It was an award for losers, said Joe Calzaghe—although not, sadly, in his acceptance speech of 2007. Calzaghe’s success as BBC Sports Personality proved himself wrong, but there is something odd about the list of winners of the tacky tripod trophy. It’s not that they’re losers, exactly—only 4 of the last 20 Personalities were plucky runners-up, and ’94 Personality Damon Hill later became world champion. What’s really puzzling about this hall of ‘fame’ is the preponderance of sports about which, in truth, we couldn’t give a monkey’s.
Zara Phillips was a controversial winner in the year of Calzaghe’s outburst, but while it’s not her fault that she won, she remains symbolic of everything that’s wrong with the cult of Personality. How many of her 221,000 voters had ever attended an equestrian event? How many watched on TV? How many had even made dressage-related smalltalk at the watercooler? We don’t know her greatest rivals, or her strengths and weaknesses. All we know is that she’s very English, very Establishment, and won a shiny medal—and that, depressingly, is the formula for Personality success. Phillips’ mother, Princess Anne, modestly attributes her 1971 win to the lack of competition; the runners-up were George Best and Barry John.
Steve Redgrave was voted Personality of Personalities on the award’s 50th anniversary, but who are we kidding when we call ourselves Redgrave fans? Like Phillips, he competes in an ultra-minority sport that reeks of the English public school, and which few of us notice for the 208 consecutive weeks between Olympic finals. The widespread admiration for Redgrave’s success is really about believing him a symbol of Great Britishness, living proof that our Establishment and institutions are hopeful and glorious. While Redgrave dipped his oar, Brittania continued to rule the waves for Personality voters.
If the Personalities are to reflect our real sporting passions, we need more losers. Kelly Holmes is a brilliant middle-distance runner, but 2004 was really the year of Wayne Rooney’s arrival at the Euros. Personality Fatima Whitbread hurled a javelin 76 metres for gold in ’87, but Clive Allen scored an incredible 49 goals while missing out on League and both Cups for Spurs. A question hovers over the silver tripod, awkward as a fart at a job interview: who the hell votes for this thing?
Assuredly not the superfans at Anfield, Thomond Park or Eden Gardens, where sport finds its soul and fans meld with players in what might pretentiously be called symbiosis. Nor is it the mythical Cornish ManU fan, sofa-bound and sad, but passionate and informed nonetheless. A strange truth emerges: this is a sports award where the voters don’ t like sport.
So, who should win this year? It’s surely a three-horse race. Establishment, elitist and brilliantly esoteric, it has to be Blonde One, Two or Three from the nation’s favourite keelboat. I can’t remember any of their names, or who they beat, and I’ve no inkling what an yngling looks like. Now that’s Personality.
Friday, November 14, 2008
Sports [Personality] 2008: Out of Africa - PHil West
November means factories stopping production, farmers neglecting their crops and animals, and Apple executives wondering why teenagers have stopped downloading music.
Why? Because everyone is swept along by the maelstrom surrounding who will be this year’s Sports Personality. Not.
For my choice we need to agree on some ground rules.
1) Drop the ‘personality’ tag. (Davies, Mansell, Hill, H.R.H).
My candidate is shy, quiet, and unknown to all but a few.
2) Accept that we Brits treasure glorious failure as much as glorious success. (Rusedski, Gascoigne)
My candidate had a ‘failure’ to die for.
3) Athletics is the greatest sport on the planet. (OK, this may prove difficult for those who like show-jumpinzzzz… - my apologies to both of them.)
My candidate is an athlete named Elvan Abeylegesse.
Born in Ethiopia, as a teenager she was overlooked by their talent scouts and so came to live and train in Istanbul. The Turkish press were initially more interested in the now disgraced Süreyha Ayhan, but she trained hard and became a serious contender at all the distances from 1500m to 10,000m.
Like David Bedford, she is capable of world records alone, but uncomfortable when running in the pack. Like him she tries to wear the opposition down, hoping not to be outsprinted at the death.
Bedford had his Lasse Viren, Elvan has Tirunesh Dibaba.
Dibaba beat her in the 2007 World 10,000 m final in Osaka, taking four seconds out of her in the last lap. Coming into the Olympic final an even stronger Dibaba was waiting, along with an array of track stars.
What followed was one of the bravest 10,000 m races ever.
They set off at a cracking pace and, despite the heat and humidity, six kilometres was reached in 18:12 with each kilometre run faster than 3:04. Six athletes were left in contention.
Elvan had to do something to break Dibaba, but off a pace that was already faster than the Olympic Record, what?
The answer was to run the seventh kilometre in an energy-sapping 2:57, the eighth and the ninth in a staggering 2:54 and 2:55. Every athlete in the group bar one (guess who) was blown away.
I swear I ran every step of those three kilometres; felt the burning in the lungs, the lactic in the legs; the sweat pouring down her face to form dark stains on her vest. I was entranced as she desperately tried to break the one last woman who could deprive her of gold.
Unbelievably, she then ran the last kilometre in 2:50. Dibaba somehow held it together and again went past her on the final lap to clock a simply impossible 2:46. The gap was less than two seconds.
Both women broke 30 minutes, more than 20 seconds faster than the Olympic Record.
Elvan couldn’t even find a Turkish flag to parade on her lap of honour. Turkey’s first silver on the track. They had that little faith.
Your votes, please, for Elvan Abeylegesse.
Why? Because everyone is swept along by the maelstrom surrounding who will be this year’s Sports Personality. Not.
For my choice we need to agree on some ground rules.
1) Drop the ‘personality’ tag. (Davies, Mansell, Hill, H.R.H).
My candidate is shy, quiet, and unknown to all but a few.
2) Accept that we Brits treasure glorious failure as much as glorious success. (Rusedski, Gascoigne)
My candidate had a ‘failure’ to die for.
3) Athletics is the greatest sport on the planet. (OK, this may prove difficult for those who like show-jumpinzzzz… - my apologies to both of them.)
My candidate is an athlete named Elvan Abeylegesse.
Born in Ethiopia, as a teenager she was overlooked by their talent scouts and so came to live and train in Istanbul. The Turkish press were initially more interested in the now disgraced Süreyha Ayhan, but she trained hard and became a serious contender at all the distances from 1500m to 10,000m.
Like David Bedford, she is capable of world records alone, but uncomfortable when running in the pack. Like him she tries to wear the opposition down, hoping not to be outsprinted at the death.
Bedford had his Lasse Viren, Elvan has Tirunesh Dibaba.
