Transcript from the England hotel after the Sri Lankan match on 4th April.
The tapes came through again for us, this is getting spooky because this time, we also received a few pictures and have to preface this transcript by informing you that Captain Vaughan has seldom looked so weary, so wan and drawn.
As he enters, instead of the usual chat and giggling in the ranks, the room is deathly silent. No-one can quite believe that despite all efforts by the batting tail, the match against Sri Lanka was lost on the last ball. MV surveys the ashen-faced squad.
MV: it's just us here today, no psychologist. You all got way too fucking cocky because of some respectable fielding. You believed in yourselves - in an entirely bad way - and you, top and middle order, your batting was crap.
I'm not going to go through it in detail, because quite frankly words fail me. Anyone who doesn't know how he screwed up, stay behind and watch Straussy's video. And Ed: learn how to use the camera and the laptop - it's over to you next time.
Now it's desperate times and we need desperate measures. When I blow the whistle, lads, I want you to surge over the top and it'll be death or fucking glory. If we don't beat Australia on Sunday, and we know we can, then we're basically on the next fucking plane out of here. OK. OK. I wasn't there, but I did plenty of homework on those boys while you were Down Under and this is what we'll do. Bat like fuck, first or second and when we sledge, here's the plan.
Hayden: Fred it's going to be your job to get him and get him fast. The rest of you can help - get going on the recipes. For fuck's sake, everyone knows Aussies are crap at cuisine, so have a look at his bloody book and find some shit-hot one-liners.
Punter should be an easy mark: Saj - I've got you down to york him (aside to Collingwood: he's gotta master that sooner or later, hasn't he?). The rest of you just mutter Garry Pratt, Garry Pratt all the time, it's bound to get to him.
For Gilchrist: Badger over to you, plenty of profanity, and a few comments about Michael Slater will wind him up nicely - mention the unmentionable, you all know what I'm on about.
Symo: we know he can damage us, so chants of "Cardiff, Cardiff, who went home" should unsettle him. A few "Don't rip that bicep, we know you're a Brummie" will help.
Tait: quietly, but all together: "it's a wide, it's a wide, are you Harmy in disguise?"
Stuey Clarke: a simple "You're not Glenn McGrath" should get him riled and if that doesn't work, go for a few estate agent jokes.
And for Glenda herself, I think we can stick with "Been playing touch rugby lately? Where's the ice-bath, love?"
Finally, for Brad Hogg: "Hoggy, Hoggy, Hoggy - you're not The Hogg, you've got no dog."
OK lads? Have you got the message? We can fucking do this, I know we can and if anyone needs more ideas for sledging the rest of them, Badger's got the notes and you can see him in his room later - you won't have anything else to fucking do because it's hotel, hotel, hotel now until Sunday. Yeah, that's right. It's a fucking lock-in - and Fred, that's with no booze.
Tape ends.
Saturday, April 7, 2007
Friday, April 6, 2007
Seven Gold Medals - mimitig
In some sports, Great Britain or England winning anything brings headlines on the front and back pages of the print media, and calls for such things as open-top bus tours and gongs for the heroes.
In cycling, the guys and girls come home quietly after a mammoth medal haul at the World Championships and get on with their training.
Track cycling is routinely described as a minority sport, and true, compared to the number of junior football clubs out there, far fewer competitors take part. This is partly to do with facilities, but leaving all that aside for now, one thing is sure. Track cycling is an Olympic sport and one in which Team GB has a more than odds-on chance of success.
Two world championships have just taken place and with Beijing less than 18 months away, I find it hard to understand why the one discipline in which we are really leading the way is not being used by all other Olympic sports as a blueprint. Swimming has commanded a lot of attention with the appointment after Sydney of the Australian coach Bill Sweetenham, and yet most of the print inches have focussed on controversy and the team comes home now from Melbourne with results lacking in any conviction for success in China.
On the other hand, very few people have ever heard of the Performance Director of Cycling, Dave Brailsford. He neither courts controversy with high profile arguments with his senior team members, nor publicity by whining that his success isn't recognised. He has gone quietly about his job of building a group of coaches - with personal success records - who work together and talk to each other and the team members. He has concentrated on seeking out experts who can bring experience and discipline to his squad - Chris Boardman being the most recognised name. He has not complained about the lack of facilities - the swimmers complain about not enough 50m pools, but there's hardly a plethora of velodromes in the UK either.
There is a different mindset about how the multitude of UK Sports' Performance Directors go about their tasks, but I think it's hard to argue with a man who has just brought home a total of 11 medals in his sport, 7 of them gold, and with a team stuffed full of young talent that will not just be riding for us in Beijing, but they'll be competing in London too.
In cycling, the guys and girls come home quietly after a mammoth medal haul at the World Championships and get on with their training.
Track cycling is routinely described as a minority sport, and true, compared to the number of junior football clubs out there, far fewer competitors take part. This is partly to do with facilities, but leaving all that aside for now, one thing is sure. Track cycling is an Olympic sport and one in which Team GB has a more than odds-on chance of success.
Two world championships have just taken place and with Beijing less than 18 months away, I find it hard to understand why the one discipline in which we are really leading the way is not being used by all other Olympic sports as a blueprint. Swimming has commanded a lot of attention with the appointment after Sydney of the Australian coach Bill Sweetenham, and yet most of the print inches have focussed on controversy and the team comes home now from Melbourne with results lacking in any conviction for success in China.
On the other hand, very few people have ever heard of the Performance Director of Cycling, Dave Brailsford. He neither courts controversy with high profile arguments with his senior team members, nor publicity by whining that his success isn't recognised. He has gone quietly about his job of building a group of coaches - with personal success records - who work together and talk to each other and the team members. He has concentrated on seeking out experts who can bring experience and discipline to his squad - Chris Boardman being the most recognised name. He has not complained about the lack of facilities - the swimmers complain about not enough 50m pools, but there's hardly a plethora of velodromes in the UK either.
There is a different mindset about how the multitude of UK Sports' Performance Directors go about their tasks, but I think it's hard to argue with a man who has just brought home a total of 11 medals in his sport, 7 of them gold, and with a team stuffed full of young talent that will not just be riding for us in Beijing, but they'll be competing in London too.
Chanelle and a certain North London Football Club - (as told to Zephirine)
“I first got to be friends with Alisha cos of Arsene Wenger. We were at school right and we had this teacher Mr Fielding and he was talking about football yeah and he said Arsene Wenger believes in training and discipline because he’s an alsatian. So next time old Arsene was on TV I had a look and the day after yeah I said to Mr Fielding I thought alsatian was wrong he looks more like a collie to me. And Mr Fielding did his like I-went-to-university laugh and said oh no, Chanelle, I meant he comes from the Alsace region of France.
“ I was like omigod and I went really red yeah but then Alisha right they used to have a house in France so she knows stuff, she said no wonder Chanelle misunderstood you Mister Fielding isn’t it supposed to be pronounced alsassyann? And old Fielding took his like I’m-popular-with-the-kids smile off his face and snapped into default teacher grumpy mode and said he was using the Anglican version thank you very much Alisha and stomped off.
“So that’s why I’m friends with her because that’s what you want right, a friend who sticks up for you when you’ve embarrassed yourself instead of taking photos of you on their phone and showing them around. Well I know that’s what we did to the England cricket boys but they got arsey with us so that’s different.
“If I know anything about any football team right which isn’t much yeah it would be Arsenal because when I was about fifteen I was like so so so in love with Thierry Henry I was like, Thierry will never be mine so book me that cell in the convent now. I still think he’s pretty cute to be honest but I try not to have crushes on footballers these days cos I’m supposed to be growing up and stuff right, I mean I can say I wouldn’t kick Owen Hargreaves out of bed but I’m not like pining cos there’s no future in it.
“I don’t mind football but sometimes I wish it wasn’t like totally the most important thing on the planet yeah, I mean if you see a bunch of blokes shouting at each other it’s either football or politics right and 99 time out of 100 it’s football, but that’s the way it is yeah so you have to like survive in a football-obsessed world. So you have to have a few remarks up your sleeve right like, Arsenal have never really replaced Patrick Vieira have they, and with any luck you can throw that one into the conversation yeah and then the blokes won’t stop talking for about a week and you can have another margarita and get on with your life.
“I have a question about football right, which is this: when foreign players come over here right and they’re like, I ‘ad to get used to ze English game because eet ees verry fast and verry physical, yeah, do they really mean that they think all our footballers know how to do is run up and down the pitch a lot and kick the shit out of each other, but the money’s good so they’re staying?
“I put this question to Karl who was this boy I used to go out with yeah he was sweet but he was like the football anorak of all anoraks it could get embarrassing. And Karl looked dead hurt and offended and said it’s a matter of style and ethos right and I said well either they kick the shit out of each other or they don’t and excuse me, I watch TV. So then he decided I didn’t like football yeah and it was like this major problem in our relationship so you see what I mean yeah football has too much influence in the universe.”
“ I was like omigod and I went really red yeah but then Alisha right they used to have a house in France so she knows stuff, she said no wonder Chanelle misunderstood you Mister Fielding isn’t it supposed to be pronounced alsassyann? And old Fielding took his like I’m-popular-with-the-kids smile off his face and snapped into default teacher grumpy mode and said he was using the Anglican version thank you very much Alisha and stomped off.
“So that’s why I’m friends with her because that’s what you want right, a friend who sticks up for you when you’ve embarrassed yourself instead of taking photos of you on their phone and showing them around. Well I know that’s what we did to the England cricket boys but they got arsey with us so that’s different.
“If I know anything about any football team right which isn’t much yeah it would be Arsenal because when I was about fifteen I was like so so so in love with Thierry Henry I was like, Thierry will never be mine so book me that cell in the convent now. I still think he’s pretty cute to be honest but I try not to have crushes on footballers these days cos I’m supposed to be growing up and stuff right, I mean I can say I wouldn’t kick Owen Hargreaves out of bed but I’m not like pining cos there’s no future in it.
“I don’t mind football but sometimes I wish it wasn’t like totally the most important thing on the planet yeah, I mean if you see a bunch of blokes shouting at each other it’s either football or politics right and 99 time out of 100 it’s football, but that’s the way it is yeah so you have to like survive in a football-obsessed world. So you have to have a few remarks up your sleeve right like, Arsenal have never really replaced Patrick Vieira have they, and with any luck you can throw that one into the conversation yeah and then the blokes won’t stop talking for about a week and you can have another margarita and get on with your life.
“I have a question about football right, which is this: when foreign players come over here right and they’re like, I ‘ad to get used to ze English game because eet ees verry fast and verry physical, yeah, do they really mean that they think all our footballers know how to do is run up and down the pitch a lot and kick the shit out of each other, but the money’s good so they’re staying?
“I put this question to Karl who was this boy I used to go out with yeah he was sweet but he was like the football anorak of all anoraks it could get embarrassing. And Karl looked dead hurt and offended and said it’s a matter of style and ethos right and I said well either they kick the shit out of each other or they don’t and excuse me, I watch TV. So then he decided I didn’t like football yeah and it was like this major problem in our relationship so you see what I mean yeah football has too much influence in the universe.”
Thursday, April 5, 2007
The Woodcutters Revolution - nestaquin
There is a myth that has penetrated the media that the International Cricket Council are the custodians of cricket. This fancy waxes that the ICC, from their majestic ivory towers, dispense their wisdom to all the cricketing world. The benevolent bureaucrats rule and the cricket family humbly obeys. Leather hits willow and we all live happily ever after, picnicking under a shady pavilion on a field of green.
What poppycock and cowpats. If the spinners at the ICC ever took up cricket, batsman would find them unplayable. Corporate giants may sit at their feet paying tribute for little more than a big name tag, a few nibblies and an airconditioned box but many in the cricketing world know better.
For those that still hold to the myth, the current World Cup serves as a reminder to its fallacy. Without going into details, it is obvious to most that the ICC have little compassion for the good cricketing folk of the Caribbean. Ridiculous ticket prices, draconian rules of stadia entry and disrespect for the local cricket culture all serve as evidence of the ICC’s true agenda. To feather their own nests and be damned with the cricket. Entrusting the smart suited, tax evading bourgeois of the ICC to care for cricket is akin to permissing mining companies the right to veto environmental legislation.
“Tis an outrage, mon,” shouts Jimmy Mackintosh above the cacophony of traffic in Factory Road outside the splendidly titled Recreation Ground. “Here in Saint Johns cricket is as natural as breathin’ de air.” He pauses and stares with fiery bloodshot eyes as a truck rumbles past and then shouts: "Ja Ja give us all de air we need. We have bats and balls. We need no ICC. We join with our brothers an’ sisters not de oppressor.” The seabreeze blows a rope of salt and pepper hair across his face and he moves closer. “Listen to me when I tell you mon, Babylon will fall when da revolution come.”
Jimmy knows a secret. The revolution has begun and unsurprisingly has its roots in the seemingly quiet hamlet of Franklin, Tasmania. The art of civil disobedience runs strong through families in the area and has been practised for near on two centuries. Thoreau’s Walden is a popular bedtime story and many a house has a picture of Mahatma on the back of the toilet door. Considering that nearby Port Arthur was a keener nineteenth century version of Guantanamo Bay, the art probably has Celtic origins which the prisoners mischieviously transplanted upon arrival.
The headquarters of this new revolution is in the solar powered, weatherboard clubrooms of the Woodcutters Cricket Club. The Green political movement accidently began its journey in the same clubrooms in 1968. At the season ending presentation dinner, under a banner that read, ‘POSSUMS ARE PEOPLE TOO!’, Dr Robert Brown, the flamboyant pediatrician and slow medium trundler presented the riddle that still remains unsolved: “We use the air as a sewer and piss in the water. We enthusiastically poison the earth. We destroy a forest and a desert appears. So where the fuck is a tired possom supposed to kip?”
The Woodcutters as it is commonly known was established by the brothers Flynn in 1824. During the early decades of the colony, the population in the Channel was sparse and predominately male. Denied the opportunity to compete for mates, the brothers, during one particuarly boozy and sexually violent evening with a crew of whalers, wisely decided to express their manliness with bat and ball. For twenty seven long months, with axe and pick they cleared the ancient Antarctic Beech forest beside the Huon River at Franklin, and created the Woodcutters Cricket Ground. The ground’s dimensions remained intact until 1975, when the southern boundary was shortened to accommodate a permaculture garden to provide fresh salads at the lunch interval. The Woodcutters are fiercely independent and have had numerous run ins with the ICC since its invention in 1909 as the Imperial Cricket Council and it would seem, they are finally fed up.
Peg Milkinghorne, alpaca stud owner and current club secretary explains: "Our troubles with the ICC go back along way.” Methodically searching through a battered, olive green filing cabinet she produces a yellowing document and sighs, “here it is”. She sits at her sassafras desk: “This was the first letter we received from London. It is dated the sixth of May, 1910. It basically says that the king has appointed the men of the ICC as the guardians of cricket and that we must follow their direction. It ends with the phrase For King and Empire.” A little giggle escapes Peg’s lips, "Always get a chuckle around here", smiling she continues: “England is a fair stretch from Franklin, love. Did you know that outer space is closer?”
