So here we are again. Two weeks since Formula One graced our screens, one week since MotoGP failed to make any inroads in the mainstream sports media, and only a matter of days since Barcelona hogged the headlines.
Now, although only a part-time football fan, I did follow the Chelsea v Barca game and was astounded at the reactions of the losing side. Compared to other sports that I follow, Drogba’s behaviour really did appear to be beyond the pale. There seems to have been a generally negative reaction to his antics – provoking a debate about how to win or lose gracefully.
Well you need go no further than MotoGP. Valentino Rossi won his first race of the season last Sunday in Jerez. After qualifying off the front row (in fourth place), Rossi had it all to do, and did it with flair and skill. He beat local favourite, Pedrosa and Stoner and paid tribute to his rivals after the race.
Neither Stoner or Dani had a bad word to say about the man who had made them look ordinary. This is grace in victory and defeat. Admittedly Rossi was in a class of his own last weekend in the race. He diced a bit with the Aussie but caught and passed him in style. He had a tougher opponent in Dani Pedrosa, but a mixture of Dani’s fitness (the poor boy is still suffering from pre-season surgery and crashes) and Valle’s experience and determination ensured the result of the race was pretty secure with not more than a third of the distance to run. It didn’t make for a dull race though – with Rossi gunning for a win there’s always fun in wondering how he will celebrate his win. It was a visit to the Portaloo again this time. Maybe not as much fun as the first time he did this, but it shows he still has great joy in winning.
In the 125cc race last weekend there was great excitement for supporters of British Motorcycling, as young Bradley Smith took his first win in the top rank of his racing. He is just 18 years old and a very very bright hope for the future.
For fans of bike-racing, it is particularly rewarding to see Smith cutting the mustard because our only representative in the premier class, James Toseland, double world champ in Superbikes, is not delivering the sort of results that promise another championship. Our hopes for a British winner sometime in our lifetimes rest with the young pretender.
That was the bikes and the focus of motorsport moved to The Circuit de Catalunya. The F1 Teams arrived in Spain with a myriad of changes to their cars. All wondering how to do better than the top dogs – Brawn GP and Red Bull. Everyone arrived thinking they had a special part or idea to beat the Championship leaders, but it didn’t work.
In qualifying Button snatched a last-second pole, Vettel continued to show Red Bull’s class with second, and Barrichello took third. These drivers, along with their teams, have set up a great race.
While the motor-fired peddlers were doing their stuff in Spain, my favourite sportsman was doing the business in Italy.
Mark Cavendish – there are no superlatives good enough for this young man. Having won Milan-San Remo already this season, Mark is on fire and keen to improve on last year’s tally of 19 wins. With his team, Columbia, Mark took the first stage of the Giro d’Italia and he thereby becomes the first Briton ever to wear the Maglia Rose.
Here is a possible example of how not to lose gracefully: Mark’s key opponent is the Flemish rider Tom Boonen. A World Champion, but a man who has not taken opposition well. Facing Cav this season, sadly Tom has chosen a disappointing path in his career and for the second time in three years has tested positive for a class A drug.
It is such a shame that on the day when the headlines should have been all about Mark, they were all about Tom. Although this story is not about performance-enhancing drugs rather it is about the poor choices made by a man who is seemingly unhappy and disturbed, it adds to the shadow hanging over pro-cycling. It would appear that for every stride forward that transparently clean teams like Columbia and Garmin take, there is an individual in cycling determined to drag the sport down again.
On Sunday the Giro continued and although Cav was edged out of the sprint win by Alessandro Petacchi, Manxman Mark will wear the Pink Jersey tomorrow.
http://news.bbc.co.uk/sport1/hi/other_sports/cycling/8042846.stm
So to the motorsport event of the day.
Historically the Barcelona F1 race has been a snooze-fest with the previous eight pole-sitters going on to win the race and very little over-taking going on. Also in the 18 years of running the race, the Safety Car has only been deployed some four times at the Circuit de Catalunya, so it could have been a seamless lights to flag cruise for the boy Button.
Mercifully for spectators the race turned some of those statistics on their heads. Barrichello made a demon start and led Button in to the first corner. Massa, Ferrari’s only chance in this race for any points after Raikkonen and his engineers had somewhat fumbled in qualifying and the Finn hadn’t even made it to Qually 2, was a rocket off the line and jumped Vettel in to third. Further behind Webber reminded us of what a fine driver he is by making the move of the day on Alonso, and behind them, mayhem.
Rosberg edged Trulli off the track, and as the Italian returned, he speared in to Force India’s Adrian Sutil (who had been on his own little off-track manoeuvre) and the subsequent chaos took out both Toro Rossos. A racing incident said former F1 Team Principal and current BBC pundit Eddie Jordan, but one which will have cost tens of thousands of pounds for the teams involved.
The “incident” brought out the safety car and when it pulled off, it was game on again for the leaders. The Brawns had to keep the KERS-enabled Ferrari of Massa behind them, which they did with coolness and team driving.
From then on, Brawn was in control. And that meant not just the drivers but head honcho Ross Brawn. He called the strategy shots which ensured his boys ended up with a race 1-2. It could have been Barrichello but for one poor stint which saw Rubens’s times tumble and Jenson’s accelerate. For the fourth time this year, Our Jense (as the meeja have taken to dubbing him) took the chequered flag and extend his lead at the head of the table. Brawn GP sit atop of the Constructors’ Championship.
It is ironic that this is a position familiar to Ross – for years at Ferrari he held the key to winning. Now he is doing it for himself and Ferrari are minnows struggling at the back and shooting themselves in the foot with poor reliability and increasingly poor decision-making.
Mark Webber consolidated his fine drive with a podium finish meaning that the British engineering excellence of Adrian Newey and Ross Brawn continues to rule the roost.
Far be it from me to indulge in schadenfreude – oh go on, Davies, you know you love it! – but the sight of Massa’s Ferrari running out of gas on the closing lap, with Schumacher in the garage, was a precious gem.
All in all, I would call this a satisfactory week and weekend of sport. Cav in pink – historic. England wiped the Windies in three days – dodgy win, but great. Valle stamped his mark all over MotoGP with Brad Smith playing the second hand and Button proving to the world that he has what it takes.
Next week we’ll be back with the bikes, in the interim the Giro goes on and another Test Match starts on Thursday. I think there’s a bit of football as well. What a treat for sports fans.
While we are waiting, there’s no better way to spend time than with the Pixies – I highly recommend this:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=a6WuB-QgRjw&feature=PlayList&p=41847CCEA0438048&index=5
Levitate me – that’s what sport does.
Monday, May 11, 2009
Thursday, May 7, 2009
Referee outclassed by two modern stars - Margin
Fans were nearly robbed of the Champions League final we all wanted. Worse still we were nearly given the one final most likely to make us watch something else that night. So it is a sad feeling to have to credit referees for our good fortune.
While the result would always carry interest, most of us have the sense not to watch another Chelsea-United finale. The FA Cup Final was awful. Last season’s European equivalent was even worse. And it is hard to see why this season’s version might have been different.
I know that will be especially hard for Chelsea fans to read. Manchester United were equally to blame for those finals. But United were always going to outclass a much inferior Arsenal over two legs. Indeed only bad refereeing in the first leg kept that semi-final alive until the start of second, and it died as a competition soon after. So Chelsea had to be sacrificed.
Not that I’m claiming conspiracy against a repeat final. Four overlooked but plausible penalty claims, two of which were actually nailed down certainties, might signal some sort of bias. But I’m not keen on such talk. Instead consider this my cathartic effort to resolve my relief at the result with my displeasure at its manner.
As I say, the Norwegian in the middle last night had four big penalty calls and got at three of them wrong.
I’ll forgive him the first as the foul started outside the box. Besides, I don’t think running into a defender and flopping to the floor in hope of a penalty, even if you have previously been hindered, is the same as being bought down.
And I’ll forgive him the second. Not because it wasn’t a penalty. It definitely was. But I’ll forgive him the second because it was Drogba, and everyone with an ounce of common sense assumes it is a dive when Drogba hits the deck. Refs would simply get far more decisions right than wrong by assuming he’s cheating every time.
That said I can’t forgive him or his linesman for the third. It was a clear handball, and even if I were generous enough to the defence to suggest it was unintentional, it would still be a penalty.
And I won’t forgive him the fourth, which I can only imagine he bottled because it was so late in the game. He had a clear view, an arm went up, it was struck by the ball, and it was in the box. He panicked and Ballack was understandably incensed.
But to overcome conspiracy arguments lets not forget two rather large decisions that went the other way over the two legs.
One was a second awful sending off in two days, which thanks to idiotic Uefa rules will now see two players miss out on deserved cup final places. It was simply not a foul. Anelka ran by Abidal, cut across him, and having broken clear he clumsily tripped himself up rather than running on to score. It was a sad moment that cost Chelsea dear, but not because of the ref.
The other came long before that, and in fact long before kick off. That decision was not to give Barcelona a clear cut penalty when Henry was pulled down as he attempted to shoot in the box. It is easy to forget how much better Barca were in the first leg, and how much they deserved a goal. But that also means it is easy to overlook how easy a second leg they might have had with a 1-0 advantage.
Were Chelsea forced to throw men forward, Barca, like ManU at the Emirates, might have done what they do best. Hit fast and hard on the counter attack and run rampant as a result. We saw that game plan work the night before, and though there is no guarantee the same would have happened last night, it is hard not to draw lessons from watching Barca do just that to so many teams over the course of this season.
So claims of conspiracy, as comforting as they might be for Blues fans this morning, are a little weak to say the least.
Instead we should enjoy the two real moments of absolute class that separated the sides.
Essien and Iniesta are by far and away my favourite two players at the two clubs they play for. They are to my mind their sides’ Paul Scholes – the players without whom the entire team simply functions less well right across the park.
I don’t know exactly what it is about each of them, as different as they are to each other. But to see their influence and class rewarded with two such stunning goals was wonderful.
Essien’s was all about the energy and enthusiasm with which he attacks any ball or space at any stage of any game. And the power of his quickly hit volley was breathtaking.
Iniesta’s was all about his enduring composure. In the dying seconds and with everything riding on one touch, he calmly stood, awaited the ball, picked his spot, and stroked the ball home from the edge of the box. Refusing to be rushed is his trademark.
So hopefully when tempers calm and the replays of ranting players stop, people will remember that Essien and Iniesta gave football two fine moments of inspiration last night.
While the result would always carry interest, most of us have the sense not to watch another Chelsea-United finale. The FA Cup Final was awful. Last season’s European equivalent was even worse. And it is hard to see why this season’s version might have been different.
I know that will be especially hard for Chelsea fans to read. Manchester United were equally to blame for those finals. But United were always going to outclass a much inferior Arsenal over two legs. Indeed only bad refereeing in the first leg kept that semi-final alive until the start of second, and it died as a competition soon after. So Chelsea had to be sacrificed.
Not that I’m claiming conspiracy against a repeat final. Four overlooked but plausible penalty claims, two of which were actually nailed down certainties, might signal some sort of bias. But I’m not keen on such talk. Instead consider this my cathartic effort to resolve my relief at the result with my displeasure at its manner.
As I say, the Norwegian in the middle last night had four big penalty calls and got at three of them wrong.
I’ll forgive him the first as the foul started outside the box. Besides, I don’t think running into a defender and flopping to the floor in hope of a penalty, even if you have previously been hindered, is the same as being bought down.
And I’ll forgive him the second. Not because it wasn’t a penalty. It definitely was. But I’ll forgive him the second because it was Drogba, and everyone with an ounce of common sense assumes it is a dive when Drogba hits the deck. Refs would simply get far more decisions right than wrong by assuming he’s cheating every time.
That said I can’t forgive him or his linesman for the third. It was a clear handball, and even if I were generous enough to the defence to suggest it was unintentional, it would still be a penalty.
And I won’t forgive him the fourth, which I can only imagine he bottled because it was so late in the game. He had a clear view, an arm went up, it was struck by the ball, and it was in the box. He panicked and Ballack was understandably incensed.
But to overcome conspiracy arguments lets not forget two rather large decisions that went the other way over the two legs.
One was a second awful sending off in two days, which thanks to idiotic Uefa rules will now see two players miss out on deserved cup final places. It was simply not a foul. Anelka ran by Abidal, cut across him, and having broken clear he clumsily tripped himself up rather than running on to score. It was a sad moment that cost Chelsea dear, but not because of the ref.
The other came long before that, and in fact long before kick off. That decision was not to give Barcelona a clear cut penalty when Henry was pulled down as he attempted to shoot in the box. It is easy to forget how much better Barca were in the first leg, and how much they deserved a goal. But that also means it is easy to overlook how easy a second leg they might have had with a 1-0 advantage.
Were Chelsea forced to throw men forward, Barca, like ManU at the Emirates, might have done what they do best. Hit fast and hard on the counter attack and run rampant as a result. We saw that game plan work the night before, and though there is no guarantee the same would have happened last night, it is hard not to draw lessons from watching Barca do just that to so many teams over the course of this season.
So claims of conspiracy, as comforting as they might be for Blues fans this morning, are a little weak to say the least.
Instead we should enjoy the two real moments of absolute class that separated the sides.
Essien and Iniesta are by far and away my favourite two players at the two clubs they play for. They are to my mind their sides’ Paul Scholes – the players without whom the entire team simply functions less well right across the park.
I don’t know exactly what it is about each of them, as different as they are to each other. But to see their influence and class rewarded with two such stunning goals was wonderful.
Essien’s was all about the energy and enthusiasm with which he attacks any ball or space at any stage of any game. And the power of his quickly hit volley was breathtaking.
Iniesta’s was all about his enduring composure. In the dying seconds and with everything riding on one touch, he calmly stood, awaited the ball, picked his spot, and stroked the ball home from the edge of the box. Refusing to be rushed is his trademark.
So hopefully when tempers calm and the replays of ranting players stop, people will remember that Essien and Iniesta gave football two fine moments of inspiration last night.
Monday, April 27, 2009
Bahrain and Motegi – more motorsport from mimitig
As the Formula One circus relocated from China to Bahrain last weekend, so the MotoGP cavalcade moved in the opposite direction, swapping the deserts of Qatar for the shores of Japan and Honda’s backyard – the Motegi Twinring Racetrack.
All things being equal, this should have been a weekend with weather taking a back seat. Fears about a fierce sandstorm that had kept Baghdad airport closed for two days were proven unfounded for the four-wheelers in Bahrain. Practices and qualifying played out under perfect (though extremely hot) conditions while in Japan, guess what? There was, as the commentators would say, rain of biblical proportions! Saturday qualifying was quite literally washed-out for all three classes and grids were set from Friday’s practice times.
Sunday morning dawned – here in Scotland it was misty and a bit dreich. In Bahrain it was outstandingly hot and in Japan – well, there was a bit of morning rain, but nothing to worry about.
What I had to worry about was how I could watch all the racing and get to my work without missing anything. In theory I could have got up at 6am for the bikes and watched live, but – it may surprise my readers to know this, I have a social life. Not getting to bed til when gone midnight on Saturday meant that the bikes had to be taped.
Rising late on Sunday morning, my mission was to avoid any sports news results. This was achieved and I settled down for the first part of the F1 race – knowing that I would miss the end as I had to go to work at 2pm. That first hour was truly exciting. Overtaking off the line, and all through the first lap reminded me of how racing used to be.
Toyota had bagged the front row but they had done it by running very light on fuel in the final session of qualifying. Behind them were cars, notably Sebastian Vettel’s Red Bull and Jenson Button’s Brawn that were due to run much deeper into the race before pitting for tyres and fuel.
Button simply stormed the start. Some great driving saw him past Vettel and fending off the fast-starting Hamilton. Delivering the fast laps demanded of him by team boss Ross Brawn (exactly as Schumacher used to do when he and Brawn ruled Ferrari), Button ensured that the Toyota challenge would remain thus: a challenge.
Although there were several other drivers leading the race at various stages because of fuel stops, Button was the clear winner from early on. The only issue was whether the car would hold together. In practice and qualifying, Brawn GP had been concerned about their cars’ ability to operate well at the high temperatures encountered in Bahrain.
Unfounded worries. Jense came home a worthy winner, Barrichello notching up good points in fifth ensuring that the team move on to Barcelona with a more than healthy lead in the championship tables – both drivers’ and constructors’.