Dibaba beat her in the 2007 World 10,000 m final in Osaka, taking four seconds out of her in the last lap. Coming into the Olympic final an even stronger Dibaba was waiting, along with an array of track stars.
What followed was one of the bravest 10,000 m races ever.
They set off at a cracking pace and, despite the heat and humidity, six kilometres was reached in 18:12 with each kilometre run faster than 3:04. Six athletes were left in contention.
Elvan had to do something to break Dibaba, but off a pace that was already faster than the Olympic Record, what?
The answer was to run the seventh kilometre in an energy-sapping 2:57, the eighth and the ninth in a staggering 2:54 and 2:55. Every athlete in the group bar one (guess who) was blown away.
I swear I ran every step of those three kilometres; felt the burning in the lungs, the lactic in the legs; the sweat pouring down her face to form dark stains on her vest. I was entranced as she desperately tried to break the one last woman who could deprive her of gold.
Unbelievably, she then ran the last kilometre in 2:50. Dibaba somehow held it together and again went past her on the final lap to clock a simply impossible 2:46. The gap was less than two seconds.
Both women broke 30 minutes, more than 20 seconds faster than the Olympic Record.
Elvan couldn’t even find a Turkish flag to parade on her lap of honour. Turkey’s first silver on the track. They had that little faith.
Your votes, please, for Elvan Abeylegesse.
It's about the personality - Allout
Some will say Chris Hoy and others will back Lewis Hamilton but neither of them really do it for me. Of course Hoy’s performances were amazing and to win three medals, particularly in the convincing manner he did, is almost beyond description. However, great though Hoy’s performances were, we need to bear in mind he was helped by the strongest team in track cycling with the most generous national funding programme, the best system and the leading equipment.
Hamilton, likewise was helped by the strong McLaren-Mercedes team and (let’s not forget) was two bends and a large chunk of good fortune away from topping Rob Smyth’s next edition of his great sporting losers blog.
No, the man I propose has had little help from a generous government programme or techies whose specifications can give him an extra split-second. The man I propose has been on a personal voyage in recent years from surly loser to gracious winner, making the tough decisions and sacrifices on his own.
The bald facts show that this summer Andy Murray reached a Wimbledon quarter final (then his career Grand Slam best); won two Masters series in a row (Tim Henman, by contrast, won one in his entire career); reached a US Open final; and is now the number 4 in the world. He beat the three best players in the world at various points and is now generally regarded as one of the very best all-round players. When was the last time a British tennis player entered a major tournament not played on grass as one of the favourites? These facts are only half the story though: Murray’s has gone from a point where his volcanic temper was a massive problem to where he can channel it positively. Even more that this – he has done this in his own way, making difficult decisions and maturing himself, rather than having a team of advisers appointed by others making the tough calls.
There are those that will say that the award is for the top sports personality and argue that Murray’s lack of natural charm precludes him. The 22 year old is hardly like to be offered his own prime time TV show but this is just one aspect of personality. Another is character and the will and desire to do things your own way, making the necessary sacrifices to improve. Murray showed plenty of personality when he left his native Dunblane for Barcelona at the tender age of fifteen; Murray showed plenty of personality when he ditched the coach appointed by the LTA and put his own advisors, led by a little known mediocre former player Miles Maclagan, in charge; and Murray showed plenty of personality when he outplayed Nadal (who had been invincible all summer) on the big stage in Flushing Meadows.
Murray has, in short, shown the character, will and temperament necessary to be an absolutely top sportsman. It is that personality we should be celebrating, and not the ability to fire off witty one-liners!
Hamilton, likewise was helped by the strong McLaren-Mercedes team and (let’s not forget) was two bends and a large chunk of good fortune away from topping Rob Smyth’s next edition of his great sporting losers blog.
No, the man I propose has had little help from a generous government programme or techies whose specifications can give him an extra split-second. The man I propose has been on a personal voyage in recent years from surly loser to gracious winner, making the tough decisions and sacrifices on his own.
The bald facts show that this summer Andy Murray reached a Wimbledon quarter final (then his career Grand Slam best); won two Masters series in a row (Tim Henman, by contrast, won one in his entire career); reached a US Open final; and is now the number 4 in the world. He beat the three best players in the world at various points and is now generally regarded as one of the very best all-round players. When was the last time a British tennis player entered a major tournament not played on grass as one of the favourites? These facts are only half the story though: Murray’s has gone from a point where his volcanic temper was a massive problem to where he can channel it positively. Even more that this – he has done this in his own way, making difficult decisions and maturing himself, rather than having a team of advisers appointed by others making the tough calls.
There are those that will say that the award is for the top sports personality and argue that Murray’s lack of natural charm precludes him. The 22 year old is hardly like to be offered his own prime time TV show but this is just one aspect of personality. Another is character and the will and desire to do things your own way, making the necessary sacrifices to improve. Murray showed plenty of personality when he left his native Dunblane for Barcelona at the tender age of fifteen; Murray showed plenty of personality when he ditched the coach appointed by the LTA and put his own advisors, led by a little known mediocre former player Miles Maclagan, in charge; and Murray showed plenty of personality when he outplayed Nadal (who had been invincible all summer) on the big stage in Flushing Meadows.
Murray has, in short, shown the character, will and temperament necessary to be an absolutely top sportsman. It is that personality we should be celebrating, and not the ability to fire off witty one-liners!
Thursday, November 13, 2008
SPOTY - Mac Millings
You can keep your Bolts and your Phelpseses. There’s only one true candidate for Overseas Sports Personality of the Year, and his name is Sir Allen Stanford. That might not seem a likely suggestion, or even a sensible one, but consider this: why wouldn’t you select this brash Texan billionaire with few real connections to UK and little discernible sporting talent as the latest OSPOTY? The answer may surprise you.
The pros and cons are many. I will deal with them in order of no order whatsoever.
He hasn’t just brought Twenty20 cricket to the Caribbean. His stated aim - to rebuild the sport’s infrastructure in the region – is surely to be commended. For the good of the game and its continued diversity, to allow Caribbean cricket to founder is unthinkable. Conversely, what has Giles Clarke brought to the English game other than the Stanford Twenty20 for 20?
Some say he’s not really “Sir” Allen Stanford at all, and they’re quite right. His real name is Sirallen Stanford, and he is a pioneer in the field of ridiculous composite names, inspiring the likes of 4Real, D’Brickashaw and theguardian.