Between satellite video calls to Antigua and Barbados, Peg gave me a summary of the many disputes The Woodcutters have had with the burghers of Lords. She told of the axing of the back foot law and how it ignited an umpire strike and caused more than a few retirements. “It was a terrible time, dear. More than one match ended unfinished in fisticuffs.”
The season in which field restrictions arrived caused even more confusion and consternation. “They have no respect for the conventions.” Peg explained how the Woodcutters still used the ‘Code of 1744’ for cricket related measurements. “We have a Gunter’s chain to measure the pitch and use an ell-wand for other measurements. We could find no Saxon measuring implement that was the required length for the inner circle. Despite many letters back and forth to London and more recently Dubai, we still have no resolution to this problem.” She sheepishly added: “The ICC eventually sent a measuring tape and a box of white Kookaburras. The tape was quite useful for indoor bowls and renovating the club kitchen but the white balls proved difficult to see against the sightboard. The club donated the balls to the widow Bella Hunt.” She paused to look through the window at a flock of Red Breasted Black Cockatoo descending on the outfield before continuing: “Her husband Ted was an opening bat in the tragic premiership winning 1964/65 team that was decimated by conscription and Vietnam.” Another mournful peek through the pane. “Anyway, she had plenty of room in the shed and wrote the club a lovely thankyou saying how useful they were in training cattledog pups, growing tomatoes and drowning feral cats.”
The recent law change that restricts the number of bouncers per over produced such outrage within the Woodcutters that counselling sessions with Helen Evenstar, the local aromatherapist were made available. Fast bowlers like Bluey Thomson were even more angry than usual. “The bats have helmets, what’s their problem?”. He spat on the ground and rubbed the congealed saliva into the dirt with his sole. “My old man Nobby, who took 426 wickets for the ‘Cutters would be rolling in his grave. I’m pissed off. Helen gave me a lavender pouch to put under my pillow but all it does is make my dog sneeze all bloody night. I had to chain him to the ute. I can tell you, it’s bloody cold in bed without Max.”
Action was needed. In fine democratic tradition the Woodcutters lobbied their rival clubs’ fast bowlers and stacked the Channel Association election. Their charismatic former champion all rounder Hugo Churchill stood as a candidate. Hugo quoted Edmund Burke ad nauseum and won the top job in a landslide. Immediately, the restriction on short pitched bowling was scrapped as was the free hit for overstepping the crease. Other changes soon followed to even up the battle between bat and ball.
Whilst travelling the state classing wool, mulesing and comparing Merino scrotums, Hugo convinced others to thumb their nose at the ICC. Using the slogan "If it wasn’t for bumpers Hilfy would be bricklaying”, he convinced every Association on the island to reject the ICC missive. Soon mainland associations joined the insurrection. Kalgoorlie was first and Cootamundra, Wee Waa and Mullumbimby soon followed. Antiguan Jimmy Mackintosh, a cousin of Curtly Ambrose and brother in law to Andy Roberts, heard of the grassroots campaign against the ICC at the Cornerstone Roots reggae festival and quietly convinced the Saint Johns cricket association to get on board. Similar grassroots campaigns are beginning to take root in Matabo, Stanley, Bridgetown and Invercargill.
The Tasmanian Cricket Board elections are slated for May 2007 and Hugo with team of burly fast men, is standing. The word around the traps is that Hugo is becoming a megolamaniac that will win hands down. The suits are worried and currently they are running a series of unprecedented political propaganda advertisements between overs during the World Cup. Whilst images of Tasmania’s win in the Sheffield Shield final flitter across the screen, an insincere voiceover informs of the inspiring work the current administation are doing. Incredibly the commercial finishes with Ben Hilfenhaus clocking Simon Katich with a bouncer!
The Woodcutters expect that they will have control of Cricket Australia within the decade, not from violent resistance but from stacking elections with disgruntled fast bowlers. As an opening batsman I find this political situation a bit like taking strike on the first morning of a match. Disturbing and yet thrilling. The thought of the unknown always is.
The ICC have failed to heed the first lesson that cricket teaches. Watch the ball. Or as Hugo Churchill so eloquently puts it: “The good shepherds of the Weald invented the grand game of cricket and not one member of the ICC has ever sheared a sheep. It’s a bloody disgrace. Their days are numbered. The revolution has begun."
What poppycock and cowpats. If the spinners at the ICC ever took up cricket, batsman would find them unplayable. Corporate giants may sit at their feet paying tribute for little more than a big name tag, a few nibblies and an airconditioned box but many in the cricketing world know better.
For those that still hold to the myth, the current World Cup serves as a reminder to its fallacy. Without going into details, it is obvious to most that the ICC have little compassion for the good cricketing folk of the Caribbean. Ridiculous ticket prices, draconian rules of stadia entry and disrespect for the local cricket culture all serve as evidence of the ICC’s true agenda. To feather their own nests and be damned with the cricket. Entrusting the smart suited, tax evading bourgeois of the ICC to care for cricket is akin to permissing mining companies the right to veto environmental legislation.
“Tis an outrage, mon,” shouts Jimmy Mackintosh above the cacophony of traffic in Factory Road outside the splendidly titled Recreation Ground. “Here in Saint Johns cricket is as natural as breathin’ de air.” He pauses and stares with fiery bloodshot eyes as a truck rumbles past and then shouts: "Ja Ja give us all de air we need. We have bats and balls. We need no ICC. We join with our brothers an’ sisters not de oppressor.” The seabreeze blows a rope of salt and pepper hair across his face and he moves closer. “Listen to me when I tell you mon, Babylon will fall when da revolution come.”
Jimmy knows a secret. The revolution has begun and unsurprisingly has its roots in the seemingly quiet hamlet of Franklin, Tasmania. The art of civil disobedience runs strong through families in the area and has been practised for near on two centuries. Thoreau’s Walden is a popular bedtime story and many a house has a picture of Mahatma on the back of the toilet door. Considering that nearby Port Arthur was a keener nineteenth century version of Guantanamo Bay, the art probably has Celtic origins which the prisoners mischieviously transplanted upon arrival.
The headquarters of this new revolution is in the solar powered, weatherboard clubrooms of the Woodcutters Cricket Club. The Green political movement accidently began its journey in the same clubrooms in 1968. At the season ending presentation dinner, under a banner that read, ‘POSSUMS ARE PEOPLE TOO!’, Dr Robert Brown, the flamboyant pediatrician and slow medium trundler presented the riddle that still remains unsolved: “We use the air as a sewer and piss in the water. We enthusiastically poison the earth. We destroy a forest and a desert appears. So where the fuck is a tired possom supposed to kip?”
The Woodcutters as it is commonly known was established by the brothers Flynn in 1824. During the early decades of the colony, the population in the Channel was sparse and predominately male. Denied the opportunity to compete for mates, the brothers, during one particuarly boozy and sexually violent evening with a crew of whalers, wisely decided to express their manliness with bat and ball. For twenty seven long months, with axe and pick they cleared the ancient Antarctic Beech forest beside the Huon River at Franklin, and created the Woodcutters Cricket Ground. The ground’s dimensions remained intact until 1975, when the southern boundary was shortened to accommodate a permaculture garden to provide fresh salads at the lunch interval. The Woodcutters are fiercely independent and have had numerous run ins with the ICC since its invention in 1909 as the Imperial Cricket Council and it would seem, they are finally fed up.
Peg Milkinghorne, alpaca stud owner and current club secretary explains: "Our troubles with the ICC go back along way.” Methodically searching through a battered, olive green filing cabinet she produces a yellowing document and sighs, “here it is”. She sits at her sassafras desk: “This was the first letter we received from London. It is dated the sixth of May, 1910. It basically says that the king has appointed the men of the ICC as the guardians of cricket and that we must follow their direction. It ends with the phrase For King and Empire.” A little giggle escapes Peg’s lips, "Always get a chuckle around here", smiling she continues: “England is a fair stretch from Franklin, love. Did you know that outer space is closer?”
Between satellite video calls to Antigua and Barbados, Peg gave me a summary of the many disputes The Woodcutters have had with the burghers of Lords. She told of the axing of the back foot law and how it ignited an umpire strike and caused more than a few retirements. “It was a terrible time, dear. More than one match ended unfinished in fisticuffs.”
The season in which field restrictions arrived caused even more confusion and consternation. “They have no respect for the conventions.” Peg explained how the Woodcutters still used the ‘Code of 1744’ for cricket related measurements. “We have a Gunter’s chain to measure the pitch and use an ell-wand for other measurements. We could find no Saxon measuring implement that was the required length for the inner circle. Despite many letters back and forth to London and more recently Dubai, we still have no resolution to this problem.” She sheepishly added: “The ICC eventually sent a measuring tape and a box of white Kookaburras. The tape was quite useful for indoor bowls and renovating the club kitchen but the white balls proved difficult to see against the sightboard. The club donated the balls to the widow Bella Hunt.” She paused to look through the window at a flock of Red Breasted Black Cockatoo descending on the outfield before continuing: “Her husband Ted was an opening bat in the tragic premiership winning 1964/65 team that was decimated by conscription and Vietnam.” Another mournful peek through the pane. “Anyway, she had plenty of room in the shed and wrote the club a lovely thankyou saying how useful they were in training cattledog pups, growing tomatoes and drowning feral cats.”
The recent law change that restricts the number of bouncers per over produced such outrage within the Woodcutters that counselling sessions with Helen Evenstar, the local aromatherapist were made available. Fast bowlers like Bluey Thomson were even more angry than usual. “The bats have helmets, what’s their problem?”. He spat on the ground and rubbed the congealed saliva into the dirt with his sole. “My old man Nobby, who took 426 wickets for the ‘Cutters would be rolling in his grave. I’m pissed off. Helen gave me a lavender pouch to put under my pillow but all it does is make my dog sneeze all bloody night. I had to chain him to the ute. I can tell you, it’s bloody cold in bed without Max.”
Action was needed. In fine democratic tradition the Woodcutters lobbied their rival clubs’ fast bowlers and stacked the Channel Association election. Their charismatic former champion all rounder Hugo Churchill stood as a candidate. Hugo quoted Edmund Burke ad nauseum and won the top job in a landslide. Immediately, the restriction on short pitched bowling was scrapped as was the free hit for overstepping the crease. Other changes soon followed to even up the battle between bat and ball.
Whilst travelling the state classing wool, mulesing and comparing Merino scrotums, Hugo convinced others to thumb their nose at the ICC. Using the slogan "If it wasn’t for bumpers Hilfy would be bricklaying”, he convinced every Association on the island to reject the ICC missive. Soon mainland associations joined the insurrection. Kalgoorlie was first and Cootamundra, Wee Waa and Mullumbimby soon followed. Antiguan Jimmy Mackintosh, a cousin of Curtly Ambrose and brother in law to Andy Roberts, heard of the grassroots campaign against the ICC at the Cornerstone Roots reggae festival and quietly convinced the Saint Johns cricket association to get on board. Similar grassroots campaigns are beginning to take root in Matabo, Stanley, Bridgetown and Invercargill.
The Tasmanian Cricket Board elections are slated for May 2007 and Hugo with team of burly fast men, is standing. The word around the traps is that Hugo is becoming a megolamaniac that will win hands down. The suits are worried and currently they are running a series of unprecedented political propaganda advertisements between overs during the World Cup. Whilst images of Tasmania’s win in the Sheffield Shield final flitter across the screen, an insincere voiceover informs of the inspiring work the current administation are doing. Incredibly the commercial finishes with Ben Hilfenhaus clocking Simon Katich with a bouncer!
The Woodcutters expect that they will have control of Cricket Australia within the decade, not from violent resistance but from stacking elections with disgruntled fast bowlers. As an opening batsman I find this political situation a bit like taking strike on the first morning of a match. Disturbing and yet thrilling. The thought of the unknown always is.
The ICC have failed to heed the first lesson that cricket teaches. Watch the ball. Or as Hugo Churchill so eloquently puts it: “The good shepherds of the Weald invented the grand game of cricket and not one member of the ICC has ever sheared a sheep. It’s a bloody disgrace. Their days are numbered. The revolution has begun."
Wednesday, April 4, 2007
The Battle of Japan - mimitig
The Formula 1 season is about to get under way and two Japanese giants are going head-to-head, again. But it won't be to see who wins the World Championship.
Toyota: the epitome of Japanese corporate thinking. Honda: famous for winning in motor sport.
Between them, they spend more on competing in the premier class of motor racing than any other pairing of teams. Both have both illustrious histories of achievement but for some reason, success in the modern era of Formula 1 has eluded them and, particularly in the case of Honda, fans are wondering why.
In the past, Honda achieved huge success as an engine supplier to the British "garagiste" teams of Williams and McLaren. Frank Williams was the first to coax Honda into modern F1. The founder of Honda, Soichiro Honda was himself a motor sport fanatic and his spirit was inbued into what would become the Honda Racing Corporation. After years of winning in motor-bikes, they took a chance with Frank and supplied him with engines from 1983. In 1987 Piquet won the titles for Williams and Honda, but with Frank in a wheel-chair following his life-threatening car-crash near Nice in 86, maybe Honda had doubts about the future of Team Willy. The next year saw them start the season on board with Britain's most successful Formula 1 team: McLaren. OK, Bruce was a Kiwi, but by the late 80s, former mechanic, Ron Dennis was very much in charge at McLaren and he was more than ready to go all out to win, and win brutally. With the Ronster in charge and Honda engines, McLaren re-wrote the record books and in 1988 the MP4/4 won 15 out of 16 races, Prost and Senna the world-class pedallers.
1992 saw Honda withdraw, not to return until 2000 when they partnered British American Racing, buying the team in 2005 since when they have garnered just one win.
Toyota have no such wealth of Formula 1 history, but they have Mikkola and Sainz who gave them wins in World Rallying. In the late 90s they became a major force in US motorsport. Juan Pablo Montoya gave them their first ever open-wheel racing win at Milwaukee in 2000. They were a welcome entrant in the Le Mans 24 Hour race and with Brundle, Boutsen and Katayama at the wheel came perilously close to a win in 1999 before a breakdown scuppered their chances.
They entered the piranha pit in 2002 aiming to be the new team proving all critics wrong and achieving a win in their first year. They have still to win, or even mount a serious challenge, despite having one of the biggest budgets in Formula 1.
How then, can we come into the start of the 2007 season, not placing bets on which of these 2 will win the most races, simply wondering if either will live up to their dreams. Will Honda or Toyota win the battle of the Japanese giants?
Toyota: the epitome of Japanese corporate thinking. Honda: famous for winning in motor sport.
