
This has led a lot of journalists to comment that those athletes receiving the most support from the public purse have performed poorly whilst many of the medal winners receive little or no support. Sports psychologists have followed this up by suggesting that generous public funding may have led to some athletes being in the comfort zone and not having sufficient motivation (an argument which will no doubt be familiar to followers of English cricket). Kai Holm, Denmark’s IOC member, suggested that instead of funding handball (where there is only one medal available) Denmark should consider funding sports where there are numerous medals up for grabs. Brian Mikkelsen, the Culture Minister, went even further when he mentioned how his British counterpart had explained to him over breakfast how Britain had consciously targeted “soft medals” with particular reference to the track cycling team and Mikkelsen suggested that Denmark could do likewise.
Overall the first issue coming out were the overall funding of elite sport, where Team Denmark were quick to point out that successful countries like Australia, Great Britain/UK and the Netherlands had increased funding significantly. It was further noted that the budget of the British sailing team was bigger than that of the whole of the Danish Olympic team.
To balance the picture of elite funding it is worth mentioning that public money is spent on grass-roots sports in Denmark where even the smallest village seems to have a multi-purpose sports hall and well-kept municipal grass pitches. I would argue that the emphasis here on increasing participation, giving a sense of belonging to a local community, and encouraging people to participate in sports themselves rather than simply spectating, with the knock-on benefits for the health of the country is a whole, is the correct one.
The second issue was whether the correct sports are being funded although, I believe, this matter is not as simple as it would first seem. Whilst the badminton team did not bring home a medal it was difficult to say the performed poorly against a strong field of ultra-motivated Asians. In the men’s singles Peter Gade performed creditably enough when bowing out to the eventual tournament winner and the men’s doubles team came within inches of a medal, even having a bronze medal point.
The handball team never came close to reaching the heights that they did in the European Championships but in many ways this simply shows that there are five or six nations in Europe of very similar ability and the eventual winner of the tournament depends on the teams’ form in the precise two weeks of the tournament and injuries to key players. And medals are not necessarily equal. Whilst Denmark’s bronze in dressage counted on the medal table the event attracted only a fraction of the interest that the handball matches did. Plus, on top of that, in supporting the handball team you are not just supporting them for the Olympics but for the biennial World Cup and European Championships as well, with Denmark’s victory in January prompting a massive reception in Copenhagen’s Town Hall Square reminiscent of the scenes following Denmark’s victory in the football European Championships in 1992.
Overall, the debate about which sportspeople to fund and how much to use in this area will continue for some time in Denmark, and the discussions in Sweden as to how to improve are likely to be even more intense. London is not the only place which has thinking to do before 2012.
Sunday, August 31, 2008
More from the Dressing Room – Mimitig
With the resignations of Michael Vaughan and Paul Collingwood, the Dressing Room moles were fearful, yes fearful, that access to the secret sanctum would be horribly curtailed. Our spies planted listening and video devices just outside doors, in lavatories and in the temperature-controlled glove-boxes of top cricketers in the hope that we might still be able to bring loyal readers some inside info.
Thankfully we didn’t need to depend on that (though some extremely interesting stories did emerge, but sadly too legally actionable to bring to you in these pages). It turns out that Captain Kev has been a keen reader of the Tapes since their first publication back in the West Indies, and having read the last one, he is quite comfortable with anything we want to publish.
Now, as England are looking to rub the Saffer noses in a One-Day Series defeat, we have some insight into Kev’s motivational approach.
KP: Boys, you’re back – back with us, looking to stuff the oppo again. It’s so good to see you. Fred, Steve – I love you so much and of course, you know you don’t even really have to turn up so early. Come here, let me embrace you with my over-whelming love and warmth.
IRB: Hi Cap – was I OK?
KP: Belly, Belly – you know how much I rate you. What a fine stand that was. Who are those silly silly journalists who say you score too slowly. You are doing MY job. It’s what I ask – and Ian, Ian, Ian, you are so good. Love you babes.
Hey here’s the mouth and gloves!
Matty, Matty sweetie – how’s it hanging? Going fine, no finger injuries? Haven’t fallen over and done your scafoid? No cool, but even if you had, you’d be up for it, wouldn’t you? For me?
All of you, a mere broken bone wouldn’t stop you playing for me?
Nah course not.
Where’s Sami – Sami – with a five-fer? You should be up front here, my boy – stop lurking at the back. We’ll have no lurkers here [KP waits for the appreciation of his reference to The League of Gentlemen – proving that he is a Jolly Good Englishman].