Then there’s “breaking America” – an idea that seems ridiculous to some. It shouldn’t. Of course cricket will never come close to threatening the major US sports, but that there are a large number of healthy minor sports in a country of over 300 million is no surprise. And with the populations of Americans of , for example, Caribbean and South Asian (particularly Indian) descent large and growing, and the possibilities of niche marketing in the age of the internet and cable/satellite/digital TV, why might cricket not be run as a small, but profitable, business, just as other minor US sports – both professional and amateur - are, in what we might call the Sports Economics version of The Long Tail (stop giggling at the back)?
We might even get a US team out of it one day – someone for England to beat, at least for a while. And who cares if their side wouldn’t showcase the best sportsmen that America has to offer? After all, English cricket lost the man his coach called “the greatest schoolboy cricketer he’d ever known” to football.
Kick-starting the renaissance of West Indian cricket isn’t Stanford’s only gift to the global game - he has also revealed to future opponents England’s fatal flaw. To guarantee success, simply raise the prize money to uncountable levels (n.b. India and Australia – you chaps needn’t bother).
This man - with a moustache bested in modern times only by my Grandma’s – may not be an actual sportsman, but with assets of $2.2 billion, and pretty ladies bouncing on his knee, he certainly is a player, and my Overseas Sports Personality of the Year.
The pros and cons are many. I will deal with them in order of no order whatsoever.
He hasn’t just brought Twenty20 cricket to the Caribbean. His stated aim - to rebuild the sport’s infrastructure in the region – is surely to be commended. For the good of the game and its continued diversity, to allow Caribbean cricket to founder is unthinkable. Conversely, what has Giles Clarke brought to the English game other than the Stanford Twenty20 for 20?
Some say he’s not really “Sir” Allen Stanford at all, and they’re quite right. His real name is Sirallen Stanford, and he is a pioneer in the field of ridiculous composite names, inspiring the likes of 4Real, D’Brickashaw and theguardian.
Then there’s “breaking America” – an idea that seems ridiculous to some. It shouldn’t. Of course cricket will never come close to threatening the major US sports, but that there are a large number of healthy minor sports in a country of over 300 million is no surprise. And with the populations of Americans of , for example, Caribbean and South Asian (particularly Indian) descent large and growing, and the possibilities of niche marketing in the age of the internet and cable/satellite/digital TV, why might cricket not be run as a small, but profitable, business, just as other minor US sports – both professional and amateur - are, in what we might call the Sports Economics version of The Long Tail (stop giggling at the back)?
We might even get a US team out of it one day – someone for England to beat, at least for a while. And who cares if their side wouldn’t showcase the best sportsmen that America has to offer? After all, English cricket lost the man his coach called “the greatest schoolboy cricketer he’d ever known” to football.
Kick-starting the renaissance of West Indian cricket isn’t Stanford’s only gift to the global game - he has also revealed to future opponents England’s fatal flaw. To guarantee success, simply raise the prize money to uncountable levels (n.b. India and Australia – you chaps needn’t bother).
This man - with a moustache bested in modern times only by my Grandma’s – may not be an actual sportsman, but with assets of $2.2 billion, and pretty ladies bouncing on his knee, he certainly is a player, and my Overseas Sports Personality of the Year.
The Sports Personality of the Year - donwendyagain
So here we are once again, that time of year when thoughts are turned to those brave souls who strived to brighten our lives with their sporting endeavour throughout the year. The BBC's campaign to suck us in is well under way and gathering momentum but we all know it will be the same saccharine sweet mixture of middle of the road commentary and glossy vacuous excrement that they serve up year after year without fail. But there is another way.
Instead of voting for the Olympic heroes, who achieved much in the heat of battle but delivered so little in terms of personality, perhaps we should be looking for an entertainer as opposed to a winner. Someone who delivers where it matters most, someone with the ability to make us laugh, cry, despair and rejoice all at the same time. After all the award has form as many of the past recipients have taken the prize on the back of that strangely British phenomenon... successful failure.
So this year I would like to consider someone who has shown that they have what it takes to fail consistently and could quite rightly be considered as one of the greatest successful failures of our time yet has retained the ability to entertain us every step of the way. Step forward Joey Barton.
He is a man who has comes with a wonderful back catalogue of crimes and misdemeanours. He is a man who knows how to court controversy and he is a man who knows how to make friends. In short this is a man who knows how to keep himself in the public eye and his cheeky personality makes him one of those players that you just love to loathe.
He has recently been released back into the community in the care of that greatly respected man of the people Joe Kinnear who will no doubt take Joey under his wing, show him the error of his ways and teach him the value of respect. The fruits of the budding relationship between this real life Obi Wan Kenobi and Anakin Skywalker have not been slow in coming.
Having personality is all well and good, I hear you cry, but what about his sporting ability? Well it is true that his time on the pitch has been limited by Her Majesty's Pleasure but it is equally true that when Joey takes the time to focus on his craft he is a pretty tasty player.
But as we all know it’s an award for personality and Joey Barton has more personality in his little toe than the entire Olympic squad has in their combined bodies. So when you are considering who to vote for this year take a moment to consider someone who has faced real troubles, someone who keeps his head held high and someone who is a proven fighter...I give you Joey Barton.
Instead of voting for the Olympic heroes, who achieved much in the heat of battle but delivered so little in terms of personality, perhaps we should be looking for an entertainer as opposed to a winner. Someone who delivers where it matters most, someone with the ability to make us laugh, cry, despair and rejoice all at the same time. After all the award has form as many of the past recipients have taken the prize on the back of that strangely British phenomenon... successful failure.
So this year I would like to consider someone who has shown that they have what it takes to fail consistently and could quite rightly be considered as one of the greatest successful failures of our time yet has retained the ability to entertain us every step of the way. Step forward Joey Barton.
He is a man who has comes with a wonderful back catalogue of crimes and misdemeanours. He is a man who knows how to court controversy and he is a man who knows how to make friends. In short this is a man who knows how to keep himself in the public eye and his cheeky personality makes him one of those players that you just love to loathe.
He has recently been released back into the community in the care of that greatly respected man of the people Joe Kinnear who will no doubt take Joey under his wing, show him the error of his ways and teach him the value of respect. The fruits of the budding relationship between this real life Obi Wan Kenobi and Anakin Skywalker have not been slow in coming.
Having personality is all well and good, I hear you cry, but what about his sporting ability? Well it is true that his time on the pitch has been limited by Her Majesty's Pleasure but it is equally true that when Joey takes the time to focus on his craft he is a pretty tasty player.