You can’t help wondering what Honda are feeling now having pulled the plug on the team just a couple of months ago. And doubly bad given Motegi – read on my friends.
It was another great day for Red Bull and Adrian Newey’s 2009 championship contender. It seems that comparative newbie Sebastian Vettel (he’s only in his second full year of F1) has the measure of many more experienced drivers. After a superb win in wet Shanghai, he drove faultlessly to second in Bahrain.
Red Bull are ready to stand toe-to-toe with Brawn GP this season.
Back east, in Japan, the racing had already been done but I didn’t see it until after.
What a race! If F1 has rediscovered its mojo this year, then MotoGP has done that and more.
The new tyre restrictions – one supplier, only two choices (much as F1 has done, I have to say) have helped to chuck a spanner in the works of some teams. It’s strangely equivalent in these two sports at the moment. We have the rule changes, we have a “phoenix” team in that Kawasaki pulled out at the last moment only to re-emerge with a black paint-job and the name Hayate and we’ve had rain (of biblical proportions) affecting the racing.
So Saturday qually was a complete and utter wash-out. There were rivers running across the track in at least three corners. The safety car could barely make it round. Spectators were pictured forlornly huddled under their sponsor branded umbrellas but there could be no action. A grid was set from the one brief Friday practice and the god who is Valentino Rossi was on pole.
Sunday’s race got underway in sunshine – thank the weather. The 125cc lot and indeed the 250cc brigade had to race on a nastily damp track. Rossi did nothing wrong – clean start and led by over a second for several laps. Problems with the front end allowed team mate Gorgeous Jorge Lorenzo through and boy, did Jorge make the most of that.
While Rossi scrapped with Dani Pedrosa, Jorge scampered away and by the time Dani was well and truly put in his place, Rossi didn’t have the laps or the tyres to chase for the win.
Pragmatic as ever, and thinking about the big picture, Valle settled for a comfortable second as Jorge took the glory and his second GP win.
Dani showed rare signs of emotion coming in third. He’s not exactly a PR dream – usually appearing as surly and sullen – but his post-race interview was really rather sweet. He’s been through the mill in the off season with surgery to his knee and he is rather bashed up and bruised, but he smiled a lot at getting on the podium and I reckon he’s won new fans this race.
Rossi was thrilled, as he always is when he’s fought hard for a podium – and the trademark knee-out was there a lot this race. There is no doubt at all that he is fighting to keep his crown.
Gorgeous George is as delightful and arrogant as always. We love him for his insouciance and he’s only the second person ever, after Telly Savales, to make sucking a lollipop cool – I can’t believe he doesn’t have Chuppa Chups sponsorship!
Stoner finished fourth – wrestling the Ducati all the way. His team-mate, former World Champion Nicky Hayden didn’t finish (not his fault, but he should have qualified better) so the next best Ducati was Finn Mika Kallio who is definitely defying the rules about Finnish drivers – they need four wheels – not!. A superb ride from the back of the grid to eighth means he is a man to watch.
So there we go – both disciplines are heading back to Europe. F1 to Barcelona – where Brawn GP performed superbly in testing and are looking to further humiliate a rather shambolic Ferrari.
MotoGP comes back to Jerez and who knows what will happen there? Honda scraped a podium at their home track and must be expected to fight back.
And believe you me, every single person involved in Honda Racing will be feeling huge pain tonight. To be beaten by Yamaha, a one-two, at their home track of Motegi, my oh my those Honda boys and girls are going to be searching for a way to win at Jerez.
Button sits comfortably atop the F1 Drivers’ table, Rossi is second to team-mate Jorge – with Jorge coming in to a home race.
All is to play for and the only bitter pill is what will happen for McLaren in Paris next week. Hamilton did a sterling job driving to fourth in Bahrain. It would be sad to see his results and an historically important and brilliant team done down in a court of law.
Fans of every team want to see results on the track. One of the reasons why MotoGP is becoming the motorsport of choice ahead of F1 is these silly politics.
Let the boys race – that’s my call, and thus far (aside from silliness), that’s what we’re getting.
All things being equal, this should have been a weekend with weather taking a back seat. Fears about a fierce sandstorm that had kept Baghdad airport closed for two days were proven unfounded for the four-wheelers in Bahrain. Practices and qualifying played out under perfect (though extremely hot) conditions while in Japan, guess what? There was, as the commentators would say, rain of biblical proportions! Saturday qualifying was quite literally washed-out for all three classes and grids were set from Friday’s practice times.
Sunday morning dawned – here in Scotland it was misty and a bit dreich. In Bahrain it was outstandingly hot and in Japan – well, there was a bit of morning rain, but nothing to worry about.
What I had to worry about was how I could watch all the racing and get to my work without missing anything. In theory I could have got up at 6am for the bikes and watched live, but – it may surprise my readers to know this, I have a social life. Not getting to bed til when gone midnight on Saturday meant that the bikes had to be taped.
Rising late on Sunday morning, my mission was to avoid any sports news results. This was achieved and I settled down for the first part of the F1 race – knowing that I would miss the end as I had to go to work at 2pm. That first hour was truly exciting. Overtaking off the line, and all through the first lap reminded me of how racing used to be.
Toyota had bagged the front row but they had done it by running very light on fuel in the final session of qualifying. Behind them were cars, notably Sebastian Vettel’s Red Bull and Jenson Button’s Brawn that were due to run much deeper into the race before pitting for tyres and fuel.
Button simply stormed the start. Some great driving saw him past Vettel and fending off the fast-starting Hamilton. Delivering the fast laps demanded of him by team boss Ross Brawn (exactly as Schumacher used to do when he and Brawn ruled Ferrari), Button ensured that the Toyota challenge would remain thus: a challenge.
Although there were several other drivers leading the race at various stages because of fuel stops, Button was the clear winner from early on. The only issue was whether the car would hold together. In practice and qualifying, Brawn GP had been concerned about their cars’ ability to operate well at the high temperatures encountered in Bahrain.
Unfounded worries. Jense came home a worthy winner, Barrichello notching up good points in fifth ensuring that the team move on to Barcelona with a more than healthy lead in the championship tables – both drivers’ and constructors’.
You can’t help wondering what Honda are feeling now having pulled the plug on the team just a couple of months ago. And doubly bad given Motegi – read on my friends.
It was another great day for Red Bull and Adrian Newey’s 2009 championship contender. It seems that comparative newbie Sebastian Vettel (he’s only in his second full year of F1) has the measure of many more experienced drivers. After a superb win in wet Shanghai, he drove faultlessly to second in Bahrain.
Red Bull are ready to stand toe-to-toe with Brawn GP this season.
Back east, in Japan, the racing had already been done but I didn’t see it until after.
What a race! If F1 has rediscovered its mojo this year, then MotoGP has done that and more.
The new tyre restrictions – one supplier, only two choices (much as F1 has done, I have to say) have helped to chuck a spanner in the works of some teams. It’s strangely equivalent in these two sports at the moment. We have the rule changes, we have a “phoenix” team in that Kawasaki pulled out at the last moment only to re-emerge with a black paint-job and the name Hayate and we’ve had rain (of biblical proportions) affecting the racing.
So Saturday qually was a complete and utter wash-out. There were rivers running across the track in at least three corners. The safety car could barely make it round. Spectators were pictured forlornly huddled under their sponsor branded umbrellas but there could be no action. A grid was set from the one brief Friday practice and the god who is Valentino Rossi was on pole.
Sunday’s race got underway in sunshine – thank the weather. The 125cc lot and indeed the 250cc brigade had to race on a nastily damp track. Rossi did nothing wrong – clean start and led by over a second for several laps. Problems with the front end allowed team mate Gorgeous Jorge Lorenzo through and boy, did Jorge make the most of that.
While Rossi scrapped with Dani Pedrosa, Jorge scampered away and by the time Dani was well and truly put in his place, Rossi didn’t have the laps or the tyres to chase for the win.
Pragmatic as ever, and thinking about the big picture, Valle settled for a comfortable second as Jorge took the glory and his second GP win.
Dani showed rare signs of emotion coming in third. He’s not exactly a PR dream – usually appearing as surly and sullen – but his post-race interview was really rather sweet. He’s been through the mill in the off season with surgery to his knee and he is rather bashed up and bruised, but he smiled a lot at getting on the podium and I reckon he’s won new fans this race.
Rossi was thrilled, as he always is when he’s fought hard for a podium – and the trademark knee-out was there a lot this race. There is no doubt at all that he is fighting to keep his crown.
Gorgeous George is as delightful and arrogant as always. We love him for his insouciance and he’s only the second person ever, after Telly Savales, to make sucking a lollipop cool – I can’t believe he doesn’t have Chuppa Chups sponsorship!
Stoner finished fourth – wrestling the Ducati all the way. His team-mate, former World Champion Nicky Hayden didn’t finish (not his fault, but he should have qualified better) so the next best Ducati was Finn Mika Kallio who is definitely defying the rules about Finnish drivers – they need four wheels – not!. A superb ride from the back of the grid to eighth means he is a man to watch.
So there we go – both disciplines are heading back to Europe. F1 to Barcelona – where Brawn GP performed superbly in testing and are looking to further humiliate a rather shambolic Ferrari.
MotoGP comes back to Jerez and who knows what will happen there? Honda scraped a podium at their home track and must be expected to fight back.
And believe you me, every single person involved in Honda Racing will be feeling huge pain tonight. To be beaten by Yamaha, a one-two, at their home track of Motegi, my oh my those Honda boys and girls are going to be searching for a way to win at Jerez.
Button sits comfortably atop the F1 Drivers’ table, Rossi is second to team-mate Jorge – with Jorge coming in to a home race.
All is to play for and the only bitter pill is what will happen for McLaren in Paris next week. Hamilton did a sterling job driving to fourth in Bahrain. It would be sad to see his results and an historically important and brilliant team done down in a court of law.
Fans of every team want to see results on the track. One of the reasons why MotoGP is becoming the motorsport of choice ahead of F1 is these silly politics.
Let the boys race – that’s my call, and thus far (aside from silliness), that’s what we’re getting.
Thursday, April 23, 2009
Hockley's Sporting Second Chance - Wooley
I can honestly say that no piece of sporting news has given me more pleasure during the long, cricket-free winter months than the return of James Hockley to Kent colours.
It all dates back to 2000, the worst season I had ever endured as a Kent supporter, as an injury ravaged squad sneaked away from deserved relegation only in the last game, and Mr Hockley singularly failed to nail down a first team spot. Luckily in what had become a play-off to avoid the drop on the last day of the season, Kent beat Worcestershire, who even with Glenn McGrath in their side - at that point comfortably the best seam bowler in the world - were sent down instead.
This match was no classic. In fact, I suspect that there is only one member of either side who can remember anything more about it than that it happened. At one point, the interchangeable Sky commentator (Bob Willis? Paul Allott? Graham ‘Foxy’ Fowler? Who can tell?) did indeed say, “he’ll remember that all his life”, the Sky-box never a place in which to fear the cliché. But they had an excuse, you see, as Hockley, 21 at the time, had just lent into a pitched up delivery from McGrath and sent it comfortably past cover point for four vital runs.
Australian journalist Gideon Haigh once observed that he took more pleasure from a well timed cover drive than Mark Waugh, noting that the languid Australian number five expected to score runs, while for him there was a pleasing element of surprise. I suspect that the same applied with James Hockley’s cover drive. Not even a first team regular and facing the most skilful fast bowler of them all? He can’t have expected to do well. But that cover drive was the only evidence of cricketing genius in the entire match. Of course he remembers it.
Alas, this single shot is the only memory I have of his entire county career. He managed just one decent first-class score in Kent colours (although he did manage a century in a one day game), and when Kent chose not to renew his contract at the end of the 2002 season, he retired with an average below twenty.
Cricket in England is often ridiculed for the ease with which players with a palpable lack of the necessary talent wangle temporary passes on the professional circuit; we never have quite shaken off the crazed notion of the noble amateur. “On coming down from Oxford, (he looked) for some walk in life that would ensure the three squares a day and give him time to play a bit of county cricket”, was how PG Wodehouse put it. County members have endured swathes of these players, sons of high profile committee members, perhaps, or old boys from Eton, and most of us have visibly aged as a result.
But, the reason I’m glad to see James Hockley back is that he was different. He actually had the required talent, as he showed when asked to face down Australia’s leading strike bowler.
It’s just that when asked to use it, he failed, and he was dropped, and then (having biffed some poor second team attack for another frightening hundred) he came back to the first team, and failed again, and was dropped again. After his retirement, Hockley drifted into Kent League cricket and frightened plenty of attacks there too. He was good. But he wasn’t quite good enough.
It’s a fact many sportsmen eventually have to accept. You play for the school team, and are the best. Then the county juniors, and are the best. Then the county seconds, and you’re still the best. Then the first team selects you, and you’re the worst. Maybe you’re unlucky, maybe you lack talent. But, one meeting with the chairman of selectors later, and you’re signing up for a PGCE and training to be a PE teacher.
Failure in sport, for anyone who seeks to play at the highest level they can, is so obviously the norm that I sometimes wonder why anyone bothers. Hockley must look back at his single half centuries and think, “if only I’d not wafted at a wide one, I’d have made a hundred”.
But crisis for Kent, who actually did get relegated for the first time in 2008, changed that. No money and no players, these were the crucial variables. The credit crunch became the banking crisis, and this became a recession, and the building firm due to develop the ground went bust. Kent’s rising star Neil Dexter walked out, leaving Kent in a state of mild panic - they had no spare batsmen at all. Someone spoke to someone else, address books were skimmed, memories consulted. And James Hockley had given up teaching and was an ‘ex-player’ no more.
This really isn’t supposed to happen. Sport is supposed to be ruthless - just look at Arsene Wenger, who won’t even let his players flavour their food. In such an environment, second chances, we’re told, never come.
So, this romantic return is a victory for every fan who’s ever hoped that someone would pop down from the dressing room and say, ‘awfully sorry, old chap, I know its your day off work, but we’re a man down today, would you mind putting some whites on and batting at seven?’
No doubt in his first stab at professional sport he was ambitious and determined. But, now, having tasted real life, Hockley can surely not believe his luck. Now aged 30, he’s getting another stab at living true his childhood dream. If he does score that elusive first-class hundred, I shall rejoice.
It all dates back to 2000, the worst season I had ever endured as a Kent supporter, as an injury ravaged squad sneaked away from deserved relegation only in the last game, and Mr Hockley singularly failed to nail down a first team spot. Luckily in what had become a play-off to avoid the drop on the last day of the season, Kent beat Worcestershire, who even with Glenn McGrath in their side - at that point comfortably the best seam bowler in the world - were sent down instead.
This match was no classic. In fact, I suspect that there is only one member of either side who can remember anything more about it than that it happened. At one point, the interchangeable Sky commentator (Bob Willis? Paul Allott? Graham ‘Foxy’ Fowler? Who can tell?) did indeed say, “he’ll remember that all his life”, the Sky-box never a place in which to fear the cliché. But they had an excuse, you see, as Hockley, 21 at the time, had just lent into a pitched up delivery from McGrath and sent it comfortably past cover point for four vital runs.
Australian journalist Gideon Haigh once observed that he took more pleasure from a well timed cover drive than Mark Waugh, noting that the languid Australian number five expected to score runs, while for him there was a pleasing element of surprise. I suspect that the same applied with James Hockley’s cover drive. Not even a first team regular and facing the most skilful fast bowler of them all? He can’t have expected to do well. But that cover drive was the only evidence of cricketing genius in the entire match. Of course he remembers it.
Alas, this single shot is the only memory I have of his entire county career. He managed just one decent first-class score in Kent colours (although he did manage a century in a one day game), and when Kent chose not to renew his contract at the end of the 2002 season, he retired with an average below twenty.
Cricket in England is often ridiculed for the ease with which players with a palpable lack of the necessary talent wangle temporary passes on the professional circuit; we never have quite shaken off the crazed notion of the noble amateur. “On coming down from Oxford, (he looked) for some walk in life that would ensure the three squares a day and give him time to play a bit of county cricket”, was how PG Wodehouse put it. County members have endured swathes of these players, sons of high profile committee members, perhaps, or old boys from Eton, and most of us have visibly aged as a result.
But, the reason I’m glad to see James Hockley back is that he was different. He actually had the required talent, as he showed when asked to face down Australia’s leading strike bowler.
