Just three months ago, we could believe that the money was real, but we know now that the money was funny . As the world tips into recession, football is already finding empty spaces in the stands and on the shirts. Like every other industry, football must come to terms with what the credit crunch means for its future.
Even in the days when Tony Benn was the only man who advocated nationalising banks, Liverpool’s plans for a new stadium progressed glacially slowly and Everton’s plans to move to Kirkby were vigorously opposed. So it’s time to find the middle ground, financially and geographically – a shared stadium for Merseyside’s clubs is the solution and Stanley Park is the location.
Many fans will never entertain such a thought, but those with open minds should read on and imagine this vision as reality.
Capacity
The shared stadium must seat 80,000 fans with hospitality as impressive as that on offer at The Emirates. A variety of season ticket and multi-match packages should be sold to fans, with single match tickets sold over the internet using a sophisticated real-time price modelling programme (as used by airlines such as Ryanair) which varies prices with availability. Fans willing to buy tickets in packages or in advance for less popular matches would receive hard discounts helping to bring back the supporters, especially young ones, priced out of Anfield or Goodison.
Names
The stadium will have two names, one for each club. Though this would be awkward at first, fans would soon settle into hearing, “Over to (say) New Anfield, where Wigan have taken a shock lead” or “Stuart Hall has a fifth goal for Everton at New Goodison”. Stadiums without their club context are just buildings, so it would be The Stanley Park Stadium for conferencing etc.
Match day experience
The stadium must transform visually to create an “Everton” or “Liverpool” identity. Plain white exterior walls offer the opportunity to project giant images of “Dixie” Dean, Howard Kendall, Kevin Sheedy, and other Hall of Famers on to the Stadium (for an Everton match) which identify the seating areas (no more Section B16 Row 23 Seat 144, it’s Alan Ball Row 23 Seat 144). This identity is followed through on the website, in promotional materials and on tickets. Inside the stadium, screens, signage and staff uniforms etc are used to brand (sorry, but it’s the right word) spaces according to which team is at home. The transformation would be thoroughgoing and complete, with only the “away” derby feeling artificial.
This proposal honours the rich histories of the clubs, keeps both in a city that is identified by them and identifies with them, and allows the Boards to build the long-term financial stability success requires. Furthermore, it allows live football to be watched by twice as many fans as at present and at a lower price. My father, dead now, but a regular at Goodison for over fifty years, would like the proposal.
Am I alone? Not quite.
Friday, November 21, 2008
Thursday, November 20, 2008
What's Missing from Football? - Beyond the Pale
For the past two years or so, football's been missing something for this writer, and, what with his his being a bit slow, it's taken this long for him to figure out what that something was. Then it came to him all in a rush, one November morning in the dark, while watching, from many thousands of miles and several cultural light-years away, a famously petulant starlet-of-the-moment gracelessly take out his dissatisfaction with the attentions of that terrifying entity the Stoke City travelling support (and, presumably, with his insufficient 120,000-quid-a-week pay packet) by pouting and complaining all through an afternoon otherwise decorated by his own significantly skilful and by now familiar-to-the-point-of-redundant sporting glory.
Here--playing, mind you, against vastly inferior opposition, in front of some 65,000 of his "home" fans, who support him however much he disrespects them every time he talks to a non-English journalist--the wonderfully gifted lad drives home spectacular free kicks for the first and fifth goals, sets up the second goal, and shows off his spectacular skills with practically every touch. But consider the whole panorama: in the 34th minute he dives theatrically (another of his famous skills), in the 36th minute he utters a bitter complaint (aggrieved is his current standard mode, even when demonstrating his overwhelming genius), in the 40th minute he fakes an injury (poor baby is another familiar chord in his emotional symphony), in the 57th minute he begs for a foul (the mean streets of American cities, in the current encroaching world Depression, offer less evidence of dramatic begging), in the 64th minute we get the I can't-believe-I didn't-score routine (another of his standards), in the 70th minute his ersatz dignity is offended by so low a creature as Amdy Faye (poor me!), a minute later he exacts pettish revenge by retaliating against the hapless Faye, in the 78th minute he again begs for a foul, in the 79th minute his bad miss is accompanied by the shocked how could I? gesture we all know and love by now, and in the 89th minute he puts the last touches to this absorbing panorama (will it be remembered in the future that anybody else was playing in this game?) by scoring his 101st goal for the Theatre-of-Dreams-Team, to the tune of the announcer's fawning gushes--"Whatever he does, he's huge, great box office, great entertainment...Ronaldo has the last word!" Of course this adoring ten-minute video leaves out numerous instances of the young hero's irritation with the heckling of the Stoke supporters, his displays of what in Yank sporting parlance is called rabbit ears or the red ass. But anyone who didn't see the game can paint in those details by-the-numbers to complete the picture.
So, in looking this gift show-horse in the mouth, does one reveal merely an ingratitude bred of inveterate and chronic dyspepsia? How dare one suggest that something's missing from this picture of footballing sublimity at its current radiant pinnacle?
What's been missing, perhaps, are "intangible" things like soul, heart, dignity, pride, integrity, gravity, class: to sum up, all that famous "other stuff" that really has little to do with sport--although indeed not so very long ago the international sport of football did indeed boast at least a piece of it. Whatever one wishes to call this stuff, it was wonderfully embodied, as far as this writer is concerned, in a balding fellow in a blue shirt we last saw on the world stage in the summer of 2006. Zinedine Zidane, for those with micro-memories. To me Zidane represents the antithesis of Cristiano Ronaldo. In his career he embodied everything the latter player, for all his wondrous gifts, is not.
None of this is meant to suggest that Cristiano Ronaldo is not an absolute virtuoso. But it's like the moment in the film Tous Les Matins du Monde (All the Mornings of the World) in which the master musician breaks it to the young wunderkind that virtuosity is only the first step on the ladder to artistic perfection. There are worlds-within-worlds, and worlds-beyond-worlds, that remain to be conquered. And, curiously enough, the conquest probably must begin with a little murmur from that still, small voice within, otherwise known as modesty.
No one could deny the magnificent skills of the pouting, petulant, red-shirted "me first" lad, who has just now helpfully admitted to a Sao Paolo reporter that he considers himself not only the world's best footballer, but the second and third best as well.
But the balding fellow had a few skills also.
And the theme-music title of that last video clip, When We Were Kings, brings me toward the heart of my argument. His impoverished background aside, Zizou always stood out in the world of football for his character, which few could deny bore constant traces of something one can only call "noble" or even "aristocratic".
Just consider for a moment the picture that emerges in the remarkable film Zidane: A 21st Century Portrait.
Scrolling beneath this clip--during which we watch Zizou on the pitch, late in his career, playing for Real Madrid against Villareal, and doing nothing more remarkable than breathing, running a bit, and dispassionately executing a number of routine (for him) yet nonetheless perfect touches--we are given a sense of how this man dealt with crowd response: so very differently than the way the pouter-in-crimson reacted to those wicked Stoke hecklers.
As a child, he says, I had a running commentary in my head when I was playing. It wasn't really my voice... When you step on the field, you can hear the presence of the crowd. There is sound--the sound of noise. When you are immersed in the game you don't really hear the crowd. You can almost decide for yourself what you want to hear. You are never alone. I can hear someone shift around in their chair. I can hear someone coughing. I can hear someone whispering in the ear of someone next to them. I can imagine that I hear the ticking of a watch.
Stillness, inwardness, an ability to be both inside oneself and outside oneself in the same instant of time--are these qualities one often identifies in the footballers we presently admire?
Or, in case performances for which the player is paid nothing might be brought into this argument, see this match "Against Poverty" played on a Monday night in Morocco, two days after the aforementioned United/Stoke "contest". It's a charity game, organized by Zidane himself, together with that other, now all-but-forgotten Ronaldo (the one not named after a Republican president of the United States). Nothing is at stake here but the beauty of the experience of the game--and of the world.
Do those goals made and scored by ZZ for the sheer joy of it matter? Do they help anybody win?
And speaking of unrewarded noble acts on the pitch, who could exceed this one.
This is of course the singular view of an old topiary pachyderm lumbering out on his particular opinion-limb, as he head-butts his way toward the brink of that mortal cliff. Still one can't help wondering: does anybody else miss all that non-sport stuff once gifted upon the sweaty trade of football by the too-soon-departed Zizou?
Here--playing, mind you, against vastly inferior opposition, in front of some 65,000 of his "home" fans, who support him however much he disrespects them every time he talks to a non-English journalist--the wonderfully gifted lad drives home spectacular free kicks for the first and fifth goals, sets up the second goal, and shows off his spectacular skills with practically every touch. But consider the whole panorama: in the 34th minute he dives theatrically (another of his famous skills), in the 36th minute he utters a bitter complaint (aggrieved is his current standard mode, even when demonstrating his overwhelming genius), in the 40th minute he fakes an injury (poor baby is another familiar chord in his emotional symphony), in the 57th minute he begs for a foul (the mean streets of American cities, in the current encroaching world Depression, offer less evidence of dramatic begging), in the 64th minute we get the I can't-believe-I didn't-score routine (another of his standards), in the 70th minute his ersatz dignity is offended by so low a creature as Amdy Faye (poor me!), a minute later he exacts pettish revenge by retaliating against the hapless Faye, in the 78th minute he again begs for a foul, in the 79th minute his bad miss is accompanied by the shocked how could I? gesture we all know and love by now, and in the 89th minute he puts the last touches to this absorbing panorama (will it be remembered in the future that anybody else was playing in this game?) by scoring his 101st goal for the Theatre-of-Dreams-Team, to the tune of the announcer's fawning gushes--"Whatever he does, he's huge, great box office, great entertainment...Ronaldo has the last word!" Of course this adoring ten-minute video leaves out numerous instances of the young hero's irritation with the heckling of the Stoke supporters, his displays of what in Yank sporting parlance is called rabbit ears or the red ass. But anyone who didn't see the game can paint in those details by-the-numbers to complete the picture.
So, in looking this gift show-horse in the mouth, does one reveal merely an ingratitude bred of inveterate and chronic dyspepsia? How dare one suggest that something's missing from this picture of footballing sublimity at its current radiant pinnacle?