Now that was fine, kaffir [shit did I really say that?], fine Sami, and you have just been such a great thing for this team. What we have to focus on now is how to get the whitewash.
Ideas anyone?
Freddie: Kev, could we find another fast bowler to give me and my mate Steve a bit of a long term option? I’m thinking about – well, you know who.
KP: Look Fred, I know how much you love Si, but he broke down again this summer. I know his figures have been really good, and you know guys, there’s not a Welshman I love more than Si, but he’s not ready yet.
Fred: Well who else can we have to back up the squad? Ryan’s hurt, bad, and maybe so bad we won’t have him around for a while. You’re not going to get that Aussie bloke, are you?
KP: Fred, Fred, Fred – I know you’re worried about second and third change, but would I upset this Dressing Room by bringing in a stranger? Oh no, no, no.
Lads, we’re a unit, a fine unit, and whatever Mooresy says, you know, I’ll be running selection by you guys. If we need extra bowling, well if it’s spin we’ve got Swanney and Adily to bring in. If you want another fast guy – you know my door is always open, and together, yes, together, we’ll find someone.
Now, my boys, we’re going to go out there tomorrow, at Lord’s, the very true and wondrous home of cricket, and we are going to put runs on the board, and we are going to take wickets.
As a team. As a team that is going up, up, up in the rankings. Because we are one.
We are a unit, we are a machine, and most of all, we will win.
The Team together: Because we love you Captain Kev.
As the tape fades out, we just get a little glimpse of how KP feels – he looks in the mirror and doesn’t even see his own image. He sees the face of Michael Vaughan and, running his fingers through his lustrous locks just says –“ See Michael: you didn’t have to swear at them.”
Thankfully we didn’t need to depend on that (though some extremely interesting stories did emerge, but sadly too legally actionable to bring to you in these pages). It turns out that Captain Kev has been a keen reader of the Tapes since their first publication back in the West Indies, and having read the last one, he is quite comfortable with anything we want to publish.
Now, as England are looking to rub the Saffer noses in a One-Day Series defeat, we have some insight into Kev’s motivational approach.
KP: Boys, you’re back – back with us, looking to stuff the oppo again. It’s so good to see you. Fred, Steve – I love you so much and of course, you know you don’t even really have to turn up so early. Come here, let me embrace you with my over-whelming love and warmth.
IRB: Hi Cap – was I OK?
KP: Belly, Belly – you know how much I rate you. What a fine stand that was. Who are those silly silly journalists who say you score too slowly. You are doing MY job. It’s what I ask – and Ian, Ian, Ian, you are so good. Love you babes.
Hey here’s the mouth and gloves!
Matty, Matty sweetie – how’s it hanging? Going fine, no finger injuries? Haven’t fallen over and done your scafoid? No cool, but even if you had, you’d be up for it, wouldn’t you? For me?
All of you, a mere broken bone wouldn’t stop you playing for me?
Nah course not.
Where’s Sami – Sami – with a five-fer? You should be up front here, my boy – stop lurking at the back. We’ll have no lurkers here [KP waits for the appreciation of his reference to The League of Gentlemen – proving that he is a Jolly Good Englishman].
Now that was fine, kaffir [shit did I really say that?], fine Sami, and you have just been such a great thing for this team. What we have to focus on now is how to get the whitewash.
Ideas anyone?
Freddie: Kev, could we find another fast bowler to give me and my mate Steve a bit of a long term option? I’m thinking about – well, you know who.
KP: Look Fred, I know how much you love Si, but he broke down again this summer. I know his figures have been really good, and you know guys, there’s not a Welshman I love more than Si, but he’s not ready yet.
Fred: Well who else can we have to back up the squad? Ryan’s hurt, bad, and maybe so bad we won’t have him around for a while. You’re not going to get that Aussie bloke, are you?
KP: Fred, Fred, Fred – I know you’re worried about second and third change, but would I upset this Dressing Room by bringing in a stranger? Oh no, no, no.
Lads, we’re a unit, a fine unit, and whatever Mooresy says, you know, I’ll be running selection by you guys. If we need extra bowling, well if it’s spin we’ve got Swanney and Adily to bring in. If you want another fast guy – you know my door is always open, and together, yes, together, we’ll find someone.
Now, my boys, we’re going to go out there tomorrow, at Lord’s, the very true and wondrous home of cricket, and we are going to put runs on the board, and we are going to take wickets.