It’s just that when asked to use it, he failed, and he was dropped, and then (having biffed some poor second team attack for another frightening hundred) he came back to the first team, and failed again, and was dropped again. After his retirement, Hockley drifted into Kent League cricket and frightened plenty of attacks there too. He was good. But he wasn’t quite good enough.
It’s a fact many sportsmen eventually have to accept. You play for the school team, and are the best. Then the county juniors, and are the best. Then the county seconds, and you’re still the best. Then the first team selects you, and you’re the worst. Maybe you’re unlucky, maybe you lack talent. But, one meeting with the chairman of selectors later, and you’re signing up for a PGCE and training to be a PE teacher.
Failure in sport, for anyone who seeks to play at the highest level they can, is so obviously the norm that I sometimes wonder why anyone bothers. Hockley must look back at his single half centuries and think, “if only I’d not wafted at a wide one, I’d have made a hundred”.
But crisis for Kent, who actually did get relegated for the first time in 2008, changed that. No money and no players, these were the crucial variables. The credit crunch became the banking crisis, and this became a recession, and the building firm due to develop the ground went bust. Kent’s rising star Neil Dexter walked out, leaving Kent in a state of mild panic - they had no spare batsmen at all. Someone spoke to someone else, address books were skimmed, memories consulted. And James Hockley had given up teaching and was an ‘ex-player’ no more.
This really isn’t supposed to happen. Sport is supposed to be ruthless - just look at Arsene Wenger, who won’t even let his players flavour their food. In such an environment, second chances, we’re told, never come.
So, this romantic return is a victory for every fan who’s ever hoped that someone would pop down from the dressing room and say, ‘awfully sorry, old chap, I know its your day off work, but we’re a man down today, would you mind putting some whites on and batting at seven?’
No doubt in his first stab at professional sport he was ambitious and determined. But, now, having tasted real life, Hockley can surely not believe his luck. Now aged 30, he’s getting another stab at living true his childhood dream. If he does score that elusive first-class hundred, I shall rejoice.
Monday, April 20, 2009
A new season of Motorsport - mimitig
Formula One got underway in Australia last month with an exciting race in Melbourne. A raft of new regulations designed to spice up the racing on the track – technical changes made in an attempt to make it easier to overtake by reducing downforce and the reliance of aerodynamics had been introduced over the winter.
From pre-season testing in Barcelona it looked as though the new rules were going to work. First practices and qualifying in Melbourne carried through those hopes and the race was great. Far more overtaking, a shake-up of the old order (Ferrari and McLaren no longer topping all the time-sheets) and a fairy-tale finish for brand new team - phoenix from the Honda ashes – Brawn, taking first and second places. Button and Barrichello – referred to in some parts of the press as the over-hyped washed up driver and the on-the-edge of retirement has-been respectively. [Humble-pie being eaten now at certain newspapers? I do hope so!]
However, as has happened so often in the history of F1, the sport began its traditional pastime of shooting itself in the foot. Protests were lodged by teams who didn’t get points about the way Brawn GP, Williams and Toyota had interpreted the regulations. As the circus moved on to Malaysia, fans could not be sure whether the result of the previous week would stand.
And it got worse. As they had crossed the finish line in Melbourne, Toyota’s Jarno Trulli had been in third place. By the time the highlights came on, Lewis Hamilton had been awarded third place and Trulli given a 25 second penalty. This was subsequently overruled when McLaren – in the person of Team Director Dave Ryan – was proved to have been economical with the truth to the race stewards. Full story here:
Unfortunately these shenanigans ensured that as the cars hit the track in Sepang, talk was more of McLaren-gate and the upcoming case in Paris when the FIA would rule definitively about those pesky diffusers on the Brawn GP, Williams and Toyotas which were causing the other teams so much heartache than of the racing itself.
Nonetheless we had a race – another exciting one, albeit one truncated by rain described, rather unimaginatively by the commentators, as “of biblical proportions”. Won by Brawn GP for the second time out in the person of Jenson Button.
Hamilton and McLaren had endured a torrid weekend – acting quickly and suspending, later sacking, Dave Ryan had not got the press pack off their back, but Lewis put in a strong drive and took seventh place putting his team back on the leader board after they had been stripped of points earned in Melbourne.
With a two week gap before battle was re-engaged in China, the FIA Court of Appeal in Paris heard evidence on the diffuser conflict and made their ruling – binding for the 2009 season.
Fortunately for the credibility of the sport they, for once, paid heed to commonsense and ruled that Brawn, Williams and Toyota had done nothing wrong. All points thus far won would stand and the race in China would go ahead with no technical shadows hanging over it.
Here’s the take on it from the viewpoint of ex-Toyota and Force India technical guru, Mike Gascoyne:
While all this was going on MotoGP got underway with none of the hype and palaver that surrounds F1. Starting later in the year than usual, their opening race was a second year’s running of a night race in Qatar, at the Doha circuit deep in the desert. How unlucky then to have the race called off at the very last minute, with all the bikes on the grid, when the heavens opened?
As the commentators would say: it was rain of biblical proportions.
However, with comparatively little fuss, they re-organised themselves, went off for a kip and came back last Monday night to run the race.
To be honest it was not a great race. Casey Stoner on his Ducati Desmocedici was in a class of his own. The god on earth who is Valentino Rossi gave good chase on the Yamaha but, as you would expect from a multiple world champion, gave up to settle for a bag-load of points in second rather than risking a high-side chasing nothing.
Gorgeous George (Jorge Lorenzo) took a fine third and Colin Edwards fourth – putting to bed the idea that having had his race engineer “poached” by team mate James Toseland would hamper his form. Sadly for British fans, it was Toseland who was hampered – not least by heavy crashes in practice and qualifying – and finished in 16th and out of the points.
Although this race was no indicator of how the season will play out, it is clear that Rossi is up for it again, and Stoner is mentally far stronger than he was last year. Everyone else is pretty much in the balance. It’s really not possible to judge their form.
With no bikes this weekend, the focus was back on F1 – how would all the off-track issues affect the race in China? And what would the weather do? Climate change has certainly had an impact of three of the first four premier level motor races this year.
Brawn GP rocked up in Shanghai full of confidence – they won their case in Paris and Ross Brawn (team principal and part-owner) was obviously relishing that victory. As one of the key architects behind the revival of Ferrari helping them to shedloads of races and world titles, he was obviously finding it hard to not snigger about the accusations of “arrogance” thrown at him by Ferrari’s lawyer. In an interview with the BBC on Saturday, he could hardly keep the smile off his face when asked to comment on the FIA result. He knew he’d won, he said, when the Ferrari lawyer began by making a personal attack.
Time-sheets told the story – Brawn GP still impressively fast, and McLaren putting their woes (and former boss Ron Dennis who retired from all F1 involvement) behind them were much improved.
One other team caught the eye – Red Bull, formerly Jaguar, formerly Stewart Grand Prix – were constantly hitting the spot.
This was interesting. They do not have the contentious diffuser, but what they do have is Adrian Newey. Adrian has been designing title-winning cars since time immemorial – or so it seems. He is an engineering guru in the mould of the great British engineers like Thomas Telford and Isambard Kingdom Brunel.
He has that gift of having a different way of thinking and working – if he didn’t design cars and had been born two hundred years ago, we might have the Newey Suspension Bridge in Bristol, or the Newey Caledonian Canal.
Today his genius was there for the world to see. In a rain-affected but not shortened Shanghai GP, his cars came in first and second. Great drives from baby-faced Sebastian Vettel and old Aussie peddler Mark Webber achieved a result that team boss Christian Horner could only have dreamed of.
With “our Jense” taking the bottom step of the podium (and thereby still leading the championship), this was a wonderful celebration of British achievement and excellence.
The legacy of those goliaths of eighteenth and nineteenth engineering should rest happy knowing that their vision goes on – not now building canals, bridges and tunnels – but designing state-of-the-art racing cars.
I hope that young people can be inspired by the success of engineers like Ross Brawn and Adrian Newey, as they were by the likes of IK and Telford, and be the next generation of winners.
Role on the rest of the season and let’s hope everything will be decided on the track, and that weather will only intervene to spice it all up and not dominate.
From pre-season testing in Barcelona it looked as though the new rules were going to work. First practices and qualifying in Melbourne carried through those hopes and the race was great. Far more overtaking, a shake-up of the old order (Ferrari and McLaren no longer topping all the time-sheets) and a fairy-tale finish for brand new team - phoenix from the Honda ashes – Brawn, taking first and second places. Button and Barrichello – referred to in some parts of the press as the over-hyped washed up driver and the on-the-edge of retirement has-been respectively. [Humble-pie being eaten now at certain newspapers? I do hope so!]
However, as has happened so often in the history of F1, the sport began its traditional pastime of shooting itself in the foot. Protests were lodged by teams who didn’t get points about the way Brawn GP, Williams and Toyota had interpreted the regulations. As the circus moved on to Malaysia, fans could not be sure whether the result of the previous week would stand.
And it got worse. As they had crossed the finish line in Melbourne, Toyota’s Jarno Trulli had been in third place. By the time the highlights came on, Lewis Hamilton had been awarded third place and Trulli given a 25 second penalty. This was subsequently overruled when McLaren – in the person of Team Director Dave Ryan – was proved to have been economical with the truth to the race stewards. Full story here:
Unfortunately these shenanigans ensured that as the cars hit the track in Sepang, talk was more of McLaren-gate and the upcoming case in Paris when the FIA would rule definitively about those pesky diffusers on the Brawn GP, Williams and Toyotas which were causing the other teams so much heartache than of the racing itself.
Nonetheless we had a race – another exciting one, albeit one truncated by rain described, rather unimaginatively by the commentators, as “of biblical proportions”. Won by Brawn GP for the second time out in the person of Jenson Button.
Hamilton and McLaren had endured a torrid weekend – acting quickly and suspending, later sacking, Dave Ryan had not got the press pack off their back, but Lewis put in a strong drive and took seventh place putting his team back on the leader board after they had been stripped of points earned in Melbourne.
With a two week gap before battle was re-engaged in China, the FIA Court of Appeal in Paris heard evidence on the diffuser conflict and made their ruling – binding for the 2009 season.
Fortunately for the credibility of the sport they, for once, paid heed to commonsense and ruled that Brawn, Williams and Toyota had done nothing wrong. All points thus far won would stand and the race in China would go ahead with no technical shadows hanging over it.
Here’s the take on it from the viewpoint of ex-Toyota and Force India technical guru, Mike Gascoyne:
While all this was going on MotoGP got underway with none of the hype and palaver that surrounds F1. Starting later in the year than usual, their opening race was a second year’s running of a night race in Qatar, at the Doha circuit deep in the desert. How unlucky then to have the race called off at the very last minute, with all the bikes on the grid, when the heavens opened?
As the commentators would say: it was rain of biblical proportions.
However, with comparatively little fuss, they re-organised themselves, went off for a kip and came back last Monday night to run the race.
To be honest it was not a great race. Casey Stoner on his Ducati Desmocedici was in a class of his own. The god on earth who is Valentino Rossi gave good chase on the Yamaha but, as you would expect from a multiple world champion, gave up to settle for a bag-load of points in second rather than risking a high-side chasing nothing.
Gorgeous George (Jorge Lorenzo) took a fine third and Colin Edwards fourth – putting to bed the idea that having had his race engineer “poached” by team mate James Toseland would hamper his form. Sadly for British fans, it was Toseland who was hampered – not least by heavy crashes in practice and qualifying – and finished in 16th and out of the points.
Although this race was no indicator of how the season will play out, it is clear that Rossi is up for it again, and Stoner is mentally far stronger than he was last year. Everyone else is pretty much in the balance. It’s really not possible to judge their form.
With no bikes this weekend, the focus was back on F1 – how would all the off-track issues affect the race in China? And what would the weather do? Climate change has certainly had an impact of three of the first four premier level motor races this year.
Brawn GP rocked up in Shanghai full of confidence – they won their case in Paris and Ross Brawn (team principal and part-owner) was obviously relishing that victory. As one of the key architects behind the revival of Ferrari helping them to shedloads of races and world titles, he was obviously finding it hard to not snigger about the accusations of “arrogance” thrown at him by Ferrari’s lawyer. In an interview with the BBC on Saturday, he could hardly keep the smile off his face when asked to comment on the FIA result. He knew he’d won, he said, when the Ferrari lawyer began by making a personal attack.
Time-sheets told the story – Brawn GP still impressively fast, and McLaren putting their woes (and former boss Ron Dennis who retired from all F1 involvement) behind them were much improved.
One other team caught the eye – Red Bull, formerly Jaguar, formerly Stewart Grand Prix – were constantly hitting the spot.
This was interesting. They do not have the contentious diffuser, but what they do have is Adrian Newey. Adrian has been designing title-winning cars since time immemorial – or so it seems. He is an engineering guru in the mould of the great British engineers like Thomas Telford and Isambard Kingdom Brunel.
He has that gift of having a different way of thinking and working – if he didn’t design cars and had been born two hundred years ago, we might have the Newey Suspension Bridge in Bristol, or the Newey Caledonian Canal.
Today his genius was there for the world to see. In a rain-affected but not shortened Shanghai GP, his cars came in first and second. Great drives from baby-faced Sebastian Vettel and old Aussie peddler Mark Webber achieved a result that team boss Christian Horner could only have dreamed of.
With “our Jense” taking the bottom step of the podium (and thereby still leading the championship), this was a wonderful celebration of British achievement and excellence.
The legacy of those goliaths of eighteenth and nineteenth engineering should rest happy knowing that their vision goes on – not now building canals, bridges and tunnels – but designing state-of-the-art racing cars.
I hope that young people can be inspired by the success of engineers like Ross Brawn and Adrian Newey, as they were by the likes of IK and Telford, and be the next generation of winners.
Role on the rest of the season and let’s hope everything will be decided on the track, and that weather will only intervene to spice it all up and not dominate.
Monday, April 13, 2009
An earlier Hillsborough disaster - Margin
Every few years in April a new headline anniversary reminds us of one of the greatest disasters of English football. This year it is 20 years since The Hillsborough tragedy in which Liverpool fans were crushed to death watching their team play an FA Cup semi-final.
English football still feels bitter about the sorrow of that day. And we all know why that is. The police screwed up; and with the help of the newspapers they blamed us. We football fans were accused of unspeakable horrors that I simply refuse to repeat. And plenty of normal human beings in this country believed it. Then when the truth became apparent the police who screwed up got off scot free for their criminal incompetence, largely thanks to the argument that it was an unprecedented situation.
But that argument was another lie.
I know it was a lie. I know far too many Spurs fans to think otherwise. It was a lie because in 1981 Spurs played Wolves in an FA Cup Semi Final at Hillsborough, and Spurs fans, like Liverpool fans eight years later, were allocated the now notorious Leppings Lane end.
Spurs fans, like Liverpool fans that went after them, felt that the ends were badly allocated. Leppings Lane was perceived to be the smaller end and should thus have been given to the team with the smaller travelling support. But this was probably just perception, and switching ends would sadly just have switched the suffering from one bunch of fans to another.
Spurs fans were sent through the concourses that led to the various pens behind the goal. And those directly behind the goal were the most popular. So just as pens 3 and 4 filled to dangerous levels in 1989, the same part of the ground filled dangerously quickly in 1981.
People were crushed not because of surging support or bad behaviour, but simply because the spaces between the large metal fences were too small. Indeed there was a feeling even before then, without benefit of hindsight, that the supposed capacity of Leppings Lane was overstated and unsafe.
Panic ensued and Spurs fans faced the prospect of a pain that Liverpool fans eventually had to suffer. Those at the front were bruised and battered well before kick-off and realised quickly they simply could not escape as things got worse. Some still speak of the crowd being packed so tight that their feet were off the ground as they moved.
But in 2011 there will be no Match of the Day special, and no retrospective interviews to mark thirty years since that semi-final. There will no documentaries made or reefs laid on Bill Nicholson Way at the gates to White Hart Lane.
And the reason for that is simple.
Unlike their counterparts in 1989 the police commanders in charge in 1981 were not in charge of their first match, were not ignorant and incompetent, and were seemingly not predisposed to assume all problems were the result of violent scum on the terraces who deserved everything they got.