What's been missing, perhaps, are "intangible" things like soul, heart, dignity, pride, integrity, gravity, class: to sum up, all that famous "other stuff" that really has little to do with sport--although indeed not so very long ago the international sport of football did indeed boast at least a piece of it. Whatever one wishes to call this stuff, it was wonderfully embodied, as far as this writer is concerned, in a balding fellow in a blue shirt we last saw on the world stage in the summer of 2006. Zinedine Zidane, for those with micro-memories. To me Zidane represents the antithesis of Cristiano Ronaldo. In his career he embodied everything the latter player, for all his wondrous gifts, is not.
None of this is meant to suggest that Cristiano Ronaldo is not an absolute virtuoso. But it's like the moment in the film Tous Les Matins du Monde (All the Mornings of the World) in which the master musician breaks it to the young wunderkind that virtuosity is only the first step on the ladder to artistic perfection. There are worlds-within-worlds, and worlds-beyond-worlds, that remain to be conquered. And, curiously enough, the conquest probably must begin with a little murmur from that still, small voice within, otherwise known as modesty.
No one could deny the magnificent skills of the pouting, petulant, red-shirted "me first" lad, who has just now helpfully admitted to a Sao Paolo reporter that he considers himself not only the world's best footballer, but the second and third best as well.
But the balding fellow had a few skills also.
And the theme-music title of that last video clip, When We Were Kings, brings me toward the heart of my argument. His impoverished background aside, Zizou always stood out in the world of football for his character, which few could deny bore constant traces of something one can only call "noble" or even "aristocratic".
Just consider for a moment the picture that emerges in the remarkable film Zidane: A 21st Century Portrait.
Scrolling beneath this clip--during which we watch Zizou on the pitch, late in his career, playing for Real Madrid against Villareal, and doing nothing more remarkable than breathing, running a bit, and dispassionately executing a number of routine (for him) yet nonetheless perfect touches--we are given a sense of how this man dealt with crowd response: so very differently than the way the pouter-in-crimson reacted to those wicked Stoke hecklers.
As a child, he says, I had a running commentary in my head when I was playing. It wasn't really my voice... When you step on the field, you can hear the presence of the crowd. There is sound--the sound of noise. When you are immersed in the game you don't really hear the crowd. You can almost decide for yourself what you want to hear. You are never alone. I can hear someone shift around in their chair. I can hear someone coughing. I can hear someone whispering in the ear of someone next to them. I can imagine that I hear the ticking of a watch.
Stillness, inwardness, an ability to be both inside oneself and outside oneself in the same instant of time--are these qualities one often identifies in the footballers we presently admire?
Or, in case performances for which the player is paid nothing might be brought into this argument, see this match "Against Poverty" played on a Monday night in Morocco, two days after the aforementioned United/Stoke "contest". It's a charity game, organized by Zidane himself, together with that other, now all-but-forgotten Ronaldo (the one not named after a Republican president of the United States). Nothing is at stake here but the beauty of the experience of the game--and of the world.
Do those goals made and scored by ZZ for the sheer joy of it matter? Do they help anybody win?
And speaking of unrewarded noble acts on the pitch, who could exceed this one.
This is of course the singular view of an old topiary pachyderm lumbering out on his particular opinion-limb, as he head-butts his way toward the brink of that mortal cliff. Still one can't help wondering: does anybody else miss all that non-sport stuff once gifted upon the sweaty trade of football by the too-soon-departed Zizou?
AhcumfiGovan! - Donwendyagain
So reads a plaque on the desk of Sir Alex Ferguson. It is a stark reminder, if one were needed, of the working class Glaswegian roots of the greatest manager to grace the British game. While Sir Alex may have travelled far from those tough beginnings and now enjoys the finer things in life, on the 50th anniversary of the signing of his first professional football contract, he is still driven by a perpetual motion work ethic and a burning desire to succeed. This desire has often seen him at odds with officials, the FA, opponents the media and even his own players.
Many look at him now and dismiss his achievements on the grounds that he has immense financial might at his disposal and it is this that has brought the success. While it is true that United are a financial behemoth these days many forget that Sir Alex was, allegedly, 90 minutes from the sack in 1990 when a young lad named Mark Robins, remember him, plundered a priceless winner at Forest in the Cup. During those dark days when he was at his lowest ebb he was always the first to arrive and the last to leave Old Trafford or the Cliff. Steadily things got better and with the help of a phenomenal group of youngsters and some astute transfer deals he forged a dynasty of success.
He has often said that he does not want to suffer the same fate as his mentor, the late great Jock Stein, but is difficult to envisage him laying down the Old Trafford reins voluntarily. At the beginning of the 2001-2002 season he prematurely announced he would be retiring at the end of the season only to have a change of heart later in February. He announced then that he would serve at least another 3 years. That was 6 years ago and there are no immediate signs that he is thinking of retiring although he does tease the press from time to time.
And why would he? The current United squad is one of the best ever seen at the club with a heady mixture of tantalising young talent like Ronaldo, Rooney, Tevez, Nani, Anderson, Rafael and battle hardened veterans like Ferdinand, Berbatov & Vidic. He can also call on the wizened old stagers Giggs, Neville & Scholes who have been with him most of the way. With one double already under their collective belts Sir Alex must go to bed at night dreaming of just how good this current crop can become.
Of course the day is steadily approaching when United will have to find their way without the stewardship of their greatest general, a day all United fans dare not think about. But there is plenty of life in the old dog yet and perhaps another treble is not beyond his reach yet. What a fitting finale that would be for the working class boy fi Govan!
Many look at him now and dismiss his achievements on the grounds that he has immense financial might at his disposal and it is this that has brought the success. While it is true that United are a financial behemoth these days many forget that Sir Alex was, allegedly, 90 minutes from the sack in 1990 when a young lad named Mark Robins, remember him, plundered a priceless winner at Forest in the Cup. During those dark days when he was at his lowest ebb he was always the first to arrive and the last to leave Old Trafford or the Cliff. Steadily things got better and with the help of a phenomenal group of youngsters and some astute transfer deals he forged a dynasty of success.
He has often said that he does not want to suffer the same fate as his mentor, the late great Jock Stein, but is difficult to envisage him laying down the Old Trafford reins voluntarily. At the beginning of the 2001-2002 season he prematurely announced he would be retiring at the end of the season only to have a change of heart later in February. He announced then that he would serve at least another 3 years. That was 6 years ago and there are no immediate signs that he is thinking of retiring although he does tease the press from time to time.
And why would he? The current United squad is one of the best ever seen at the club with a heady mixture of tantalising young talent like Ronaldo, Rooney, Tevez, Nani, Anderson, Rafael and battle hardened veterans like Ferdinand, Berbatov & Vidic. He can also call on the wizened old stagers Giggs, Neville & Scholes who have been with him most of the way. With one double already under their collective belts Sir Alex must go to bed at night dreaming of just how good this current crop can become.
Of course the day is steadily approaching when United will have to find their way without the stewardship of their greatest general, a day all United fans dare not think about. But there is plenty of life in the old dog yet and perhaps another treble is not beyond his reach yet. What a fitting finale that would be for the working class boy fi Govan!
Personality of the Year blog - swander
It's been an amazing year for British sport: Team GB collects its finest Olympic haul since London 1908, the youngest ever F1 champion seals a nail-biting victory at the end of only his sophomore season, and tennis sees its first British-born Grand Slam finalist for over 30 years. With no home country involvement in Euro 2008, some new stars finally got to bask in the adulation of their public…which is exactly why the BBC Sports Personality of the Year award must go to John Terry.
The victories of cyclists and swimmers are hollow. Their medals may be gold, but these individuals' legacies are made of brittle wood, disintegrating under the harsh conditions of British apathy. Tennis stars command attention for perhaps four weeks each year, with boxers and racing drivers lucky to receive four days of intense press coverage. These are not sporting heroes; these are fleeting memories, mild distractions as we wait for the next pre-season match from the Amsterdam Tournament, Adidas Cup or Cillit Bang Vase. We cannot allow ourselves to be caught up in the zeitgeist by picking Hamilton, or get bogged down by history in congratulating Murray: it is our duty to honour the man responsible for the single greatest moment of individual sporting drama of 2008, whose detractors shed two tears of joy for every one the man himself shed of despondence.
John Terry led his merry band of brothers to the brink of history, to the heart of his paymaster's Russia, and stood twelve yards from glory. He placed the starred ball in the bitter cold and lashing rain, blinking under the harsh Moscow floodlights as millions around Europe watched what would become a landmark British moment. John Terry's strike was set to be the full-stop to conclude a breathtaking season of football, the culmination of Abramovich's flamboyant project, and so the fact that he missed – that the story was allowed to continue and ultimately reveal one final twist – is the strongest example anyone could possibly provide of a selfless contribution to British sport.
But that's not all. Do we recall Rebecca Adlington's victorious histrionics? Did Hamilton's celebrations extend past the tired champagne-spraying of decades past? These are not even sporting personalities. For the pathetic capitulation, both of his standing foot and his emotional stability, John Terry deserves to be named Sports Personality of the Year. The fact that seven years have now passed since the last true sports personality – a footballer – won the award is truly galling, and can only be rectified by the rightful ignoring of other flash-in-the-pan nobodies. We must give Terry the trophy; it will finally give him a chance to hold something over his head this calendar year.
The victories of cyclists and swimmers are hollow. Their medals may be gold, but these individuals' legacies are made of brittle wood, disintegrating under the harsh conditions of British apathy. Tennis stars command attention for perhaps four weeks each year, with boxers and racing drivers lucky to receive four days of intense press coverage. These are not sporting heroes; these are fleeting memories, mild distractions as we wait for the next pre-season match from the Amsterdam Tournament, Adidas Cup or Cillit Bang Vase. We cannot allow ourselves to be caught up in the zeitgeist by picking Hamilton, or get bogged down by history in congratulating Murray: it is our duty to honour the man responsible for the single greatest moment of individual sporting drama of 2008, whose detractors shed two tears of joy for every one the man himself shed of despondence.
John Terry led his merry band of brothers to the brink of history, to the heart of his paymaster's Russia, and stood twelve yards from glory. He placed the starred ball in the bitter cold and lashing rain, blinking under the harsh Moscow floodlights as millions around Europe watched what would become a landmark British moment. John Terry's strike was set to be the full-stop to conclude a breathtaking season of football, the culmination of Abramovich's flamboyant project, and so the fact that he missed – that the story was allowed to continue and ultimately reveal one final twist – is the strongest example anyone could possibly provide of a selfless contribution to British sport.