Between them, they spend more on competing in the premier class of motor racing than any other pairing of teams. Both have both illustrious histories of achievement but for some reason, success in the modern era of Formula 1 has eluded them and, particularly in the case of Honda, fans are wondering why.
In the past, Honda achieved huge success as an engine supplier to the British "garagiste" teams of Williams and McLaren. Frank Williams was the first to coax Honda into modern F1. The founder of Honda, Soichiro Honda was himself a motor sport fanatic and his spirit was inbued into what would become the Honda Racing Corporation. After years of winning in motor-bikes, they took a chance with Frank and supplied him with engines from 1983. In 1987 Piquet won the titles for Williams and Honda, but with Frank in a wheel-chair following his life-threatening car-crash near Nice in 86, maybe Honda had doubts about the future of Team Willy. The next year saw them start the season on board with Britain's most successful Formula 1 team: McLaren. OK, Bruce was a Kiwi, but by the late 80s, former mechanic, Ron Dennis was very much in charge at McLaren and he was more than ready to go all out to win, and win brutally. With the Ronster in charge and Honda engines, McLaren re-wrote the record books and in 1988 the MP4/4 won 15 out of 16 races, Prost and Senna the world-class pedallers.
1992 saw Honda withdraw, not to return until 2000 when they partnered British American Racing, buying the team in 2005 since when they have garnered just one win.
Toyota have no such wealth of Formula 1 history, but they have Mikkola and Sainz who gave them wins in World Rallying. In the late 90s they became a major force in US motorsport. Juan Pablo Montoya gave them their first ever open-wheel racing win at Milwaukee in 2000. They were a welcome entrant in the Le Mans 24 Hour race and with Brundle, Boutsen and Katayama at the wheel came perilously close to a win in 1999 before a breakdown scuppered their chances.
They entered the piranha pit in 2002 aiming to be the new team proving all critics wrong and achieving a win in their first year. They have still to win, or even mount a serious challenge, despite having one of the biggest budgets in Formula 1.
How then, can we come into the start of the 2007 season, not placing bets on which of these 2 will win the most races, simply wondering if either will live up to their dreams. Will Honda or Toyota win the battle of the Japanese giants?
Tuesday, April 3, 2007
Midweek drinking - by Greengrass&Offside
The Pakalolo Tavern is empty with the exception of a defrocked vicar, a hungover Greengrass and his formerly well-hung hound. The hound is wearing a bewildered expression and an oversize bandage around what was, until recently, its oversized hindquarters. Prior to imbibing yet another pint of Fernet Branca, Greengrass leans over to have a word in the vicar's ear:
- A word in your ear, vicar. Ingrid sez to me, she sez that this place were teemin' wi' foreigners all bloody neet!
- My good fellow, your language, please!
- Teemin' wi' 'em, it were - like flies round cow... ...muck. It were that froggy bloke fetched 'em in - 'im wi' t' Tarzan gear on 'im. They come from all over t'show, she sez -Argentina, Froggyland, Scotland... ... there were even one reet bonny lass wi' a funny name - Marbella or summat. T'pubs never shut where they come from, tha knows - life is one eternal lock-in. Done for my dog, they did, wi' their performance-enhancing pills. 'e's never performed better in his life, an' 'e'll never perform again. Ah were thinkin' o' matin' 'im wi' Ingrid's chihuahua - quiet, Nebuchadnezzar, lad! - but...
- He will be in my prayers, of that you may be assured. Should we get down to business? I've written this - eh - "rap" poem that I'd like us to recite at next Sunday's service. The verger's son has promised to provide us with some "beats", as he calls them, and I think it will be just the thing to attract more young people to our church. Here is your copy!
The vicar hands Greengrass a sheet of paper, stands up, and starts reciting - only to break off after a few lines.
- Greengrass, you're supposed to take part! I'd really appreciate it if you would stand up, move around, point at the flock now and then, and join in at the end of every line - defrocked, dead shocked, half-cocked, head-knocked, etcetera. Make an effort, man!
At this moment, a scantily-clad man with a French appearance enters and shambles to the bar. Greengrass leans over to whisper a word in the vicar's ear.
- A word in your ear, vicar. That's 'im!
Offside goes straight behind the bar and starts pulling himself a pint of the black stuff.
-Hi Greengrass, how's it going? Ingrid still off, is she? Oh, hello, vicar.
Greengrass looks askance at the intruder.
- My lad Ingrid sez 'e'll be back as soon as she gets out o' t'clinic.
Offside saunters o ver to the juke-box and chooses 'Je te pogue, moi non plus', sung by Jane McGowan. The vicar eyes Offside's attire. The cream rises. Offside fixes the vicar with an icy stare.
- Tell me, vicar, you wouldn't be from the London Missionary Society by any chance?
- Why?
- Well, if you were, I might want to have a word with you about your fellow priests' actions in the South Pacific a couple of centuries ago. Like, why would you tell people who live in a hot climate that they have to cover themselves for the sake of decency, or why tell them they should stop rolling around in the grass all day and get to work, you know, stuff like that...
A panicked expression creeps across the vicar's face. Pint in hand, Offside walks across and finds himself a stool. He sits next to the vicar and slaps him on the back.
- Just kidding, vicar, just kidding. I know you'd nothing to do with it yourself. Hey Greengrass, I heard a good one today, listen to this. In a game of football, how can a player score two goals without setting foot on the pitch?
Greengrass and the vicar exchange a look of disbelief.
- It's impossible, says Greengrass
- Maybe, divine intervention...
- No, no, none of that crap. Just a normal football game, and well, ok, a slightly unusual set of circumstances...
Offside stops dead. He's suddenly spotted the dog and now stares at the beast, wide-eyed.
- Jaysus, Greengrass, is that a hyena?
Greengrass fixes Offside with any icy stare (n.b. not the same one that Offside used earlier).
- No, it's not. And that's a good thing fer thee, cos (eyes Offside's loincloth) them 'yenas eats dead meat.
A sound is heard from outside.
- A word in your ear, vicar. Ingrid sez to me, she sez that this place were teemin' wi' foreigners all bloody neet!
- My good fellow, your language, please!
- Teemin' wi' 'em, it were - like flies round cow... ...muck. It were that froggy bloke fetched 'em in - 'im wi' t' Tarzan gear on 'im. They come from all over t'show, she sez -Argentina, Froggyland, Scotland... ... there were even one reet bonny lass wi' a funny name - Marbella or summat. T'pubs never shut where they come from, tha knows - life is one eternal lock-in. Done for my dog, they did, wi' their performance-enhancing pills. 'e's never performed better in his life, an' 'e'll never perform again. Ah were thinkin' o' matin' 'im wi' Ingrid's chihuahua - quiet, Nebuchadnezzar, lad! - but...
- He will be in my prayers, of that you may be assured. Should we get down to business? I've written this - eh - "rap" poem that I'd like us to recite at next Sunday's service. The verger's son has promised to provide us with some "beats", as he calls them, and I think it will be just the thing to attract more young people to our church. Here is your copy!
The vicar hands Greengrass a sheet of paper, stands up, and starts reciting - only to break off after a few lines.
- Greengrass, you're supposed to take part! I'd really appreciate it if you would stand up, move around, point at the flock now and then, and join in at the end of every line - defrocked, dead shocked, half-cocked, head-knocked, etcetera. Make an effort, man!
At this moment, a scantily-clad man with a French appearance enters and shambles to the bar. Greengrass leans over to whisper a word in the vicar's ear.
- A word in your ear, vicar. That's 'im!
Offside goes straight behind the bar and starts pulling himself a pint of the black stuff.
-Hi Greengrass, how's it going? Ingrid still off, is she? Oh, hello, vicar.
Greengrass looks askance at the intruder.
- My lad Ingrid sez 'e'll be back as soon as she gets out o' t'clinic.
Offside saunters o ver to the juke-box and chooses 'Je te pogue, moi non plus', sung by Jane McGowan. The vicar eyes Offside's attire. The cream rises. Offside fixes the vicar with an icy stare.
- Tell me, vicar, you wouldn't be from the London Missionary Society by any chance?
- Why?
- Well, if you were, I might want to have a word with you about your fellow priests' actions in the South Pacific a couple of centuries ago. Like, why would you tell people who live in a hot climate that they have to cover themselves for the sake of decency, or why tell them they should stop rolling around in the grass all day and get to work, you know, stuff like that...
A panicked expression creeps across the vicar's face. Pint in hand, Offside walks across and finds himself a stool. He sits next to the vicar and slaps him on the back.
- Just kidding, vicar, just kidding. I know you'd nothing to do with it yourself. Hey Greengrass, I heard a good one today, listen to this. In a game of football, how can a player score two goals without setting foot on the pitch?
Greengrass and the vicar exchange a look of disbelief.
- It's impossible, says Greengrass
- Maybe, divine intervention...
- No, no, none of that crap. Just a normal football game, and well, ok, a slightly unusual set of circumstances...
Offside stops dead. He's suddenly spotted the dog and now stares at the beast, wide-eyed.
- Jaysus, Greengrass, is that a hyena?
Greengrass fixes Offside with any icy stare (n.b. not the same one that Offside used earlier).
- No, it's not. And that's a good thing fer thee, cos (eyes Offside's loincloth) them 'yenas eats dead meat.
A sound is heard from outside.
It’s not just a game - Paulita
Being born to a xeneize family, I don’t recall ever having a choice about football: we like football but we love Boca. And that is that. Never have I wished it to be otherwise, except for a couple of slippery seconds during the Boca - River, River - Boca semifinals of the Libertadores Cup 2004.
I found myself doing what most football fans do at extreme distress, I tried to persuade myself that everything was alright and no matter what fate had in store for us, it didn’t matter anyway because it was just a game.
Actually, two games, and a 1 - 0 win at home is a small advantage. Nevertheless, there I was, bouncing at the rhythm of drums, trumpets and chants such as ‘Boca is the people, the carnival, Boca I carry you in my soul and every day I love you more’.
After a week of shy exchange of mockery with some gallina friends, I was ready for the second leg. From River, ex footballer, by then Astrada’s assistant, Hernán Díaz, less cautiously stated “we will win 3 - 0”. From Boca, Bianchi answered with his silence “We’ll see”.
Authorities had decided that only local audience would be allowed so we all sat at our preestablished seats at home, the same we’ve used for other glorious victories. A neutral Racing fan is well received but not another certain person. Not that we believe in magic, amulets or anything like that, but it’s no time to tempt fortune either.
I’m determined not to celebrate before it’s over. River wins 1 - 0 but has one player sent off for insulting the referee. Hernán Díaz, conspicuously nervous, is sent off too. And in the 88th minute Carlos Tevez, also a congenital bostero, scores not only a nice and what we thought to be a defining goal, but also gets two yellow cards straight on. Taking off the shirt + aping a chicken (gallina) = early exit to the changing room. But we shout anyway and we hug in a fete noisy enough to irk some neighbors.
I have not told you but I live in a gallina crowded area. Especially during the summer, when most windows are open, you can tell with no need of a census what kind football fans surround you. It’s quite an easy thing to establish because all of them are just as loud. In my case, I’m stuck between River fans, they celebrate River goals as loudly as they celebrate the ones that Boca´s opposition scores. Forget about the radio (or meditating), you’ll find out the scores whether you want or not.
The thing is, with still some insults echoing in between the buildings, Nasutti scores for River. A packed to the rim Monumental explodes in a tempestuous joy and so do my neighbors.
Penalty shootouts it is.
Now I’m determined to stay calm, Abbondanzieri is an expert and, besides, I’m sticking with that of it being just a game.
River goes first. Chilean Marcelo Salas scores. Lucho Gonzalez, Montenegro and Cavenaghi score for River. In a fearless move, Bianchi sends two juvenile debutants (Ledesma and Alvarez) to shoot. That is fearless for him because I’m having trouble getting the necessary oxygen. They both score. The same, Burdisso and Schiavi.
We are 4 - 4. I stand up for having a numb foot but the condemning looks of my clan make me take sit again. It’s Maxi Lopez’s turn and Abbondanzieri lives up to his fame. Villarreal seals the victory scoring the fifth penalty.
Boca’s players seem to celebrate in the cone of silence.
I giggle, partly because I’m happy and partly because my body, set on the alert mode, refuses to believe it’s over.
All of a sudden, the dark blue sky is scribbled with fireworks, proving the existence of another island of bosteros. It makes absolutely no logical sense but the feeling is of supreme completeness.
The following day, Buenos Aires would be wallpapered with taunting posters. Again, you could easily tell who was on what side, only this time by the look in their faces. We, Boca’s fans, walked along with a sentiment of pride, as if our input had been decisive, as if it was our merit. River fans were mostly left without words, assuming within the defeat.
Before I forget to tell you, the Libertadores Cup 2004 was finally won by Once Caldas from Colombia. But that was really just a game.
I found myself doing what most football fans do at extreme distress, I tried to persuade myself that everything was alright and no matter what fate had in store for us, it didn’t matter anyway because it was just a game.
Actually, two games, and a 1 - 0 win at home is a small advantage. Nevertheless, there I was, bouncing at the rhythm of drums, trumpets and chants such as ‘Boca is the people, the carnival, Boca I carry you in my soul and every day I love you more’.
After a week of shy exchange of mockery with some gallina friends, I was ready for the second leg. From River, ex footballer, by then Astrada’s assistant, Hernán Díaz, less cautiously stated “we will win 3 - 0”. From Boca, Bianchi answered with his silence “We’ll see”.
Authorities had decided that only local audience would be allowed so we all sat at our preestablished seats at home, the same we’ve used for other glorious victories. A neutral Racing fan is well received but not another certain person. Not that we believe in magic, amulets or anything like that, but it’s no time to tempt fortune either.
I’m determined not to celebrate before it’s over. River wins 1 - 0 but has one player sent off for insulting the referee. Hernán Díaz, conspicuously nervous, is sent off too. And in the 88th minute Carlos Tevez, also a congenital bostero, scores not only a nice and what we thought to be a defining goal, but also gets two yellow cards straight on. Taking off the shirt + aping a chicken (gallina) = early exit to the changing room. But we shout anyway and we hug in a fete noisy enough to irk some neighbors.
I have not told you but I live in a gallina crowded area. Especially during the summer, when most windows are open, you can tell with no need of a census what kind football fans surround you. It’s quite an easy thing to establish because all of them are just as loud. In my case, I’m stuck between River fans, they celebrate River goals as loudly as they celebrate the ones that Boca´s opposition scores. Forget about the radio (or meditating), you’ll find out the scores whether you want or not.
The thing is, with still some insults echoing in between the buildings, Nasutti scores for River. A packed to the rim Monumental explodes in a tempestuous joy and so do my neighbors.
Penalty shootouts it is.
Now I’m determined to stay calm, Abbondanzieri is an expert and, besides, I’m sticking with that of it being just a game.
River goes first. Chilean Marcelo Salas scores. Lucho Gonzalez, Montenegro and Cavenaghi score for River. In a fearless move, Bianchi sends two juvenile debutants (Ledesma and Alvarez) to shoot. That is fearless for him because I’m having trouble getting the necessary oxygen. They both score. The same, Burdisso and Schiavi.