But as we all know it’s an award for personality and Joey Barton has more personality in his little toe than the entire Olympic squad has in their combined bodies. So when you are considering who to vote for this year take a moment to consider someone who has faced real troubles, someone who keeps his head held high and someone who is a proven fighter...I give you Joey Barton.
The Cult of Personality - ElSell
Yes kids the show of shows, the award that has driven many a young would be hoodie to strive to be the best of the best, if Oscar was into sports as a child and not comic books he would be The BBC Sports Personality Of The Year err trophy. I think it’s safe to assume that it is called the personality of the year award due to the BBC fearing that years would pass without anyone actually winning anything.
However they were wrong and indeed due to Britain’s great ability to usually win at least one event in a calendar year it is a personality award in name only, as year on year it is given to those who being single minded and determined as a competitor should be, tend to display all the personality of a damp squib.
A quick peruse through the previous winners begs the question:
Honestly how many of them would you like to go for a drink with?
Yes there is a recent winner you wouldn’t mind getting drunk but that’s between you and Jesus.
Unlike most years where the BBC has to big up a couple of failures to create interest, this year there is actually real competition for the award.
The List of possible winners breaks into three categories:
The Trust Fund Kidults:
The best at what they do and heavily funded to get them across the line.
Hoy: Good bloke; beat literally tens of people from around the world spending thousands to win 3 medals.
Hamilton: Visits Britain when he can; a true genius in his field, team spent millions to win a competion that really could only be won by 3 other drivers.
The Self Made:
Not exactly paupers but not externally funded to the same extent and in events that are more competitive.
Cavendish: He is no Sean Kelly but has achieved more this year in the big bad world of “proper” cycling than any other Britain ever.
Murray: One of the most successful years ever by a British tennis player. Didn’t win Wimbledon!
Calzaghe: Won it last year.
The Welfare State
Or the Swimmers as they prefer to be known, well one swimmer in particular is front of the queue.
Adlinton: Two gold’s, had done most of her training in a 25 metre pool, grants that are not much more than the dole and as for her personality, well she has spent a lot of time in the pool.
If I had my way and one was to take the title of the show on its merits the winner should be this lunatic or the somewhat saner Eleanor Simmonds.
Unfortunately seeing as the people who actually vote tend to be people who stand in front of the TV saluting this or people who watch this and think it is real.
The winner will be either the bloke on the indoor bike or the bloke in the car.
However they were wrong and indeed due to Britain’s great ability to usually win at least one event in a calendar year it is a personality award in name only, as year on year it is given to those who being single minded and determined as a competitor should be, tend to display all the personality of a damp squib.
A quick peruse through the previous winners begs the question:
Honestly how many of them would you like to go for a drink with?
Yes there is a recent winner you wouldn’t mind getting drunk but that’s between you and Jesus.
Unlike most years where the BBC has to big up a couple of failures to create interest, this year there is actually real competition for the award.
The List of possible winners breaks into three categories:
The Trust Fund Kidults:
The best at what they do and heavily funded to get them across the line.
Hoy: Good bloke; beat literally tens of people from around the world spending thousands to win 3 medals.
Hamilton: Visits Britain when he can; a true genius in his field, team spent millions to win a competion that really could only be won by 3 other drivers.
The Self Made:
Not exactly paupers but not externally funded to the same extent and in events that are more competitive.
Cavendish: He is no Sean Kelly but has achieved more this year in the big bad world of “proper” cycling than any other Britain ever.
Murray: One of the most successful years ever by a British tennis player. Didn’t win Wimbledon!
Calzaghe: Won it last year.
The Welfare State
Or the Swimmers as they prefer to be known, well one swimmer in particular is front of the queue.
Adlinton: Two gold’s, had done most of her training in a 25 metre pool, grants that are not much more than the dole and as for her personality, well she has spent a lot of time in the pool.
If I had my way and one was to take the title of the show on its merits the winner should be this lunatic or the somewhat saner Eleanor Simmonds.
Unfortunately seeing as the people who actually vote tend to be people who stand in front of the TV saluting this or people who watch this and think it is real.
The winner will be either the bloke on the indoor bike or the bloke in the car.
SPOTY Ryan Giggs – fourturntables
Ryan Joseph Giggs has had a great year. In the last 12 months he has won the Premier League for the tenth time, the European Cup for a second time and surpassed Bobby Charlton's appearance record for Manchester United.
That makes him the most successful player in the history of the English League and the longest-serving player at perhaps the greatest club side in the world – and if that's not enough reason to give him sports personality of the year, there's another reason. He should win it because he hasn't, and we're running out of time.
Michael Owen's won it, David Beckham's won it, Paul Gascoigne's won it. None have a record anything like as good as Giggs'.
The trouble with Giggs is people have forgotten about him. Not just what he was, but what he still offers. This year, while 'past his prime' Giggs scored the goal that secured his and Manchester United's tenth (yes, tenth) Premier League as well as the winning penalty in the Champions League final.
Last year Joe Calzaghe won after a fight that capped 10 year as a world champion. Giggs has been at Manchester United longer, he first played for United in 1991, when John Major was prime minister. For close to two decades one of the finest managers ever has not been able to replace Giggs. Despite the riches of god and a global scouting network.
He has risen to every challenge the best team of the age could throw at him. He has played and scored in every single Premier League season. Ever. And scored in the last 13 seasons in the Champions Leage. That's not getting by, that's excelling.
He now has more titles than all but three clubs in England, and United only had seven before he arrived. Then there are the four FA Cups, two League Cups, six Charity Shields, two European Cups, a Uefa Super Cup and an Intercontinental Cup. Giggs won his first title before the Premier League began. Now read that again so I don't have to repeat it.
But he won't win it, because we've become accustomed to his excellence. So take a moment with me. Forget the balding central midfielder and remember the man that was. Sharp emblazoned on his chest, hair flying and the rest of the game struggling to catch up.
Remember the winger who left a thousand defenders on their arses and a hundred goalkeepers grasping at air, and that goal – so instrumental in the treble. And that year David Gional won player of the year.
How good is he? It's not for me to say, but if you ever question whether he has a right to win the award – remember the words "it's a wonderful run from Giggs" and then try and claim there's someone more deserving than the most successful player in the history of our most popular sport who is running out of time to receive the recognition that is his right.
That makes him the most successful player in the history of the English League and the longest-serving player at perhaps the greatest club side in the world – and if that's not enough reason to give him sports personality of the year, there's another reason. He should win it because he hasn't, and we're running out of time.