But that's not all. Do we recall Rebecca Adlington's victorious histrionics? Did Hamilton's celebrations extend past the tired champagne-spraying of decades past? These are not even sporting personalities. For the pathetic capitulation, both of his standing foot and his emotional stability, John Terry deserves to be named Sports Personality of the Year. The fact that seven years have now passed since the last true sports personality – a footballer – won the award is truly galling, and can only be rectified by the rightful ignoring of other flash-in-the-pan nobodies. We must give Terry the trophy; it will finally give him a chance to hold something over his head this calendar year.
Friday, November 14, 2008
SPOTY: Chris Gayle – Zephirine
My nomination for Overseas Sports Personality of the Year is Chris Gayle, Captain of the Stanford Cricket Superstars and recent winner of a million dollars.
For anyone who’s been in the Sahara, in rehab, on the space shuttle or otherwise out of reach of the sports media lately, I should explain that on November 1st this year Texan millionaire Allen Stanford hosted the ‘20/20 for 20’ match at his own cricket ground in Antigua. His Superstars team vs the England national side – the winners to share $20 million, the losers to get nothing.
This sledgehammer incentive drove the media crazy, as intended. UK newspapers were full of articles about how this was the death of the game, the noble traditions were being abandoned in favour of meretricious cricket-for-dummies, at the behest of a crass moneybags who was openly bored by five-day, pure, real Test cricket. Pundits opined and blogs buzzed.
Meanwhile, the Superstars team started an intensive training programme, captained by Chris Gayle, a 29-year-old Jamaican left-handed batsman with attitude. West Indies international cricket is complicated and like most Boards the WICB is unpopular. Now Gayle had a chance to work with his team, some of them newcomers, away from the political problems and sponsorship in-fighting.
The England players were accused by the media of being mercenaries while constantly being asked what they would spend the money on. It was assumed they would win. Pink Ferraris were mentioned. But once in Antigua, they fell apart: on the day, they gave a truly appalling display as the winner-takes-all pressure visibly did their heads in, and set the Superstars a target of only 100 runs to win.
Gayle and his team played with verve, athleticism, concentration and apparently no nerves. They knocked off the 100 runs in 12 overs, with Gayle scoring a succession of sixes. They got the runs and took the money.
And this is why I am nominating Gayle: because it did his head in too. Later he admitted he felt “really stressed out” - he needed the money to pay for medical treatment for his brother and his father. But he conquered the nerves. At the wicket he was all confidence, and it conveyed to his team.
In the end, the match didn’t belong to Stanford, it belonged to the Superstars. They transcended the image of a rich man’s playthings and took control of the moment, and that was down to the leadership of Chris Gayle. In an era when sports are more and more dominated by wealthy investors, on Antigua’s Independence Day he showed exactly how to deal with that. No matter how much controversy and razzmatazz the rich guys create while promoting their brands, if you play the sport supremely well you can take it away from them and bring it back where it belongs - to the players and the fans.
For anyone who’s been in the Sahara, in rehab, on the space shuttle or otherwise out of reach of the sports media lately, I should explain that on November 1st this year Texan millionaire Allen Stanford hosted the ‘20/20 for 20’ match at his own cricket ground in Antigua. His Superstars team vs the England national side – the winners to share $20 million, the losers to get nothing.
This sledgehammer incentive drove the media crazy, as intended. UK newspapers were full of articles about how this was the death of the game, the noble traditions were being abandoned in favour of meretricious cricket-for-dummies, at the behest of a crass moneybags who was openly bored by five-day, pure, real Test cricket. Pundits opined and blogs buzzed.
Meanwhile, the Superstars team started an intensive training programme, captained by Chris Gayle, a 29-year-old Jamaican left-handed batsman with attitude. West Indies international cricket is complicated and like most Boards the WICB is unpopular. Now Gayle had a chance to work with his team, some of them newcomers, away from the political problems and sponsorship in-fighting.
The England players were accused by the media of being mercenaries while constantly being asked what they would spend the money on. It was assumed they would win. Pink Ferraris were mentioned. But once in Antigua, they fell apart: on the day, they gave a truly appalling display as the winner-takes-all pressure visibly did their heads in, and set the Superstars a target of only 100 runs to win.
Gayle and his team played with verve, athleticism, concentration and apparently no nerves. They knocked off the 100 runs in 12 overs, with Gayle scoring a succession of sixes. They got the runs and took the money.
And this is why I am nominating Gayle: because it did his head in too. Later he admitted he felt “really stressed out” - he needed the money to pay for medical treatment for his brother and his father. But he conquered the nerves. At the wicket he was all confidence, and it conveyed to his team.
In the end, the match didn’t belong to Stanford, it belonged to the Superstars. They transcended the image of a rich man’s playthings and took control of the moment, and that was down to the leadership of Chris Gayle. In an era when sports are more and more dominated by wealthy investors, on Antigua’s Independence Day he showed exactly how to deal with that. No matter how much controversy and razzmatazz the rich guys create while promoting their brands, if you play the sport supremely well you can take it away from them and bring it back where it belongs - to the players and the fans.
Who Should win The Sports Personality of the Year, and Why? - mimitig
Over the years there has been a fundamental problem with this BBC award. Is the winner a Personality or a supreme achiever in their sport?
This year will no doubt ask that question again as 2008 has been a year of great achievement for so many sportsmen and women, but how many have imprinted their characters upon us?
For me, there is only one winner. Mark Cavendish – the Manx Express.
Cav is undoubtedly a personality – and by winning four stages of the 2008 Tour de France, he has achieved something never before done by a British cyclist. The Grand Depart this year was in Britanny – spiritual home of cycling – and yet rather low-key compared to the previous “spectacle” in London. But it all went well and as the peloton rolled through the countryside we came to Chateauroux.
Cav punched his fist into the air as he won his first stage.
Stage Eight and Toulouse saw his second stage win – the bunch loomed out of the misty spray, and mouth wide open, Mark Cavendish was first across the line again. Stage 12. 168.5 km from Lavelanet to Narbonne. Cav won the sprint and stage again with style and insouciance after such a bad day for the Tour when Ricco tested positive and the Saunier-Duvel team withdrew.
Mark rode with courage and guts and refused to be bowed by others troubles, or his own injuries.
Narbonne to Nimes, just one day and 182 hard kilometres later, Cav took his fourth stage win in the world’s toughest sporting endeavour. Bleeding but triumphant, as he came over the line Mark held up four fingers, and a bandaged arm to show the world that British cyclists can win, and win clean. A big grin as well, Mark knew that he had broken all records for British cyclists in the Big Race. The interviews were full of his outrageously confident personality and all the better for it.
His next job was The Madison with Bradley Wiggins in Beijing, and as we know, it didn’t work for them. He was one of the very few British cyclists to come away from China without a medal.
In addition to Cavendish’s superb performance in Le Tour, this is another reason why he deserves the SPOTY – he has never complained about the Olympics, never criticised Brad for putting his hunt for the Team and Individual Pursuit Golds ahead of Mark’s one and only chance.
Cav is a professional. And has the most sunshine-bringing smile that I have seen on a sportsman for a very long time.
It would be joyous to think that the amazing success that the GB Cyclists had in Beijing, added to by the almost embarrassing success in Manchester at the first round of the World Cup (you’re not Team GB? Oh sorry, you won’t win anything!), might make the general public vote for a cyclist. That’s if he’s even nominated, of course.
This year will no doubt ask that question again as 2008 has been a year of great achievement for so many sportsmen and women, but how many have imprinted their characters upon us?
For me, there is only one winner. Mark Cavendish – the Manx Express.
Cav is undoubtedly a personality – and by winning four stages of the 2008 Tour de France, he has achieved something never before done by a British cyclist. The Grand Depart this year was in Britanny – spiritual home of cycling – and yet rather low-key compared to the previous “spectacle” in London. But it all went well and as the peloton rolled through the countryside we came to Chateauroux.
Cav punched his fist into the air as he won his first stage.
Stage Eight and Toulouse saw his second stage win – the bunch loomed out of the misty spray, and mouth wide open, Mark Cavendish was first across the line again. Stage 12. 168.5 km from Lavelanet to Narbonne. Cav won the sprint and stage again with style and insouciance after such a bad day for the Tour when Ricco tested positive and the Saunier-Duvel team withdrew.
Mark rode with courage and guts and refused to be bowed by others troubles, or his own injuries.
Narbonne to Nimes, just one day and 182 hard kilometres later, Cav took his fourth stage win in the world’s toughest sporting endeavour. Bleeding but triumphant, as he came over the line Mark held up four fingers, and a bandaged arm to show the world that British cyclists can win, and win clean. A big grin as well, Mark knew that he had broken all records for British cyclists in the Big Race. The interviews were full of his outrageously confident personality and all the better for it.
His next job was The Madison with Bradley Wiggins in Beijing, and as we know, it didn’t work for them. He was one of the very few British cyclists to come away from China without a medal.
In addition to Cavendish’s superb performance in Le Tour, this is another reason why he deserves the SPOTY – he has never complained about the Olympics, never criticised Brad for putting his hunt for the Team and Individual Pursuit Golds ahead of Mark’s one and only chance.
Cav is a professional. And has the most sunshine-bringing smile that I have seen on a sportsman for a very long time.
It would be joyous to think that the amazing success that the GB Cyclists had in Beijing, added to by the almost embarrassing success in Manchester at the first round of the World Cup (you’re not Team GB? Oh sorry, you won’t win anything!), might make the general public vote for a cyclist. That’s if he’s even nominated, of course.
Who should win the sports personality of the year award? - PrivateDic
It was an award for losers, said Joe Calzaghe—although not, sadly, in his acceptance speech of 2007. Calzaghe’s success as BBC Sports Personality proved himself wrong, but there is something odd about the list of winners of the tacky tripod trophy. It’s not that they’re losers, exactly—only 4 of the last 20 Personalities were plucky runners-up, and ’94 Personality Damon Hill later became world champion. What’s really puzzling about this hall of ‘fame’ is the preponderance of sports about which, in truth, we couldn’t give a monkey’s.
Zara Phillips was a controversial winner in the year of Calzaghe’s outburst, but while it’s not her fault that she won, she remains symbolic of everything that’s wrong with the cult of Personality. How many of her 221,000 voters had ever attended an equestrian event? How many watched on TV? How many had even made dressage-related smalltalk at the watercooler? We don’t know her greatest rivals, or her strengths and weaknesses. All we know is that she’s very English, very Establishment, and won a shiny medal—and that, depressingly, is the formula for Personality success. Phillips’ mother, Princess Anne, modestly attributes her 1971 win to the lack of competition; the runners-up were George Best and Barry John.