We are 4 - 4. I stand up for having a numb foot but the condemning looks of my clan make me take sit again. It’s Maxi Lopez’s turn and Abbondanzieri lives up to his fame. Villarreal seals the victory scoring the fifth penalty.
Boca’s players seem to celebrate in the cone of silence.
I giggle, partly because I’m happy and partly because my body, set on the alert mode, refuses to believe it’s over.
All of a sudden, the dark blue sky is scribbled with fireworks, proving the existence of another island of bosteros. It makes absolutely no logical sense but the feeling is of supreme completeness.
The following day, Buenos Aires would be wallpapered with taunting posters. Again, you could easily tell who was on what side, only this time by the look in their faces. We, Boca’s fans, walked along with a sentiment of pride, as if our input had been decisive, as if it was our merit. River fans were mostly left without words, assuming within the defeat.
Before I forget to tell you, the Libertadores Cup 2004 was finally won by Once Caldas from Colombia. But that was really just a game.
Monday, April 2, 2007
Sports and Authority (Escape from Alcatraz) - Guitougoal
Monday’s Matt Scott column about European football clubs holding talks over a potential breakaway from Uefa and Fifa sounds like the remake of an old Clint Eastwood film: ”Escape from Alcatraz”.
Does that sound like there is trouble between the rich and the richer? Next step we learn the players decided to have their own team and the coaches claimed the right to choose the referees who don’t mind being insulted by the athletes. Are the inmates taking over the asylum or the elephants running the circus? No, but disrespect for authority is at an all time high in sports. Respect for authority has eroded. It’s not with the managers it’s with authority figures across the board.
“Authority” of course depends on the author. Authority got mad as we have seen in the world and should always be questioned. The crew of the Bounty had good reason to mutiny but authority for the good of the group is another matter. It was probably the Romans who created the modern notion of authority. And they built aqueducts, formed military chains of command and built a great civilization and brought discipline where there had been chaos. They designed a blueprint for the world.
What has this to do with athletes insulting the referees? Just this: all sports, like Caesar’s Gaul are divided into three parts: players, managers and owners. They have to work together under the supervision of their league. You render to Caesar things that are Caesar’s. Otherwise dysfunction and individualism are overrated, as we see it today, if we don’t like the rules we disqualify the maker of the rules. No laws, no bosses then no progress. Blaming the victim has become a national pastime.
Examples, good or bad, come from above. Some clubs driven by economical need or just pure greed are attempting to challenge the federations in control. By doing so, they are setting an unprecedented challenge to a legal authority. The lesson at work here is that what once constituted authority is in full, mindless retreat. The owners have to be reminded that to breakaway is like to run away from the law. Any attempt by the clubs to escape should be perceived by the public as an illegal challenge to the authority and as a bad example for those who are looking up to them.
Where Are We Now? - Greengrass
Ebren was highly dubious about publishing this piece, as he doesn't wish to appear self-congratulatory. I, however, do not mind congratulating you on making this forum possible. Nor do I mind congratulating all those who have given me such wonderful entertainment on here. Do I thereby slap my own back? Hardly! My appreciation of this forum is a matter of taste. I think this is better than other sites; others will disagree - good luck to them!
This is a completely off-topic article - it's not about sport, it's about a jewel called "Pseuds' Corner". What a long way we've come in such a short time! I've read a lot of very good work on here, and seen a good number of comments and ideas that are worth discussing.
Pseuds' Corner has resulted in a sea-change in my habits. I used to get a fair bit of flak from Mrs. Greengrass because I was hooked on the GU Sports Blog. Once upon a time, I started my day by reading the morning paper. Then I started my day by reading the Guardian on-line. One day, I had a look at the blogs. Then I registered, and started posting. What a wonderful world! As time passed, certain other posters became familiar - I started looking forward to their posts. We were accused of being a clique - well, we did have a quiet evening in a taproom once - and I almost made the Clique First XI. I was hooked! Then I was banned!
After a period of reflection and revolutionary rumbling, Ebren let this forum see the light of day. Now I get a fair bit of flak from Mrs.Greengrass because I'm hooked on Pseuds' Corner. This is what I read first thing every morning these days, if I'm anywhere near a computer. Why? Because the best reading around used to be GU, and this is better.
I find much of the writing on here far superior to most of the writing on GU, and some of the pieces far better than the Big Blogger harvest. What do we get to read on here?
Some "articles", perhaps, but I would prefer to call most of the contributions "pieces" - writings which the writers want to share with others in order to provide enjoyment. A variety of pieces, featuring everything under the sun that has something to do with sport, from bare-faced truth to honest lies. Sometimes I feel deeply moved, sometimes I feel deeply moved to laughter - there is far more humour on here!
What sort of writing community is this? Well, it's not a School of Creative Writing - our pieces are not processed on here, they are up and running when they arrive. It's not a nursery - generally speaking, the pieces on here are far too mature for that. It's a warm forum with open arms - "like my piece or lump it; I hope you enjoy it!"
I seem to recall some voices calling for more criticism, but I disagree: this is an open forum, and criticism - however well-meant! - might scare some potential contributors away.
There is one idea I would like to float: playing the journalist! Andy Bull was recently praised on GU for a wonderful article on the state of Zimbabwe. Soon after, he was criticised for an article on betting odds. This highlights the plight of the journeyman journalist: he/she can't always write from the heart. On here, we can write from the heart -or choose not to write. Some of us have, on occasion, been accused of being wannabee journos, jealous of the real hacks; judging by the pieces on here, that is simply not the case. It could, however, be fun to play at being hacks: the editorial board could surreptitiously give one of us a subject and a deadline, then publish the result. No tricky subjects to trip us up, but an honest gig! I wouldn't mind a shot at that!
Apart from that, I wouldn't change a thing. This forum is prospering, with new voices continually popping up for our mutual entertainment. And humour burgeons - not least in the form of Cricket Tapes and Alisha & Chantelle. There's even a taproom where I can seek sanctuary whenever Mrs. GG's flak gets too much for me!
Keep on writing,
Greengrass
This is a completely off-topic article - it's not about sport, it's about a jewel called "Pseuds' Corner". What a long way we've come in such a short time! I've read a lot of very good work on here, and seen a good number of comments and ideas that are worth discussing.
Pseuds' Corner has resulted in a sea-change in my habits. I used to get a fair bit of flak from Mrs. Greengrass because I was hooked on the GU Sports Blog. Once upon a time, I started my day by reading the morning paper. Then I started my day by reading the Guardian on-line. One day, I had a look at the blogs. Then I registered, and started posting. What a wonderful world! As time passed, certain other posters became familiar - I started looking forward to their posts. We were accused of being a clique - well, we did have a quiet evening in a taproom once - and I almost made the Clique First XI. I was hooked! Then I was banned!
After a period of reflection and revolutionary rumbling, Ebren let this forum see the light of day. Now I get a fair bit of flak from Mrs.Greengrass because I'm hooked on Pseuds' Corner. This is what I read first thing every morning these days, if I'm anywhere near a computer. Why? Because the best reading around used to be GU, and this is better.
I find much of the writing on here far superior to most of the writing on GU, and some of the pieces far better than the Big Blogger harvest. What do we get to read on here?
Some "articles", perhaps, but I would prefer to call most of the contributions "pieces" - writings which the writers want to share with others in order to provide enjoyment. A variety of pieces, featuring everything under the sun that has something to do with sport, from bare-faced truth to honest lies. Sometimes I feel deeply moved, sometimes I feel deeply moved to laughter - there is far more humour on here!
What sort of writing community is this? Well, it's not a School of Creative Writing - our pieces are not processed on here, they are up and running when they arrive. It's not a nursery - generally speaking, the pieces on here are far too mature for that. It's a warm forum with open arms - "like my piece or lump it; I hope you enjoy it!"
I seem to recall some voices calling for more criticism, but I disagree: this is an open forum, and criticism - however well-meant! - might scare some potential contributors away.
There is one idea I would like to float: playing the journalist! Andy Bull was recently praised on GU for a wonderful article on the state of Zimbabwe. Soon after, he was criticised for an article on betting odds. This highlights the plight of the journeyman journalist: he/she can't always write from the heart. On here, we can write from the heart -or choose not to write. Some of us have, on occasion, been accused of being wannabee journos, jealous of the real hacks; judging by the pieces on here, that is simply not the case. It could, however, be fun to play at being hacks: the editorial board could surreptitiously give one of us a subject and a deadline, then publish the result. No tricky subjects to trip us up, but an honest gig! I wouldn't mind a shot at that!
Apart from that, I wouldn't change a thing. This forum is prospering, with new voices continually popping up for our mutual entertainment. And humour burgeons - not least in the form of Cricket Tapes and Alisha & Chantelle. There's even a taproom where I can seek sanctuary whenever Mrs. GG's flak gets too much for me!
Keep on writing,
Greengrass
More Fun than Avenida Revolución on College Night. Maybe. – honolulu
The Mexico-Venezuela friendly in San Diego was the first of a five-city tour for the Mexican national team in the United States in 2007 and despite the location, it was a Mexican “home” game and a fiesta for Mexicans, Chicanos, Latinos, and even Gringos. Celebrating the “local” boy Fernando Arce’s goal, Andrés Guardado’s exciting play on the wing, supporters returned home basking in the glow of an otherwise inconsequential win by reserves and unknown youths. Some returned to Tijuana (TJ) in cars with Baja California license plates, but the great majority remained north of the border.
Beer and souvenir vendors spoke Spanish without hesitation to clients wearing Mexican green or ponchos proclaiming allegiance to Chivas de Guadalajara, Cruz Azul, and Club América. Tonight, Spanish was the language used to introduce the teams, Spanish was used to conduct the half-time entertainment (boys’ teams from San Diego and Tijuana took penalty kicks for a prize, their nationalities indistinguishable by facial features and skin colors), and Spanish was the main language, but not the only language, of the conversations around me.
But it wasn’t the Spanish that the local sport columnist commented on; it was the noise. The noise, wrapped tightly in a burrito filled to bursting with clichés explaining why soccer is so foreign, pointing out, that noise merely punctuates great play or scoring in American games before otherwise quiet, American crowds. Ironically, the stadium was quietest when the Mexican national anthem was sung- looking around, I saw no one singing.
To simply call it “noise” relegates it to the background and “it” was the most significant player in the car park and stadium- loud and relentless. The sound was at times harmonious, like the mariachi music that would periodically rise above other sources, the orchestrated, rhythmic pounding of plastic-tube noisemakers, and “Mexican” waves. Mostly, the stadium sounded like a giant party, a quinceañera with 64,000 (second highest attendance for Mexico in the US after a game played at the Rose Bowl last year) guests: random noisemakers, shouting, horns, singing, and the conversations of friends and extended families including many soccer moms and abuelitas.
The international attention paid to LA Galaxy and the astronomical figure attached to David Beckham has poetically overshadowed local rival Chivas USA, the self-proclaimed “immigrant team.” Galaxy has few “Latino” players and with Landon Donovan and Beckham, embraces the “surfer” image and Hollywood glamour- both predominantly white. The Chivas USA roster is more diverse and the team markets itself as a true Angeleno team, reflecting the population of Southern California. The combined metropolitan regions of Tijuana and San Diego have barely a third of Los Angeles’ population but with the semi-permeable border, San Diego is easily accessible to a large Mexican city with no top-level team of its own. Owners Jorge Vergara and Antonio Cue should have put Chivas USA in San Diego, as a “Californian team.” It might not seem the most lucrative market but it would have been a lot of fun, if this crowd (Mexican, American, Mexican-American, whatever) were any indication.
Beer and souvenir vendors spoke Spanish without hesitation to clients wearing Mexican green or ponchos proclaiming allegiance to Chivas de Guadalajara, Cruz Azul, and Club América. Tonight, Spanish was the language used to introduce the teams, Spanish was used to conduct the half-time entertainment (boys’ teams from San Diego and Tijuana took penalty kicks for a prize, their nationalities indistinguishable by facial features and skin colors), and Spanish was the main language, but not the only language, of the conversations around me.
But it wasn’t the Spanish that the local sport columnist commented on; it was the noise. The noise, wrapped tightly in a burrito filled to bursting with clichés explaining why soccer is so foreign, pointing out, that noise merely punctuates great play or scoring in American games before otherwise quiet, American crowds. Ironically, the stadium was quietest when the Mexican national anthem was sung- looking around, I saw no one singing.
To simply call it “noise” relegates it to the background and “it” was the most significant player in the car park and stadium- loud and relentless. The sound was at times harmonious, like the mariachi music that would periodically rise above other sources, the orchestrated, rhythmic pounding of plastic-tube noisemakers, and “Mexican” waves. Mostly, the stadium sounded like a giant party, a quinceañera with 64,000 (second highest attendance for Mexico in the US after a game played at the Rose Bowl last year) guests: random noisemakers, shouting, horns, singing, and the conversations of friends and extended families including many soccer moms and abuelitas.
The international attention paid to LA Galaxy and the astronomical figure attached to David Beckham has poetically overshadowed local rival Chivas USA, the self-proclaimed “immigrant team.” Galaxy has few “Latino” players and with Landon Donovan and Beckham, embraces the “surfer” image and Hollywood glamour- both predominantly white. The Chivas USA roster is more diverse and the team markets itself as a true Angeleno team, reflecting the population of Southern California. The combined metropolitan regions of Tijuana and San Diego have barely a third of Los Angeles’ population but with the semi-permeable border, San Diego is easily accessible to a large Mexican city with no top-level team of its own. Owners Jorge Vergara and Antonio Cue should have put Chivas USA in San Diego, as a “Californian team.” It might not seem the most lucrative market but it would have been a lot of fun, if this crowd (Mexican, American, Mexican-American, whatever) were any indication.
Saturday, March 31, 2007
Dock Ellis - duncan23
June 12, 1970, Dock Ellis, a 25 year old pitcher for the Pittsburg Pirates was lazing around his girlfriend Mimi's LA apartment. He'd been doing what he normally did on his off-days, smoke marijuana, drink screwdrivers, take amphetamines and listen to Hendrix and Iron Butterfly. Not unusually, he did some Purple Haze, LSD. Not great timing, as Mimi, flipping through the newspaper announced, "Dock. It says here you're supposed to be pitching in San Diego." Turns out he'd slept for a day and had 5 hours to wash, fly, get to Jack Murphy stadium, change, and throw something small and hard, in various ways, while 50,000 people watched.
Ellis made it to the ground an hour before the start still under the influence of the acid. He decided to gulp half a dozen amphetamines as a "precautionary measure". Next, as Chuck Brodsky sings on his album 'The Baseball Ballads", "Time came to go on out there/ Down the corridor/The walls were a little bit wavy/There were ripples in the floor". Before taking the mound, Ellis found a female friend in the first row who always supplied him with Benzedrine when he was in town, which he added to his pre-match meal.