As a team. As a team that is going up, up, up in the rankings. Because we are one.
We are a unit, we are a machine, and most of all, we will win.
The Team together: Because we love you Captain Kev.
As the tape fades out, we just get a little glimpse of how KP feels – he looks in the mirror and doesn’t even see his own image. He sees the face of Michael Vaughan and, running his fingers through his lustrous locks just says –“ See Michael: you didn’t have to swear at them.”
Friday, August 29, 2008
Lessons from Australia - Zephirine
Pommies: England Cricket Through an Australian Lens by William Buckland (Troubador Publishing 2008)
The first thing to say about this very useful book is that the title is a little misleading: you expect it to be written from an Australian point of view. In fact Buckland is English, and makes only passing references to Aussie attitudes to English cricket. But throughout the book he uses the manifestly successful Australian domestic cricket structure as a standard against which to measure the English equivalent. Why Our Cricket System Is Crap and the Australian One Isn’t would be a more precise, if less elegant, title.
The second thing is that this is, essentially, a readable and thorough business-style analysis with a big chunk of recent cricket history thrown in. Every anecdote is there to prove a point; this is not a book of player reminiscences or dressing-room gossip.
Pommies should be required reading for anyone who intends to pontificate about cricket in the near future. Much of the history – the Packer revolution and subsequent developments – will be familiar to students of the game, but it is presented with such a brisk array of facts and figures, and progresses so relentlessly to its conclusions, that I defy anyone not to have some of their received ideas shaken up.
Note that the title is ‘England’ cricket: Buckland’s main concern is the national squad, its performance and the public’s access to it.
Why has our domestic setup not delivered a stable, successful and relatively injury-free national side, as the Australian system has? Why was the Ashes success of 2005 followed by the crushing failure of 2006/7? Why can most of the Barmy Army – genuine fans, whether or not you like their style - only attend England games overseas? Why were TV rights deals accepted which mean that 80% of English viewers can no longer watch their national side play a Test match?
Buckland has no hesitation in blaming the over-large and often mediocre county system and the power of the counties through the ECB. This is nothing new, of course - he details how many ex-players and commentators have called for reform of the counties at different times. (And anyone who thinks of Bob Willis as just the miserable bloke on Sky will be surprised at how forward-thinking and radical he has been for more than 25 years). But until I read this book I had never fully taken on board what an entrenched, unproductive and financially draining system it is.
Like most of the reformers before him, Buckland believes there are too many fully-professional county sides, and that the English game is being run in order to sustain them (none would be viable businesses without subsidy) when it should be run for the benefit of the national side and the fans, as Australian cricket is.
He also has some theories of his own about stadium size, based on the large numbers of fans unable to get tickets for major fixtures and the success of vast multi-purpose stadia in Australia like the Melbourne Cricket Ground. And, of course, that familiar equation, corporate hospitality=empty seats.
The book offers many constructive suggestions, based on Buckland’s concepts of ‘second-tier logic’ (ie how many teams you actually need to feed a national side) and the triple aims of ‘access, success and inspiration’. The final chapter has several formulae for real reform, some quite startling, especially in view of the emergence of Allen Stanford and the IPL.
The first few chapters are perhaps a little difficult to get into, as they move rapidly between different themes including a visit to Australia, childhood memories and the Olympic stadium. But if you love cricket, stick with it and read all of this book. It will put many things into context, and will make you understand exactly what is wrong with the English system - and why it has to be changed.
The first thing to say about this very useful book is that the title is a little misleading: you expect it to be written from an Australian point of view. In fact Buckland is English, and makes only passing references to Aussie attitudes to English cricket. But throughout the book he uses the manifestly successful Australian domestic cricket structure as a standard against which to measure the English equivalent. Why Our Cricket System Is Crap and the Australian One Isn’t would be a more precise, if less elegant, title.
The second thing is that this is, essentially, a readable and thorough business-style analysis with a big chunk of recent cricket history thrown in. Every anecdote is there to prove a point; this is not a book of player reminiscences or dressing-room gossip.
Pommies should be required reading for anyone who intends to pontificate about cricket in the near future. Much of the history – the Packer revolution and subsequent developments – will be familiar to students of the game, but it is presented with such a brisk array of facts and figures, and progresses so relentlessly to its conclusions, that I defy anyone not to have some of their received ideas shaken up.