Steve Redgrave was voted Personality of Personalities on the award’s 50th anniversary, but who are we kidding when we call ourselves Redgrave fans? Like Phillips, he competes in an ultra-minority sport that reeks of the English public school, and which few of us notice for the 208 consecutive weeks between Olympic finals. The widespread admiration for Redgrave’s success is really about believing him a symbol of Great Britishness, living proof that our Establishment and institutions are hopeful and glorious. While Redgrave dipped his oar, Brittania continued to rule the waves for Personality voters.
If the Personalities are to reflect our real sporting passions, we need more losers. Kelly Holmes is a brilliant middle-distance runner, but 2004 was really the year of Wayne Rooney’s arrival at the Euros. Personality Fatima Whitbread hurled a javelin 76 metres for gold in ’87, but Clive Allen scored an incredible 49 goals while missing out on League and both Cups for Spurs. A question hovers over the silver tripod, awkward as a fart at a job interview: who the hell votes for this thing?
Assuredly not the superfans at Anfield, Thomond Park or Eden Gardens, where sport finds its soul and fans meld with players in what might pretentiously be called symbiosis. Nor is it the mythical Cornish ManU fan, sofa-bound and sad, but passionate and informed nonetheless. A strange truth emerges: this is a sports award where the voters don’ t like sport.
So, who should win this year? It’s surely a three-horse race. Establishment, elitist and brilliantly esoteric, it has to be Blonde One, Two or Three from the nation’s favourite keelboat. I can’t remember any of their names, or who they beat, and I’ve no inkling what an yngling looks like. Now that’s Personality.
Zara Phillips was a controversial winner in the year of Calzaghe’s outburst, but while it’s not her fault that she won, she remains symbolic of everything that’s wrong with the cult of Personality. How many of her 221,000 voters had ever attended an equestrian event? How many watched on TV? How many had even made dressage-related smalltalk at the watercooler? We don’t know her greatest rivals, or her strengths and weaknesses. All we know is that she’s very English, very Establishment, and won a shiny medal—and that, depressingly, is the formula for Personality success. Phillips’ mother, Princess Anne, modestly attributes her 1971 win to the lack of competition; the runners-up were George Best and Barry John.
Steve Redgrave was voted Personality of Personalities on the award’s 50th anniversary, but who are we kidding when we call ourselves Redgrave fans? Like Phillips, he competes in an ultra-minority sport that reeks of the English public school, and which few of us notice for the 208 consecutive weeks between Olympic finals. The widespread admiration for Redgrave’s success is really about believing him a symbol of Great Britishness, living proof that our Establishment and institutions are hopeful and glorious. While Redgrave dipped his oar, Brittania continued to rule the waves for Personality voters.
If the Personalities are to reflect our real sporting passions, we need more losers. Kelly Holmes is a brilliant middle-distance runner, but 2004 was really the year of Wayne Rooney’s arrival at the Euros. Personality Fatima Whitbread hurled a javelin 76 metres for gold in ’87, but Clive Allen scored an incredible 49 goals while missing out on League and both Cups for Spurs. A question hovers over the silver tripod, awkward as a fart at a job interview: who the hell votes for this thing?
Assuredly not the superfans at Anfield, Thomond Park or Eden Gardens, where sport finds its soul and fans meld with players in what might pretentiously be called symbiosis. Nor is it the mythical Cornish ManU fan, sofa-bound and sad, but passionate and informed nonetheless. A strange truth emerges: this is a sports award where the voters don’ t like sport.
So, who should win this year? It’s surely a three-horse race. Establishment, elitist and brilliantly esoteric, it has to be Blonde One, Two or Three from the nation’s favourite keelboat. I can’t remember any of their names, or who they beat, and I’ve no inkling what an yngling looks like. Now that’s Personality.
Sports [Personality] 2008: Out of Africa - PHil West
November means factories stopping production, farmers neglecting their crops and animals, and Apple executives wondering why teenagers have stopped downloading music.
Why? Because everyone is swept along by the maelstrom surrounding who will be this year’s Sports Personality. Not.
For my choice we need to agree on some ground rules.
1) Drop the ‘personality’ tag. (Davies, Mansell, Hill, H.R.H).
My candidate is shy, quiet, and unknown to all but a few.
2) Accept that we Brits treasure glorious failure as much as glorious success. (Rusedski, Gascoigne)
My candidate had a ‘failure’ to die for.
3) Athletics is the greatest sport on the planet. (OK, this may prove difficult for those who like show-jumpinzzzz… - my apologies to both of them.)
My candidate is an athlete named Elvan Abeylegesse.
Born in Ethiopia, as a teenager she was overlooked by their talent scouts and so came to live and train in Istanbul. The Turkish press were initially more interested in the now disgraced Süreyha Ayhan, but she trained hard and became a serious contender at all the distances from 1500m to 10,000m.
Like David Bedford, she is capable of world records alone, but uncomfortable when running in the pack. Like him she tries to wear the opposition down, hoping not to be outsprinted at the death.
Bedford had his Lasse Viren, Elvan has Tirunesh Dibaba.
Dibaba beat her in the 2007 World 10,000 m final in Osaka, taking four seconds out of her in the last lap. Coming into the Olympic final an even stronger Dibaba was waiting, along with an array of track stars.
What followed was one of the bravest 10,000 m races ever.
They set off at a cracking pace and, despite the heat and humidity, six kilometres was reached in 18:12 with each kilometre run faster than 3:04. Six athletes were left in contention.
Elvan had to do something to break Dibaba, but off a pace that was already faster than the Olympic Record, what?
The answer was to run the seventh kilometre in an energy-sapping 2:57, the eighth and the ninth in a staggering 2:54 and 2:55. Every athlete in the group bar one (guess who) was blown away.
I swear I ran every step of those three kilometres; felt the burning in the lungs, the lactic in the legs; the sweat pouring down her face to form dark stains on her vest. I was entranced as she desperately tried to break the one last woman who could deprive her of gold.
Unbelievably, she then ran the last kilometre in 2:50. Dibaba somehow held it together and again went past her on the final lap to clock a simply impossible 2:46. The gap was less than two seconds.
Both women broke 30 minutes, more than 20 seconds faster than the Olympic Record.
Elvan couldn’t even find a Turkish flag to parade on her lap of honour. Turkey’s first silver on the track. They had that little faith.
Your votes, please, for Elvan Abeylegesse.
Why? Because everyone is swept along by the maelstrom surrounding who will be this year’s Sports Personality. Not.
For my choice we need to agree on some ground rules.
1) Drop the ‘personality’ tag. (Davies, Mansell, Hill, H.R.H).
My candidate is shy, quiet, and unknown to all but a few.
2) Accept that we Brits treasure glorious failure as much as glorious success. (Rusedski, Gascoigne)
My candidate had a ‘failure’ to die for.
3) Athletics is the greatest sport on the planet. (OK, this may prove difficult for those who like show-jumpinzzzz… - my apologies to both of them.)
My candidate is an athlete named Elvan Abeylegesse.
Born in Ethiopia, as a teenager she was overlooked by their talent scouts and so came to live and train in Istanbul. The Turkish press were initially more interested in the now disgraced Süreyha Ayhan, but she trained hard and became a serious contender at all the distances from 1500m to 10,000m.
Like David Bedford, she is capable of world records alone, but uncomfortable when running in the pack. Like him she tries to wear the opposition down, hoping not to be outsprinted at the death.
Bedford had his Lasse Viren, Elvan has Tirunesh Dibaba.
Dibaba beat her in the 2007 World 10,000 m final in Osaka, taking four seconds out of her in the last lap. Coming into the Olympic final an even stronger Dibaba was waiting, along with an array of track stars.
What followed was one of the bravest 10,000 m races ever.
They set off at a cracking pace and, despite the heat and humidity, six kilometres was reached in 18:12 with each kilometre run faster than 3:04. Six athletes were left in contention.
Elvan had to do something to break Dibaba, but off a pace that was already faster than the Olympic Record, what?
The answer was to run the seventh kilometre in an energy-sapping 2:57, the eighth and the ninth in a staggering 2:54 and 2:55. Every athlete in the group bar one (guess who) was blown away.
I swear I ran every step of those three kilometres; felt the burning in the lungs, the lactic in the legs; the sweat pouring down her face to form dark stains on her vest. I was entranced as she desperately tried to break the one last woman who could deprive her of gold.
Unbelievably, she then ran the last kilometre in 2:50. Dibaba somehow held it together and again went past her on the final lap to clock a simply impossible 2:46. The gap was less than two seconds.
Both women broke 30 minutes, more than 20 seconds faster than the Olympic Record.
Elvan couldn’t even find a Turkish flag to parade on her lap of honour. Turkey’s first silver on the track. They had that little faith.
Your votes, please, for Elvan Abeylegesse.
It's about the personality - Allout
Some will say Chris Hoy and others will back Lewis Hamilton but neither of them really do it for me. Of course Hoy’s performances were amazing and to win three medals, particularly in the convincing manner he did, is almost beyond description. However, great though Hoy’s performances were, we need to bear in mind he was helped by the strongest team in track cycling with the most generous national funding programme, the best system and the leading equipment.
Hamilton, likewise was helped by the strong McLaren-Mercedes team and (let’s not forget) was two bends and a large chunk of good fortune away from topping Rob Smyth’s next edition of his great sporting losers blog.
No, the man I propose has had little help from a generous government programme or techies whose specifications can give him an extra split-second. The man I propose has been on a personal voyage in recent years from surly loser to gracious winner, making the tough decisions and sacrifices on his own.
The bald facts show that this summer Andy Murray reached a Wimbledon quarter final (then his career Grand Slam best); won two Masters series in a row (Tim Henman, by contrast, won one in his entire career); reached a US Open final; and is now the number 4 in the world. He beat the three best players in the world at various points and is now generally regarded as one of the very best all-round players. When was the last time a British tennis player entered a major tournament not played on grass as one of the favourites? These facts are only half the story though: Murray’s has gone from a point where his volcanic temper was a massive problem to where he can channel it positively. Even more that this – he has done this in his own way, making difficult decisions and maturing himself, rather than having a team of advisers appointed by others making the tough calls.