Michael Owen's won it, David Beckham's won it, Paul Gascoigne's won it. None have a record anything like as good as Giggs'.
The trouble with Giggs is people have forgotten about him. Not just what he was, but what he still offers. This year, while 'past his prime' Giggs scored the goal that secured his and Manchester United's tenth (yes, tenth) Premier League as well as the winning penalty in the Champions League final.
Last year Joe Calzaghe won after a fight that capped 10 year as a world champion. Giggs has been at Manchester United longer, he first played for United in 1991, when John Major was prime minister. For close to two decades one of the finest managers ever has not been able to replace Giggs. Despite the riches of god and a global scouting network.
He has risen to every challenge the best team of the age could throw at him. He has played and scored in every single Premier League season. Ever. And scored in the last 13 seasons in the Champions Leage. That's not getting by, that's excelling.
He now has more titles than all but three clubs in England, and United only had seven before he arrived. Then there are the four FA Cups, two League Cups, six Charity Shields, two European Cups, a Uefa Super Cup and an Intercontinental Cup. Giggs won his first title before the Premier League began. Now read that again so I don't have to repeat it.
But he won't win it, because we've become accustomed to his excellence. So take a moment with me. Forget the balding central midfielder and remember the man that was. Sharp emblazoned on his chest, hair flying and the rest of the game struggling to catch up.
Remember the winger who left a thousand defenders on their arses and a hundred goalkeepers grasping at air, and that goal – so instrumental in the treble. And that year David Gional won player of the year.
How good is he? It's not for me to say, but if you ever question whether he has a right to win the award – remember the words "it's a wonderful run from Giggs" and then try and claim there's someone more deserving than the most successful player in the history of our most popular sport who is running out of time to receive the recognition that is his right.
Sunday, November 9, 2008
Our youth, not yours - Phil West
The old man said: “I know what it is to be young, but you don’t know what it is to be old.”
What I believe he actually meant was: “I know that Ronaldo was fantastic last season, but you never saw Cruyff, or Best, or Pele.”
Coıncidently, I said it recently to a group of my students. They looked at me blankly (so no change there from limits of functions) and then traipsed off home to their laptops and Youtube.
The next day saw us talking about that goal in the 1970 final. No, not Pele’s; Carlos Alberto’s thumping shot after the best build up in World Cup history. Some of them had viewed the Cruyff Turn, but struggled to come to terms with the idea that this was groundbreaking (“I can do that!” was said many times), and others asked me why poor old George had been unable to find the right treatment, what with all the money he must have had.
Not exactly what I had expected, but all undeniably true from their perspective.
So why do people my age go all misty-eyed at the mention of these names?
The word Nostalgia literally means "the pain a person feels wanting to return to his native home, fearing never to see it again".
Our native home. Our youth.
Some people feel nostalgia for 60’s fashion, or for Duran Duran, or for Mum’s stew on a cold January evening. A large number of us feel it for Sport; for Cruyff, Best and Pele.
We talked about them in our school playgrounds; we argued about them with our Dads (they had seen Stanley Mathews and Duncan Edwards, so thought we were quite mad); and we watched them on Black and White TV with those different coloured footballs and strange horns sounding from the terraces. I cut my knee whilst lost in Cruyff-daydream-land in my backyard and wondered whether a girl called Elaine would notice I existed if I could only once dribble around three defenders and lob the keeper. I never did, and she didn't.
As I approach 50, my youth is an Eden from which I have been cast out, but from where I still remember feelings of innocent sporting awe.
I do know what it is to be young. And yes, I fear never seeing it again.
What I believe he actually meant was: “I know that Ronaldo was fantastic last season, but you never saw Cruyff, or Best, or Pele.”
Coıncidently, I said it recently to a group of my students. They looked at me blankly (so no change there from limits of functions) and then traipsed off home to their laptops and Youtube.
The next day saw us talking about that goal in the 1970 final. No, not Pele’s; Carlos Alberto’s thumping shot after the best build up in World Cup history. Some of them had viewed the Cruyff Turn, but struggled to come to terms with the idea that this was groundbreaking (“I can do that!” was said many times), and others asked me why poor old George had been unable to find the right treatment, what with all the money he must have had.
Not exactly what I had expected, but all undeniably true from their perspective.
So why do people my age go all misty-eyed at the mention of these names?
The word Nostalgia literally means "the pain a person feels wanting to return to his native home, fearing never to see it again".
Our native home. Our youth.
Some people feel nostalgia for 60’s fashion, or for Duran Duran, or for Mum’s stew on a cold January evening. A large number of us feel it for Sport; for Cruyff, Best and Pele.
We talked about them in our school playgrounds; we argued about them with our Dads (they had seen Stanley Mathews and Duncan Edwards, so thought we were quite mad); and we watched them on Black and White TV with those different coloured footballs and strange horns sounding from the terraces. I cut my knee whilst lost in Cruyff-daydream-land in my backyard and wondered whether a girl called Elaine would notice I existed if I could only once dribble around three defenders and lob the keeper. I never did, and she didn't.
As I approach 50, my youth is an Eden from which I have been cast out, but from where I still remember feelings of innocent sporting awe.
I do know what it is to be young. And yes, I fear never seeing it again.
Friday, November 7, 2008
I miss the colour the most – Ebren
Jim Clark was one of the finest racing drivers that has lived. At the time of his death in 1968 he had two world championships, 25 Grand Prix wins and 33 pole positions – the last two both records.
But he raced and died in black and white and his car roared in crackling mono. That's the problem with looking back, the races and games, matches and Tests are grey muted affairs. And I miss the colour.
There is a place you can go, though. A throwback to days when cars' screams echoed from the walls around you; where the brilliant greens, reds and yellows of the cigar tubes that carried drivers into history sting the eyes again; and better still, you get to dress up.
Dressed in a natty tweed jacket, hair Brylcreamed to within an inch of its life, and with a crimson handkerchief proudly protruding from my pocket I headed to the Goodwood Revival this year. It was a shock. I've always admired Clark, Fangio, Ascari and the others. But reading about their deeds and watching newsreel footage tells you nothing about who they were.
Standing among men and women stepping out in full 1950s regalia, you could smell their world. Not imagine it, not re-live it through film and paper, actually be there again.
Watching cars sweep towards you from trackside, you could see just how small they were, how fragile. You could hear them again, see them in colour and smell the exhausts as these grand old machines were allowed to race again, to do what they were made to 50 years after others overtook them with newer technology.