Note that the title is ‘England’ cricket: Buckland’s main concern is the national squad, its performance and the public’s access to it.
Why has our domestic setup not delivered a stable, successful and relatively injury-free national side, as the Australian system has? Why was the Ashes success of 2005 followed by the crushing failure of 2006/7? Why can most of the Barmy Army – genuine fans, whether or not you like their style - only attend England games overseas? Why were TV rights deals accepted which mean that 80% of English viewers can no longer watch their national side play a Test match?
Buckland has no hesitation in blaming the over-large and often mediocre county system and the power of the counties through the ECB. This is nothing new, of course - he details how many ex-players and commentators have called for reform of the counties at different times. (And anyone who thinks of Bob Willis as just the miserable bloke on Sky will be surprised at how forward-thinking and radical he has been for more than 25 years). But until I read this book I had never fully taken on board what an entrenched, unproductive and financially draining system it is.
Like most of the reformers before him, Buckland believes there are too many fully-professional county sides, and that the English game is being run in order to sustain them (none would be viable businesses without subsidy) when it should be run for the benefit of the national side and the fans, as Australian cricket is.
He also has some theories of his own about stadium size, based on the large numbers of fans unable to get tickets for major fixtures and the success of vast multi-purpose stadia in Australia like the Melbourne Cricket Ground. And, of course, that familiar equation, corporate hospitality=empty seats.
The book offers many constructive suggestions, based on Buckland’s concepts of ‘second-tier logic’ (ie how many teams you actually need to feed a national side) and the triple aims of ‘access, success and inspiration’. The final chapter has several formulae for real reform, some quite startling, especially in view of the emergence of Allen Stanford and the IPL.
The first few chapters are perhaps a little difficult to get into, as they move rapidly between different themes including a visit to Australia, childhood memories and the Olympic stadium. But if you love cricket, stick with it and read all of this book. It will put many things into context, and will make you understand exactly what is wrong with the English system - and why it has to be changed.
Thursday, August 28, 2008
Gold all the way – Mimitig
It’s a strange, strange thing sport.
When Nicole Cooke crossed the line, first, at the very beginning of the Olympics, to win Great Britain’s first Gold Medal, I thought that nothing would be easier than writing about success.
Not the case. I can’t count how many times I’ve settled in of an evening to try and capture the elation and utter wondrousness of the victories that followed Nicole’s success – not just for the cyclists, but for the rowers, the sailors, canoeists, swimmers, a track athlete or two, the boxers, the gymnast oh, and the chappesses and one chap on horses.
In every walk of life there are ways to excel. In music this could be an exquisite Mozart opus, the ultimate Beethoven concerto, the aria from heaven in a Puccini opera, or perhaps Abba’s perfect pop song: Take a Chance on Me. (Fill your own personal favourite in here).
In sport there are a few rare occasions when it all comes together in that symphony of divine excellence and we have had a rare chance of enjoying a British master class in perfection during these Olympics..
Orchestrated by behind-the-scenes directors Dave Brailsford, Peter Keen, Shane Sutton and the other coaches, played out by the cyclists: Cooke, Pooley, Hoy, Pendleton, Wiggins, Newton, Romero and the rest, and conducted by the maestro and wizard of the wheels: Chris Boardman, the Cyclists have shown the world how to win and win big.
The signs were there last March at the World Championships held at the Manchester Velodrome. The British cyclists won virtually everything. Hoy, Wiggins and Pendleton got double golds. Jamie Staff and Cav got medals too.
These guys and gals went to Beijing with a target on their back. As did our rowers. Loads of medals in World Championships. Everyone wanted to beat us. Everyone wanted to stop dreams coming true.
The thing is (and I hated that phrase when I worked in corporate .. it was all about the Thing) that for the last few years British cycling has really been getting it right and in a big way.
One man has been the inspiration for so many.
Barcelona – Boardman. Say no more.
One ride was enough to inspire Bradley Wiggins – a mere boy at the time – to have an Olympic dream. Chris Boardman won Gold in Barcelona, won stages in Le Tour, and did the ultimate for track cyclists. He got the Hour.
And he has, despite the physical infirmities that his career in cycling have left him with, stuck with this sport. He has become the maestro of all maestros, the leader of the “secret squirrels” who find ways for GB cyclists to eke out that little bit extra.
Hard to know what it was that did it for the British cyclists. Every little extra bit of technology, every bit of skill and pride and determination not to fail. To deliver on Chris Boardman’s promise of giving them the best in bikes, the best in skill, and the best in motivation.