There are those that will say that the award is for the top sports personality and argue that Murray’s lack of natural charm precludes him. The 22 year old is hardly like to be offered his own prime time TV show but this is just one aspect of personality. Another is character and the will and desire to do things your own way, making the necessary sacrifices to improve. Murray showed plenty of personality when he left his native Dunblane for Barcelona at the tender age of fifteen; Murray showed plenty of personality when he ditched the coach appointed by the LTA and put his own advisors, led by a little known mediocre former player Miles Maclagan, in charge; and Murray showed plenty of personality when he outplayed Nadal (who had been invincible all summer) on the big stage in Flushing Meadows.
Murray has, in short, shown the character, will and temperament necessary to be an absolutely top sportsman. It is that personality we should be celebrating, and not the ability to fire off witty one-liners!
Hamilton, likewise was helped by the strong McLaren-Mercedes team and (let’s not forget) was two bends and a large chunk of good fortune away from topping Rob Smyth’s next edition of his great sporting losers blog.
No, the man I propose has had little help from a generous government programme or techies whose specifications can give him an extra split-second. The man I propose has been on a personal voyage in recent years from surly loser to gracious winner, making the tough decisions and sacrifices on his own.
The bald facts show that this summer Andy Murray reached a Wimbledon quarter final (then his career Grand Slam best); won two Masters series in a row (Tim Henman, by contrast, won one in his entire career); reached a US Open final; and is now the number 4 in the world. He beat the three best players in the world at various points and is now generally regarded as one of the very best all-round players. When was the last time a British tennis player entered a major tournament not played on grass as one of the favourites? These facts are only half the story though: Murray’s has gone from a point where his volcanic temper was a massive problem to where he can channel it positively. Even more that this – he has done this in his own way, making difficult decisions and maturing himself, rather than having a team of advisers appointed by others making the tough calls.
There are those that will say that the award is for the top sports personality and argue that Murray’s lack of natural charm precludes him. The 22 year old is hardly like to be offered his own prime time TV show but this is just one aspect of personality. Another is character and the will and desire to do things your own way, making the necessary sacrifices to improve. Murray showed plenty of personality when he left his native Dunblane for Barcelona at the tender age of fifteen; Murray showed plenty of personality when he ditched the coach appointed by the LTA and put his own advisors, led by a little known mediocre former player Miles Maclagan, in charge; and Murray showed plenty of personality when he outplayed Nadal (who had been invincible all summer) on the big stage in Flushing Meadows.
Murray has, in short, shown the character, will and temperament necessary to be an absolutely top sportsman. It is that personality we should be celebrating, and not the ability to fire off witty one-liners!
Thursday, November 13, 2008
SPOTY - Mac Millings
You can keep your Bolts and your Phelpseses. There’s only one true candidate for Overseas Sports Personality of the Year, and his name is Sir Allen Stanford. That might not seem a likely suggestion, or even a sensible one, but consider this: why wouldn’t you select this brash Texan billionaire with few real connections to UK and little discernible sporting talent as the latest OSPOTY? The answer may surprise you.
The pros and cons are many. I will deal with them in order of no order whatsoever.
He hasn’t just brought Twenty20 cricket to the Caribbean. His stated aim - to rebuild the sport’s infrastructure in the region – is surely to be commended. For the good of the game and its continued diversity, to allow Caribbean cricket to founder is unthinkable. Conversely, what has Giles Clarke brought to the English game other than the Stanford Twenty20 for 20?
Some say he’s not really “Sir” Allen Stanford at all, and they’re quite right. His real name is Sirallen Stanford, and he is a pioneer in the field of ridiculous composite names, inspiring the likes of 4Real, D’Brickashaw and theguardian.
Then there’s “breaking America” – an idea that seems ridiculous to some. It shouldn’t. Of course cricket will never come close to threatening the major US sports, but that there are a large number of healthy minor sports in a country of over 300 million is no surprise. And with the populations of Americans of , for example, Caribbean and South Asian (particularly Indian) descent large and growing, and the possibilities of niche marketing in the age of the internet and cable/satellite/digital TV, why might cricket not be run as a small, but profitable, business, just as other minor US sports – both professional and amateur - are, in what we might call the Sports Economics version of The Long Tail (stop giggling at the back)?
We might even get a US team out of it one day – someone for England to beat, at least for a while. And who cares if their side wouldn’t showcase the best sportsmen that America has to offer? After all, English cricket lost the man his coach called “the greatest schoolboy cricketer he’d ever known” to football.
Kick-starting the renaissance of West Indian cricket isn’t Stanford’s only gift to the global game - he has also revealed to future opponents England’s fatal flaw. To guarantee success, simply raise the prize money to uncountable levels (n.b. India and Australia – you chaps needn’t bother).
This man - with a moustache bested in modern times only by my Grandma’s – may not be an actual sportsman, but with assets of $2.2 billion, and pretty ladies bouncing on his knee, he certainly is a player, and my Overseas Sports Personality of the Year.
The pros and cons are many. I will deal with them in order of no order whatsoever.
He hasn’t just brought Twenty20 cricket to the Caribbean. His stated aim - to rebuild the sport’s infrastructure in the region – is surely to be commended. For the good of the game and its continued diversity, to allow Caribbean cricket to founder is unthinkable. Conversely, what has Giles Clarke brought to the English game other than the Stanford Twenty20 for 20?
Some say he’s not really “Sir” Allen Stanford at all, and they’re quite right. His real name is Sirallen Stanford, and he is a pioneer in the field of ridiculous composite names, inspiring the likes of 4Real, D’Brickashaw and theguardian.
Then there’s “breaking America” – an idea that seems ridiculous to some. It shouldn’t. Of course cricket will never come close to threatening the major US sports, but that there are a large number of healthy minor sports in a country of over 300 million is no surprise. And with the populations of Americans of , for example, Caribbean and South Asian (particularly Indian) descent large and growing, and the possibilities of niche marketing in the age of the internet and cable/satellite/digital TV, why might cricket not be run as a small, but profitable, business, just as other minor US sports – both professional and amateur - are, in what we might call the Sports Economics version of The Long Tail (stop giggling at the back)?
We might even get a US team out of it one day – someone for England to beat, at least for a while. And who cares if their side wouldn’t showcase the best sportsmen that America has to offer? After all, English cricket lost the man his coach called “the greatest schoolboy cricketer he’d ever known” to football.
Kick-starting the renaissance of West Indian cricket isn’t Stanford’s only gift to the global game - he has also revealed to future opponents England’s fatal flaw. To guarantee success, simply raise the prize money to uncountable levels (n.b. India and Australia – you chaps needn’t bother).
This man - with a moustache bested in modern times only by my Grandma’s – may not be an actual sportsman, but with assets of $2.2 billion, and pretty ladies bouncing on his knee, he certainly is a player, and my Overseas Sports Personality of the Year.
The Sports Personality of the Year - donwendyagain
So here we are once again, that time of year when thoughts are turned to those brave souls who strived to brighten our lives with their sporting endeavour throughout the year. The BBC's campaign to suck us in is well under way and gathering momentum but we all know it will be the same saccharine sweet mixture of middle of the road commentary and glossy vacuous excrement that they serve up year after year without fail. But there is another way.
Instead of voting for the Olympic heroes, who achieved much in the heat of battle but delivered so little in terms of personality, perhaps we should be looking for an entertainer as opposed to a winner. Someone who delivers where it matters most, someone with the ability to make us laugh, cry, despair and rejoice all at the same time. After all the award has form as many of the past recipients have taken the prize on the back of that strangely British phenomenon... successful failure.
So this year I would like to consider someone who has shown that they have what it takes to fail consistently and could quite rightly be considered as one of the greatest successful failures of our time yet has retained the ability to entertain us every step of the way. Step forward Joey Barton.
He is a man who has comes with a wonderful back catalogue of crimes and misdemeanours. He is a man who knows how to court controversy and he is a man who knows how to make friends. In short this is a man who knows how to keep himself in the public eye and his cheeky personality makes him one of those players that you just love to loathe.
He has recently been released back into the community in the care of that greatly respected man of the people Joe Kinnear who will no doubt take Joey under his wing, show him the error of his ways and teach him the value of respect. The fruits of the budding relationship between this real life Obi Wan Kenobi and Anakin Skywalker have not been slow in coming.
Having personality is all well and good, I hear you cry, but what about his sporting ability? Well it is true that his time on the pitch has been limited by Her Majesty's Pleasure but it is equally true that when Joey takes the time to focus on his craft he is a pretty tasty player.
But as we all know it’s an award for personality and Joey Barton has more personality in his little toe than the entire Olympic squad has in their combined bodies. So when you are considering who to vote for this year take a moment to consider someone who has faced real troubles, someone who keeps his head held high and someone who is a proven fighter...I give you Joey Barton.
Instead of voting for the Olympic heroes, who achieved much in the heat of battle but delivered so little in terms of personality, perhaps we should be looking for an entertainer as opposed to a winner. Someone who delivers where it matters most, someone with the ability to make us laugh, cry, despair and rejoice all at the same time. After all the award has form as many of the past recipients have taken the prize on the back of that strangely British phenomenon... successful failure.
So this year I would like to consider someone who has shown that they have what it takes to fail consistently and could quite rightly be considered as one of the greatest successful failures of our time yet has retained the ability to entertain us every step of the way. Step forward Joey Barton.
He is a man who has comes with a wonderful back catalogue of crimes and misdemeanours. He is a man who knows how to court controversy and he is a man who knows how to make friends. In short this is a man who knows how to keep himself in the public eye and his cheeky personality makes him one of those players that you just love to loathe.
He has recently been released back into the community in the care of that greatly respected man of the people Joe Kinnear who will no doubt take Joey under his wing, show him the error of his ways and teach him the value of respect. The fruits of the budding relationship between this real life Obi Wan Kenobi and Anakin Skywalker have not been slow in coming.
Having personality is all well and good, I hear you cry, but what about his sporting ability? Well it is true that his time on the pitch has been limited by Her Majesty's Pleasure but it is equally true that when Joey takes the time to focus on his craft he is a pretty tasty player.
But as we all know it’s an award for personality and Joey Barton has more personality in his little toe than the entire Olympic squad has in their combined bodies. So when you are considering who to vote for this year take a moment to consider someone who has faced real troubles, someone who keeps his head held high and someone who is a proven fighter...I give you Joey Barton.
The Cult of Personality - ElSell
Yes kids the show of shows, the award that has driven many a young would be hoodie to strive to be the best of the best, if Oscar was into sports as a child and not comic books he would be The BBC Sports Personality Of The Year err trophy. I think it’s safe to assume that it is called the personality of the year award due to the BBC fearing that years would pass without anyone actually winning anything.