On the track, Stirling Moss four-wheel drifted a vintage Jaguar 60 years after he won the first Goodwood meeting as an 18 year old, and then the spell was broken.
Four cars were fighting for the lead, following closer than a modern racer with its need for clean air can, and two clipped wheels. As machinery lovingly cared for and restored to former glory ripped itself apart against tarmac and concrete I saw the danger that came with the glory.
Jim Clark died on the track so did Alberto Ascari, they were not alone. As well as a window onto a lost world, Goodwood taught me something else: nostalgia is fine, but for all the glory that was – some things are better left in the past.
But he raced and died in black and white and his car roared in crackling mono. That's the problem with looking back, the races and games, matches and Tests are grey muted affairs. And I miss the colour.
There is a place you can go, though. A throwback to days when cars' screams echoed from the walls around you; where the brilliant greens, reds and yellows of the cigar tubes that carried drivers into history sting the eyes again; and better still, you get to dress up.
Dressed in a natty tweed jacket, hair Brylcreamed to within an inch of its life, and with a crimson handkerchief proudly protruding from my pocket I headed to the Goodwood Revival this year. It was a shock. I've always admired Clark, Fangio, Ascari and the others. But reading about their deeds and watching newsreel footage tells you nothing about who they were.
Standing among men and women stepping out in full 1950s regalia, you could smell their world. Not imagine it, not re-live it through film and paper, actually be there again.
Watching cars sweep towards you from trackside, you could see just how small they were, how fragile. You could hear them again, see them in colour and smell the exhausts as these grand old machines were allowed to race again, to do what they were made to 50 years after others overtook them with newer technology.
On the track, Stirling Moss four-wheel drifted a vintage Jaguar 60 years after he won the first Goodwood meeting as an 18 year old, and then the spell was broken.
Four cars were fighting for the lead, following closer than a modern racer with its need for clean air can, and two clipped wheels. As machinery lovingly cared for and restored to former glory ripped itself apart against tarmac and concrete I saw the danger that came with the glory.
Jim Clark died on the track so did Alberto Ascari, they were not alone. As well as a window onto a lost world, Goodwood taught me something else: nostalgia is fine, but for all the glory that was – some things are better left in the past.
Every fan has their day – RedGiant
Is it possible to use the phrase ‘when I was a lad’ and not sound like a crotchety old man? As a kid it was a guaranteed toe-curler of a line, largely because it was followed by yet another anecdote about how things were better in the good old days: ‘… footballers were lucky if they got twenty pounds a week, and they were grateful if they got that’.
Worryingly, I’m using similar phrases with alarming regularity. All too often I find myself starting a sentence with ‘remember the season when …’, or, ‘you’ll never get another player like …’. Sometimes it can simply be a name that elicits a sentimental yearning for the comfort and warmth of a former time or place. Johnny Metgod. Neil Webb. Stuart Pearce. Jason Lee. Andrea Silenzi.
Ok, there was a hint of irony about the last two, but that’s the beauty of nostalgia, it’s entirely subjective. Someone, somewhere, might genuinely think that Silenzi was a good player; there might be a faded picture of him lending beauty to a trattoria’s wall, in Turin, say. It applies to most sports fans, mention the name of their favourite player from yesteryear and watch them go all gooey eyed and weak at the knees.
It’s big business too, this nostalgia malarkey. Take a look at Graham Budd Auctions, they sold a collection of John Wisden’s Cricketers’ Almanacks from the first year of issue (1864) for £120,000. A single-sheet 1889 FA Cup Final programme recently went for £19,000 too. You could take a trip to the National Football Museum in Preston if you wanted to, the President of which (Sir Bobby Charlton) once described it as ‘the best museum in the world … apart from the Tate’.
Some people think it’s dangerous to be so pre-occupied with the past, though. Joe Kinnear certainly thought so after joining Notts Forest: ‘Ever since I’ve been at this club I’ve had the history rammed down my throat, I see they don’t have any pictures of the relegation teams’. Nice way to ingratiate yourself with the fans, Joe.
Not for the first time, I’m inclined to disagree with Kinnear. They say that every dog has its day. Well, every football fan has their day, too. In a footballing world dominated by WAGs, galacticos and oligarchs, nostalgia is part of what keeps us humble fans going. And there’s nothing wrong with that.
Worryingly, I’m using similar phrases with alarming regularity. All too often I find myself starting a sentence with ‘remember the season when …’, or, ‘you’ll never get another player like …’. Sometimes it can simply be a name that elicits a sentimental yearning for the comfort and warmth of a former time or place. Johnny Metgod. Neil Webb. Stuart Pearce. Jason Lee. Andrea Silenzi.
Ok, there was a hint of irony about the last two, but that’s the beauty of nostalgia, it’s entirely subjective. Someone, somewhere, might genuinely think that Silenzi was a good player; there might be a faded picture of him lending beauty to a trattoria’s wall, in Turin, say. It applies to most sports fans, mention the name of their favourite player from yesteryear and watch them go all gooey eyed and weak at the knees.
It’s big business too, this nostalgia malarkey. Take a look at Graham Budd Auctions, they sold a collection of John Wisden’s Cricketers’ Almanacks from the first year of issue (1864) for £120,000. A single-sheet 1889 FA Cup Final programme recently went for £19,000 too. You could take a trip to the National Football Museum in Preston if you wanted to, the President of which (Sir Bobby Charlton) once described it as ‘the best museum in the world … apart from the Tate’.
Some people think it’s dangerous to be so pre-occupied with the past, though. Joe Kinnear certainly thought so after joining Notts Forest: ‘Ever since I’ve been at this club I’ve had the history rammed down my throat, I see they don’t have any pictures of the relegation teams’. Nice way to ingratiate yourself with the fans, Joe.
Not for the first time, I’m inclined to disagree with Kinnear. They say that every dog has its day. Well, every football fan has their day, too. In a footballing world dominated by WAGs, galacticos and oligarchs, nostalgia is part of what keeps us humble fans going. And there’s nothing wrong with that.
Relieving nostalgia - miroljub
Over the last dozen years or so, I have been suffering from nostalgia for the footballing past. This chronic disease is marked by rapid mental deterioration including seeing, hearing, feeling things that are not there, nonsense speech, unusual behaviour, lack of emotion, unmotivation and social withdrawal.
Other symptoms and signs are: vertigo (triggered by frequent teams rotation), nausea (caused by moronic badge-kissing), vomiting (caused by eating prawn sandwiches and buying for my grandson yet another 100% polyester official replica kit), plus anxiety and pain over the nowadays player’s artistic diving and cheating.