After warm-up it was game on. His action was wild. Wilder than usual. Ellis was used to pitching on amphetamines, in fact he depended on them to crank himself up, to the extent that, for 12 years he wouldn't pitch without them. This was different; Ellis actually bounced a few early pitches. Struggling but smiling strangely, he walked 8 batters and hit another, but his manager left him in and he found some kind of rhythm. In Brodsky's words, "Sometimes he saw the catcher/Sometimes he did not/Sometimes he held a beach ball/ Sometimes it was a dot". Ellis didn't bother to follow the score at all and, feeling that his teammates knew that something was up, decided it was advisable to avoid all eye contact with them. Batters would vanish and reappear and while his pitches seemed to be over the plate he couldn't be sure they were reaching. Each pitch had an after burn. Brodsky again: "Dock was tossing comets/ That were leaving trails of glitter/At the 7th inning stretch/He still had a no-hitter". Surviving a scare or two, Ellis got his no hitter and his name and record of the game went to the Baseball Hall of Fame, Cooperstown.
Ellis could be wild and combative. He once deliberately threw at all the consecutive Cincinnati Reds batters he could as revenge for disrespectful comments, played in curlers after criticism of his hairstyle, and sat in the stands (with a gun in his pocket) amongst hecklers who called him "nigger." He revealed the truth about the San Diego game in 1984. Dock Ellis cleaned up after reading about someone shaking a baby to death, and realizing he couldn't tell how tightly he held his baby son. He is now a drug counsellor.
Ellis made it to the ground an hour before the start still under the influence of the acid. He decided to gulp half a dozen amphetamines as a "precautionary measure". Next, as Chuck Brodsky sings on his album 'The Baseball Ballads", "Time came to go on out there/ Down the corridor/The walls were a little bit wavy/There were ripples in the floor". Before taking the mound, Ellis found a female friend in the first row who always supplied him with Benzedrine when he was in town, which he added to his pre-match meal.
After warm-up it was game on. His action was wild. Wilder than usual. Ellis was used to pitching on amphetamines, in fact he depended on them to crank himself up, to the extent that, for 12 years he wouldn't pitch without them. This was different; Ellis actually bounced a few early pitches. Struggling but smiling strangely, he walked 8 batters and hit another, but his manager left him in and he found some kind of rhythm. In Brodsky's words, "Sometimes he saw the catcher/Sometimes he did not/Sometimes he held a beach ball/ Sometimes it was a dot". Ellis didn't bother to follow the score at all and, feeling that his teammates knew that something was up, decided it was advisable to avoid all eye contact with them. Batters would vanish and reappear and while his pitches seemed to be over the plate he couldn't be sure they were reaching. Each pitch had an after burn. Brodsky again: "Dock was tossing comets/ That were leaving trails of glitter/At the 7th inning stretch/He still had a no-hitter". Surviving a scare or two, Ellis got his no hitter and his name and record of the game went to the Baseball Hall of Fame, Cooperstown.
Ellis could be wild and combative. He once deliberately threw at all the consecutive Cincinnati Reds batters he could as revenge for disrespectful comments, played in curlers after criticism of his hairstyle, and sat in the stands (with a gun in his pocket) amongst hecklers who called him "nigger." He revealed the truth about the San Diego game in 1984. Dock Ellis cleaned up after reading about someone shaking a baby to death, and realizing he couldn't tell how tightly he held his baby son. He is now a drug counsellor.
Microcosm of Life - Zephirine
Another dispatch from a young lady in the West Indies, as told to our reporter Zephirine
"We're in Guyana now right and we have to go to the cricket because Gavin insists and he's paying right and Alisha wants to keep him happy cos she wants them to get married which is sensible yeah cos her horse Darcy is very expensive to keep up.
"It's England v Ireland yeah though quite a lot of the Irish are Australians and one of our blokes is Irish and both sides have got a South African so like that's cricket for you. Gavin tries explaining to us about the Super Eights right and after about ten minutes of two points from the first round and who's seeded from what yeah I lose the will to live so I'm like, what you're telling me is the ones that lose go out yeah and in the end somebody wins. Duh. So at first me and Alisha are talking about shoes yeah while Gavin's making like expert comments on the game to this seriously wanky bloke he's made friends with.
"Our Irish one gets out straightaway so like he doesn't have to battle his divided loyalties for long lol. Then our captain gets out too and Gavin looks for a moment like he's going to cry right so Alisha and I keep quiet cos you have to respect people's pain. And we start to think, suppose England lose this right what is going to happen to like national self-esteem yeah and will we still be able to tell Irish jokes?
"So hopes are pinned on KP yeah who's like our cricket king of bling and does lots of adverts. Gavin's wanky mate who is some kind of media person right with stupid glasses and a bit of a fondness for the old nose candy if you know what I mean is going on about establishing momentum right but it seems to me yeah, it would help if our lot could just play cricket a bit better. Call me naïve lol.
"After a bit it seems that English people are able to breathe again yeah but no, KP is out and then here comes Freddie right doing like, I'm big and tough and professional yeah, funny last time we saw him he was propping up the bar in Saint Lucia burbling on about how beautiful his kids are yawn yawn. He's supposed to be off the sauce now right after being exposed in the papers by certain people so you could say Alisha and me have done a service to English cricket. He does OK yeah but now the whole thing gets to be quite frankly pretty boring right but I'm sort of beginning to see that it's all about hanging in there yeah, and then Collingwood who is like a gritty northerner right plays very well in gritty northerner stylee and we end up not too bad.
"So in the break I'm chatting to this quite cute Aussie guy from the row behind us yeah and his view is that cricket is like a microcosm of life right. So I'm like, you mean it goes on and on and on and then in the end you give up and die. And he says no it's like a test of character so I'm like, what, to play or to watch? Lol. But he tells me about Shane Warne who makes strong batsmen cry yeah and then he says it's all about courage in adversity and mental domination right and one false move and the tide of a match can turn and I can see that like Gavin's keen on cricket but this guy is like religious.
"So all through the second half right I stay there and watch the microcosm of life yeah while Alisha goes to sleep and Gavin and Media Prat have one of those endless bloke conversations which sound friendly but are all scoring points off each other yeah you know the kind. But mental domination right well I'd say hard to spot yeah all I can really see is like slow grinding kind of grind and we almost don't win but in the end we do.
"So it seems there's like a mystery in cricket somewhere right which has a deep effect on people yeah but so far I haven't like had this revealed to me by the England team. The cute Aussie guy says this is quite natural and I have to see Australia play yeah and then I'll understand everything."
"We're in Guyana now right and we have to go to the cricket because Gavin insists and he's paying right and Alisha wants to keep him happy cos she wants them to get married which is sensible yeah cos her horse Darcy is very expensive to keep up.
"It's England v Ireland yeah though quite a lot of the Irish are Australians and one of our blokes is Irish and both sides have got a South African so like that's cricket for you. Gavin tries explaining to us about the Super Eights right and after about ten minutes of two points from the first round and who's seeded from what yeah I lose the will to live so I'm like, what you're telling me is the ones that lose go out yeah and in the end somebody wins. Duh. So at first me and Alisha are talking about shoes yeah while Gavin's making like expert comments on the game to this seriously wanky bloke he's made friends with.
"Our Irish one gets out straightaway so like he doesn't have to battle his divided loyalties for long lol. Then our captain gets out too and Gavin looks for a moment like he's going to cry right so Alisha and I keep quiet cos you have to respect people's pain. And we start to think, suppose England lose this right what is going to happen to like national self-esteem yeah and will we still be able to tell Irish jokes?
"So hopes are pinned on KP yeah who's like our cricket king of bling and does lots of adverts. Gavin's wanky mate who is some kind of media person right with stupid glasses and a bit of a fondness for the old nose candy if you know what I mean is going on about establishing momentum right but it seems to me yeah, it would help if our lot could just play cricket a bit better. Call me naïve lol.
"After a bit it seems that English people are able to breathe again yeah but no, KP is out and then here comes Freddie right doing like, I'm big and tough and professional yeah, funny last time we saw him he was propping up the bar in Saint Lucia burbling on about how beautiful his kids are yawn yawn. He's supposed to be off the sauce now right after being exposed in the papers by certain people so you could say Alisha and me have done a service to English cricket. He does OK yeah but now the whole thing gets to be quite frankly pretty boring right but I'm sort of beginning to see that it's all about hanging in there yeah, and then Collingwood who is like a gritty northerner right plays very well in gritty northerner stylee and we end up not too bad.
"So in the break I'm chatting to this quite cute Aussie guy from the row behind us yeah and his view is that cricket is like a microcosm of life right. So I'm like, you mean it goes on and on and on and then in the end you give up and die. And he says no it's like a test of character so I'm like, what, to play or to watch? Lol. But he tells me about Shane Warne who makes strong batsmen cry yeah and then he says it's all about courage in adversity and mental domination right and one false move and the tide of a match can turn and I can see that like Gavin's keen on cricket but this guy is like religious.
"So all through the second half right I stay there and watch the microcosm of life yeah while Alisha goes to sleep and Gavin and Media Prat have one of those endless bloke conversations which sound friendly but are all scoring points off each other yeah you know the kind. But mental domination right well I'd say hard to spot yeah all I can really see is like slow grinding kind of grind and we almost don't win but in the end we do.
"So it seems there's like a mystery in cricket somewhere right which has a deep effect on people yeah but so far I haven't like had this revealed to me by the England team. The cute Aussie guy says this is quite natural and I have to see Australia play yeah and then I'll understand everything."
Long odds on football's form to remain unchanged - Postern
Lord Mawhinney's suggestion that drawn Premier League games be settled with a penalty shoot-out has been met with immediate and near universal disapproval. A 'brainfart', says fan site Caughtoffside.com; 'Why can't we just have a draw,' says Bournemouth boss Kevin Bond, not unreasonably.
That the sudden-death decider concept has been tried and failed in Major League Soccer suggests the idea is already dead in the water, that fans shouldn't be worried. It isn't, and they should be.
There is a very strong lobby that would support the creation of more set-plays in football. This multinational, billion dollar industry would be delighted to see football provide more drama, more decisive moments, more often. It is the sports betting industry.
It is an industry in sync with new media and has proved capable of accessing global markets. European sports betting revenues are expected to rise from $110m in 2004 to $3bn in 2009, according to a report by the UK's Juniper Research. The global value of sports betting is estimated to rise to $6.9billion by 2009, and this is without the world's two biggest markets, the US and China, officially endorsing gambling. "Should this situation change, then quite clearly the figures would be revised upwards to reflect this," concludes the report.
It is extremely likely this increasing wealth will lead to the bookies wanting a greater say in sports' decision making.
Now, betting on football is not the option available to punters - the UK's leading online bookies offer odds on sports as diverse as AFL, rallying, ice hockey and darts - but football is the world game. And it is ripe for intervention.
Unlike cricket, baseball or golf, football provides only a limited number of bet options. Recent reports from India claim Asian bookies are offering offer-by-offer bets: number of wides, runs scored, number of sixes. Football, a largely free flowing game, cannot match this innovation.
Bookies are trying to spice things up. Football betting has come a long way since the Pools Coupon. Digital pitch-side banners are now inviting punters to bet on the identity of the next scorer, with odds changing mid-game. The sports betting industry is itching to innovate.
As TV switches to digital, and more viewers become comfortable making online payments, it is inevitable we will see closer synergies between the broadcaster and the bookie. Sky, paying big bucks for the Premier League, and with no more than two teams ever in with a shout of winning, has plenty of second-rate product it needs to spice up. The sports betting industry may be only to keen to help enliven a mid-table clash between, say, Middlesbrough and Reading. Penalty shoot-outs, with the prospect of real-time betting - 'press the Red button to back Lampard to score at 11/4', is an enticing idea. 'It matters more when there's money on it,' as Sky's very own Sky Bet puts it.
Don't expect the bookies to start shouting their support for change, but only a mug would bet against them. The bookie always wins.
That the sudden-death decider concept has been tried and failed in Major League Soccer suggests the idea is already dead in the water, that fans shouldn't be worried. It isn't, and they should be.
There is a very strong lobby that would support the creation of more set-plays in football. This multinational, billion dollar industry would be delighted to see football provide more drama, more decisive moments, more often. It is the sports betting industry.
It is an industry in sync with new media and has proved capable of accessing global markets. European sports betting revenues are expected to rise from $110m in 2004 to $3bn in 2009, according to a report by the UK's Juniper Research. The global value of sports betting is estimated to rise to $6.9billion by 2009, and this is without the world's two biggest markets, the US and China, officially endorsing gambling. "Should this situation change, then quite clearly the figures would be revised upwards to reflect this," concludes the report.
It is extremely likely this increasing wealth will lead to the bookies wanting a greater say in sports' decision making.
Now, betting on football is not the option available to punters - the UK's leading online bookies offer odds on sports as diverse as AFL, rallying, ice hockey and darts - but football is the world game. And it is ripe for intervention.
Unlike cricket, baseball or golf, football provides only a limited number of bet options. Recent reports from India claim Asian bookies are offering offer-by-offer bets: number of wides, runs scored, number of sixes. Football, a largely free flowing game, cannot match this innovation.
Bookies are trying to spice things up. Football betting has come a long way since the Pools Coupon. Digital pitch-side banners are now inviting punters to bet on the identity of the next scorer, with odds changing mid-game. The sports betting industry is itching to innovate.
As TV switches to digital, and more viewers become comfortable making online payments, it is inevitable we will see closer synergies between the broadcaster and the bookie. Sky, paying big bucks for the Premier League, and with no more than two teams ever in with a shout of winning, has plenty of second-rate product it needs to spice up. The sports betting industry may be only to keen to help enliven a mid-table clash between, say, Middlesbrough and Reading. Penalty shoot-outs, with the prospect of real-time betting - 'press the Red button to back Lampard to score at 11/4', is an enticing idea. 'It matters more when there's money on it,' as Sky's very own Sky Bet puts it.
Don't expect the bookies to start shouting their support for change, but only a mug would bet against them. The bookie always wins.
The Vaughan Tapes as transcribed by Mimitig and MouthoftheMersey
The England dressing-room was swept for bugs after the last disastrous leak, but being cricketers and not artists, no-one realised that the telephone with a lobster on top was in fact a top-level MI5 listening device. Much to our joy we are again able to bring you Michael Vaughan's between innings team talk.
OK you lot. Straussy has been using his time wisely, he's found the GUSportsblog - yeah, I don't know what this is either Colly, but seems like it's pretty important. A bunch of people write things about us, and he's picked this one, which really hurts: those tossers back in England reckon that we're "second-class chokers". Now I don't know how that makes you lot feel, but I'm fucking gutted. Obviously we're here to win, but if we can't win, then sod this being best of the fucking rest. We'll make it our business to be first-class fucking chokers like the Saffers - not you Kevin.