Instead those in charge acted sensibly on the feedback of officers on the frontline. As a result they ordered the closure of the gates leading to the most crowded pens, and then directed incoming fans to safer areas. They acted somewhat late, but they did act. And many fans were helped out of the crowded spaces by fellow fans and police alike. They then sat along the edge of the pitch to watch the game unfold.
As a result of sensible policing more and more unaware fans could no longer pour into pens where they would innocently crush to death those at the front. My fellow Yids thus gradually adjusted to their tight space, regained composure, and despite a fair few injuries stayed alive to see Ossie and Ricky win at Wembley a month later.
The experience led fans to do something that few ever did back before the days when the internet made complaining so easy. They wrote letters to the authorities to express their severe concerns and to seek answers. And while they never heard back, the FA did take action.
It would of course be understandable that those in charge of football thought very little had happened that day. In fact very little did happen thanks to good policing that negated a need for countless funerals. But even so, Hillsborough was barred as a venue for major neutral matches and only allowed to do so again in 1987 after modifications were made to the pens. Those modifications were designed to make policing easier.
Which leads back to that bitterness.
For Spurs fans the defence of the commanders after 1989 that it was an unprecedented situation they couldn’t possible have seen coming was simply a lie. Fans had been through the precedent. They had been saved from the exact same tragedy by good policing. And the FA ordered the ground changed to make good policing easier in future. So to hear bad police pretend that good police would have done no better was sickening.
Of course very little of what I’ve just written will surprise Liverpool fans. And what really spurred me to write this was not really that people out there won’t know about a semi-final in 1981 that matters little in the grand scheme of football history. What bothers me is that it has just occurred after all this time that I have no idea whether this was a similarly isolated case.
I realise now, and am suddenly frightened by this. I have no idea how exceptional or commonplace the events of both days were. Were we all regularly just a bad police chief away from death for all those years? Or were Spurs fans incredibly lucky that of the two times it really mattered our coin toss landed heads, while Liverpool’s sadly fell to tails?
English football still feels bitter about the sorrow of that day. And we all know why that is. The police screwed up; and with the help of the newspapers they blamed us. We football fans were accused of unspeakable horrors that I simply refuse to repeat. And plenty of normal human beings in this country believed it. Then when the truth became apparent the police who screwed up got off scot free for their criminal incompetence, largely thanks to the argument that it was an unprecedented situation.
But that argument was another lie.
I know it was a lie. I know far too many Spurs fans to think otherwise. It was a lie because in 1981 Spurs played Wolves in an FA Cup Semi Final at Hillsborough, and Spurs fans, like Liverpool fans eight years later, were allocated the now notorious Leppings Lane end.
Spurs fans, like Liverpool fans that went after them, felt that the ends were badly allocated. Leppings Lane was perceived to be the smaller end and should thus have been given to the team with the smaller travelling support. But this was probably just perception, and switching ends would sadly just have switched the suffering from one bunch of fans to another.
Spurs fans were sent through the concourses that led to the various pens behind the goal. And those directly behind the goal were the most popular. So just as pens 3 and 4 filled to dangerous levels in 1989, the same part of the ground filled dangerously quickly in 1981.
People were crushed not because of surging support or bad behaviour, but simply because the spaces between the large metal fences were too small. Indeed there was a feeling even before then, without benefit of hindsight, that the supposed capacity of Leppings Lane was overstated and unsafe.
Panic ensued and Spurs fans faced the prospect of a pain that Liverpool fans eventually had to suffer. Those at the front were bruised and battered well before kick-off and realised quickly they simply could not escape as things got worse. Some still speak of the crowd being packed so tight that their feet were off the ground as they moved.
But in 2011 there will be no Match of the Day special, and no retrospective interviews to mark thirty years since that semi-final. There will no documentaries made or reefs laid on Bill Nicholson Way at the gates to White Hart Lane.
And the reason for that is simple.
Unlike their counterparts in 1989 the police commanders in charge in 1981 were not in charge of their first match, were not ignorant and incompetent, and were seemingly not predisposed to assume all problems were the result of violent scum on the terraces who deserved everything they got.
Instead those in charge acted sensibly on the feedback of officers on the frontline. As a result they ordered the closure of the gates leading to the most crowded pens, and then directed incoming fans to safer areas. They acted somewhat late, but they did act. And many fans were helped out of the crowded spaces by fellow fans and police alike. They then sat along the edge of the pitch to watch the game unfold.
As a result of sensible policing more and more unaware fans could no longer pour into pens where they would innocently crush to death those at the front. My fellow Yids thus gradually adjusted to their tight space, regained composure, and despite a fair few injuries stayed alive to see Ossie and Ricky win at Wembley a month later.
The experience led fans to do something that few ever did back before the days when the internet made complaining so easy. They wrote letters to the authorities to express their severe concerns and to seek answers. And while they never heard back, the FA did take action.
It would of course be understandable that those in charge of football thought very little had happened that day. In fact very little did happen thanks to good policing that negated a need for countless funerals. But even so, Hillsborough was barred as a venue for major neutral matches and only allowed to do so again in 1987 after modifications were made to the pens. Those modifications were designed to make policing easier.
Which leads back to that bitterness.
For Spurs fans the defence of the commanders after 1989 that it was an unprecedented situation they couldn’t possible have seen coming was simply a lie. Fans had been through the precedent. They had been saved from the exact same tragedy by good policing. And the FA ordered the ground changed to make good policing easier in future. So to hear bad police pretend that good police would have done no better was sickening.
Of course very little of what I’ve just written will surprise Liverpool fans. And what really spurred me to write this was not really that people out there won’t know about a semi-final in 1981 that matters little in the grand scheme of football history. What bothers me is that it has just occurred after all this time that I have no idea whether this was a similarly isolated case.
I realise now, and am suddenly frightened by this. I have no idea how exceptional or commonplace the events of both days were. Were we all regularly just a bad police chief away from death for all those years? Or were Spurs fans incredibly lucky that of the two times it really mattered our coin toss landed heads, while Liverpool’s sadly fell to tails?
Tuesday, April 7, 2009
Damned United II: The Sequel - Mountainstriker
Tom Hooper’s ‘The Damned United’ staring Michael Sheen as Brian Clough is currently playing to favourable reviews across the nation. Based on David Peace’s 2006 book of the same name, the film recounts ‘ol Big ‘ead’s turbulent 44 days at the helm of Leeds United in 1974. Most of the stories are common currency amongst football folk – how Clough deserted his long-time ally Peter Taylor to take the job, how he despised Leeds’ physical style and what he saw as gamesmanship, his address to the squad in which he told them to throw their medals in the bin as ‘’…you got them all by cheating’, the inevitable player revolt, poor results and dismissal - only for Clough to re-emerge triumphantly at Nottingham Forest with Taylor by his side.
The subtext to both the film and book is the inevitability of a clash between a squad of successful players and a manager who had raised Derby County not only to be their arch-rivals but the antithesis of their playing style and beliefs. It’s possible that this difference was exaggerated at the time and that this film will serve only to magnify it. Though few would dispute that Leeds could look after themselves (one has only to think of Jack Charlton’s little book of those marked for future retribution) they were also a supremely skilful side that accommodated the wiles of Johnny Giles, Peter Lorimer and Eddie Gray as well as bruisers like Charlton and Norman Hunter. Even the arch enforcer himself, Billy Bremner, could play a bit. This after all, was a side that reached European finals in 1973 and 1975.
Shortly before his death in 2004, Clough gave an extended interview to the BBC. Yellow faced and bloated from a recent liver transplant, he was asked whether any of the current managerial crop caught his eye. His response,
‘I like the look of Mourinho, there's a bit of the young Clough about him. For a start, he's good-looking and, like me, he doesn't believe in the star system. He's consumed with team spirit and discipline,’
has been regarded ever since to be the anointing of his successor.
Certainly there are parallels – like Clough, Mourinho took a provincial side to European victory, defeating the likes of Manchester United en route. He also won the English championship in his first season and has always been good for a controversial (and often funny) quote.
But there are significant differences. Clough’s teams, particularly his First Division and European Cup Forest winning sides of 1978-80, were notable for their willingness to pass to feet and hit on the break – an approach exemplified by his principal forwards at that time - Woodcock, Birtles, Francis and Robertson. Though Clough could also accommodate the more rudimentary attributes of Peter Withe, he would have scorned Mourinho’s reliance on long balls to Didier Drogba and his current taste for Zlatan Imbrahimovic. He would also have been disappointed by Mourninho’s failure to play to the strengths of Andriy Shevchenko and his decision to sell ball-carrying wingers like Damien Duff and Arjen Robben. In retrospect, it’s not inconceivable that, had he lived to see them, Clough would have regarded Mourinho’s later Chesea teams similarly to the Leeds side of the early 70s.
So I find it surprising that Mourniho is often touted to succeed Alex Ferguson at Manchester United. If any manager could be said to have carried Clough’s legacy over the last 20 years then surely it’s Ferguson and not the Special One. Their teams have had far more than Roy Keane in common. Defensive parsimony built on buying the best keeper available (Shilton/Schmeichal/Van Der Saar) and a no-nonsense centre half (Lloyd/Burns/Stam/Vidic); midfielders who can pass (McGovern/O’Neill/Scholes/Carrick); tricky and pacy wingers (Robertson/Giggs/Kancheskis/Ronaldo) and mobile forwards with both skill and an eye for goal Woodcock/Francis/Clough/Yorke/Sheringham/Rooney). United at their best pass, move at pace and counter attack in the best traditions of Clough’s Forest. Hell, they even have the same red nose.
Sit down Mourinho
Mourinho’s arrival at Old Trafford would mean a wholesale demolition of Ferguson’s legacy.
Though I’m sure he wouldn’t proffer a bucket for Ronaldo’s medals, I doubt that he would oppose his move to Real Madrid as stubbornly. Man U fans know this, instinctively sensing that Mourinho is not one of them. Anyone who stood behind Mourinho while Inter succumbed to United last month can’t have failed to notice that Old Trafford paid scant attention to the game, preferring to indulge in 70,000 strong choruses of ‘Sit down Mourinho’, ‘Bye Bye Mourinho’ and hilariously ‘You’re not Special anymore’ throughout. Just as Elland Road never accepted Clough, Mourinho would always be ‘the other’. How long would it be before the rumours of player revolt stated? Paul Scholes or Ryan Giggs as Johnny Giles anyone? My money’s on Gary Neville.
The subtext to both the film and book is the inevitability of a clash between a squad of successful players and a manager who had raised Derby County not only to be their arch-rivals but the antithesis of their playing style and beliefs. It’s possible that this difference was exaggerated at the time and that this film will serve only to magnify it. Though few would dispute that Leeds could look after themselves (one has only to think of Jack Charlton’s little book of those marked for future retribution) they were also a supremely skilful side that accommodated the wiles of Johnny Giles, Peter Lorimer and Eddie Gray as well as bruisers like Charlton and Norman Hunter. Even the arch enforcer himself, Billy Bremner, could play a bit. This after all, was a side that reached European finals in 1973 and 1975.
Shortly before his death in 2004, Clough gave an extended interview to the BBC. Yellow faced and bloated from a recent liver transplant, he was asked whether any of the current managerial crop caught his eye. His response,
‘I like the look of Mourinho, there's a bit of the young Clough about him. For a start, he's good-looking and, like me, he doesn't believe in the star system. He's consumed with team spirit and discipline,’
has been regarded ever since to be the anointing of his successor.
Certainly there are parallels – like Clough, Mourinho took a provincial side to European victory, defeating the likes of Manchester United en route. He also won the English championship in his first season and has always been good for a controversial (and often funny) quote.
But there are significant differences. Clough’s teams, particularly his First Division and European Cup Forest winning sides of 1978-80, were notable for their willingness to pass to feet and hit on the break – an approach exemplified by his principal forwards at that time - Woodcock, Birtles, Francis and Robertson. Though Clough could also accommodate the more rudimentary attributes of Peter Withe, he would have scorned Mourinho’s reliance on long balls to Didier Drogba and his current taste for Zlatan Imbrahimovic. He would also have been disappointed by Mourninho’s failure to play to the strengths of Andriy Shevchenko and his decision to sell ball-carrying wingers like Damien Duff and Arjen Robben. In retrospect, it’s not inconceivable that, had he lived to see them, Clough would have regarded Mourinho’s later Chesea teams similarly to the Leeds side of the early 70s.
So I find it surprising that Mourniho is often touted to succeed Alex Ferguson at Manchester United. If any manager could be said to have carried Clough’s legacy over the last 20 years then surely it’s Ferguson and not the Special One. Their teams have had far more than Roy Keane in common. Defensive parsimony built on buying the best keeper available (Shilton/Schmeichal/Van Der Saar) and a no-nonsense centre half (Lloyd/Burns/Stam/Vidic); midfielders who can pass (McGovern/O’Neill/Scholes/Carrick); tricky and pacy wingers (Robertson/Giggs/Kancheskis/Ronaldo) and mobile forwards with both skill and an eye for goal Woodcock/Francis/Clough/Yorke/Sheringham/Rooney). United at their best pass, move at pace and counter attack in the best traditions of Clough’s Forest. Hell, they even have the same red nose.
Sit down Mourinho
Mourinho’s arrival at Old Trafford would mean a wholesale demolition of Ferguson’s legacy.
Though I’m sure he wouldn’t proffer a bucket for Ronaldo’s medals, I doubt that he would oppose his move to Real Madrid as stubbornly. Man U fans know this, instinctively sensing that Mourinho is not one of them. Anyone who stood behind Mourinho while Inter succumbed to United last month can’t have failed to notice that Old Trafford paid scant attention to the game, preferring to indulge in 70,000 strong choruses of ‘Sit down Mourinho’, ‘Bye Bye Mourinho’ and hilariously ‘You’re not Special anymore’ throughout. Just as Elland Road never accepted Clough, Mourinho would always be ‘the other’. How long would it be before the rumours of player revolt stated? Paul Scholes or Ryan Giggs as Johnny Giles anyone? My money’s on Gary Neville.
Sporting changes - Mac Millings
As fans of sport, we are becoming increasingly disillusioned by the growing gap between how our favourite sports are played now, and how we think they should be played. The following simple rule changes are guaranteed to redress the balance.
Tennis:
To avoid increasingly boring domination by a select few players of all surfaces, replace grass, hard and clay courts with 3 of the following: ice; forest; prison yard; babies; lava; bed of nails, trampoline.
Athletics:
As part of a bid for greater transparency in sport, Javelin, Shot Put and Hammer events to be renamed, ‘Throwing A Big Sharp Stick’, ‘Throwing A Heavy Ball On The End Of A Chain’ and ‘Fat People Throwing A Metal Ball From Under Their Chin’.
Boxing:
Scrap the 17 weight-based divisions, replacing them with 17 sobriety-based ones, distinguished by the number of pints imbibed prior to the bout, from 1 to 17. Also known as the ‘Ricky Hatton Rule’.
Cycling:
Mandatory drug testing, to ensure a level playing field. Any cyclist discovered to be clean should be forced to take performance-enhancing substances.
Darts:
Not a rule change, but Darts has been awarded Olympic Status for London 2012, along with fellow pub-based sports, Drunken Pontificating, “Do You Want To Take This Outside?”, and Throwing Up On That Really Cute Girl You Only Just Met.
Squash:
In order to make the sport more appealing to young people, Squash to be renamed “Energy Drink!”
Cricket:
The game is crying out for new technology that can tell us with certainty whether that sharp nip-backer did, indeed, clank the batsman in the balls, rather than merely on the abdomen or inner thigh. Said technology to be named Soft Spot. Or CockEye. Or Testicometer.
Tennis:
To avoid increasingly boring domination by a select few players of all surfaces, replace grass, hard and clay courts with 3 of the following: ice; forest; prison yard; babies; lava; bed of nails, trampoline.
Athletics:
As part of a bid for greater transparency in sport, Javelin, Shot Put and Hammer events to be renamed, ‘Throwing A Big Sharp Stick’, ‘Throwing A Heavy Ball On The End Of A Chain’ and ‘Fat People Throwing A Metal Ball From Under Their Chin’.
Boxing:
Scrap the 17 weight-based divisions, replacing them with 17 sobriety-based ones, distinguished by the number of pints imbibed prior to the bout, from 1 to 17. Also known as the ‘Ricky Hatton Rule’.
Cycling:
Mandatory drug testing, to ensure a level playing field. Any cyclist discovered to be clean should be forced to take performance-enhancing substances.