Doesn’t matter now, does it? They won utterly clean.
Seven Golds, three silvers, two bronzes.
Chris Hoy – Triple gold.
Bradley Wiggins – double gold.
World records in the sprint and the pursuit.
Victoria Pendleton – won her gold and the grudge match against the Aussies (Mears – you know what you did – or what your sister did, and that was mean, mean mean).
We came away from the velodrome with only one failure. Brad and Cav in the Madison, but it was always an ask too much there is a limit to even Wiggo’s legs. What did Cav do in response?
Sprint win of Stage One of the Tour of Ireland.
So that’s what our cyclists do when they don’t win. Go win!!
It is such a joy to have a chance, maybe my chance of a lifetime, to write about such world beaters – in a sport of mine!
I don’t take anything away from the rowers, sailors, canoeists, but they are not my sport. Cycling is what I do – it’s why I nurse my broken collar bone.
They – the rest of the world, the Australians – said after Manchester, that we would flop and fail in Beijing.
We didn’t.
They are now looking so closely at our programme. The Aussies have put loads of money up to Dave Brailsford to go work for them.
Dave says no. He wants to be part of 2012 and says it would be wrong and all wrong to work for the Aussies.
I hope that’s a truth.
On the track we are a world-beating squad. No question. And with Nicole and Emma and The Manx Express we are pretty world beating on the road.
I guess what I’ll do now, when my leg is mended, is be on the bike, ride some of Phil Liggett’s “killermeters” and enjoy my cycling.
Boy, what a year for us in cycling. Just win win win or so it seems.
Guess Phil might have a rethink about retiring.
When Nicole Cooke crossed the line, first, at the very beginning of the Olympics, to win Great Britain’s first Gold Medal, I thought that nothing would be easier than writing about success.
Not the case. I can’t count how many times I’ve settled in of an evening to try and capture the elation and utter wondrousness of the victories that followed Nicole’s success – not just for the cyclists, but for the rowers, the sailors, canoeists, swimmers, a track athlete or two, the boxers, the gymnast oh, and the chappesses and one chap on horses.
In every walk of life there are ways to excel. In music this could be an exquisite Mozart opus, the ultimate Beethoven concerto, the aria from heaven in a Puccini opera, or perhaps Abba’s perfect pop song: Take a Chance on Me. (Fill your own personal favourite in here).
In sport there are a few rare occasions when it all comes together in that symphony of divine excellence and we have had a rare chance of enjoying a British master class in perfection during these Olympics..
Orchestrated by behind-the-scenes directors Dave Brailsford, Peter Keen, Shane Sutton and the other coaches, played out by the cyclists: Cooke, Pooley, Hoy, Pendleton, Wiggins, Newton, Romero and the rest, and conducted by the maestro and wizard of the wheels: Chris Boardman, the Cyclists have shown the world how to win and win big.
The signs were there last March at the World Championships held at the Manchester Velodrome. The British cyclists won virtually everything. Hoy, Wiggins and Pendleton got double golds. Jamie Staff and Cav got medals too.
These guys and gals went to Beijing with a target on their back. As did our rowers. Loads of medals in World Championships. Everyone wanted to beat us. Everyone wanted to stop dreams coming true.
The thing is (and I hated that phrase when I worked in corporate .. it was all about the Thing) that for the last few years British cycling has really been getting it right and in a big way.
One man has been the inspiration for so many.
Barcelona – Boardman. Say no more.
One ride was enough to inspire Bradley Wiggins – a mere boy at the time – to have an Olympic dream. Chris Boardman won Gold in Barcelona, won stages in Le Tour, and did the ultimate for track cyclists. He got the Hour.
And he has, despite the physical infirmities that his career in cycling have left him with, stuck with this sport. He has become the maestro of all maestros, the leader of the “secret squirrels” who find ways for GB cyclists to eke out that little bit extra.
Hard to know what it was that did it for the British cyclists. Every little extra bit of technology, every bit of skill and pride and determination not to fail. To deliver on Chris Boardman’s promise of giving them the best in bikes, the best in skill, and the best in motivation.
Doesn’t matter now, does it? They won utterly clean.
Seven Golds, three silvers, two bronzes.
Chris Hoy – Triple gold.
Bradley Wiggins – double gold.
World records in the sprint and the pursuit.