Not the best of starts, really - in fact a pretty piss-poor display from the top order.
And well done Ed! You led the fucking way. Whose side are you on, for fuck's sake? When I said that I wanted to see the Irish lads' stumps hit, I didn't mean yours. KP wasn't like this against the Saffers last year eh Kev? Well don't sulk Ed - not yet anyway.
Now before any of you say anything, let me remind you that I'm not in the team for my batting. Being caught behind is just something that happens when the bowling's too damn good - and that clubby was really good. And I'm going to sue the BBC for that photo Straussy's just found on their fucking website - who's representing Kate Middleton?
Ian: I feel for you, I really do. A shocking decision - I could see the daylight between bat and ball from here, without the binoculars. But honestly I don't know what to do about you - you used to hit bowlers like this all round those club grounds in Birmingham when you were 12. And that was poor, Kevin, to appeal like that. It doesn't look good, especially as your own performance left a lot to be desired. 48 is a fucking disgrace - you were supposed to have studied the Hayden tapes. And you know you're in my fantasy team.
Fred, Fred, Fred: I'm lost for words. This was your chance, your big fucking chance of redemption, and it didn't go well, did it? You'd better bowl your little pink heart out now, boy, or that's your career down the fucking Swannee.
Colly: damn fine batting. Fuck, if the rest of you could bat as well as Paul I'd be less likely to be bald by the end of this tournament.And I've more than that in common with Punter before you start.
Badge: fucking ace bit of mind-twisting there in the 47th. We all know Porterfield fancies himself as a shit-hot fielder, so nice stuff - with any luck that'll rock'em a bit before they start batting. Shame about the Morgan catch, but now maybe you'll all learn something from seeing him field. How many runs did he save in the final power-play? Yep at least 20.
What's that Ravi? Sorry - didn't notice. I was talking to Athers about tomorrow's fishing. What did you get?
OK you lot, go and do something for 10 mins, I don't care what. I've got a packet of madeleines to eat.
At the end of the match, we caught up with just a few brief words that the England Captain had for his troops - and we are finding it increasingly hard to believe that they haven't busted us yet. It's almost as though Michael WANTS us to publish his briefings
Right, you lot, settle down now: that was good, but not that good. Two early wickets against Ireland is not like getting the Punter and Haydos out fast, is it?
Ed: that drop in the 11th was an absolute shocker. Bloody square leg, all you had to do was catch the fucking ball. I'm not at all pleased with you, and I hope, I just fucking hope, that we're not going to find any Aussies or Kiwis in your family heritage because I don't know if I can trust you any more. Straussy - I hope you're feeling good - I'll have to persuade Duncan, but I'm looking at you for next time out.
Ravi: I like you - you watched those bloody run-out tapes, didn't you? It was ridiculous to have your throw referred and a nonsense that we didn't get that wicket. Do you bowl at all?
Now you bowling boys: did you actually see what I did to Niall? Yeah, ball in flight, line and length, it was beautiful, wasn't it? Straussy - get it on that youtube thing and get the number of views up to triple figures will you? See that Colly? That's how to bowl if you're a batsman who bowls. Look and learn - your time will come.
But I have to ask the question, why the fuck is it all left up to me? I've fielded like a demon and bowled like a professional, and what the fuck have you lot done?
Apart from you, obviously Monty: neat and tidy, kept it clean and tight and 2 fucking wickets. I love you and so do both the England fans in the crowd.
Fred - I liked it at the end and I bet Botham did up in the box. One more wicket and you would have had to buy a jug - for us obviously, not you.
Get on the bus now - it's late and you're all up early in the nets tomorrow.
Tape ends.
OK you lot. Straussy has been using his time wisely, he's found the GUSportsblog - yeah, I don't know what this is either Colly, but seems like it's pretty important. A bunch of people write things about us, and he's picked this one, which really hurts: those tossers back in England reckon that we're "second-class chokers". Now I don't know how that makes you lot feel, but I'm fucking gutted. Obviously we're here to win, but if we can't win, then sod this being best of the fucking rest. We'll make it our business to be first-class fucking chokers like the Saffers - not you Kevin.
Not the best of starts, really - in fact a pretty piss-poor display from the top order.
And well done Ed! You led the fucking way. Whose side are you on, for fuck's sake? When I said that I wanted to see the Irish lads' stumps hit, I didn't mean yours. KP wasn't like this against the Saffers last year eh Kev? Well don't sulk Ed - not yet anyway.
Now before any of you say anything, let me remind you that I'm not in the team for my batting. Being caught behind is just something that happens when the bowling's too damn good - and that clubby was really good. And I'm going to sue the BBC for that photo Straussy's just found on their fucking website - who's representing Kate Middleton?
Ian: I feel for you, I really do. A shocking decision - I could see the daylight between bat and ball from here, without the binoculars. But honestly I don't know what to do about you - you used to hit bowlers like this all round those club grounds in Birmingham when you were 12. And that was poor, Kevin, to appeal like that. It doesn't look good, especially as your own performance left a lot to be desired. 48 is a fucking disgrace - you were supposed to have studied the Hayden tapes. And you know you're in my fantasy team.
Fred, Fred, Fred: I'm lost for words. This was your chance, your big fucking chance of redemption, and it didn't go well, did it? You'd better bowl your little pink heart out now, boy, or that's your career down the fucking Swannee.
Colly: damn fine batting. Fuck, if the rest of you could bat as well as Paul I'd be less likely to be bald by the end of this tournament.And I've more than that in common with Punter before you start.
Badge: fucking ace bit of mind-twisting there in the 47th. We all know Porterfield fancies himself as a shit-hot fielder, so nice stuff - with any luck that'll rock'em a bit before they start batting. Shame about the Morgan catch, but now maybe you'll all learn something from seeing him field. How many runs did he save in the final power-play? Yep at least 20.
What's that Ravi? Sorry - didn't notice. I was talking to Athers about tomorrow's fishing. What did you get?
OK you lot, go and do something for 10 mins, I don't care what. I've got a packet of madeleines to eat.
At the end of the match, we caught up with just a few brief words that the England Captain had for his troops - and we are finding it increasingly hard to believe that they haven't busted us yet. It's almost as though Michael WANTS us to publish his briefings
Right, you lot, settle down now: that was good, but not that good. Two early wickets against Ireland is not like getting the Punter and Haydos out fast, is it?
Ed: that drop in the 11th was an absolute shocker. Bloody square leg, all you had to do was catch the fucking ball. I'm not at all pleased with you, and I hope, I just fucking hope, that we're not going to find any Aussies or Kiwis in your family heritage because I don't know if I can trust you any more. Straussy - I hope you're feeling good - I'll have to persuade Duncan, but I'm looking at you for next time out.
Ravi: I like you - you watched those bloody run-out tapes, didn't you? It was ridiculous to have your throw referred and a nonsense that we didn't get that wicket. Do you bowl at all?
Now you bowling boys: did you actually see what I did to Niall? Yeah, ball in flight, line and length, it was beautiful, wasn't it? Straussy - get it on that youtube thing and get the number of views up to triple figures will you? See that Colly? That's how to bowl if you're a batsman who bowls. Look and learn - your time will come.
But I have to ask the question, why the fuck is it all left up to me? I've fielded like a demon and bowled like a professional, and what the fuck have you lot done?
Apart from you, obviously Monty: neat and tidy, kept it clean and tight and 2 fucking wickets. I love you and so do both the England fans in the crowd.
Fred - I liked it at the end and I bet Botham did up in the box. One more wicket and you would have had to buy a jug - for us obviously, not you.
Get on the bus now - it's late and you're all up early in the nets tomorrow.
Tape ends.
Friday, March 30, 2007
A text from Shane?- levremance
Shane Warne may be sending a text message to Ben Cousins as I write this. Don’t worry he’s not changing sides. He still barracks for St Kilda. Warne, who’s forgotten more than most will ever know about life in the limelight, offered his support to the Australian Rules champion who is currently battling with ‘substance abuse’.
Cousins’ star-studded fact file includes the 2005 Brownlow Medal and a 2006 premiership medallion but his prowess on the field has only served to highlight his frailties off it. Ben’s father has spoken publicly of the ‘challenges’ facing his high profile son. His club, West Coast, has suspended him for what it describes as ‘personal and private issues’. Sometimes the first step in overcoming a problem is admitting that you’re speaking in euphemisms.
If you view sport as a substitute for war, then Aussie Rules is the ‘Vietnam War’ of football codes. It’s a guerilla game played all over an expansive field. There’s no offside rule so it becomes a game of skirmishes between equally matched opponents. The ability to run, to reinforce, to make the contest is everything.
Ben Cousins, the centreman, runs gut-busting half marathons on match day. He rides fearful hip-and-shoulder bumps every time he goes into a pack to get the ball. He’ll cop a jumper-punch from a no-good tagger when the umpy looks away, then bounce up and kick a long goal, with alacrity, from the boundary line.
In a game loaded in favour of attack, the best defensive outfits have players prepared to wind-sprint to shepherd a teammate, or to dive full-length to smother the ball off the boot of an opponent. Ben Cousins does all that and more. But at 28, with his life in turmoil, he’s deciding whether to go into rehab or go it alone in order to save his career.
Naturally, in a nation as obsessed with sport as Australia, the PM has weighed into the debate, urging the AFL to toughen up its drug policy from ‘3 strikes and you’re out’ to ‘zero tolerance’. With newly released police wire taps implicating more players, the Australian game has a journey into its own heart of darkness to complete. Round one can’t come soon enough.
On Saturday night, the grand finalists of the last two years, Sydney and West Coast, meet in the game of the round before 60,000 at the Olympic Stadium. Bitter rivals, they have split 2 pennants by less than a goal. The Eagles, without Ben Cousins, still run out with an awesome midfield led by the code’s best player, Chris Judd. The Swans will be at full strength and seeking ‘revenge’ for the loss of the 2006 Grand Final by a lonely point. Adam Goodes, who burned in the epic last quarter of that game, believes the Swans are fitter than ever and can reclaim the title this year. But he would say that. The Swans to win by 2 points.
In other matches, my selections are Melbourne to beat St Kilda, Fremantle to be too strong for Port, Brisbane at home over Hawthorn, Adelaide but only just against Essendon, Richmond to account for March champions Carlton, the Western Bulldogs to see off the improving Geelong and finally Collingwood to dispatch the Kangaroos.
Cousins’ star-studded fact file includes the 2005 Brownlow Medal and a 2006 premiership medallion but his prowess on the field has only served to highlight his frailties off it. Ben’s father has spoken publicly of the ‘challenges’ facing his high profile son. His club, West Coast, has suspended him for what it describes as ‘personal and private issues’. Sometimes the first step in overcoming a problem is admitting that you’re speaking in euphemisms.
If you view sport as a substitute for war, then Aussie Rules is the ‘Vietnam War’ of football codes. It’s a guerilla game played all over an expansive field. There’s no offside rule so it becomes a game of skirmishes between equally matched opponents. The ability to run, to reinforce, to make the contest is everything.
Ben Cousins, the centreman, runs gut-busting half marathons on match day. He rides fearful hip-and-shoulder bumps every time he goes into a pack to get the ball. He’ll cop a jumper-punch from a no-good tagger when the umpy looks away, then bounce up and kick a long goal, with alacrity, from the boundary line.
In a game loaded in favour of attack, the best defensive outfits have players prepared to wind-sprint to shepherd a teammate, or to dive full-length to smother the ball off the boot of an opponent. Ben Cousins does all that and more. But at 28, with his life in turmoil, he’s deciding whether to go into rehab or go it alone in order to save his career.
Naturally, in a nation as obsessed with sport as Australia, the PM has weighed into the debate, urging the AFL to toughen up its drug policy from ‘3 strikes and you’re out’ to ‘zero tolerance’. With newly released police wire taps implicating more players, the Australian game has a journey into its own heart of darkness to complete. Round one can’t come soon enough.
On Saturday night, the grand finalists of the last two years, Sydney and West Coast, meet in the game of the round before 60,000 at the Olympic Stadium. Bitter rivals, they have split 2 pennants by less than a goal. The Eagles, without Ben Cousins, still run out with an awesome midfield led by the code’s best player, Chris Judd. The Swans will be at full strength and seeking ‘revenge’ for the loss of the 2006 Grand Final by a lonely point. Adam Goodes, who burned in the epic last quarter of that game, believes the Swans are fitter than ever and can reclaim the title this year. But he would say that. The Swans to win by 2 points.
In other matches, my selections are Melbourne to beat St Kilda, Fremantle to be too strong for Port, Brisbane at home over Hawthorn, Adelaide but only just against Essendon, Richmond to account for March champions Carlton, the Western Bulldogs to see off the improving Geelong and finally Collingwood to dispatch the Kangaroos.
Ballack's got the Blues: Not for long - Alex1981
Michael Ballack can hardly be accused of setting the Premier League alight this year. Germany's captain has looked like a foreign body in a well-oiled Chelsea team. And as would be expected from a man underperforming on a reported £130,000 a week, he has received his fair share of criticism. Alan Shearer even went as far as to claim Ballack is not showing enough effort or hunger to succeed in the Premier League.
But nothing could be further from the truth: When Ballack arrived in London, he declared his liking for fish and chips, with peas. He did not elaborate on whether he meant the mushy variety, or how the dish measured up to a currywurst even. Yet his hunger was not in question.
This stems from his appetite to succeed as a professional. A trait that first surfaced when he was a child growing up in East Germany. At the age of 16, he came out from anesthesia after an operation to smooth the cartilage in his knee only to be told he would never be able to play competitive sports again. Six months later - he did.
His determination most famously came to light, during the 2002 World Cup semi final, when Ballack was shown a yellow card that meant he would miss the final. But instead of dwelling on the incident, he burst into the box four minutes later and scored the winner.
Despite the criticism, he has shown a hunger to succeed at Chelsea too. Away from home in this season's Champions League group match against Werder Bremen, he took over penalty duties from Frank Lampard to dispatch a confident shot into the roof of the net. He has won 75 per cent of his tackles this season and is certainly in the thick of things, as he has committed the most fouls out of all Chelsea players.
The main problem is that Ballack and Lampard are like two peas in a pod: both goal-hungry central midfielders. With Lampard remaining the focal point of Chelsea play, the German has looked as out of place as fresh veg in Iceland. A point that did not pass by Germany's football Kaiser Franz Beckenbauer: "Frank Lampard is stronger and takes his [Ballack's] position. The game mostly passes him by," he noted.
Yet all the signs point to change: three weeks ago Ballack scored the winner to send Chelsea through to the quarter finals of the Champions League. He delivered a cute chipped through-ball for Didier Drogba to score in the Carling Cup Final and last week he scored against Sheffield United.
Ballack, like Drogba before him, simply needed time to adapt to the Premiership. Jose Mourinho, who has steadfastly stuck by Ballack despite his lack of form, is now beginning to see his loyalty bear fruit. And with all trophies still to play for, it would seem 'The Special One' knew all along, that when the chips are down, Ballack will show the hunger required.