One way I was trying to relieve nostalgia was to create a personal space and fill it with small reminders of past. Photographs of my favourite players and teams, mementos of special events, greeting cards and newspaper clippings, all these I have been using, without much success, to create a comforting emotional connection and gain some perspective on the complicated, contaminated, anarchic, difficult, ugly, and confrontational present vis-à-vis the simple, pure, ordered, easy, beautiful, and harmonious past.
However, thanks to CD ROM technology and audio and video reproduction, my free access to an infinitely recyclable past seems to have started to help me to understand that my 'disease' might be less a matter of simple memory on the traditional values and former glories than of complex projection; the invocation of a partial, idealized history merges with a 'dissatisfaction' with the present.
Further to this, I've found out the chief safeguards against the warm feelings and uplifting mood about the over-glorified footballing past. They are: 1) never close your umbrella while watching your grandsons playing in the heavy rain, and 2) never say in front of your grandchildren the following phrases: “Call me sentimental but...”, or “This is the can from the first beer I ever drank”.
Other symptoms and signs are: vertigo (triggered by frequent teams rotation), nausea (caused by moronic badge-kissing), vomiting (caused by eating prawn sandwiches and buying for my grandson yet another 100% polyester official replica kit), plus anxiety and pain over the nowadays player’s artistic diving and cheating.
One way I was trying to relieve nostalgia was to create a personal space and fill it with small reminders of past. Photographs of my favourite players and teams, mementos of special events, greeting cards and newspaper clippings, all these I have been using, without much success, to create a comforting emotional connection and gain some perspective on the complicated, contaminated, anarchic, difficult, ugly, and confrontational present vis-à-vis the simple, pure, ordered, easy, beautiful, and harmonious past.
However, thanks to CD ROM technology and audio and video reproduction, my free access to an infinitely recyclable past seems to have started to help me to understand that my 'disease' might be less a matter of simple memory on the traditional values and former glories than of complex projection; the invocation of a partial, idealized history merges with a 'dissatisfaction' with the present.
Further to this, I've found out the chief safeguards against the warm feelings and uplifting mood about the over-glorified footballing past. They are: 1) never close your umbrella while watching your grandsons playing in the heavy rain, and 2) never say in front of your grandchildren the following phrases: “Call me sentimental but...”, or “This is the can from the first beer I ever drank”.
Nostalgia for an age yet to come - ElSell
Look at that Nancy rolling round
Weren’t like that
Back in my day
When men were men
And boots were made of leather
Aye son when I were a lad
Things were better
“It was forever thus” as someone smarter than me is sure to have said or “old people are always complaining about the modern world” as some young idiot is saying somewhere right now.
Until recently nostalgia was somewhat of a dirty word, something to be thrown at fallen idols and idols who never actually fell, the scourge of Liverpool and Chelsea fans alike, although for different reasons.
At the moment however we are on the cusp of a nostalgia revival especially with regard to the English national game. With the club footed earning over 100 grand a week while those who actually run the club day to day earn minimum wage.
With millionaires choosing the bright lights of West Ham over trophy chasing and the possibility of glory, people are starting to hark back to a simpler time. I personally am getting sick of players flying into tackles with both feet off the ground and live in hope of someday seeing an old fashioned block tackle involving StevieMe and Fat Frank, although not in an England shirt because apparently neither of them has enough understanding of basic midfield play to be able to play alongside each other (that and under Capello tackling team mates has become a no-no). It was not like that in my youth when fine athletes like Jan Molby glided across the English tundra like some sort of displaced Danish Viking (they did exist apparently).
Yes nostalgia and comparing current with older generations are according to some ultimately pointless, today’s athletes are too fit, too strong, not as dietetically challenged as some of yesteryears heroes.
However as the old saying goes:
“Those who do not read history are doomed to repeat it.”
Maybe with regard to modern football this should be updated to:
“Those who do not read history are doomed to destroy it.”
And surely there are worse things than nostalgia for the past such as “nostalgia for an age yet to come” as The Buzzcocks so poignantly wrote about… well wrote about any of us who are not where we feel we should be but keep telling ourselves, that it is all going to come together soon, eh Rafa?
Weren’t like that
Back in my day
When men were men
And boots were made of leather
Aye son when I were a lad
Things were better
“It was forever thus” as someone smarter than me is sure to have said or “old people are always complaining about the modern world” as some young idiot is saying somewhere right now.
Until recently nostalgia was somewhat of a dirty word, something to be thrown at fallen idols and idols who never actually fell, the scourge of Liverpool and Chelsea fans alike, although for different reasons.
At the moment however we are on the cusp of a nostalgia revival especially with regard to the English national game. With the club footed earning over 100 grand a week while those who actually run the club day to day earn minimum wage.
With millionaires choosing the bright lights of West Ham over trophy chasing and the possibility of glory, people are starting to hark back to a simpler time. I personally am getting sick of players flying into tackles with both feet off the ground and live in hope of someday seeing an old fashioned block tackle involving StevieMe and Fat Frank, although not in an England shirt because apparently neither of them has enough understanding of basic midfield play to be able to play alongside each other (that and under Capello tackling team mates has become a no-no). It was not like that in my youth when fine athletes like Jan Molby glided across the English tundra like some sort of displaced Danish Viking (they did exist apparently).
Yes nostalgia and comparing current with older generations are according to some ultimately pointless, today’s athletes are too fit, too strong, not as dietetically challenged as some of yesteryears heroes.
However as the old saying goes:
“Those who do not read history are doomed to repeat it.”
Maybe with regard to modern football this should be updated to:
“Those who do not read history are doomed to destroy it.”
And surely there are worse things than nostalgia for the past such as “nostalgia for an age yet to come” as The Buzzcocks so poignantly wrote about… well wrote about any of us who are not where we feel we should be but keep telling ourselves, that it is all going to come together soon, eh Rafa?
Goran, Stella & Me - Mac Millings
If someone offers me free stuff, I always take it. Sometimes, this clashes with my principles (I really should have refused that all-expenses-paid trip to Alaska to watch Sarah Palin execute East Coast liberals with a hand-sharpened moose antler) and, thus conflicted, I found myself part of the crowd taking in a match at the Stella Artois Championships; a tournament that seemed to think of itself as Wimbledon without the commoners. Still, free tickets. What are you going to do?