However they were wrong and indeed due to Britain’s great ability to usually win at least one event in a calendar year it is a personality award in name only, as year on year it is given to those who being single minded and determined as a competitor should be, tend to display all the personality of a damp squib.
A quick peruse through the previous winners begs the question:
Honestly how many of them would you like to go for a drink with?
Yes there is a recent winner you wouldn’t mind getting drunk but that’s between you and Jesus.
Unlike most years where the BBC has to big up a couple of failures to create interest, this year there is actually real competition for the award.
The List of possible winners breaks into three categories:
The Trust Fund Kidults:
The best at what they do and heavily funded to get them across the line.
Hoy: Good bloke; beat literally tens of people from around the world spending thousands to win 3 medals.
Hamilton: Visits Britain when he can; a true genius in his field, team spent millions to win a competion that really could only be won by 3 other drivers.
The Self Made:
Not exactly paupers but not externally funded to the same extent and in events that are more competitive.
Cavendish: He is no Sean Kelly but has achieved more this year in the big bad world of “proper” cycling than any other Britain ever.
Murray: One of the most successful years ever by a British tennis player. Didn’t win Wimbledon!
Calzaghe: Won it last year.
The Welfare State
Or the Swimmers as they prefer to be known, well one swimmer in particular is front of the queue.
Adlinton: Two gold’s, had done most of her training in a 25 metre pool, grants that are not much more than the dole and as for her personality, well she has spent a lot of time in the pool.
If I had my way and one was to take the title of the show on its merits the winner should be this lunatic or the somewhat saner Eleanor Simmonds.
Unfortunately seeing as the people who actually vote tend to be people who stand in front of the TV saluting this or people who watch this and think it is real.
The winner will be either the bloke on the indoor bike or the bloke in the car.
However they were wrong and indeed due to Britain’s great ability to usually win at least one event in a calendar year it is a personality award in name only, as year on year it is given to those who being single minded and determined as a competitor should be, tend to display all the personality of a damp squib.
A quick peruse through the previous winners begs the question:
Honestly how many of them would you like to go for a drink with?
Yes there is a recent winner you wouldn’t mind getting drunk but that’s between you and Jesus.
Unlike most years where the BBC has to big up a couple of failures to create interest, this year there is actually real competition for the award.
The List of possible winners breaks into three categories:
The Trust Fund Kidults:
The best at what they do and heavily funded to get them across the line.
Hoy: Good bloke; beat literally tens of people from around the world spending thousands to win 3 medals.
Hamilton: Visits Britain when he can; a true genius in his field, team spent millions to win a competion that really could only be won by 3 other drivers.
The Self Made:
Not exactly paupers but not externally funded to the same extent and in events that are more competitive.
Cavendish: He is no Sean Kelly but has achieved more this year in the big bad world of “proper” cycling than any other Britain ever.
Murray: One of the most successful years ever by a British tennis player. Didn’t win Wimbledon!
Calzaghe: Won it last year.
The Welfare State
Or the Swimmers as they prefer to be known, well one swimmer in particular is front of the queue.
Adlinton: Two gold’s, had done most of her training in a 25 metre pool, grants that are not much more than the dole and as for her personality, well she has spent a lot of time in the pool.
If I had my way and one was to take the title of the show on its merits the winner should be this lunatic or the somewhat saner Eleanor Simmonds.
Unfortunately seeing as the people who actually vote tend to be people who stand in front of the TV saluting this or people who watch this and think it is real.
The winner will be either the bloke on the indoor bike or the bloke in the car.
SPOTY Ryan Giggs – fourturntables
Ryan Joseph Giggs has had a great year. In the last 12 months he has won the Premier League for the tenth time, the European Cup for a second time and surpassed Bobby Charlton's appearance record for Manchester United.
That makes him the most successful player in the history of the English League and the longest-serving player at perhaps the greatest club side in the world – and if that's not enough reason to give him sports personality of the year, there's another reason. He should win it because he hasn't, and we're running out of time.
Michael Owen's won it, David Beckham's won it, Paul Gascoigne's won it. None have a record anything like as good as Giggs'.
The trouble with Giggs is people have forgotten about him. Not just what he was, but what he still offers. This year, while 'past his prime' Giggs scored the goal that secured his and Manchester United's tenth (yes, tenth) Premier League as well as the winning penalty in the Champions League final.
Last year Joe Calzaghe won after a fight that capped 10 year as a world champion. Giggs has been at Manchester United longer, he first played for United in 1991, when John Major was prime minister. For close to two decades one of the finest managers ever has not been able to replace Giggs. Despite the riches of god and a global scouting network.
He has risen to every challenge the best team of the age could throw at him. He has played and scored in every single Premier League season. Ever. And scored in the last 13 seasons in the Champions Leage. That's not getting by, that's excelling.
He now has more titles than all but three clubs in England, and United only had seven before he arrived. Then there are the four FA Cups, two League Cups, six Charity Shields, two European Cups, a Uefa Super Cup and an Intercontinental Cup. Giggs won his first title before the Premier League began. Now read that again so I don't have to repeat it.
But he won't win it, because we've become accustomed to his excellence. So take a moment with me. Forget the balding central midfielder and remember the man that was. Sharp emblazoned on his chest, hair flying and the rest of the game struggling to catch up.
Remember the winger who left a thousand defenders on their arses and a hundred goalkeepers grasping at air, and that goal – so instrumental in the treble. And that year David Gional won player of the year.
How good is he? It's not for me to say, but if you ever question whether he has a right to win the award – remember the words "it's a wonderful run from Giggs" and then try and claim there's someone more deserving than the most successful player in the history of our most popular sport who is running out of time to receive the recognition that is his right.
That makes him the most successful player in the history of the English League and the longest-serving player at perhaps the greatest club side in the world – and if that's not enough reason to give him sports personality of the year, there's another reason. He should win it because he hasn't, and we're running out of time.
Michael Owen's won it, David Beckham's won it, Paul Gascoigne's won it. None have a record anything like as good as Giggs'.
The trouble with Giggs is people have forgotten about him. Not just what he was, but what he still offers. This year, while 'past his prime' Giggs scored the goal that secured his and Manchester United's tenth (yes, tenth) Premier League as well as the winning penalty in the Champions League final.
Last year Joe Calzaghe won after a fight that capped 10 year as a world champion. Giggs has been at Manchester United longer, he first played for United in 1991, when John Major was prime minister. For close to two decades one of the finest managers ever has not been able to replace Giggs. Despite the riches of god and a global scouting network.
He has risen to every challenge the best team of the age could throw at him. He has played and scored in every single Premier League season. Ever. And scored in the last 13 seasons in the Champions Leage. That's not getting by, that's excelling.
He now has more titles than all but three clubs in England, and United only had seven before he arrived. Then there are the four FA Cups, two League Cups, six Charity Shields, two European Cups, a Uefa Super Cup and an Intercontinental Cup. Giggs won his first title before the Premier League began. Now read that again so I don't have to repeat it.
But he won't win it, because we've become accustomed to his excellence. So take a moment with me. Forget the balding central midfielder and remember the man that was. Sharp emblazoned on his chest, hair flying and the rest of the game struggling to catch up.
Remember the winger who left a thousand defenders on their arses and a hundred goalkeepers grasping at air, and that goal – so instrumental in the treble. And that year David Gional won player of the year.
How good is he? It's not for me to say, but if you ever question whether he has a right to win the award – remember the words "it's a wonderful run from Giggs" and then try and claim there's someone more deserving than the most successful player in the history of our most popular sport who is running out of time to receive the recognition that is his right.
Sunday, November 9, 2008
Our youth, not yours - Phil West
The old man said: “I know what it is to be young, but you don’t know what it is to be old.”
What I believe he actually meant was: “I know that Ronaldo was fantastic last season, but you never saw Cruyff, or Best, or Pele.”
Coıncidently, I said it recently to a group of my students. They looked at me blankly (so no change there from limits of functions) and then traipsed off home to their laptops and Youtube.
The next day saw us talking about that goal in the 1970 final. No, not Pele’s; Carlos Alberto’s thumping shot after the best build up in World Cup history. Some of them had viewed the Cruyff Turn, but struggled to come to terms with the idea that this was groundbreaking (“I can do that!” was said many times), and others asked me why poor old George had been unable to find the right treatment, what with all the money he must have had.
Not exactly what I had expected, but all undeniably true from their perspective.
So why do people my age go all misty-eyed at the mention of these names?
The word Nostalgia literally means "the pain a person feels wanting to return to his native home, fearing never to see it again".
Our native home. Our youth.
Some people feel nostalgia for 60’s fashion, or for Duran Duran, or for Mum’s stew on a cold January evening. A large number of us feel it for Sport; for Cruyff, Best and Pele.
We talked about them in our school playgrounds; we argued about them with our Dads (they had seen Stanley Mathews and Duncan Edwards, so thought we were quite mad); and we watched them on Black and White TV with those different coloured footballs and strange horns sounding from the terraces. I cut my knee whilst lost in Cruyff-daydream-land in my backyard and wondered whether a girl called Elaine would notice I existed if I could only once dribble around three defenders and lob the keeper. I never did, and she didn't.
As I approach 50, my youth is an Eden from which I have been cast out, but from where I still remember feelings of innocent sporting awe.
I do know what it is to be young. And yes, I fear never seeing it again.
What I believe he actually meant was: “I know that Ronaldo was fantastic last season, but you never saw Cruyff, or Best, or Pele.”
Coıncidently, I said it recently to a group of my students. They looked at me blankly (so no change there from limits of functions) and then traipsed off home to their laptops and Youtube.
The next day saw us talking about that goal in the 1970 final. No, not Pele’s; Carlos Alberto’s thumping shot after the best build up in World Cup history. Some of them had viewed the Cruyff Turn, but struggled to come to terms with the idea that this was groundbreaking (“I can do that!” was said many times), and others asked me why poor old George had been unable to find the right treatment, what with all the money he must have had.
Not exactly what I had expected, but all undeniably true from their perspective.
So why do people my age go all misty-eyed at the mention of these names?
The word Nostalgia literally means "the pain a person feels wanting to return to his native home, fearing never to see it again".
Our native home. Our youth.
Some people feel nostalgia for 60’s fashion, or for Duran Duran, or for Mum’s stew on a cold January evening. A large number of us feel it for Sport; for Cruyff, Best and Pele.