But nothing could be further from the truth: When Ballack arrived in London, he declared his liking for fish and chips, with peas. He did not elaborate on whether he meant the mushy variety, or how the dish measured up to a currywurst even. Yet his hunger was not in question.
This stems from his appetite to succeed as a professional. A trait that first surfaced when he was a child growing up in East Germany. At the age of 16, he came out from anesthesia after an operation to smooth the cartilage in his knee only to be told he would never be able to play competitive sports again. Six months later - he did.
His determination most famously came to light, during the 2002 World Cup semi final, when Ballack was shown a yellow card that meant he would miss the final. But instead of dwelling on the incident, he burst into the box four minutes later and scored the winner.
Despite the criticism, he has shown a hunger to succeed at Chelsea too. Away from home in this season's Champions League group match against Werder Bremen, he took over penalty duties from Frank Lampard to dispatch a confident shot into the roof of the net. He has won 75 per cent of his tackles this season and is certainly in the thick of things, as he has committed the most fouls out of all Chelsea players.
The main problem is that Ballack and Lampard are like two peas in a pod: both goal-hungry central midfielders. With Lampard remaining the focal point of Chelsea play, the German has looked as out of place as fresh veg in Iceland. A point that did not pass by Germany's football Kaiser Franz Beckenbauer: "Frank Lampard is stronger and takes his [Ballack's] position. The game mostly passes him by," he noted.
Yet all the signs point to change: three weeks ago Ballack scored the winner to send Chelsea through to the quarter finals of the Champions League. He delivered a cute chipped through-ball for Didier Drogba to score in the Carling Cup Final and last week he scored against Sheffield United.
Ballack, like Drogba before him, simply needed time to adapt to the Premiership. Jose Mourinho, who has steadfastly stuck by Ballack despite his lack of form, is now beginning to see his loyalty bear fruit. And with all trophies still to play for, it would seem 'The Special One' knew all along, that when the chips are down, Ballack will show the hunger required.
Reverse Angle: Match report from the other hemisphere - offsideintahiti
Sunday, 1:30 pm. I walk up the dirt track that leads to Moorea's answer to Old Trafford: Maharepa's Orova'u stadium, aka the Theatre of Mango Trees. This is my first assignment as Pseuds' Corner's South Pacific correspondent and the three lovely local girls selling tickets at the top of the lane will be the first real test of my brand new accreditation.
- "600 francs, please."*
- "Ia ora na, journalists get in for free, right?"
She shakes her head.
- "But I work for an international sports web site with a global readership."
She holds out her hand expectantly. I turn on the charm.
- "I'm writing a report on today's game, it'll be great for the promotion of Tahitian football."
-"600 francs, please."
Maybe we should print official cards or plastic badges, that always impresses the girls. I hand over my six pieces, she gives me a ticket, a cold can of soda, and a pearly-white smile. When I emerge on the plateau, I am suddenly breathless. Nothing to do with the steepness of the slope, it's the sheer magnificence of the landscape that takes my breath away. Every time.
Moorea's volcanic cliffs tower above the stadium's single stand. Thin wisps of white cloud cling on lazily to the dark pillars of basalt. Everywhere, the lush vegetation sparkles with a fresh polish, bestowed by last night's heavy tropical rain. The pitch also has several shades of green, but in sharp contrast with its surroundings, it is nearly flat and does not have any trees growing on it. The stand can hold a couple of hundred people and is fairly packed. Other spectators are scattered along the touchlines, sitting in the shade of mango trees, or watching from the back of pick-up trucks parked behind the goals. No flags or flares, but plenty of flip-flops and flora, as Tahitian ladies love to wear a crown of flowers on Sundays. If the atmosphere was anymore relaxed, we'd all be sound asleep.
Today, Maharepa host Pihaena in a League of Moorea play-off clash. The real match won't start for a while, but the reserves game is on. The second half is just getting underway as I walk around the pitch, saying my hellos to the spectators and substitutes that I know. Pihaena Va'a is my new rowing club, and I have enjoyed a few kickabout sessions with some of the players here, until I realised chasing 17 year old lads down the wing was absolutely pointless and I decided to switch to rowing for good. I am not much better at it, but at least I get to do it sitting down. And speaking of sitting down, I join my friend Metua behind the goal.
- "Ia ora na, Offside, you've come to see St-Étienne play Toulouse?"
He is referring to the teams' jerseys: the purple of Pihaena and Maharepa's green. Tahitian people love their football. Recently, satellite dishes have brought the international game into many a home and local connoisseurs will eloquently discuss Lyon's lack of an efficient striker or Chelsea's famous midfield diamond formation. Metua informs me that we're up 1-0, but he has barely finished his sentence when Pihaena's goalkeeper does a superb Paul-Robinson-against-Croatia impression to a chorus of laughter from both sets of supporters. All square. As I said, the pitch is nearly flat.
Metua's 17-year-old son, Heiva (yes, the one who's too fast for me), plays centre forward for Pihaena. A sizable section of his dad's fisherman income has gone into a flashy pair of bright-red boots. Heiva repays him by firing a stinging 20-yard free-kick towards the bottom corner. The keeper saves but Bill scores from the rebound. 2-1 to Pihaena and Metua's smile is well worth the price of those boots. The rest of the second half is lost on me as we immerse ourselves in a conversation that meanders in and out of vital topics such as fishing, the weather, and the upcoming canoe race next weekend. Maharepa eventually equalise from a corner kick and the game ends on a logical 2-2 scoreline.
During the interval between the two games, kids invade the pitch and start kicking a ball around like they do all over the world. I make my way to the dugout to say hello to Richard, the Pihaena reserves coach. I ask him for his analysis of the game.
-"I switched them from 4-3-3 to 4-4-2 when we got the lead, but we couldn't hold on. We're not very good at defending set pieces. We'll have to work on that in training."
He doesn't care much about the result, since the reserves follow the first team around and play the same fixtures, play-off or play-down, regardless of how well they do themselves. Their league table is fairly meaningless and their position won't get them promoted nor relegated as Moorea only has one level of football. Richard is more concerned about instilling a little discipline in the young lads and getting them to show up for training regularly, and on time, a concept that can be difficult to grasp for some of the local boys. He proudly tells me about how he's dealt with the more troublesome elements in his squad.
-"At least now they don't smoke pakalolo during training and I also make sure they don't have a joint before a game. Otherwise, they spend the second half gazing at the landscape. Not much I can do once the game is over, but that's a start."
As the real game gets underway, I sit with Richard and Mario, old wise head and midfield anchor of the reserves team. I ask them to explain to me how Tahitian football is organised. The league of Moorea has 8 teams, who play each other home and away. After that, the top four go into a play-off (another set of home and away games), the bottom four into a play-down. The champions get to play the following season in the league of Tahiti, the bottom team gets to play the following season with the shame.
There are also two cup competitions. La Coupe de Polynésie is contested by all Polynesian clubs, from 118 islands scattered over a maritime area roughly the size of western Europe. A logistical nightmare, the winner of which gets into the Champions League. No, not that one. The one in which champions from the other countries of Oceania meet: Fiji, Vanuatu, the Salomon Islands, New Zealand, etc. Then, there is la Coupe de Tahiti, whose winner qualifies for an early round of la Coupe de France and gets to travel to France to get knocked out by a fourth division side.
Meanwhile, as we chat, we're missing a good game. Plenty at stake here: if Maharepa win, they could clinch the title with three games to spare. Pihaena must win to they keep their title hopes alive but will still have to rely on kind results elsewhere. Consequently, tackles are flying thick and fast. The technical level isn't great but both teams are producing commendable efforts to keep the ball on the deck, and the fact that the center circle is waterlogged from last night's rain forces some intriguing wing play. There is some gambeta going on but the high grass and uneven surface are not helping. A couple of Zidane roulettes nearly come off and a lovely attempt at a Cruijff turn ends up with both players tangled up on all fours by the corner flag. So, nil-nil at half-time, and we can resume our conversation.
I ask Richard where the next Tahitian football star is to be found. He grimaces and tells me he doesn't see it happening any time soon. Only a couple of local players have ever made it to the top flight in France. The latest being Marama Vahirua, aka the Tahitian Maradona, an attacking midfielder who was scouted by Nantes and is currently helping OGC Nice in their relegation battle. He is famous in France for celebrating every one of his goals by going down on one knee and miming a paddle stroke in tribute to his oceanic homeland.
Richard bemoans the lack of infrastructure, discipline and proper coaching holding back Tahitian football. But above all, he cites the lack of mental toughness as the main reason why so few young players break through. They have it too easy, here. Vahirua left Tahiti and his family for Nantes when he was thirteen. Can you imagine what it's like for a kid from the islands to have to get up at 6 to attend training in Brittany in the heart of winter? And being pitted against kids from the rough suburbs of French cities for whom a successful football career is a ticket out of hell? It takes a special kind of mindset. Richard goes on to tell me about this young lad from Bora Bora who was scouted last year by French Top 14 rugby outfit Toulon. He was offered a contract on a plate but turned it down, and shunned the opportunity to play alongside Tama Umaga because he couldn't bring himself to leave his island paradise. Richard shakes his head.
-"He has amazing potential but he doesn't even know it."
Back on the pitch, the second half starts with a bang. Actually, make that two bangs. Pihaena open the scoring after an intricate move down the right wing is crisply converted by a low drive from the edge of the area. Maharepa immediately equalise through a superb, 25-yard dipping free-kick that leaves the Pihaena goalkeeper motionless. 1-1, and that's the way it finished. Maharepa are now in a great position to win the title. Pihaena have lost all hope for this season but will take some pride from having held the future champions to a draw on their home patch.
I suppose I could have told you more about the details of the game if I hadn't so unprofessionally gotten side-tracked into idle conversation and gobsmacked contemplation of the landscape. I also realise that this is a very inadequate attempt at evaluating the state of Tahitian football at grassroots level. But I will tell you one thing. From the time I got there until the end of the second match, the grass on the pitch had easily grown half an inch.
* One euro is worth 119.33 Pacific Francs. You work it out.
- "600 francs, please."*
- "Ia ora na, journalists get in for free, right?"
She shakes her head.
- "But I work for an international sports web site with a global readership."
She holds out her hand expectantly. I turn on the charm.
- "I'm writing a report on today's game, it'll be great for the promotion of Tahitian football."
-"600 francs, please."
Maybe we should print official cards or plastic badges, that always impresses the girls. I hand over my six pieces, she gives me a ticket, a cold can of soda, and a pearly-white smile. When I emerge on the plateau, I am suddenly breathless. Nothing to do with the steepness of the slope, it's the sheer magnificence of the landscape that takes my breath away. Every time.
Moorea's volcanic cliffs tower above the stadium's single stand. Thin wisps of white cloud cling on lazily to the dark pillars of basalt. Everywhere, the lush vegetation sparkles with a fresh polish, bestowed by last night's heavy tropical rain. The pitch also has several shades of green, but in sharp contrast with its surroundings, it is nearly flat and does not have any trees growing on it. The stand can hold a couple of hundred people and is fairly packed. Other spectators are scattered along the touchlines, sitting in the shade of mango trees, or watching from the back of pick-up trucks parked behind the goals. No flags or flares, but plenty of flip-flops and flora, as Tahitian ladies love to wear a crown of flowers on Sundays. If the atmosphere was anymore relaxed, we'd all be sound asleep.
Today, Maharepa host Pihaena in a League of Moorea play-off clash. The real match won't start for a while, but the reserves game is on. The second half is just getting underway as I walk around the pitch, saying my hellos to the spectators and substitutes that I know. Pihaena Va'a is my new rowing club, and I have enjoyed a few kickabout sessions with some of the players here, until I realised chasing 17 year old lads down the wing was absolutely pointless and I decided to switch to rowing for good. I am not much better at it, but at least I get to do it sitting down. And speaking of sitting down, I join my friend Metua behind the goal.
- "Ia ora na, Offside, you've come to see St-Étienne play Toulouse?"
He is referring to the teams' jerseys: the purple of Pihaena and Maharepa's green. Tahitian people love their football. Recently, satellite dishes have brought the international game into many a home and local connoisseurs will eloquently discuss Lyon's lack of an efficient striker or Chelsea's famous midfield diamond formation. Metua informs me that we're up 1-0, but he has barely finished his sentence when Pihaena's goalkeeper does a superb Paul-Robinson-against-Croatia impression to a chorus of laughter from both sets of supporters. All square. As I said, the pitch is nearly flat.
Metua's 17-year-old son, Heiva (yes, the one who's too fast for me), plays centre forward for Pihaena. A sizable section of his dad's fisherman income has gone into a flashy pair of bright-red boots. Heiva repays him by firing a stinging 20-yard free-kick towards the bottom corner. The keeper saves but Bill scores from the rebound. 2-1 to Pihaena and Metua's smile is well worth the price of those boots. The rest of the second half is lost on me as we immerse ourselves in a conversation that meanders in and out of vital topics such as fishing, the weather, and the upcoming canoe race next weekend. Maharepa eventually equalise from a corner kick and the game ends on a logical 2-2 scoreline.
During the interval between the two games, kids invade the pitch and start kicking a ball around like they do all over the world. I make my way to the dugout to say hello to Richard, the Pihaena reserves coach. I ask him for his analysis of the game.
-"I switched them from 4-3-3 to 4-4-2 when we got the lead, but we couldn't hold on. We're not very good at defending set pieces. We'll have to work on that in training."
He doesn't care much about the result, since the reserves follow the first team around and play the same fixtures, play-off or play-down, regardless of how well they do themselves. Their league table is fairly meaningless and their position won't get them promoted nor relegated as Moorea only has one level of football. Richard is more concerned about instilling a little discipline in the young lads and getting them to show up for training regularly, and on time, a concept that can be difficult to grasp for some of the local boys. He proudly tells me about how he's dealt with the more troublesome elements in his squad.
-"At least now they don't smoke pakalolo during training and I also make sure they don't have a joint before a game. Otherwise, they spend the second half gazing at the landscape. Not much I can do once the game is over, but that's a start."
As the real game gets underway, I sit with Richard and Mario, old wise head and midfield anchor of the reserves team. I ask them to explain to me how Tahitian football is organised. The league of Moorea has 8 teams, who play each other home and away. After that, the top four go into a play-off (another set of home and away games), the bottom four into a play-down. The champions get to play the following season in the league of Tahiti, the bottom team gets to play the following season with the shame.
There are also two cup competitions. La Coupe de Polynésie is contested by all Polynesian clubs, from 118 islands scattered over a maritime area roughly the size of western Europe. A logistical nightmare, the winner of which gets into the Champions League. No, not that one. The one in which champions from the other countries of Oceania meet: Fiji, Vanuatu, the Salomon Islands, New Zealand, etc. Then, there is la Coupe de Tahiti, whose winner qualifies for an early round of la Coupe de France and gets to travel to France to get knocked out by a fourth division side.