Darts:
Not a rule change, but Darts has been awarded Olympic Status for London 2012, along with fellow pub-based sports, Drunken Pontificating, “Do You Want To Take This Outside?”, and Throwing Up On That Really Cute Girl You Only Just Met.
Squash:
In order to make the sport more appealing to young people, Squash to be renamed “Energy Drink!”
Cricket:
The game is crying out for new technology that can tell us with certainty whether that sharp nip-backer did, indeed, clank the batsman in the balls, rather than merely on the abdomen or inner thigh. Said technology to be named Soft Spot. Or CockEye. Or Testicometer.
Monday, March 23, 2009
SuperCav wins ... Classic for the first time! – mimitig
In August 2008 headlines in the mainstream sports media switched from endless stories about the dirty world of druggie Pro-cycling to glorious tributes to Dave Brailsford’s Team GB Cyclists. Mostly the Track boys and girls, but a nod here and there to the wonderful Welshwoman Nicole Cook. By September cycling was almost forgotten bar a tiny tiny wee mention for Nicole who did the never-before done double of winning Olympic Gold and The World Championship.
In January 2009 the worst kept secret in sport was out in the public arena. Yes, Lance Armstrong was back and had the rules changed so that he could compete in season-opener, The Tour Downunder.
Now far be it from me to carp about cycling getting headlines for good reasons, but when I saw the one this weekend at:
http://sports.espn.go.com/oly/cycling/news/story?id=4003350
it made my blood boil.
“Lance finishes well back of Cavendish”
Outrageous. What it should have read was:
“Cycling Superstar The Manx Express Cavendish breaks 45 year British duck to win Classic”
Armstrong is a has-been [and yes, I will publicly eat my words if he wins anything this year] whose reasons for returning to the sport are far from clear and who has a questionable reputation. Not for winning all his Tours fired up with dubious substances – I think that has been long laid to rest for lack of evidence – but for the way he went about his racing. He never aspired to do anything else except win Le Tour and made sure that when he raced, his team was made up of the best super-domestiques money could buy to ensure that they could burn off the opposition. Now there is nothing inherently wrong in winning that way, but no-one could convincingly argue that it was in the spirit of the sport, or that it actually did the sport any good.
What happened in San Remo on Saturday 21 March was the breath of fresh air that cycling needs so desperately and the coverage of SuperCav’s win has been pretty underwhelming.
There are pieces in the mainstream media. The Guardian has this:
http://www.guardian.co.uk/sport/2009/mar/22/mark-cavendish-milan-san-remo-win
The Times has this:
http://www.timesonline.co.uk/tol/sport/more_sport/cycling/article5956522.ece
Reading either of these pieces might presuppose a casual reader to the idea that the sporting press gives a shit about cycling. They don’t and nowhere, except here or in the specialist media has anyone had much to say about the phenomenon that is Mark Cavendish.
Mark Cavendish is one of the brightest stars shining on the cycling, indeed sporting, stage and as if winning four stages of Le Tour last year wasn’t enough, he’s just gone and done the business and won one of the most famous one-day Classics on the cycling calendar. And he wasn’t even in it to win it. Before the season started Mark said of this race that he’d never done it before and although “2009 is going to be massive” he [didn’t] “expect the victories to come reeling off like they did in 2008 [he took 17 wins last year]. It just won’t happen.”
Understand that Mark is not the shy and retiring type. He has a level of confidence that is oft perceived as arrogance and he is no stranger to comments that border on the offensive – his views on Belgian Golden (Cocaine) Boy Tom Boonen are well-publicised.
So for his season to have started as it has: the first outing resulted in two stage wins in the Tour of Qatar in the first week of February. A week later our man trolled over to the States to take part in the Tour of California – rapidly gaining kudos and importance in the view of cycling enthusiasts, and guess what – he took Stages Four and Five.
Then he consolidated his form, picking up the final stage win of the Tirreno-Adriatico giving him five stage wins in the opening races of the season and on a par with Mattia Gavazzi (not in his class, a winner in Langkawi for goodness sake!), and ahead of Italian superstar Daniele Bennati.
Winning Milan-San Remo, and in the style that he did – by a tyre’s breath (or even breadth) from Germany’s Heinrich Haussler (second to Contador in Paris-Nice earlier in March) confirms the utter class of this British cyclist. Boonen needled Mark constantly before the race suggesting that any fast fool can win sprints in a stage race but only a great rider wins a Classic.
Mark’s response – blow Boonen away over the climbs and win one of the best Classics on the calendar. At his first attempt. At only 23.
It is clear to me that Mark is well on the way to being one of the very best in the world, worthy to take over the mantle of that prince of sprinters and all-round good guy: Robbie McEwen
Robbie finished 67th in San Remo last weekend. He’s closing on 37 years of age, truly old for a pro-cyclist but I have no doubt at all that he would rather see his crown pass to SuperCav than CocoBoon.
However before Mark gets out on the road again in April for Paris-Roubaix (“I am going to the Hell of the North come what may” – he said in January), cycling fans should get the chance to see him back on the track this week.
After Beijing, when Mark was the only British cyclist to return home having not “medalled”, he said that was over for him and the track. To everyone’s amazement he has been included in the squad that take on the world in Poland:
http://news.bbc.co.uk/sport1/hi/other_sports/cycling/7945829.stm
While I can understand he has a point to prove, personally I wish he’d focus on the road and making damn sure that when the mainstream press does bother itself with cycling we get less of:
“Poor Lancie breaks collarbone” and more of
“SuperCav wins again”.
In January 2009 the worst kept secret in sport was out in the public arena. Yes, Lance Armstrong was back and had the rules changed so that he could compete in season-opener, The Tour Downunder.
Now far be it from me to carp about cycling getting headlines for good reasons, but when I saw the one this weekend at:
http://sports.espn.go.com/oly/cycling/news/story?id=4003350
it made my blood boil.
“Lance finishes well back of Cavendish”
Outrageous. What it should have read was:
“Cycling Superstar The Manx Express Cavendish breaks 45 year British duck to win Classic”
Armstrong is a has-been [and yes, I will publicly eat my words if he wins anything this year] whose reasons for returning to the sport are far from clear and who has a questionable reputation. Not for winning all his Tours fired up with dubious substances – I think that has been long laid to rest for lack of evidence – but for the way he went about his racing. He never aspired to do anything else except win Le Tour and made sure that when he raced, his team was made up of the best super-domestiques money could buy to ensure that they could burn off the opposition. Now there is nothing inherently wrong in winning that way, but no-one could convincingly argue that it was in the spirit of the sport, or that it actually did the sport any good.
What happened in San Remo on Saturday 21 March was the breath of fresh air that cycling needs so desperately and the coverage of SuperCav’s win has been pretty underwhelming.
There are pieces in the mainstream media. The Guardian has this:
http://www.guardian.co.uk/sport/2009/mar/22/mark-cavendish-milan-san-remo-win
The Times has this:
http://www.timesonline.co.uk/tol/sport/more_sport/cycling/article5956522.ece
Reading either of these pieces might presuppose a casual reader to the idea that the sporting press gives a shit about cycling. They don’t and nowhere, except here or in the specialist media has anyone had much to say about the phenomenon that is Mark Cavendish.
Mark Cavendish is one of the brightest stars shining on the cycling, indeed sporting, stage and as if winning four stages of Le Tour last year wasn’t enough, he’s just gone and done the business and won one of the most famous one-day Classics on the cycling calendar. And he wasn’t even in it to win it. Before the season started Mark said of this race that he’d never done it before and although “2009 is going to be massive” he [didn’t] “expect the victories to come reeling off like they did in 2008 [he took 17 wins last year]. It just won’t happen.”
Understand that Mark is not the shy and retiring type. He has a level of confidence that is oft perceived as arrogance and he is no stranger to comments that border on the offensive – his views on Belgian Golden (Cocaine) Boy Tom Boonen are well-publicised.
So for his season to have started as it has: the first outing resulted in two stage wins in the Tour of Qatar in the first week of February. A week later our man trolled over to the States to take part in the Tour of California – rapidly gaining kudos and importance in the view of cycling enthusiasts, and guess what – he took Stages Four and Five.
Then he consolidated his form, picking up the final stage win of the Tirreno-Adriatico giving him five stage wins in the opening races of the season and on a par with Mattia Gavazzi (not in his class, a winner in Langkawi for goodness sake!), and ahead of Italian superstar Daniele Bennati.
Winning Milan-San Remo, and in the style that he did – by a tyre’s breath (or even breadth) from Germany’s Heinrich Haussler (second to Contador in Paris-Nice earlier in March) confirms the utter class of this British cyclist. Boonen needled Mark constantly before the race suggesting that any fast fool can win sprints in a stage race but only a great rider wins a Classic.
Mark’s response – blow Boonen away over the climbs and win one of the best Classics on the calendar. At his first attempt. At only 23.
It is clear to me that Mark is well on the way to being one of the very best in the world, worthy to take over the mantle of that prince of sprinters and all-round good guy: Robbie McEwen
Robbie finished 67th in San Remo last weekend. He’s closing on 37 years of age, truly old for a pro-cyclist but I have no doubt at all that he would rather see his crown pass to SuperCav than CocoBoon.
However before Mark gets out on the road again in April for Paris-Roubaix (“I am going to the Hell of the North come what may” – he said in January), cycling fans should get the chance to see him back on the track this week.
After Beijing, when Mark was the only British cyclist to return home having not “medalled”, he said that was over for him and the track. To everyone’s amazement he has been included in the squad that take on the world in Poland:
http://news.bbc.co.uk/sport1/hi/other_sports/cycling/7945829.stm
While I can understand he has a point to prove, personally I wish he’d focus on the road and making damn sure that when the mainstream press does bother itself with cycling we get less of:
“Poor Lancie breaks collarbone” and more of
“SuperCav wins again”.
Wednesday, March 11, 2009
Testing times and unfriendly friendlies - Ringo37
It’s the standard-issue answer from your standard-issue sports professional as (with his standard-issue fat tie-knot and hairfudge-moulded mullet) he fronts up to the standard-issue post-match inquisition: “The result,” he’ll say, “is the main thing.”
Well, what if it wasn’t? What if the result wasn’t the main thing? What if the result wasn’t anything?
Modern football – hell, maybe football full-stop – is devout in its devotion to the result. “Ask any supporter,” we’re often told, “and they’ll take three points over a good performance any day of the week”. Your greatest sporting memory? “Reading in the paper that we’d stuffed the Mackems (or, as it might be, the Bluenoses, or the Skates, or whoever) 2-1.”
Perhaps this is because football is our most rabidly partisan sport. Results matter because Our Team matters. The team takes precedence over the sport. Which, in a sense, is fair enough. But, if this is the case, why not just replace the current four-division league system with a 28-week serial coin-toss? You get winners, losers, bragging rights, reasons to smash up train carriages etc, and for a fraction of the cost (2p, unless you wanted to insist on playing important games simultaneously in order to prevent one set of tossers – pardon me – having an unfair advantage).
I’m not trying to deride football; it just worries me that this result-obsessed culture can only have a bad influence on all our sports.
I’ve just switched off the radio after the close of play in Trinidad: the Windies scraped a draw in the final Test, and bagged the series 1-0. What a finish. I mean – what a finish.
But what I didn’t like about this series was the use of the umpiring referral system. Its failings have been pretty thoroughly picked over in the press over the last few days, but the specifics of the system don’t much interest me. What I’m interested in is the principle.
Borderline decisions – borderline wickets, borderline survivals – should be seen to be of borderline value. No bowler is going to recline in the clubhouse in the twilight of his career, thoughtfully swill his cognac in its balloon and murmur: “Remember that time Perkins was questionably given out to my speculative armball back in ’72?”. Results matter, and teams matter, but the game – the great achievements and great moments of the game – should surely be paramount. Cricket isn’t usually bad at this sort of thing. Record run-hauls on shirtfronts are given short shrift by the cognoscenti; eight-fers on sticky dogs likewise. Results are just another kind of statistic, and the statistic is brother to the damned lie.
The clincher is this: cricket, like rugby, has Tests – football has Meaningless Friendlies. Why are the Ashes so important? Because the Aussies are so damned good. Why, in contrast, is the Football World Cup important? Because we all want a big tin pot. If you win an important game in football you win a cup. Hooray. In cricket – give or take the odd token urn or sceptre – what you win, if you win, is a win; it’s about who you beat, and how you beat them, not about the bauble foisted on you by a blazered dignitary.
It used to be like that in football – think England-Scotland in ‘67, or England-Hungary in ‘53. Not any more.
This isn’t an aesthete’s call for football to be prettified, Wengerised, and turned into an easy-on-the-eye circus. Teams should play to win – I don’t mind if they have to be dour and defensive at times to do so. But players and managers should remember that football is more than just a way of deciding who ends up with the cup at the end of the season. Football as football, and not as an over-elaborate results generator, really matters.
So no more bloody football friendlies, I say. Let’s call them Tests. That’s what they ought to be, after all. Let’s remind the players that they’re professional sportsmen even when it isn’t a World Cup year. Let’s remind them that every minute of every game is a test of their skill, their strength, their bottle and – if I might offer a speculative explanation of the origin of the word ‘Test’ – their balls.
Well, what if it wasn’t? What if the result wasn’t the main thing? What if the result wasn’t anything?
Modern football – hell, maybe football full-stop – is devout in its devotion to the result. “Ask any supporter,” we’re often told, “and they’ll take three points over a good performance any day of the week”. Your greatest sporting memory? “Reading in the paper that we’d stuffed the Mackems (or, as it might be, the Bluenoses, or the Skates, or whoever) 2-1.”
Perhaps this is because football is our most rabidly partisan sport. Results matter because Our Team matters. The team takes precedence over the sport. Which, in a sense, is fair enough. But, if this is the case, why not just replace the current four-division league system with a 28-week serial coin-toss? You get winners, losers, bragging rights, reasons to smash up train carriages etc, and for a fraction of the cost (2p, unless you wanted to insist on playing important games simultaneously in order to prevent one set of tossers – pardon me – having an unfair advantage).
I’m not trying to deride football; it just worries me that this result-obsessed culture can only have a bad influence on all our sports.
I’ve just switched off the radio after the close of play in Trinidad: the Windies scraped a draw in the final Test, and bagged the series 1-0. What a finish. I mean – what a finish.
But what I didn’t like about this series was the use of the umpiring referral system. Its failings have been pretty thoroughly picked over in the press over the last few days, but the specifics of the system don’t much interest me. What I’m interested in is the principle.
Borderline decisions – borderline wickets, borderline survivals – should be seen to be of borderline value. No bowler is going to recline in the clubhouse in the twilight of his career, thoughtfully swill his cognac in its balloon and murmur: “Remember that time Perkins was questionably given out to my speculative armball back in ’72?”. Results matter, and teams matter, but the game – the great achievements and great moments of the game – should surely be paramount. Cricket isn’t usually bad at this sort of thing. Record run-hauls on shirtfronts are given short shrift by the cognoscenti; eight-fers on sticky dogs likewise. Results are just another kind of statistic, and the statistic is brother to the damned lie.
The clincher is this: cricket, like rugby, has Tests – football has Meaningless Friendlies. Why are the Ashes so important? Because the Aussies are so damned good. Why, in contrast, is the Football World Cup important? Because we all want a big tin pot. If you win an important game in football you win a cup. Hooray. In cricket – give or take the odd token urn or sceptre – what you win, if you win, is a win; it’s about who you beat, and how you beat them, not about the bauble foisted on you by a blazered dignitary.
It used to be like that in football – think England-Scotland in ‘67, or England-Hungary in ‘53. Not any more.
This isn’t an aesthete’s call for football to be prettified, Wengerised, and turned into an easy-on-the-eye circus. Teams should play to win – I don’t mind if they have to be dour and defensive at times to do so. But players and managers should remember that football is more than just a way of deciding who ends up with the cup at the end of the season. Football as football, and not as an over-elaborate results generator, really matters.
So no more bloody football friendlies, I say. Let’s call them Tests. That’s what they ought to be, after all. Let’s remind the players that they’re professional sportsmen even when it isn’t a World Cup year. Let’s remind them that every minute of every game is a test of their skill, their strength, their bottle and – if I might offer a speculative explanation of the origin of the word ‘Test’ – their balls.
Sunday, March 8, 2009
Let’s Hear It For The - Who? -- Zephirine
The England Cricket XI is ranked no 1 in the world.