Victoria Pendleton – won her gold and the grudge match against the Aussies (Mears – you know what you did – or what your sister did, and that was mean, mean mean).
We came away from the velodrome with only one failure. Brad and Cav in the Madison, but it was always an ask too much there is a limit to even Wiggo’s legs. What did Cav do in response?
Sprint win of Stage One of the Tour of Ireland.
So that’s what our cyclists do when they don’t win. Go win!!
It is such a joy to have a chance, maybe my chance of a lifetime, to write about such world beaters – in a sport of mine!
I don’t take anything away from the rowers, sailors, canoeists, but they are not my sport. Cycling is what I do – it’s why I nurse my broken collar bone.
They – the rest of the world, the Australians – said after Manchester, that we would flop and fail in Beijing.
We didn’t.
They are now looking so closely at our programme. The Aussies have put loads of money up to Dave Brailsford to go work for them.
Dave says no. He wants to be part of 2012 and says it would be wrong and all wrong to work for the Aussies.
I hope that’s a truth.
On the track we are a world-beating squad. No question. And with Nicole and Emma and The Manx Express we are pretty world beating on the road.
I guess what I’ll do now, when my leg is mended, is be on the bike, ride some of Phil Liggett’s “killermeters” and enjoy my cycling.
Boy, what a year for us in cycling. Just win win win or so it seems.
Guess Phil might have a rethink about retiring.
Tuesday, August 26, 2008
Managing success - Ebren
There is a lot of talk about the number of foreign managers running "our" football clubs.
It's a persuasive and powerful argument. Benitez was brought in to re-generate Liverpool's success. Wenger turned Arsenal into one of the leading clubs in Europe. Ramos at Spurs won the club's first trophy in what seems like forever and Ranieri then Mourinho *cough*Grant*cough then Scolari have been in charge of Abramovic's millions at Chelsea.
The national team was managed by Sven before McClaren messed up and now Capello is in charge to put things back on track.
These things allow writers to wallow in the defeatist "our football's going to the dogs and only foreigners can rescue us" articles and sentiments that fill the back pages.
It has got to the stage that managers in Spain all want to work in England, where the standard of coaching is so bad that small improvements will see them soar up the league and hugely enhance their status and earning powers.
But does it actually make sense?
No, in a word.
Of the 20 Premier League clubs, only five are managed by people who were not born in the UK. And Roy Keane is numbered among that minority.
Moreover there are just three Scots (Moyes, Ferguson and Mowbary), one Welshman (Hughes) and one Northern Irish manager (O'Neil) who are not English in charge of top flight clubs – meaning fully half the Premier League's managers are English.
Moreover, there are at least as many managerial 'failures' as successes in recent years from overseas gaffers. Sven was let go after a year, Jol deemed not good enough, Grant was never up to it, Gullit has been found wanting, Santini was never in the mix at Spurs (and the less about Gross the better). Tigana couldn't cut it at Fulham and Perrin failed at Pompey.
Looking overseas, Spain has as many "foreigners" as the Premier League: Pellegrini is in charge of Villarreal, Aguirre is in charge at Atletico Madrid, Kresic at Numancia, and Schuster at Real Madrid. Italy fares better, with only Mourinho at champions Inter not being Italian.
But in an age where the Premier League has the funds to bring in any manager on the planet, the fact that 16 of the managers don't even have to show their passport go back to their home town and return to work the next day is surely something to celebrate.
English Premier League Clubs' Use Of Foreign Managers:
Arsenal - Arsene Wenger (French, 1996 -)
Aston Villa - Dr Jozef Venglos (Czech, 1990-91)
Blackburn Rovers - none
Bolton Wanderers - none
Chelsea - Ruud Gullit (Dutch, 1996-98); Gianluca Vialli (Italian, 1998-2000); Claudio Ranieri (Italian, 2000-04); Jose Mourinho (Portuguese, 2004-07); Avram Grant (Israeli, 2007-08); Luiz Felipe Scolari (Brazilian, 2008 -)
Everton - none
Fulham - Jean Tigana (French, 2000-03)
Hull City - Jan Molby (Danish, 2002)
Liverpool - Gerard Houllier (French, 1998-2004); Rafael Benitez (Spanish, 2004 -)
Manchester City - Sven-Goran Eriksson (Swedish, 2007-08)
Manchester United - none
Middlesbrough - none
Newcastle United - Ossie Ardiles (Argentinian, 1991-92); Ruud Gullit (Dutch, 1998-99)
Portsmouth - Velimir Zajec (Croatian, 2004-05); Alain Perrin (French, 2005)
Stoke City - Gudjon Thordason (Icelandic, 1999-2002); Johan Boskamp (Dutch 2005-06)
Sunderland - none
Tottenham Hotspur - Ossie Ardiles (Argentinian, 1993-94); Christian Gross (Swiss, 1997-98); Jacques Santini (French, 2004); Martin Jol (Dutch, 2004-07); Juande Ramos (Spanish, 2007 -)
West Bromwich Albion - Ossie Ardiles (Argentinian, 1992-93)
West Ham United - none
Wigan Athletic - none
Source: http://www.goal.com/en-US/Articolo.aspx?ContenutoId=754810
It's a persuasive and powerful argument. Benitez was brought in to re-generate Liverpool's success. Wenger turned Arsenal into one of the leading clubs in Europe. Ramos at Spurs won the club's first trophy in what seems like forever and Ranieri then Mourinho *cough*Grant*cough then Scolari have been in charge of Abramovic's millions at Chelsea.