We talked about them in our school playgrounds; we argued about them with our Dads (they had seen Stanley Mathews and Duncan Edwards, so thought we were quite mad); and we watched them on Black and White TV with those different coloured footballs and strange horns sounding from the terraces. I cut my knee whilst lost in Cruyff-daydream-land in my backyard and wondered whether a girl called Elaine would notice I existed if I could only once dribble around three defenders and lob the keeper. I never did, and she didn't.
As I approach 50, my youth is an Eden from which I have been cast out, but from where I still remember feelings of innocent sporting awe.
I do know what it is to be young. And yes, I fear never seeing it again.
Friday, November 7, 2008
I miss the colour the most – Ebren
Jim Clark was one of the finest racing drivers that has lived. At the time of his death in 1968 he had two world championships, 25 Grand Prix wins and 33 pole positions – the last two both records.
But he raced and died in black and white and his car roared in crackling mono. That's the problem with looking back, the races and games, matches and Tests are grey muted affairs. And I miss the colour.
There is a place you can go, though. A throwback to days when cars' screams echoed from the walls around you; where the brilliant greens, reds and yellows of the cigar tubes that carried drivers into history sting the eyes again; and better still, you get to dress up.
Dressed in a natty tweed jacket, hair Brylcreamed to within an inch of its life, and with a crimson handkerchief proudly protruding from my pocket I headed to the Goodwood Revival this year. It was a shock. I've always admired Clark, Fangio, Ascari and the others. But reading about their deeds and watching newsreel footage tells you nothing about who they were.
Standing among men and women stepping out in full 1950s regalia, you could smell their world. Not imagine it, not re-live it through film and paper, actually be there again.
Watching cars sweep towards you from trackside, you could see just how small they were, how fragile. You could hear them again, see them in colour and smell the exhausts as these grand old machines were allowed to race again, to do what they were made to 50 years after others overtook them with newer technology.
On the track, Stirling Moss four-wheel drifted a vintage Jaguar 60 years after he won the first Goodwood meeting as an 18 year old, and then the spell was broken.
Four cars were fighting for the lead, following closer than a modern racer with its need for clean air can, and two clipped wheels. As machinery lovingly cared for and restored to former glory ripped itself apart against tarmac and concrete I saw the danger that came with the glory.
Jim Clark died on the track so did Alberto Ascari, they were not alone. As well as a window onto a lost world, Goodwood taught me something else: nostalgia is fine, but for all the glory that was – some things are better left in the past.
But he raced and died in black and white and his car roared in crackling mono. That's the problem with looking back, the races and games, matches and Tests are grey muted affairs. And I miss the colour.
There is a place you can go, though. A throwback to days when cars' screams echoed from the walls around you; where the brilliant greens, reds and yellows of the cigar tubes that carried drivers into history sting the eyes again; and better still, you get to dress up.
Dressed in a natty tweed jacket, hair Brylcreamed to within an inch of its life, and with a crimson handkerchief proudly protruding from my pocket I headed to the Goodwood Revival this year. It was a shock. I've always admired Clark, Fangio, Ascari and the others. But reading about their deeds and watching newsreel footage tells you nothing about who they were.
Standing among men and women stepping out in full 1950s regalia, you could smell their world. Not imagine it, not re-live it through film and paper, actually be there again.
Watching cars sweep towards you from trackside, you could see just how small they were, how fragile. You could hear them again, see them in colour and smell the exhausts as these grand old machines were allowed to race again, to do what they were made to 50 years after others overtook them with newer technology.
On the track, Stirling Moss four-wheel drifted a vintage Jaguar 60 years after he won the first Goodwood meeting as an 18 year old, and then the spell was broken.
Four cars were fighting for the lead, following closer than a modern racer with its need for clean air can, and two clipped wheels. As machinery lovingly cared for and restored to former glory ripped itself apart against tarmac and concrete I saw the danger that came with the glory.
Jim Clark died on the track so did Alberto Ascari, they were not alone. As well as a window onto a lost world, Goodwood taught me something else: nostalgia is fine, but for all the glory that was – some things are better left in the past.
Every fan has their day – RedGiant
Is it possible to use the phrase ‘when I was a lad’ and not sound like a crotchety old man? As a kid it was a guaranteed toe-curler of a line, largely because it was followed by yet another anecdote about how things were better in the good old days: ‘… footballers were lucky if they got twenty pounds a week, and they were grateful if they got that’.
Worryingly, I’m using similar phrases with alarming regularity. All too often I find myself starting a sentence with ‘remember the season when …’, or, ‘you’ll never get another player like …’. Sometimes it can simply be a name that elicits a sentimental yearning for the comfort and warmth of a former time or place. Johnny Metgod. Neil Webb. Stuart Pearce. Jason Lee. Andrea Silenzi.
Ok, there was a hint of irony about the last two, but that’s the beauty of nostalgia, it’s entirely subjective. Someone, somewhere, might genuinely think that Silenzi was a good player; there might be a faded picture of him lending beauty to a trattoria’s wall, in Turin, say. It applies to most sports fans, mention the name of their favourite player from yesteryear and watch them go all gooey eyed and weak at the knees.
It’s big business too, this nostalgia malarkey. Take a look at Graham Budd Auctions, they sold a collection of John Wisden’s Cricketers’ Almanacks from the first year of issue (1864) for £120,000. A single-sheet 1889 FA Cup Final programme recently went for £19,000 too. You could take a trip to the National Football Museum in Preston if you wanted to, the President of which (Sir Bobby Charlton) once described it as ‘the best museum in the world … apart from the Tate’.
Some people think it’s dangerous to be so pre-occupied with the past, though. Joe Kinnear certainly thought so after joining Notts Forest: ‘Ever since I’ve been at this club I’ve had the history rammed down my throat, I see they don’t have any pictures of the relegation teams’. Nice way to ingratiate yourself with the fans, Joe.
Not for the first time, I’m inclined to disagree with Kinnear. They say that every dog has its day. Well, every football fan has their day, too. In a footballing world dominated by WAGs, galacticos and oligarchs, nostalgia is part of what keeps us humble fans going. And there’s nothing wrong with that.
Worryingly, I’m using similar phrases with alarming regularity. All too often I find myself starting a sentence with ‘remember the season when …’, or, ‘you’ll never get another player like …’. Sometimes it can simply be a name that elicits a sentimental yearning for the comfort and warmth of a former time or place. Johnny Metgod. Neil Webb. Stuart Pearce. Jason Lee. Andrea Silenzi.
Ok, there was a hint of irony about the last two, but that’s the beauty of nostalgia, it’s entirely subjective. Someone, somewhere, might genuinely think that Silenzi was a good player; there might be a faded picture of him lending beauty to a trattoria’s wall, in Turin, say. It applies to most sports fans, mention the name of their favourite player from yesteryear and watch them go all gooey eyed and weak at the knees.
It’s big business too, this nostalgia malarkey. Take a look at Graham Budd Auctions, they sold a collection of John Wisden’s Cricketers’ Almanacks from the first year of issue (1864) for £120,000. A single-sheet 1889 FA Cup Final programme recently went for £19,000 too. You could take a trip to the National Football Museum in Preston if you wanted to, the President of which (Sir Bobby Charlton) once described it as ‘the best museum in the world … apart from the Tate’.
Some people think it’s dangerous to be so pre-occupied with the past, though. Joe Kinnear certainly thought so after joining Notts Forest: ‘Ever since I’ve been at this club I’ve had the history rammed down my throat, I see they don’t have any pictures of the relegation teams’. Nice way to ingratiate yourself with the fans, Joe.
Not for the first time, I’m inclined to disagree with Kinnear. They say that every dog has its day. Well, every football fan has their day, too. In a footballing world dominated by WAGs, galacticos and oligarchs, nostalgia is part of what keeps us humble fans going. And there’s nothing wrong with that.
Relieving nostalgia - miroljub
Over the last dozen years or so, I have been suffering from nostalgia for the footballing past. This chronic disease is marked by rapid mental deterioration including seeing, hearing, feeling things that are not there, nonsense speech, unusual behaviour, lack of emotion, unmotivation and social withdrawal.
Other symptoms and signs are: vertigo (triggered by frequent teams rotation), nausea (caused by moronic badge-kissing), vomiting (caused by eating prawn sandwiches and buying for my grandson yet another 100% polyester official replica kit), plus anxiety and pain over the nowadays player’s artistic diving and cheating.
One way I was trying to relieve nostalgia was to create a personal space and fill it with small reminders of past. Photographs of my favourite players and teams, mementos of special events, greeting cards and newspaper clippings, all these I have been using, without much success, to create a comforting emotional connection and gain some perspective on the complicated, contaminated, anarchic, difficult, ugly, and confrontational present vis-à-vis the simple, pure, ordered, easy, beautiful, and harmonious past.
However, thanks to CD ROM technology and audio and video reproduction, my free access to an infinitely recyclable past seems to have started to help me to understand that my 'disease' might be less a matter of simple memory on the traditional values and former glories than of complex projection; the invocation of a partial, idealized history merges with a 'dissatisfaction' with the present.
Further to this, I've found out the chief safeguards against the warm feelings and uplifting mood about the over-glorified footballing past. They are: 1) never close your umbrella while watching your grandsons playing in the heavy rain, and 2) never say in front of your grandchildren the following phrases: “Call me sentimental but...”, or “This is the can from the first beer I ever drank”.
Other symptoms and signs are: vertigo (triggered by frequent teams rotation), nausea (caused by moronic badge-kissing), vomiting (caused by eating prawn sandwiches and buying for my grandson yet another 100% polyester official replica kit), plus anxiety and pain over the nowadays player’s artistic diving and cheating.
One way I was trying to relieve nostalgia was to create a personal space and fill it with small reminders of past. Photographs of my favourite players and teams, mementos of special events, greeting cards and newspaper clippings, all these I have been using, without much success, to create a comforting emotional connection and gain some perspective on the complicated, contaminated, anarchic, difficult, ugly, and confrontational present vis-à-vis the simple, pure, ordered, easy, beautiful, and harmonious past.
However, thanks to CD ROM technology and audio and video reproduction, my free access to an infinitely recyclable past seems to have started to help me to understand that my 'disease' might be less a matter of simple memory on the traditional values and former glories than of complex projection; the invocation of a partial, idealized history merges with a 'dissatisfaction' with the present.
Further to this, I've found out the chief safeguards against the warm feelings and uplifting mood about the over-glorified footballing past. They are: 1) never close your umbrella while watching your grandsons playing in the heavy rain, and 2) never say in front of your grandchildren the following phrases: “Call me sentimental but...”, or “This is the can from the first beer I ever drank”.