The England Cricket XI includes the top-ranked batsman in the world.
The England Cricket XI includes the top-ranked bowler in the world.
The England Cricket XI has just retained the Ashes.
Last year the England Cricket XI beat the West Indies, South Africa and India.
Currently the England Cricket XI is playing in the World Cup in Australia, and has a good chance of winning.
All of the above are true.
Yep, it’s the Women’s XI.
Unlike their male counterparts, who are well-paid, well-publicised, expensively sponsored, and over the last few years have alternated being maddeningly inconsistent with being downright useless, the women are semi-professional or amateur, don’t get much sponsorship or media coverage, and over the last 18 months have become world-beaters.
You’re used to seeing the England men in adverts for Boss or expensive watches... here’s the top-ranked bowler in the world (female), Isa Guha, at her part-time job as a lab technician:
(picture by Christopher Lee from Cricinfo)
Now, all right, women’s cricket isn’t quite like men’s, they don’t play many Test matches for a start, they don’t bowl as fast or hit as hard. But the same is true in most sports. Women’s tennis gets plenty of press coverage. Perhaps the cricketers should play in short dresses and frilly knickers...
During the Olympics, we all got to know our Victoria Pendleton from our Rebecca Adlington. But apart from a very brief phase when the England captain Charlotte Edwards (ICC Women’s Player of the Year 2008) was in contention for BBC Sports Personality of the Year, we don’t hear much about the cricket players. Sports editors don’t bother to cover the competitions, even when England are winning.
But how many sports can you name in which the England team is the best in the world? Exactly.
So, UK Pseuds, keep an eye on the papers for those small paragraphs, and if – when – the girls win the World Cup Final on March 22nd, raise a cheer and maybe drink their health. Because they’re worth it.
Women’s World Cup fixture list: http://content.cricinfo.com/wwc2009/content/series/351827.html?template=schedule
The England Cricket XI includes the top-ranked batsman in the world.
The England Cricket XI includes the top-ranked bowler in the world.
The England Cricket XI has just retained the Ashes.
Last year the England Cricket XI beat the West Indies, South Africa and India.
Currently the England Cricket XI is playing in the World Cup in Australia, and has a good chance of winning.
All of the above are true.
Yep, it’s the Women’s XI.
Unlike their male counterparts, who are well-paid, well-publicised, expensively sponsored, and over the last few years have alternated being maddeningly inconsistent with being downright useless, the women are semi-professional or amateur, don’t get much sponsorship or media coverage, and over the last 18 months have become world-beaters.
You’re used to seeing the England men in adverts for Boss or expensive watches... here’s the top-ranked bowler in the world (female), Isa Guha, at her part-time job as a lab technician:
(picture by Christopher Lee from Cricinfo)Now, all right, women’s cricket isn’t quite like men’s, they don’t play many Test matches for a start, they don’t bowl as fast or hit as hard. But the same is true in most sports. Women’s tennis gets plenty of press coverage. Perhaps the cricketers should play in short dresses and frilly knickers...
During the Olympics, we all got to know our Victoria Pendleton from our Rebecca Adlington. But apart from a very brief phase when the England captain Charlotte Edwards (ICC Women’s Player of the Year 2008) was in contention for BBC Sports Personality of the Year, we don’t hear much about the cricket players. Sports editors don’t bother to cover the competitions, even when England are winning.But how many sports can you name in which the England team is the best in the world? Exactly.
So, UK Pseuds, keep an eye on the papers for those small paragraphs, and if – when – the girls win the World Cup Final on March 22nd, raise a cheer and maybe drink their health. Because they’re worth it.
Women’s World Cup fixture list: http://content.cricinfo.com/wwc2009/content/series/351827.html?template=schedule
Saturday, March 7, 2009
What's England's problem - Ebren
It's a week off in the Six Nations championship, and time to reflect.
While there's plenty to write about Wales, Ireland, France Scotland and Italy, that's not what I'm going to do - instead I'm going to ask a question that's been on my mind for years now: "What's England's problem?"
Why am I asking this now? Well, put simply it's because all of a sudden the question has become a lot harder to answer.
As the wonderful 2003 team/machine broke apart, England were always going to struggle. We had this lunatic notion at the time that so blessed were the Red Roses the England 'B' team could take on and win against any side in Europe and give a good showing against the Tri-Nation powerhouses. We were wrong, very, very wrong.
But that lack of players no longer applies.
Not since the days of Bracken and Dawson have we had two scrum halves of international quality fighting for a starting shirt - gone are the has beens and almost men that have tried to link play between forwards and backs. Ellis and Care are actually good - I was as surprised as anyone.
Cueto, Sackey and Armitage are players of genuine pace and quality - with classical outside breaks in their locker to make the purist's heart sing. Tindal my be a brute, but he has more international pedigree than his girlfriend's mount (if a little less pace and good looks). Flutey offers trickery and experience - and a player of such rare ability as Tait is left on the bench.
Fly Half is a problem, Flood and Goode are adequate, but neither really convinces me as an international player. The feeling persists that a fit Wilkinson (or even Hodgeson) would walk into the role, but the stronger feeling is that Cipriani is missing out. He might be raw, but he will stay that way unless given game time. Playing a defensive fly half - no matter how much he looks like Phillip Glennister and how happy that makes me - at home against Italy is criminal.
The back row may lack a Williams or a Harinordoquy, but it's the strongest we've had since the Back-Dallaglio-Hill triumvirate. Easter, Haskell and Worsley offer muscle, energy and really effective defence - which is their job.
The second rows lack genuine world class, but is good enough, Vickery and Sheridan at 3 and 1 are impressive and Mears the equal of many of the men who pulled on the No 2 shirt in the 'glory days'.
So - what we have is a good team, stacked with ability and with flashes of brilliance. But it's not good enough.
An unconvincing win against Italy, losses - no matter how close - to Wales and Ireland, and the worrying prospect of games against France and even Scotland to come.
Which brings me back to my original question: what's the problem?
Discipline is what the team is getting hammered for, but that's a red herring. Players do stupid things, they always have and always will, but they do them a lot more often when they're under pressure.
It's really rather hard to concede a penalty or be sin-binned when in possession of the ball and moving forward and penalties generally reflect the balance of play (defending teams just give more of them away - a point I made repeatedly when everyone was criticising England for winning courtesy of Jonny's left boot).
Our defence has been sound, Ireland and Wales are exciting, attacking teams - we smothered them, actually outscoring Wales two tries to one and restricting Ireland to a close-range smash.
So what are we lacking, what's the difference between a good team going close and a great one winning all the time?
Well, part of the difference is habit. The Wales or Ireland of a few seasons ago might not have had the savvy to close out those games. The England of a few seasons ago would have known how to win them. This is not a comment on players, more on the team mentality. But you don't change that mentality without winning a few games.
Part of what's missing is a kicker - we missed enough penalties to beat both Ireland and Wales - Woodward always maintained you should not set foot on an international pitch without a world-class kicker - but we can't conjure one our of thin air, so we will have to ignore that while hoping Johnson is making his available options practice a lot (Armitage for the long-term anyone?).
But I think it comes down to inspiration - that moment when you break a line, knock an opposing player off their feet, drop a goal.
Martin Johnson was strong, hard, unrelenting. He inspired by refusing to quit, ignoring risk of injury and pain, and driving forward. He never inspired with skill or controlled with intelligence. Wilkinson, Greenwood, Robinson - heck, even Austin Healy - were the ones that made things happen.
We need that vision back - in short we need Tait and Cipriani in the team. It might weaken the defence. Scratch that, it would weaken the defence. But as good as this defence is, without inspiration going forward or a kicker to convert possession and manage territory; defence is not going to win games. So we need players that put points on the board, not players that restrict our losses.
What's England's problem then? Simples - as Alexander the Meerkat might put it - we are trying not to lose rather than win.
While there's plenty to write about Wales, Ireland, France Scotland and Italy, that's not what I'm going to do - instead I'm going to ask a question that's been on my mind for years now: "What's England's problem?"
Why am I asking this now? Well, put simply it's because all of a sudden the question has become a lot harder to answer.
As the wonderful 2003 team/machine broke apart, England were always going to struggle. We had this lunatic notion at the time that so blessed were the Red Roses the England 'B' team could take on and win against any side in Europe and give a good showing against the Tri-Nation powerhouses. We were wrong, very, very wrong.
But that lack of players no longer applies.
Not since the days of Bracken and Dawson have we had two scrum halves of international quality fighting for a starting shirt - gone are the has beens and almost men that have tried to link play between forwards and backs. Ellis and Care are actually good - I was as surprised as anyone.
Cueto, Sackey and Armitage are players of genuine pace and quality - with classical outside breaks in their locker to make the purist's heart sing. Tindal my be a brute, but he has more international pedigree than his girlfriend's mount (if a little less pace and good looks). Flutey offers trickery and experience - and a player of such rare ability as Tait is left on the bench.
Fly Half is a problem, Flood and Goode are adequate, but neither really convinces me as an international player. The feeling persists that a fit Wilkinson (or even Hodgeson) would walk into the role, but the stronger feeling is that Cipriani is missing out. He might be raw, but he will stay that way unless given game time. Playing a defensive fly half - no matter how much he looks like Phillip Glennister and how happy that makes me - at home against Italy is criminal.
The back row may lack a Williams or a Harinordoquy, but it's the strongest we've had since the Back-Dallaglio-Hill triumvirate. Easter, Haskell and Worsley offer muscle, energy and really effective defence - which is their job.
The second rows lack genuine world class, but is good enough, Vickery and Sheridan at 3 and 1 are impressive and Mears the equal of many of the men who pulled on the No 2 shirt in the 'glory days'.
So - what we have is a good team, stacked with ability and with flashes of brilliance. But it's not good enough.
An unconvincing win against Italy, losses - no matter how close - to Wales and Ireland, and the worrying prospect of games against France and even Scotland to come.
Which brings me back to my original question: what's the problem?
Discipline is what the team is getting hammered for, but that's a red herring. Players do stupid things, they always have and always will, but they do them a lot more often when they're under pressure.
It's really rather hard to concede a penalty or be sin-binned when in possession of the ball and moving forward and penalties generally reflect the balance of play (defending teams just give more of them away - a point I made repeatedly when everyone was criticising England for winning courtesy of Jonny's left boot).
Our defence has been sound, Ireland and Wales are exciting, attacking teams - we smothered them, actually outscoring Wales two tries to one and restricting Ireland to a close-range smash.
So what are we lacking, what's the difference between a good team going close and a great one winning all the time?
Well, part of the difference is habit. The Wales or Ireland of a few seasons ago might not have had the savvy to close out those games. The England of a few seasons ago would have known how to win them. This is not a comment on players, more on the team mentality. But you don't change that mentality without winning a few games.
Part of what's missing is a kicker - we missed enough penalties to beat both Ireland and Wales - Woodward always maintained you should not set foot on an international pitch without a world-class kicker - but we can't conjure one our of thin air, so we will have to ignore that while hoping Johnson is making his available options practice a lot (Armitage for the long-term anyone?).
But I think it comes down to inspiration - that moment when you break a line, knock an opposing player off their feet, drop a goal.
Martin Johnson was strong, hard, unrelenting. He inspired by refusing to quit, ignoring risk of injury and pain, and driving forward. He never inspired with skill or controlled with intelligence. Wilkinson, Greenwood, Robinson - heck, even Austin Healy - were the ones that made things happen.
We need that vision back - in short we need Tait and Cipriani in the team. It might weaken the defence. Scratch that, it would weaken the defence. But as good as this defence is, without inspiration going forward or a kicker to convert possession and manage territory; defence is not going to win games. So we need players that put points on the board, not players that restrict our losses.
What's England's problem then? Simples - as Alexander the Meerkat might put it - we are trying not to lose rather than win.
Friday, March 6, 2009
Atrocity in Lahore - Mimitig
Geographically Lahore is many miles from these shores but the events of Tuesday 3 March have brought terrorism painfully close to home. The ex-Patriot Pakistani community in the UK and those born here of Pakistani origins are perhaps the most affected as they have immediate family to be concerned about – not that in most of the reporting I’ve heard and read over the last few days has any mention of them been made – but the sporting world and the cricket world in particular has been shaken to its roots. And will never be the same.
Sport in general has felt itself immune from attack. The belief that sport exists to bring people together and celebrate life is inherent in fans. We may indulge in “hating” the opposition, but very seldom does that mean actually wishing harm or bad fortune on any team.
Cricket especially so. Support for one’s own side is of course paramount, but fans are unanimous in appreciating the skills of opponents. A batsman making 50 or a century is applauded by all, as is a bowler getting a five-fer. When one’s side is beaten, the phrase universally used is “the best side won on the day”. Very rarely are excuses made for the losing side, and blaming the umpires for defeat is just not done.
This may be why an attack on cricket has become such a news monster. Former England captain, Michael Atherton writes in the Times and mentions how cricketers have accidentally been caught up in events of global terrorism, but on those occasions, no headlines involved the sportsmen.
Bronwen Maddox, also in the Times, notes the five most recent terror attacks in Pakistan, none of which, although more people died, attracted as many column inches and headlines as the latest attack.
So here is the horrible question that faces sport now: is it now a viable and worthwhile target for terrorism?
If what the terrorists want is publicity and a change in behaviour of the targets, then those behind the attack in Lahore must be feeling pretty smug already. The world has focussed on their activities and the international cricket community has said, fairly definitively, that they will no longer play in Pakistan.
The fact that the head of the Pakistan Cricket Board feels able to go on air and criticise comments made by match referee Chris Broad shows how defensive the authorities in Pakistan are, and also how much in denial. Sadly his remarks – that Broad is inaccurate in his reporting of events – also show that the authorities are concentrating less on where they have failed and more on what overseas media are reporting.
There is a serious suggestion, Giles Clarke head of the ECB, is said to be considering it, that Pakistan will come to England to play their international cricket. Peter Young of Cricket Australia has added his voice:
While many on these shores would welcome the addition of more international cricket being played in the UK – and the thought of Australia v Pakistan here is indeed exciting (and not just for fans, I wouldn’t mind betting that the ECB are rubbing their financial hands with glee at the thought of selling out Old Trafford and Headingley amongst other grounds) - one wonders what the price in security would be.
If sport is no longer immune from terrorist attacks, will it matter whether games are played on the Sub-Continent, in neutral territory such as Dubai or England – where we have already seen hideous and successful terrorism in London in 2005 (when the cricketers of Australia and England were playing a Test Match in Leeds).
A can of worms has been opened, an evil genie let out of the bottle.
Sport can never be the same again, not for those playing the games, those running the games and not for fans.
An age of innocence that we have basked in since Munich 1972 is over, my friends.
It’s gone.
Sport in general has felt itself immune from attack. The belief that sport exists to bring people together and celebrate life is inherent in fans. We may indulge in “hating” the opposition, but very seldom does that mean actually wishing harm or bad fortune on any team.
Cricket especially so. Support for one’s own side is of course paramount, but fans are unanimous in appreciating the skills of opponents. A batsman making 50 or a century is applauded by all, as is a bowler getting a five-fer. When one’s side is beaten, the phrase universally used is “the best side won on the day”. Very rarely are excuses made for the losing side, and blaming the umpires for defeat is just not done.
This may be why an attack on cricket has become such a news monster. Former England captain, Michael Atherton writes in the Times and mentions how cricketers have accidentally been caught up in events of global terrorism, but on those occasions, no headlines involved the sportsmen.
Bronwen Maddox, also in the Times, notes the five most recent terror attacks in Pakistan, none of which, although more people died, attracted as many column inches and headlines as the latest attack.
So here is the horrible question that faces sport now: is it now a viable and worthwhile target for terrorism?
If what the terrorists want is publicity and a change in behaviour of the targets, then those behind the attack in Lahore must be feeling pretty smug already. The world has focussed on their activities and the international cricket community has said, fairly definitively, that they will no longer play in Pakistan.
The fact that the head of the Pakistan Cricket Board feels able to go on air and criticise comments made by match referee Chris Broad shows how defensive the authorities in Pakistan are, and also how much in denial. Sadly his remarks – that Broad is inaccurate in his reporting of events – also show that the authorities are concentrating less on where they have failed and more on what overseas media are reporting.