Leave, it turns out - watching Some Unknown beat That Other Guy just didn’t appeal. More importantly, this being June 12th, 1992, my freebie love meant I was missing a crucial Euro ’92 encounter, Scotland vs. Holland. While I’m neither Scots nor Dutch, I have ancestry of both kinds (one less in the Scottish camp since the passing of Racist Uncle Des), and it was with a heart angry at the cheapness in my soul that I escaped the heat, to the artificial cool of an adjacent building. Wandering, I came across an open door. The sign “Players Only” deterred; the fact that it was hand-written on a blu-tacked sheet of A4 seemed to say “Only Joking”. I ducked in. And there it was. The Game.
A seat at the back beckoned. I sat, hunched, fearing attention, watching motionless until I felt I was part of the background. There were more people in the room than I’d first realized, and, well, I knew some of them – their faces, at least. A pre-invincibility Sampras. There, all enthusiasm, the raw Ivanisevic. To the left sat that redhead South African, whatshisname; good player, just never good enough to win anything of actual significance. The ginger Tim Henman, if you will. We watched.
Scotland never looked in trouble against the Dutch, who, while still a decent side, didn’t even bother testing a lazy stereotype, forcing the Scottish goalkeeper to make but one save. Then, suddenly, 75 minutes in, Gullit, Rijkaard, Bergkamp, one-nil. I groaned. Loudly. Bugger. It’s over, I thought. Only Goran turned. The jig is up. He looked around, back at me, grinned a sly grin, nodded a conspiratorial nod, and turned back to the game. We watched Scotland lose.
The ginger Tim Henman won at Queen’s that year. I didn’t care. But nine years later, as Goran Ivanisevic served for the Wimbledon title, he cried tears of joy - and I did, too.
Leave, it turns out - watching Some Unknown beat That Other Guy just didn’t appeal. More importantly, this being June 12th, 1992, my freebie love meant I was missing a crucial Euro ’92 encounter, Scotland vs. Holland. While I’m neither Scots nor Dutch, I have ancestry of both kinds (one less in the Scottish camp since the passing of Racist Uncle Des), and it was with a heart angry at the cheapness in my soul that I escaped the heat, to the artificial cool of an adjacent building. Wandering, I came across an open door. The sign “Players Only” deterred; the fact that it was hand-written on a blu-tacked sheet of A4 seemed to say “Only Joking”. I ducked in. And there it was. The Game.
A seat at the back beckoned. I sat, hunched, fearing attention, watching motionless until I felt I was part of the background. There were more people in the room than I’d first realized, and, well, I knew some of them – their faces, at least. A pre-invincibility Sampras. There, all enthusiasm, the raw Ivanisevic. To the left sat that redhead South African, whatshisname; good player, just never good enough to win anything of actual significance. The ginger Tim Henman, if you will. We watched.
Scotland never looked in trouble against the Dutch, who, while still a decent side, didn’t even bother testing a lazy stereotype, forcing the Scottish goalkeeper to make but one save. Then, suddenly, 75 minutes in, Gullit, Rijkaard, Bergkamp, one-nil. I groaned. Loudly. Bugger. It’s over, I thought. Only Goran turned. The jig is up. He looked around, back at me, grinned a sly grin, nodded a conspiratorial nod, and turned back to the game. We watched Scotland lose.
The ginger Tim Henman won at Queen’s that year. I didn’t care. But nine years later, as Goran Ivanisevic served for the Wimbledon title, he cried tears of joy - and I did, too.
Red Rum was a Robot! - donwendyagain
Do you remember when sporting nostalgia was good? You would sit around in the pub with your mates having a few swift ones and inevitably the conversation would turn to sport. Who was the best boxer? Who was the best striker? Who was the best hooker? Hey, it’s a bunch of pissed lads, there was no way sex was staying out of the conversation!
Everyone would chuck in their tuppence worth and if the creative juices were flowing the finer points of an argument could last for days, weeks and even longer than some marriages as the ridiculous was mixed freely with the ever more ludicrous in support of spurious claim after nonsensical assertion. Maradona didn’t actually handle the ball and it was just a trick of the light that made it appear as if he had, Kevin Moran played the ball and Peter Reid dived to get him sent off in the 1985 Cup Final or my personal favourite Red Rum was really a robot because you never saw him relieve himself on the course and they had a real horse for public appearances and stable visits.
But those days are mostly gone as any time such an argument begins it is over before it has a chance to flourish as we have all seen the historical events in question hundreds of times on You Tube. We are also losing any chance of future talking points as some smart arse with some fancy computer technology, usually Sky’s resident know it all Andy Gray, has already proven that the ball was over the line before geeky Nigel has got the post match round in. They have even turned the technology on our beloved controversies of yesteryear and now we know conclusively that the 3rd goal was not over the line.
Sure we still talk over the odds and ends but it has lost its soul simply because we all know what really happened. Whoever said knowledge was power was talking out of their fundament as knowledge steals away the doubt that is essential for any debate. Oh for a return to the days when you could argue about just how good Bank’s save from Pele was without being able to dial it up instantly on You Tube or even just how real or unreal Red Rum was.
Everyone would chuck in their tuppence worth and if the creative juices were flowing the finer points of an argument could last for days, weeks and even longer than some marriages as the ridiculous was mixed freely with the ever more ludicrous in support of spurious claim after nonsensical assertion. Maradona didn’t actually handle the ball and it was just a trick of the light that made it appear as if he had, Kevin Moran played the ball and Peter Reid dived to get him sent off in the 1985 Cup Final or my personal favourite Red Rum was really a robot because you never saw him relieve himself on the course and they had a real horse for public appearances and stable visits.
But those days are mostly gone as any time such an argument begins it is over before it has a chance to flourish as we have all seen the historical events in question hundreds of times on You Tube. We are also losing any chance of future talking points as some smart arse with some fancy computer technology, usually Sky’s resident know it all Andy Gray, has already proven that the ball was over the line before geeky Nigel has got the post match round in. They have even turned the technology on our beloved controversies of yesteryear and now we know conclusively that the 3rd goal was not over the line.
Sure we still talk over the odds and ends but it has lost its soul simply because we all know what really happened. Whoever said knowledge was power was talking out of their fundament as knowledge steals away the doubt that is essential for any debate. Oh for a return to the days when you could argue about just how good Bank’s save from Pele was without being able to dial it up instantly on You Tube or even just how real or unreal Red Rum was.
Friday, October 31, 2008
In pursuit of glory – a review by Mimitig
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.
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.
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.
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