Nostalgia for an age yet to come - ElSell
Look at that Nancy rolling round
Weren’t like that
Back in my day
When men were men
And boots were made of leather
Aye son when I were a lad
Things were better
“It was forever thus” as someone smarter than me is sure to have said or “old people are always complaining about the modern world” as some young idiot is saying somewhere right now.
Until recently nostalgia was somewhat of a dirty word, something to be thrown at fallen idols and idols who never actually fell, the scourge of Liverpool and Chelsea fans alike, although for different reasons.
At the moment however we are on the cusp of a nostalgia revival especially with regard to the English national game. With the club footed earning over 100 grand a week while those who actually run the club day to day earn minimum wage.
With millionaires choosing the bright lights of West Ham over trophy chasing and the possibility of glory, people are starting to hark back to a simpler time. I personally am getting sick of players flying into tackles with both feet off the ground and live in hope of someday seeing an old fashioned block tackle involving StevieMe and Fat Frank, although not in an England shirt because apparently neither of them has enough understanding of basic midfield play to be able to play alongside each other (that and under Capello tackling team mates has become a no-no). It was not like that in my youth when fine athletes like Jan Molby glided across the English tundra like some sort of displaced Danish Viking (they did exist apparently).
Yes nostalgia and comparing current with older generations are according to some ultimately pointless, today’s athletes are too fit, too strong, not as dietetically challenged as some of yesteryears heroes.
However as the old saying goes:
“Those who do not read history are doomed to repeat it.”
Maybe with regard to modern football this should be updated to:
“Those who do not read history are doomed to destroy it.”
And surely there are worse things than nostalgia for the past such as “nostalgia for an age yet to come” as The Buzzcocks so poignantly wrote about… well wrote about any of us who are not where we feel we should be but keep telling ourselves, that it is all going to come together soon, eh Rafa?
Weren’t like that
Back in my day
When men were men
And boots were made of leather
Aye son when I were a lad
Things were better
“It was forever thus” as someone smarter than me is sure to have said or “old people are always complaining about the modern world” as some young idiot is saying somewhere right now.
Until recently nostalgia was somewhat of a dirty word, something to be thrown at fallen idols and idols who never actually fell, the scourge of Liverpool and Chelsea fans alike, although for different reasons.
At the moment however we are on the cusp of a nostalgia revival especially with regard to the English national game. With the club footed earning over 100 grand a week while those who actually run the club day to day earn minimum wage.
With millionaires choosing the bright lights of West Ham over trophy chasing and the possibility of glory, people are starting to hark back to a simpler time. I personally am getting sick of players flying into tackles with both feet off the ground and live in hope of someday seeing an old fashioned block tackle involving StevieMe and Fat Frank, although not in an England shirt because apparently neither of them has enough understanding of basic midfield play to be able to play alongside each other (that and under Capello tackling team mates has become a no-no). It was not like that in my youth when fine athletes like Jan Molby glided across the English tundra like some sort of displaced Danish Viking (they did exist apparently).
Yes nostalgia and comparing current with older generations are according to some ultimately pointless, today’s athletes are too fit, too strong, not as dietetically challenged as some of yesteryears heroes.
However as the old saying goes:
“Those who do not read history are doomed to repeat it.”
Maybe with regard to modern football this should be updated to:
“Those who do not read history are doomed to destroy it.”
And surely there are worse things than nostalgia for the past such as “nostalgia for an age yet to come” as The Buzzcocks so poignantly wrote about… well wrote about any of us who are not where we feel we should be but keep telling ourselves, that it is all going to come together soon, eh Rafa?
Goran, Stella & Me - Mac Millings
If someone offers me free stuff, I always take it. Sometimes, this clashes with my principles (I really should have refused that all-expenses-paid trip to Alaska to watch Sarah Palin execute East Coast liberals with a hand-sharpened moose antler) and, thus conflicted, I found myself part of the crowd taking in a match at the Stella Artois Championships; a tournament that seemed to think of itself as Wimbledon without the commoners. Still, free tickets. What are you going to do?
Leave, it turns out - watching Some Unknown beat That Other Guy just didn’t appeal. More importantly, this being June 12th, 1992, my freebie love meant I was missing a crucial Euro ’92 encounter, Scotland vs. Holland. While I’m neither Scots nor Dutch, I have ancestry of both kinds (one less in the Scottish camp since the passing of Racist Uncle Des), and it was with a heart angry at the cheapness in my soul that I escaped the heat, to the artificial cool of an adjacent building. Wandering, I came across an open door. The sign “Players Only” deterred; the fact that it was hand-written on a blu-tacked sheet of A4 seemed to say “Only Joking”. I ducked in. And there it was. The Game.
A seat at the back beckoned. I sat, hunched, fearing attention, watching motionless until I felt I was part of the background. There were more people in the room than I’d first realized, and, well, I knew some of them – their faces, at least. A pre-invincibility Sampras. There, all enthusiasm, the raw Ivanisevic. To the left sat that redhead South African, whatshisname; good player, just never good enough to win anything of actual significance. The ginger Tim Henman, if you will. We watched.
Scotland never looked in trouble against the Dutch, who, while still a decent side, didn’t even bother testing a lazy stereotype, forcing the Scottish goalkeeper to make but one save. Then, suddenly, 75 minutes in, Gullit, Rijkaard, Bergkamp, one-nil. I groaned. Loudly. Bugger. It’s over, I thought. Only Goran turned. The jig is up. He looked around, back at me, grinned a sly grin, nodded a conspiratorial nod, and turned back to the game. We watched Scotland lose.
The ginger Tim Henman won at Queen’s that year. I didn’t care. But nine years later, as Goran Ivanisevic served for the Wimbledon title, he cried tears of joy - and I did, too.
Leave, it turns out - watching Some Unknown beat That Other Guy just didn’t appeal. More importantly, this being June 12th, 1992, my freebie love meant I was missing a crucial Euro ’92 encounter, Scotland vs. Holland. While I’m neither Scots nor Dutch, I have ancestry of both kinds (one less in the Scottish camp since the passing of Racist Uncle Des), and it was with a heart angry at the cheapness in my soul that I escaped the heat, to the artificial cool of an adjacent building. Wandering, I came across an open door. The sign “Players Only” deterred; the fact that it was hand-written on a blu-tacked sheet of A4 seemed to say “Only Joking”. I ducked in. And there it was. The Game.
A seat at the back beckoned. I sat, hunched, fearing attention, watching motionless until I felt I was part of the background. There were more people in the room than I’d first realized, and, well, I knew some of them – their faces, at least. A pre-invincibility Sampras. There, all enthusiasm, the raw Ivanisevic. To the left sat that redhead South African, whatshisname; good player, just never good enough to win anything of actual significance. The ginger Tim Henman, if you will. We watched.
Scotland never looked in trouble against the Dutch, who, while still a decent side, didn’t even bother testing a lazy stereotype, forcing the Scottish goalkeeper to make but one save. Then, suddenly, 75 minutes in, Gullit, Rijkaard, Bergkamp, one-nil. I groaned. Loudly. Bugger. It’s over, I thought. Only Goran turned. The jig is up. He looked around, back at me, grinned a sly grin, nodded a conspiratorial nod, and turned back to the game. We watched Scotland lose.
The ginger Tim Henman won at Queen’s that year. I didn’t care. But nine years later, as Goran Ivanisevic served for the Wimbledon title, he cried tears of joy - and I did, too.
Red Rum was a Robot! - donwendyagain
Do you remember when sporting nostalgia was good? You would sit around in the pub with your mates having a few swift ones and inevitably the conversation would turn to sport. Who was the best boxer? Who was the best striker? Who was the best hooker? Hey, it’s a bunch of pissed lads, there was no way sex was staying out of the conversation!
Everyone would chuck in their tuppence worth and if the creative juices were flowing the finer points of an argument could last for days, weeks and even longer than some marriages as the ridiculous was mixed freely with the ever more ludicrous in support of spurious claim after nonsensical assertion. Maradona didn’t actually handle the ball and it was just a trick of the light that made it appear as if he had, Kevin Moran played the ball and Peter Reid dived to get him sent off in the 1985 Cup Final or my personal favourite Red Rum was really a robot because you never saw him relieve himself on the course and they had a real horse for public appearances and stable visits.
But those days are mostly gone as any time such an argument begins it is over before it has a chance to flourish as we have all seen the historical events in question hundreds of times on You Tube. We are also losing any chance of future talking points as some smart arse with some fancy computer technology, usually Sky’s resident know it all Andy Gray, has already proven that the ball was over the line before geeky Nigel has got the post match round in. They have even turned the technology on our beloved controversies of yesteryear and now we know conclusively that the 3rd goal was not over the line.
Sure we still talk over the odds and ends but it has lost its soul simply because we all know what really happened. Whoever said knowledge was power was talking out of their fundament as knowledge steals away the doubt that is essential for any debate. Oh for a return to the days when you could argue about just how good Bank’s save from Pele was without being able to dial it up instantly on You Tube or even just how real or unreal Red Rum was.
Everyone would chuck in their tuppence worth and if the creative juices were flowing the finer points of an argument could last for days, weeks and even longer than some marriages as the ridiculous was mixed freely with the ever more ludicrous in support of spurious claim after nonsensical assertion. Maradona didn’t actually handle the ball and it was just a trick of the light that made it appear as if he had, Kevin Moran played the ball and Peter Reid dived to get him sent off in the 1985 Cup Final or my personal favourite Red Rum was really a robot because you never saw him relieve himself on the course and they had a real horse for public appearances and stable visits.
But those days are mostly gone as any time such an argument begins it is over before it has a chance to flourish as we have all seen the historical events in question hundreds of times on You Tube. We are also losing any chance of future talking points as some smart arse with some fancy computer technology, usually Sky’s resident know it all Andy Gray, has already proven that the ball was over the line before geeky Nigel has got the post match round in. They have even turned the technology on our beloved controversies of yesteryear and now we know conclusively that the 3rd goal was not over the line.
Sure we still talk over the odds and ends but it has lost its soul simply because we all know what really happened. Whoever said knowledge was power was talking out of their fundament as knowledge steals away the doubt that is essential for any debate. Oh for a return to the days when you could argue about just how good Bank’s save from Pele was without being able to dial it up instantly on You Tube or even just how real or unreal Red Rum was.
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