There is a serious suggestion, Giles Clarke head of the ECB, is said to be considering it, that Pakistan will come to England to play their international cricket. Peter Young of Cricket Australia has added his voice:
While many on these shores would welcome the addition of more international cricket being played in the UK – and the thought of Australia v Pakistan here is indeed exciting (and not just for fans, I wouldn’t mind betting that the ECB are rubbing their financial hands with glee at the thought of selling out Old Trafford and Headingley amongst other grounds) - one wonders what the price in security would be.
If sport is no longer immune from terrorist attacks, will it matter whether games are played on the Sub-Continent, in neutral territory such as Dubai or England – where we have already seen hideous and successful terrorism in London in 2005 (when the cricketers of Australia and England were playing a Test Match in Leeds).
A can of worms has been opened, an evil genie let out of the bottle.
Sport can never be the same again, not for those playing the games, those running the games and not for fans.
An age of innocence that we have basked in since Munich 1972 is over, my friends.
It’s gone.
Monday, February 23, 2009
The Fattest Footballer In The World: Can The Ogre Save River Plate? - Clack
30 minutes remaining, River Plate 1-0 down at Rosario Central on the 2nd weekend of the Argentine championship, and the signal is given to the man known as the Ogre to remove his large posterior from the bench, and commence warming up, or wobbling up rather. Cue loud cheers and collective donning of shrek masks from the 5000 traveling fans. The 24 year old with a figure more akin to a middle-aged ex pro turning out for a charity match is about to make his league debut for River.
“I’m a few kilos over the ideal”, he said before signing the week before, a slight under-statement, as demonstrated when he stripped off for his live medical; a torso that would make Neil Ruddock look like Stan Laurel if he stood beside him. Christian Fabbiani has always lacked shape, even when he was in-shape, but 6 months of inactivity due to a dispute over pay with former club Newell's Old Boys has converted muscle into yet more flab to the point where the Ogre must surely now be the fattest professional footballer in the world?
His on-off transfer from Newells to River Plate was the summer soap opera of Argentine soccer. Refusing to take part in pre-season training, the striker posed, Paul Ince-like, in the white and red shirt of River while still a Newells player. He explained that he had stood as a 10-year-old on he terraces of the club he wished to join, and how, in June 2008, while still a player at Cluj (with whom he won the Romanian league title), had been amongst the hundreds of River fans celebrating their 'closing' championship victory on the pitch. Instant kudos from the supporters; not only did their prospective new signing speak like one of their bare-topped 'barras' who fill one end of the Monumental stadium every home game, but he looked like one aswell, complete with beer belly...
There was just one snag for Fabbiani though. Debt-ridden River Plate couldn't afford to buy him. The economic recession has dictated the end of the usual sale of young players, or percentage stakes in young players, to European clubs, and therefore, no funds for new signings, no matter how badly they want to join.
Two weeks ago, on the eve of this year's 'closing' Championship, disillusion hung over the Monumental. The team had finished a humiliating bottom of the 'opening'* Championship that ran from last August to December, and just to rub salt in the wounds, everything was going smoothly at big city rivals, Boca Juniors, where legendary manager Carlos Bianchi was returning as technical director of the 'opening' champions to oversee a squad, containing the likes of Argentine internationals Riquelme, Palacios, Palermo and Battalliga, exactly the kind of characters and fan favourites, River lacked.
In two pre-season friendlies with Boca (the word friendly being used in the loosest possible sense here, as they were sell-out showpiece matches held in Mar Del Plata and Mendoza. part of a summer mini-tournament, screened live across the country), River's faceless players not only lost, but were comprehensively outplayed on both occasions.
Something had to be done to breathe new life into the stagnant River, and right on transfer deadline day, a delighted Fabbiani received the call he had been wishing for all summer, just as he was about to undergo, literally, a medical for Velez Sarsfield. The Ogre apologised to the Velez doctors and staff and asked to leave the clinic. "Well, if his heart wasn't in it,then it's better that he told us now than after 15 games", said a very understaning Velez manager and everything was arranged with River the same day..
Shrek fever began on the very day of his signing; children and adults turning up to Fabbiani's official presentation with their faces painted ogre green. One ex-River player, sitting in the canteen, remarked how it had taken him ten years to become a crowd favourite, but the new lad was already an idol without even playing a a game.
Again, Fabbiani said all the right things. "They won't kick Falcao anymore, now I'm alongside him", a reference to some tasty treatment the River Plate player had received from San Lorenzo players in the pre-season mini-tournament, part of a long running feud, although it is probably little Buononotte, 'the dwarf', who will probably benefit the most from having Fabbiani's physical presence. What more balanced attacking partnership could you ask for? The fattest player in the world alongside the shortest player in the world! However, the truth is that there is actually a lot more to Fabbiani's game than just putting his weight about. He has a lot of skill and an excellent finish.
Then, in one of those moments when football does imitate hollywood scripts, the shrek saga part 1 had a perfect happy ending. Just a few minutes after Fabbiani came on in the match at Rosario last sunday, River equalised through Martin Galmarini, nipping in with a header from a free kick while the defenders were all watching Fabbiani. Ten minutes later, the Ogre himself, 30 metres out and with no run up, lashed the ball into the back of the net to score the winning goal. Out came the shrek masks again, the commentators and fans went into a frenzy, and Fabbiani collapsed flat on his back, Charlie George style.
Fabbiani's goal here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GpyWNfHTJBQ
Fatso' and 'Monster', were the headlines the next day (the latter a play on words, eg. Gardel is a 'monster' of the Tango.) Comparisons with Ference Puskas and the Brazilian Ronaldo were naturally drawn, one newspaper putting together a list of the fattest players of all-time, placing Fabbiani at the top, and a psychologist wrote about how Fabbiani gave hope to all weight-challenged kids.
"A lot of kilos and a lot heart", said Clarin, and just to round off a perfect weekend for River fans, rivals Boca lost 2-0 at home to Newells. Contrary to what Tina Turner sang at her concert in the club's Monumental stadium, River Plate do need another hero. The Ogre could be just the job.
------------------------------------------
*Since 1992, the Argentina Primera league (1st Division) has been divided into two championships: The apertura (opening) which runs from August to December, and Clausura (closing) which runs from February to June, with seperate winners for each tournament. The 20 teams play one another once in each tournament. A return to a one-season championship has been recently suggested by AFA president Julio Grondona, but the majority of the 1st Division clubs are unlikely to vote for a change as the current format gives more clubs a chance of winning, or at least challenging for the Championship. Relegation is decided by a complicated system of point averages over the previous three seasons.
“I’m a few kilos over the ideal”, he said before signing the week before, a slight under-statement, as demonstrated when he stripped off for his live medical; a torso that would make Neil Ruddock look like Stan Laurel if he stood beside him. Christian Fabbiani has always lacked shape, even when he was in-shape, but 6 months of inactivity due to a dispute over pay with former club Newell's Old Boys has converted muscle into yet more flab to the point where the Ogre must surely now be the fattest professional footballer in the world?
His on-off transfer from Newells to River Plate was the summer soap opera of Argentine soccer. Refusing to take part in pre-season training, the striker posed, Paul Ince-like, in the white and red shirt of River while still a Newells player. He explained that he had stood as a 10-year-old on he terraces of the club he wished to join, and how, in June 2008, while still a player at Cluj (with whom he won the Romanian league title), had been amongst the hundreds of River fans celebrating their 'closing' championship victory on the pitch. Instant kudos from the supporters; not only did their prospective new signing speak like one of their bare-topped 'barras' who fill one end of the Monumental stadium every home game, but he looked like one aswell, complete with beer belly...
There was just one snag for Fabbiani though. Debt-ridden River Plate couldn't afford to buy him. The economic recession has dictated the end of the usual sale of young players, or percentage stakes in young players, to European clubs, and therefore, no funds for new signings, no matter how badly they want to join.
Two weeks ago, on the eve of this year's 'closing' Championship, disillusion hung over the Monumental. The team had finished a humiliating bottom of the 'opening'* Championship that ran from last August to December, and just to rub salt in the wounds, everything was going smoothly at big city rivals, Boca Juniors, where legendary manager Carlos Bianchi was returning as technical director of the 'opening' champions to oversee a squad, containing the likes of Argentine internationals Riquelme, Palacios, Palermo and Battalliga, exactly the kind of characters and fan favourites, River lacked.
In two pre-season friendlies with Boca (the word friendly being used in the loosest possible sense here, as they were sell-out showpiece matches held in Mar Del Plata and Mendoza. part of a summer mini-tournament, screened live across the country), River's faceless players not only lost, but were comprehensively outplayed on both occasions.
Something had to be done to breathe new life into the stagnant River, and right on transfer deadline day, a delighted Fabbiani received the call he had been wishing for all summer, just as he was about to undergo, literally, a medical for Velez Sarsfield. The Ogre apologised to the Velez doctors and staff and asked to leave the clinic. "Well, if his heart wasn't in it,then it's better that he told us now than after 15 games", said a very understaning Velez manager and everything was arranged with River the same day..
Shrek fever began on the very day of his signing; children and adults turning up to Fabbiani's official presentation with their faces painted ogre green. One ex-River player, sitting in the canteen, remarked how it had taken him ten years to become a crowd favourite, but the new lad was already an idol without even playing a a game.
Again, Fabbiani said all the right things. "They won't kick Falcao anymore, now I'm alongside him", a reference to some tasty treatment the River Plate player had received from San Lorenzo players in the pre-season mini-tournament, part of a long running feud, although it is probably little Buononotte, 'the dwarf', who will probably benefit the most from having Fabbiani's physical presence. What more balanced attacking partnership could you ask for? The fattest player in the world alongside the shortest player in the world! However, the truth is that there is actually a lot more to Fabbiani's game than just putting his weight about. He has a lot of skill and an excellent finish.
Then, in one of those moments when football does imitate hollywood scripts, the shrek saga part 1 had a perfect happy ending. Just a few minutes after Fabbiani came on in the match at Rosario last sunday, River equalised through Martin Galmarini, nipping in with a header from a free kick while the defenders were all watching Fabbiani. Ten minutes later, the Ogre himself, 30 metres out and with no run up, lashed the ball into the back of the net to score the winning goal. Out came the shrek masks again, the commentators and fans went into a frenzy, and Fabbiani collapsed flat on his back, Charlie George style.
Fabbiani's goal here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GpyWNfHTJBQ
Fatso' and 'Monster', were the headlines the next day (the latter a play on words, eg. Gardel is a 'monster' of the Tango.) Comparisons with Ference Puskas and the Brazilian Ronaldo were naturally drawn, one newspaper putting together a list of the fattest players of all-time, placing Fabbiani at the top, and a psychologist wrote about how Fabbiani gave hope to all weight-challenged kids.
"A lot of kilos and a lot heart", said Clarin, and just to round off a perfect weekend for River fans, rivals Boca lost 2-0 at home to Newells. Contrary to what Tina Turner sang at her concert in the club's Monumental stadium, River Plate do need another hero. The Ogre could be just the job.
------------------------------------------
*Since 1992, the Argentina Primera league (1st Division) has been divided into two championships: The apertura (opening) which runs from August to December, and Clausura (closing) which runs from February to June, with seperate winners for each tournament. The 20 teams play one another once in each tournament. A return to a one-season championship has been recently suggested by AFA president Julio Grondona, but the majority of the 1st Division clubs are unlikely to vote for a change as the current format gives more clubs a chance of winning, or at least challenging for the Championship. Relegation is decided by a complicated system of point averages over the previous three seasons.
Sunday, February 15, 2009
Two down Three to go – Mimitig
I’m not known in these parts for writing about Rugby, but it’s that time of year.
It’s Six Nations time, and for the first time in my grown-up years Wales are not only the defending champions, but favourites to retain the crown.
This means that the Welsh blood in my veins stirs, and makes me do things like search out this:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pBY4PMk39QM&feature=related
And so we are singing Hymns and Arias … as the English came to Cardiff to do what Edward Hammer of the Scots and Bloody Bastard Castle Builder of Wales did to us. They wore their red rose with pride and they put Mike Tindall into the side. To do what the Royals have done to the Welsh for eight centuries.
So what a joy when the Royal connection was sin-binned! As if all the ancient reasons for hating the English were laid out on a lovely green Millenium Stadium tranche of grass. In that moment I knew we would win. Of course it wasn’t that simple, it never is.
Wales make their supporters suffer. At half time, we had a scant one point lead after Goode had dropped a goal for England. And Sackey had gone over the line.
England seemed to have learned the lessons from a poor victory over Italy last week. They had studied the tapes and they knew which Welshman to smother. They made sure Andy Powell had no space to work in. But Stephen Jones had regained his touch and kicked far better than he had at Murrayfield. He did the business and Wales started to draw clear.
Then England lost Goode to typical indiscipline – sin-binned and the Welsh pair of Byrne and Halfpenny showed just what free-flowing Welsh rugby is all about. England proved tough and made us feel sick for about ten minutes, thinking maybe we hadn’t done enough. But the crowd sang again:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=w3pf1HORL_c&feature=related
There is nothing, nothing like the stadium filled with Welsh voices singing. When the team are winning, we are untouchable. We are the conquerors of the world and so happy. I think that we are happier when we win than any England fan can dream of. We expect to lose. Our songs are all about being vanquished, and we expect that.
So our glory in victory is very humble. We didn’t expect it, we don’t expect to win next time, but we are Champions and we play very very good rugby.
I am so proud to be Welsh. I am always Welsh, obviously, but at Six Nations time, one declares nationality in a unique way – it’s different from football because we have no Home Nations, so this is the sport that declares your interest.
I don’t know if we’ll manage to defend the title – France and Ireland are looking very strong, but we’ve won the big grudge match, again and England leave Cardiff, licking their wounds.
I was going to end with a clip of the Welsh nation singing their hearts out, but this is far more appropriate:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WzjyO7DJ1n0&feature=related
It’s Six Nations time, and for the first time in my grown-up years Wales are not only the defending champions, but favourites to retain the crown.
This means that the Welsh blood in my veins stirs, and makes me do things like search out this:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pBY4PMk39QM&feature=related
And so we are singing Hymns and Arias … as the English came to Cardiff to do what Edward Hammer of the Scots and Bloody Bastard Castle Builder of Wales did to us. They wore their red rose with pride and they put Mike Tindall into the side. To do what the Royals have done to the Welsh for eight centuries.
So what a joy when the Royal connection was sin-binned! As if all the ancient reasons for hating the English were laid out on a lovely green Millenium Stadium tranche of grass. In that moment I knew we would win. Of course it wasn’t that simple, it never is.
Wales make their supporters suffer. At half time, we had a scant one point lead after Goode had dropped a goal for England. And Sackey had gone over the line.
England seemed to have learned the lessons from a poor victory over Italy last week. They had studied the tapes and they knew which Welshman to smother. They made sure Andy Powell had no space to work in. But Stephen Jones had regained his touch and kicked far better than he had at Murrayfield. He did the business and Wales started to draw clear.
Then England lost Goode to typical indiscipline – sin-binned and the Welsh pair of Byrne and Halfpenny showed just what free-flowing Welsh rugby is all about. England proved tough and made us feel sick for about ten minutes, thinking maybe we hadn’t done enough. But the crowd sang again:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=w3pf1HORL_c&feature=related
There is nothing, nothing like the stadium filled with Welsh voices singing. When the team are winning, we are untouchable. We are the conquerors of the world and so happy. I think that we are happier when we win than any England fan can dream of. We expect to lose. Our songs are all about being vanquished, and we expect that.
So our glory in victory is very humble. We didn’t expect it, we don’t expect to win next time, but we are Champions and we play very very good rugby.
I am so proud to be Welsh. I am always Welsh, obviously, but at Six Nations time, one declares nationality in a unique way – it’s different from football because we have no Home Nations, so this is the sport that declares your interest.
I don’t know if we’ll manage to defend the title – France and Ireland are looking very strong, but we’ve won the big grudge match, again and England leave Cardiff, licking their wounds.
I was going to end with a clip of the Welsh nation singing their hearts out, but this is far more appropriate:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WzjyO7DJ1n0&feature=related
Friday, February 13, 2009
Where's Chelsea's money going? - Ebren
Chelsea are in debt. Fans of other clubs have seen this as either an excuse for losing to them, or a source of mirth if they don't win.