The national team was managed by Sven before McClaren messed up and now Capello is in charge to put things back on track.
These things allow writers to wallow in the defeatist "our football's going to the dogs and only foreigners can rescue us" articles and sentiments that fill the back pages.
It has got to the stage that managers in Spain all want to work in England, where the standard of coaching is so bad that small improvements will see them soar up the league and hugely enhance their status and earning powers.
But does it actually make sense?
No, in a word.
Of the 20 Premier League clubs, only five are managed by people who were not born in the UK. And Roy Keane is numbered among that minority.
Moreover there are just three Scots (Moyes, Ferguson and Mowbary), one Welshman (Hughes) and one Northern Irish manager (O'Neil) who are not English in charge of top flight clubs – meaning fully half the Premier League's managers are English.
Moreover, there are at least as many managerial 'failures' as successes in recent years from overseas gaffers. Sven was let go after a year, Jol deemed not good enough, Grant was never up to it, Gullit has been found wanting, Santini was never in the mix at Spurs (and the less about Gross the better). Tigana couldn't cut it at Fulham and Perrin failed at Pompey.
Looking overseas, Spain has as many "foreigners" as the Premier League: Pellegrini is in charge of Villarreal, Aguirre is in charge at Atletico Madrid, Kresic at Numancia, and Schuster at Real Madrid. Italy fares better, with only Mourinho at champions Inter not being Italian.
But in an age where the Premier League has the funds to bring in any manager on the planet, the fact that 16 of the managers don't even have to show their passport go back to their home town and return to work the next day is surely something to celebrate.
English Premier League Clubs' Use Of Foreign Managers:
Arsenal - Arsene Wenger (French, 1996 -)
Aston Villa - Dr Jozef Venglos (Czech, 1990-91)
Blackburn Rovers - none
Bolton Wanderers - none
Chelsea - Ruud Gullit (Dutch, 1996-98); Gianluca Vialli (Italian, 1998-2000); Claudio Ranieri (Italian, 2000-04); Jose Mourinho (Portuguese, 2004-07); Avram Grant (Israeli, 2007-08); Luiz Felipe Scolari (Brazilian, 2008 -)
Everton - none
Fulham - Jean Tigana (French, 2000-03)
Hull City - Jan Molby (Danish, 2002)
Liverpool - Gerard Houllier (French, 1998-2004); Rafael Benitez (Spanish, 2004 -)
Manchester City - Sven-Goran Eriksson (Swedish, 2007-08)
Manchester United - none
Middlesbrough - none
Newcastle United - Ossie Ardiles (Argentinian, 1991-92); Ruud Gullit (Dutch, 1998-99)
Portsmouth - Velimir Zajec (Croatian, 2004-05); Alain Perrin (French, 2005)
Stoke City - Gudjon Thordason (Icelandic, 1999-2002); Johan Boskamp (Dutch 2005-06)
Sunderland - none
Tottenham Hotspur - Ossie Ardiles (Argentinian, 1993-94); Christian Gross (Swiss, 1997-98); Jacques Santini (French, 2004); Martin Jol (Dutch, 2004-07); Juande Ramos (Spanish, 2007 -)
West Bromwich Albion - Ossie Ardiles (Argentinian, 1992-93)
West Ham United - none
Wigan Athletic - none
Source: http://www.goal.com/en-US/Articolo.aspx?ContenutoId=754810
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