Meanwhile, as we chat, we're missing a good game. Plenty at stake here: if Maharepa win, they could clinch the title with three games to spare. Pihaena must win to they keep their title hopes alive but will still have to rely on kind results elsewhere. Consequently, tackles are flying thick and fast. The technical level isn't great but both teams are producing commendable efforts to keep the ball on the deck, and the fact that the center circle is waterlogged from last night's rain forces some intriguing wing play. There is some gambeta going on but the high grass and uneven surface are not helping. A couple of Zidane roulettes nearly come off and a lovely attempt at a Cruijff turn ends up with both players tangled up on all fours by the corner flag. So, nil-nil at half-time, and we can resume our conversation.
I ask Richard where the next Tahitian football star is to be found. He grimaces and tells me he doesn't see it happening any time soon. Only a couple of local players have ever made it to the top flight in France. The latest being Marama Vahirua, aka the Tahitian Maradona, an attacking midfielder who was scouted by Nantes and is currently helping OGC Nice in their relegation battle. He is famous in France for celebrating every one of his goals by going down on one knee and miming a paddle stroke in tribute to his oceanic homeland.
Richard bemoans the lack of infrastructure, discipline and proper coaching holding back Tahitian football. But above all, he cites the lack of mental toughness as the main reason why so few young players break through. They have it too easy, here. Vahirua left Tahiti and his family for Nantes when he was thirteen. Can you imagine what it's like for a kid from the islands to have to get up at 6 to attend training in Brittany in the heart of winter? And being pitted against kids from the rough suburbs of French cities for whom a successful football career is a ticket out of hell? It takes a special kind of mindset. Richard goes on to tell me about this young lad from Bora Bora who was scouted last year by French Top 14 rugby outfit Toulon. He was offered a contract on a plate but turned it down, and shunned the opportunity to play alongside Tama Umaga because he couldn't bring himself to leave his island paradise. Richard shakes his head.
-"He has amazing potential but he doesn't even know it."
Back on the pitch, the second half starts with a bang. Actually, make that two bangs. Pihaena open the scoring after an intricate move down the right wing is crisply converted by a low drive from the edge of the area. Maharepa immediately equalise through a superb, 25-yard dipping free-kick that leaves the Pihaena goalkeeper motionless. 1-1, and that's the way it finished. Maharepa are now in a great position to win the title. Pihaena have lost all hope for this season but will take some pride from having held the future champions to a draw on their home patch.
I suppose I could have told you more about the details of the game if I hadn't so unprofessionally gotten side-tracked into idle conversation and gobsmacked contemplation of the landscape. I also realise that this is a very inadequate attempt at evaluating the state of Tahitian football at grassroots level. But I will tell you one thing. From the time I got there until the end of the second match, the grass on the pitch had easily grown half an inch.
* One euro is worth 119.33 Pacific Francs. You work it out.
Uncharitable Football - Margin
Intelligent Giving, a campaign group for charities, has condemned football for not giving a lot more money to worthy causes. And it’s about time too.
It is long overdue that some one finally stood up to football. These scummy companies masquerade as sports teams to steal our money and make rapists into millionaires. And at last some one has exposed them.
With comprehensive figures from eleven such firms, this noble organisation has attacked a sport that is subject to too little scrutiny in every aspect of its business. And the upshot of this investigation is hardly surprising.
Intelligent Giving condemns clubs that donate less in a year than one club pays Schevchenko in a week. It condemns one club in particular for donating just £70,000 to charity despite having a billionaire owner. And it condemns any excuse for this as worthless next to billion pound revenues.
Of course not all charitable work is definable in cash. Players visit schools and hospitals, clubs run football in the community schemes, and both work to assist education schemes for poor kids.
But, Intelligent Giving doesn’t waste time calculating a financial figure for that. And rightly so. We all know that clubs don’t do this benevolently. That is all self interest, helping to hook or retain a lucrative young fan base through subsidised gimmicks.
And the fact that clubs often run up huge losses, or at best small profits, is no excuse at all. After all, a billion pounds runs through their collective coffers each year thanks to massive TV rights deals, corporate sponsorships, and ever rising ticket prices.
Much of that cash goes to footballers who no doubt waste their wages on flash cars and £100,000 watches that are definitely not bought in charity auctions at the Beckham estate.
Would it be so hard to pay these scummy men less to kick a ball around so that more money could go to charity? Most of them aren’t even very good. For every totemic Essien or Drogba is a weak ankled Ballack or Schevo, both of whom are as rubbish as, well, Essien and Drogba were in their first Premiership season.
So ignore the fact that Spurs gave six percent of revenues, or 70 percent of pre-tax profit to their charitable trust, (£4.5million). Ignore the fact that football clubs are in fact quite small businesses in a highly competitive market. Ignore as well that other companies like Sainsbury profit from the good will generated by selling red noses.
Because football is evil. And you must not be allowed to forget it before the next such expose, probably due in three days time.
It is long overdue that some one finally stood up to football. These scummy companies masquerade as sports teams to steal our money and make rapists into millionaires. And at last some one has exposed them.
With comprehensive figures from eleven such firms, this noble organisation has attacked a sport that is subject to too little scrutiny in every aspect of its business. And the upshot of this investigation is hardly surprising.
Intelligent Giving condemns clubs that donate less in a year than one club pays Schevchenko in a week. It condemns one club in particular for donating just £70,000 to charity despite having a billionaire owner. And it condemns any excuse for this as worthless next to billion pound revenues.
Of course not all charitable work is definable in cash. Players visit schools and hospitals, clubs run football in the community schemes, and both work to assist education schemes for poor kids.
But, Intelligent Giving doesn’t waste time calculating a financial figure for that. And rightly so. We all know that clubs don’t do this benevolently. That is all self interest, helping to hook or retain a lucrative young fan base through subsidised gimmicks.
And the fact that clubs often run up huge losses, or at best small profits, is no excuse at all. After all, a billion pounds runs through their collective coffers each year thanks to massive TV rights deals, corporate sponsorships, and ever rising ticket prices.
Much of that cash goes to footballers who no doubt waste their wages on flash cars and £100,000 watches that are definitely not bought in charity auctions at the Beckham estate.
Would it be so hard to pay these scummy men less to kick a ball around so that more money could go to charity? Most of them aren’t even very good. For every totemic Essien or Drogba is a weak ankled Ballack or Schevo, both of whom are as rubbish as, well, Essien and Drogba were in their first Premiership season.
So ignore the fact that Spurs gave six percent of revenues, or 70 percent of pre-tax profit to their charitable trust, (£4.5million). Ignore the fact that football clubs are in fact quite small businesses in a highly competitive market. Ignore as well that other companies like Sainsbury profit from the good will generated by selling red noses.
Because football is evil. And you must not be allowed to forget it before the next such expose, probably due in three days time.
Thursday, March 29, 2007
Team Talk – a virtual taproom
(A pub. A grumpy old local sits alone by the bar. Jim Reeves' "He'll Have to Go" is heard in the background. An athletic Frenchman enters.)
Greengrass: Alright, O? The usual?
Offside: Please.
Greengrass: Pint of Guinness, pint of Murphy's Ingrid! (To Offside)
Everything OK?
Offside: Yeah. How was your weekend?
Greengrass: Fair to middling. Left town to avoid having to go to the pub and watch England. Had a barbecue, but our neighbour kept nipping off to check the latest non-score on his telly. The only sport apart from that was with Mrs. G.: trying to look busy while actually doing nothing. You know - squinting at the house, taking measurements, noting things down, muttering. And you?
Offside: Much the same. Slept in so I wouldn't have to watch the France game. I hear it wasn't pretty. Otherwise, a spot of blogging while pretending to be working on that translation with the really tight deadline. It's easy enough, I just have to be quick with the Alt-Tab keys if Mrs Offside watches over my shoulder.
(Ingrid sets two pints of the black stuff in front of them. Offside inspects his. There is a little shamrock drawn in the creamy white head.)
Offside: Thanks, Ingrid. Very thoughtful of you.
(Offside turns around and rolls his eyes at Greengrass, as if to say "that's a bit tacky, though".)
Offside: Cheers (They take a sip, Offside looks towards the door) Are we expecting anyone?
Michael Vaughan's briefing - Mimitig and MouthoftheMersey
Once more Pseudscorner is able to bring you a transcript of Michael Vaughan's team briefing prior to England's World Cup match vs Ireland.
Pre-match team talk Thurs 29 March
Right lads, settle down and let's make this as painful, sorry painless, as possible.
It's not been a bad week - none of you did a Vincent, all wrists intact - stop sniggering Straussy, your job is to drive the Powerpoint. Liam will show you how when he puts down that Gameboy - yes I know and I don't care if it is the only"driving" he does these days (muffled laughter).
Ravi - put the paper down. Christ - how did you get a copy of the Daily Star round here? I fucking hope there's nothing in there about the water polo in the hotel pool last night. No? Good.
Down to business. We're up against the Irish tomorrow - that's all of us not just Straussy vs Ed Ha Ha! Anyone remember what happened last time we went head to head with them? Come on Fred 12-10-8 vs those two students you met in that Irish pub in Sydney doesn't count and you know you're off the Guinness if you want that contract renewing.
I don't know quite yet what I'll choose when I win the toss, but what I do know is that we'll never get anywhere without a solid opening batting performance and that's why you're all going to take a very close look at Matthew Hayden - yeah, I don't care whether you like the bugger or not, that's not the point. He bats, and bats well. For fuck's sake, you've had enough chances to study him close up and still none of you have learned.
Remember, runs win matches, I know, I know, you think that sounds simple, but let's face it you bastards, none of you have put us in that sort of position yet, have you?
Colly: I'm putting you in charge of run-outs - oh for fuck's sake you lot, you know perfectly well what I mean. Bell, you're hardly in a position to make jokes about run-outs are you? No - so all of you can stay behind with Paul and watch the Ponting videos, yeah yeah, that's Old Trafford and Tuesday afternoon, until you understand exactly what throwing the wicket down means.
Right here are Ireland's danger men and a youtube clip of the Irish beating Pakistan (sound of laptop being repeatedly hit). Straussy - you're keeping track of cricinfo news, what's up with youtube? Oh thank you ICC, thanks a bundle. Bunch of clowns.
So that's the batting and fielding - what's that Kevin? Catching? Surely to god I don't have to go over that again? You watch the ball, put your hands together and catch the bastard. It's not rocket science.
Moving on, we need bowling plans, and boy do we have them!
Jimmy, Jimmy: leave your hair alone for a minute will you - I've taken one mirror off you already, and I'll have that one as well. You're opening and you know what that means? Yeah taking wickets and I want more than just 2 this time - and you, Gloucester boy, yeah, Jon - don't get all excited. I want you to talk to Jimmy about swing bowling okay? Not your fucking hairstyles.
Liam: you're on at the other end and I want no wides from you Wideboy. All right Colly, it wasn't that funny. I've already said you'll be skippering when I rest my knee, so make sure your Dad's charged up his camcorder, but I'll shout from the balcony if anything needs doing. Just don't ask Fred okay?
Fred: first change as usual, and you'll be having an especially early night tonight and then it's over to Monty and Colly while I've got my feet up and those Aussies, sorry Irish, milk it for three an over.
Ravi: when the Irish lads are eight down, get warmed up for your go and in the mean time field near me and run like fuck after the ball - yeah the white round thing - once it goes past me.
OK, that's it. We'll have a debrief after the first innings, and I hope, I just fucking hope that it won't be a repeat ofthe last half-time talk. Now get to your jobs, and remember - I have faith in you all (aside to Collingwood - well some fucker has to ...)
Pre-match team talk Thurs 29 March
Right lads, settle down and let's make this as painful, sorry painless, as possible.
It's not been a bad week - none of you did a Vincent, all wrists intact - stop sniggering Straussy, your job is to drive the Powerpoint. Liam will show you how when he puts down that Gameboy - yes I know and I don't care if it is the only"driving" he does these days (muffled laughter).
Ravi - put the paper down. Christ - how did you get a copy of the Daily Star round here? I fucking hope there's nothing in there about the water polo in the hotel pool last night. No? Good.
Down to business. We're up against the Irish tomorrow - that's all of us not just Straussy vs Ed Ha Ha! Anyone remember what happened last time we went head to head with them? Come on Fred 12-10-8 vs those two students you met in that Irish pub in Sydney doesn't count and you know you're off the Guinness if you want that contract renewing.
I don't know quite yet what I'll choose when I win the toss, but what I do know is that we'll never get anywhere without a solid opening batting performance and that's why you're all going to take a very close look at Matthew Hayden - yeah, I don't care whether you like the bugger or not, that's not the point. He bats, and bats well. For fuck's sake, you've had enough chances to study him close up and still none of you have learned.
Remember, runs win matches, I know, I know, you think that sounds simple, but let's face it you bastards, none of you have put us in that sort of position yet, have you?
Colly: I'm putting you in charge of run-outs - oh for fuck's sake you lot, you know perfectly well what I mean. Bell, you're hardly in a position to make jokes about run-outs are you? No - so all of you can stay behind with Paul and watch the Ponting videos, yeah yeah, that's Old Trafford and Tuesday afternoon, until you understand exactly what throwing the wicket down means.
Right here are Ireland's danger men and a youtube clip of the Irish beating Pakistan (sound of laptop being repeatedly hit). Straussy - you're keeping track of cricinfo news, what's up with youtube? Oh thank you ICC, thanks a bundle. Bunch of clowns.
So that's the batting and fielding - what's that Kevin? Catching? Surely to god I don't have to go over that again? You watch the ball, put your hands together and catch the bastard. It's not rocket science.
Moving on, we need bowling plans, and boy do we have them!
Jimmy, Jimmy: leave your hair alone for a minute will you - I've taken one mirror off you already, and I'll have that one as well. You're opening and you know what that means? Yeah taking wickets and I want more than just 2 this time - and you, Gloucester boy, yeah, Jon - don't get all excited. I want you to talk to Jimmy about swing bowling okay? Not your fucking hairstyles.
Liam: you're on at the other end and I want no wides from you Wideboy. All right Colly, it wasn't that funny. I've already said you'll be skippering when I rest my knee, so make sure your Dad's charged up his camcorder, but I'll shout from the balcony if anything needs doing. Just don't ask Fred okay?
Fred: first change as usual, and you'll be having an especially early night tonight and then it's over to Monty and Colly while I've got my feet up and those Aussies, sorry Irish, milk it for three an over.
Ravi: when the Irish lads are eight down, get warmed up for your go and in the mean time field near me and run like fuck after the ball - yeah the white round thing - once it goes past me.
OK, that's it. We'll have a debrief after the first innings, and I hope, I just fucking hope that it won't be a repeat ofthe last half-time talk. Now get to your jobs, and remember - I have faith in you all (aside to Collingwood - well some fucker has to ...)
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