They’ve been losing money hand over fist since Roman Abramovic began his quest to make his personal plaything the best club in the world. This "pimp my club" experiment he has lost £140 million (2005), £74.8 million (2007) and £66 million (2008) - the losses from the other years are harder to track down, but no doubt significant. In total, the market trader turned oligarch has now committed £710 million to south-west London.
And this is great.
It's great because everyone can tut and say he's ruining football. It's great because we get to see some of the finest players and managers in the world either excelling or humbled in our league. Every manager [bar Mark Hughes] can shrug and say: "Well, how can you compete with that." Or if they win or draw, rejoice that they have beaten the odds.
But, and here's where it gets interesting, where the hell has that cash gone?
The most recent accounts show Chelsea made £213.1 million in the 2007/08 season. They spent £148 million of this on wages. And another £23.1 million on compensation for Grant, Mourinho and all their support staff.
That summer they spent £13.5 million on Florent Malouda, £1.3 million on Jacob Mellis, and £5 million on Julian Belletti. They sold Arjen Robben for £24 million - and Glenn Johnson and Lassana Diarra for undisclosed fees. £19.8 million in buys and at very least £24 million in sales.
That January they bought Franco Di Santo for £3.4 million, Branislav Ivanovic for £9 million and Nicolas Anelka for £15 million. They didn't sell anyone.
So that's a maximum transfer loss of £23.2 (not counting Johnson and Diarra). Assuming they cost about £5 million each, let's say £13.2 million.
So the maths is simple: £213.1 - £148 - £13.2 - £23.1 = £28.8 million. Or £18.8 million if you assume Johnson and Diarra went for nothing.
Which begs the question: where on earth did the other £84.8 million go?
To put that in context - it's more than Chelsea's gate receipts for the entire season. It's more than the total TV revenue from their run to the Champions League final, the new - enhanced - Premier League TV package, and their TV cash from their domestic cup runs combined. More than all their sponsorship deals and shirt sales as well.
Hell, it's more than the entire revenue that is brought in by the 20th highest-earning club on the planet according to Deliotte. More than 14 other clubs in the Premier League make in a year.
Chelsea do not have to service any debts (all their loans are provided interest-free by their owner). Their wages are comfortably covered. They aren't spending much in the transfer windows (since 2004/05 they have generally not spent much at all overall, with sales wiping out almost all the price of the purchases). Their other costs can't be that much more than the other Premier League clubs. But the amount they are losing dwarfs all this.
What we have in Chelsea then, is a club that is palpably living within its means. One that is not splashing more money than it can afford on either transfers or wages.
One that does rather seem prone to signing coaches on costly long-term deals then sacking them, but then, if they last a season with no compensation payments (the season before they had to hand £12 million to Manchester United in compensation for Mikel, and there will be an estimated £7 million going to Scolari), we are talking about a club making £52 million after wages and player purchases are accounted for.
So I have come to the only conclusion I can - the other £84 million has been spent on building a deep, underground bunker beneath Stamford Bridge. An entirely self-sufficient world - linked to the Cobham training base by a subterranean mag-lev train - to enable Peter Kenyon to conduct the club's business without ever being exposed to sunlight.
They’ve been losing money hand over fist since Roman Abramovic began his quest to make his personal plaything the best club in the world. This "pimp my club" experiment he has lost £140 million (2005), £74.8 million (2007) and £66 million (2008) - the losses from the other years are harder to track down, but no doubt significant. In total, the market trader turned oligarch has now committed £710 million to south-west London.
And this is great.
It's great because everyone can tut and say he's ruining football. It's great because we get to see some of the finest players and managers in the world either excelling or humbled in our league. Every manager [bar Mark Hughes] can shrug and say: "Well, how can you compete with that." Or if they win or draw, rejoice that they have beaten the odds.
But, and here's where it gets interesting, where the hell has that cash gone?
The most recent accounts show Chelsea made £213.1 million in the 2007/08 season. They spent £148 million of this on wages. And another £23.1 million on compensation for Grant, Mourinho and all their support staff.
That summer they spent £13.5 million on Florent Malouda, £1.3 million on Jacob Mellis, and £5 million on Julian Belletti. They sold Arjen Robben for £24 million - and Glenn Johnson and Lassana Diarra for undisclosed fees. £19.8 million in buys and at very least £24 million in sales.
That January they bought Franco Di Santo for £3.4 million, Branislav Ivanovic for £9 million and Nicolas Anelka for £15 million. They didn't sell anyone.
So that's a maximum transfer loss of £23.2 (not counting Johnson and Diarra). Assuming they cost about £5 million each, let's say £13.2 million.
So the maths is simple: £213.1 - £148 - £13.2 - £23.1 = £28.8 million. Or £18.8 million if you assume Johnson and Diarra went for nothing.
Which begs the question: where on earth did the other £84.8 million go?
To put that in context - it's more than Chelsea's gate receipts for the entire season. It's more than the total TV revenue from their run to the Champions League final, the new - enhanced - Premier League TV package, and their TV cash from their domestic cup runs combined. More than all their sponsorship deals and shirt sales as well.
Hell, it's more than the entire revenue that is brought in by the 20th highest-earning club on the planet according to Deliotte. More than 14 other clubs in the Premier League make in a year.
Chelsea do not have to service any debts (all their loans are provided interest-free by their owner). Their wages are comfortably covered. They aren't spending much in the transfer windows (since 2004/05 they have generally not spent much at all overall, with sales wiping out almost all the price of the purchases). Their other costs can't be that much more than the other Premier League clubs. But the amount they are losing dwarfs all this.
What we have in Chelsea then, is a club that is palpably living within its means. One that is not splashing more money than it can afford on either transfers or wages.
One that does rather seem prone to signing coaches on costly long-term deals then sacking them, but then, if they last a season with no compensation payments (the season before they had to hand £12 million to Manchester United in compensation for Mikel, and there will be an estimated £7 million going to Scolari), we are talking about a club making £52 million after wages and player purchases are accounted for.
So I have come to the only conclusion I can - the other £84 million has been spent on building a deep, underground bunker beneath Stamford Bridge. An entirely self-sufficient world - linked to the Cobham training base by a subterranean mag-lev train - to enable Peter Kenyon to conduct the club's business without ever being exposed to sunlight.
Saturday, February 7, 2009
The Indian Premier League 2009 Auction - Mimitig
Last year a new cricket competition was launched. The Indian Premier League.
Over the past few weeks, more than England’s chances in the West Indies, the cricket-watchers have been chattering, or maybe even “tweating” about this year’s IPL Auction – which took place in the wee small hours of the 5th Feb (UK time). You may wonder why. Well the main reason has been because of the enormous amount of money that this competition involves and that this year England players were up for bids.
For those who are interested in the ins and outs of what the IPL is, go to this link:
http://content-uk.cricinfo.com/ipl/content/story/337868.html
and those clever bods at cricinfo will give you loads of details.
For those who like a broad picture approach, suffice to say that this is Twenty20 cricket paying loads of dosh to buy top international cricketers and get loads of publicity.
Last year the England and Wales Cricket Board stood somewhat aloof from this, as they saw it, commercial upstart – not least because they were rather late coming to the party and couldn’t get their act together to work out if it was OK to let some boys off the leash to lash the ball for dosh.
This year they clambered clumsily on board, having realised that the IPL is here to stay and if they didn’t come to a deal with England international and county players then all hell could break loose.
With just days to go before The Auction, the ECB, Counties, PCA and indeed players, found themselves in a bizarre public debate about whether 10% of an IPL “bought” player’s price was a fair whack for the Counties to get. All rather unseemly – being played out in the media before a single player had even been “bought”. Some commentators felt that a player getting the chance to earn, say one million US dollars for three weeks’ work shouldn’t blanch at losing 10% to their county – the county that had nurtured them and given them their first professional break. Others felt differently.
I was just confused by the figures as it seemed clear to me that any England player ending up in the IPL would only be able to play part of the season and his fee, therefore would be pro-ratered and so the sums bandied around in the media were smoke and mirrors anyway.
So we come to this year’s Auction. It couldn’t be quite the same as last year’s total free-for-all, as the contracts cricketers sign are for two years, and so this time not all franchises had deep pockets and loads of places to fill. This time the eight franchises (or as we would normally say, Teams) had 17 places to fill and a shortlist of 50 players.
All talk (twitter – see above) in these parts was who would bid for Andrew Flintoff, Kevin Pietersen and maybe Owais Shah. Nobody thought much of the chances of Paul Collingwood, Ravi Bopara, Samit Patel and Luke Wright. Sadly in the case of the last two mentioned, nobody much was interested.
Fred and KP went for over a million squids to Chennai and Bangalore respectively – though both were in bidding wars – Fred attracting bids from both the Punjabi Indians and Shane Warne’s Rajhastan Royals (last year’s winners).
Ravi, Owais and Paul were also snapped up – for somewhat smaller sums, but still amounts in excess of their county or central contracts and all three can not only be pleased for their bank balances, but it’ll do their confidence one hell of a boost when they consider those who were left on the shelf.
Aussies Stuart Clarke and Brad Haddin – for instance. Left to fight out for the remaining three places with 33 names up for them. It seems the cricket world changes faster than one might have believed possible. Two Englishmen are also in competition for these last slots – Luke Wright and Samit Patel – both who might justifiably feel miffed at losing out in the first round.
However, this is where we are now and all details can be found here:
http://www.iplt20.com/home.html
I’m left to sum up not only my thoughts on the IPL but to wonder at some of the hypocrisy and cant being spouted by some of the Tabloids’ finest.
First my thoughts: I totally understand sportsmen (or women) who seize an opportunity to bank a few bucks. Their careers are mostly short-lived and in their years of success they give us fans an immeasurable amount of pleasure (and pain) but great entertainment. I also have no problem with incredibly rich people – Vijay Mallya and Shilpa Shetty buying into IPL teams with the money they have earned with their skills. They should not be castigated for investing in a sport they care for – no matter what their motives are, personal, business, self-aggrandisement – don’t care, they are putting money into a sport that THEIR country holds in almost as much regard as a religion.
Then the “MEDJA” – well, most reporters can’t be bothered to get their facts right. All the headline reports of “Million pound cricketers” – go and get the details. Read the small print. Neither KP or Fred are earning anything like a million squidders. Sure they’ll bank a mighty wedge, but for a certain Scottish writer in The Sun to take the moral high ground is the one thing over this whole farrago that really got my goat.
Bill Leckie – for the love of all things decent. A man who writes, slaveringly, about football – where weekly salaries outweigh anything even vaguely decent, and a man who writes a so-called “news page” all about Big Brother and such. It beggars belief to hear him complain that the amounts changing hands in the IPL are “obscene in these times of global recession”. Fortunately for my little transistor radio, I was in the car when I heard this nauseating hypocrisy. If I’d been at home the dear little pink square radio would have been hurled out into the sleet and sludge.
Now the razzmatazz is over for the year. England still have a job to do in the West Indies and whether Flintoff, Pieterson and Collingwood have had their heads turned by being publicly valued in actual monetary terms will affect their performances on the park we have yet to see.
Confident with the players’ integrity I am sure that it will make no difference. Fred will bowl his little pink heart out. KP will bat with a debonair insouciance that is the envy of all those less talented, and Colly will leap like a salmon for impossible catches.
Those who have been bought by the IPL will go and play on the Sub-Continent, some with success, some with humiliation, but they will earn their wages and they will learn from playing with top-notch Twenty20 proponents of the game. They will become stronger and better and this will benefit their counties and England.
It’s a good thing and only a fool would descry it as simply money.
Over the past few weeks, more than England’s chances in the West Indies, the cricket-watchers have been chattering, or maybe even “tweating” about this year’s IPL Auction – which took place in the wee small hours of the 5th Feb (UK time). You may wonder why. Well the main reason has been because of the enormous amount of money that this competition involves and that this year England players were up for bids.
For those who are interested in the ins and outs of what the IPL is, go to this link:
http://content-uk.cricinfo.com/ipl/content/story/337868.html
and those clever bods at cricinfo will give you loads of details.
For those who like a broad picture approach, suffice to say that this is Twenty20 cricket paying loads of dosh to buy top international cricketers and get loads of publicity.
Last year the England and Wales Cricket Board stood somewhat aloof from this, as they saw it, commercial upstart – not least because they were rather late coming to the party and couldn’t get their act together to work out if it was OK to let some boys off the leash to lash the ball for dosh.
This year they clambered clumsily on board, having realised that the IPL is here to stay and if they didn’t come to a deal with England international and county players then all hell could break loose.
With just days to go before The Auction, the ECB, Counties, PCA and indeed players, found themselves in a bizarre public debate about whether 10% of an IPL “bought” player’s price was a fair whack for the Counties to get. All rather unseemly – being played out in the media before a single player had even been “bought”. Some commentators felt that a player getting the chance to earn, say one million US dollars for three weeks’ work shouldn’t blanch at losing 10% to their county – the county that had nurtured them and given them their first professional break. Others felt differently.
I was just confused by the figures as it seemed clear to me that any England player ending up in the IPL would only be able to play part of the season and his fee, therefore would be pro-ratered and so the sums bandied around in the media were smoke and mirrors anyway.
So we come to this year’s Auction. It couldn’t be quite the same as last year’s total free-for-all, as the contracts cricketers sign are for two years, and so this time not all franchises had deep pockets and loads of places to fill. This time the eight franchises (or as we would normally say, Teams) had 17 places to fill and a shortlist of 50 players.
All talk (twitter – see above) in these parts was who would bid for Andrew Flintoff, Kevin Pietersen and maybe Owais Shah. Nobody thought much of the chances of Paul Collingwood, Ravi Bopara, Samit Patel and Luke Wright. Sadly in the case of the last two mentioned, nobody much was interested.
Fred and KP went for over a million squids to Chennai and Bangalore respectively – though both were in bidding wars – Fred attracting bids from both the Punjabi Indians and Shane Warne’s Rajhastan Royals (last year’s winners).
Ravi, Owais and Paul were also snapped up – for somewhat smaller sums, but still amounts in excess of their county or central contracts and all three can not only be pleased for their bank balances, but it’ll do their confidence one hell of a boost when they consider those who were left on the shelf.
Aussies Stuart Clarke and Brad Haddin – for instance. Left to fight out for the remaining three places with 33 names up for them. It seems the cricket world changes faster than one might have believed possible. Two Englishmen are also in competition for these last slots – Luke Wright and Samit Patel – both who might justifiably feel miffed at losing out in the first round.
However, this is where we are now and all details can be found here:
http://www.iplt20.com/home.html
I’m left to sum up not only my thoughts on the IPL but to wonder at some of the hypocrisy and cant being spouted by some of the Tabloids’ finest.
First my thoughts: I totally understand sportsmen (or women) who seize an opportunity to bank a few bucks. Their careers are mostly short-lived and in their years of success they give us fans an immeasurable amount of pleasure (and pain) but great entertainment. I also have no problem with incredibly rich people – Vijay Mallya and Shilpa Shetty buying into IPL teams with the money they have earned with their skills. They should not be castigated for investing in a sport they care for – no matter what their motives are, personal, business, self-aggrandisement – don’t care, they are putting money into a sport that THEIR country holds in almost as much regard as a religion.
Then the “MEDJA” – well, most reporters can’t be bothered to get their facts right. All the headline reports of “Million pound cricketers” – go and get the details. Read the small print. Neither KP or Fred are earning anything like a million squidders. Sure they’ll bank a mighty wedge, but for a certain Scottish writer in The Sun to take the moral high ground is the one thing over this whole farrago that really got my goat.
Bill Leckie – for the love of all things decent. A man who writes, slaveringly, about football – where weekly salaries outweigh anything even vaguely decent, and a man who writes a so-called “news page” all about Big Brother and such. It beggars belief to hear him complain that the amounts changing hands in the IPL are “obscene in these times of global recession”. Fortunately for my little transistor radio, I was in the car when I heard this nauseating hypocrisy. If I’d been at home the dear little pink square radio would have been hurled out into the sleet and sludge.
Now the razzmatazz is over for the year. England still have a job to do in the West Indies and whether Flintoff, Pieterson and Collingwood have had their heads turned by being publicly valued in actual monetary terms will affect their performances on the park we have yet to see.
Confident with the players’ integrity I am sure that it will make no difference. Fred will bowl his little pink heart out. KP will bat with a debonair insouciance that is the envy of all those less talented, and Colly will leap like a salmon for impossible catches.
Those who have been bought by the IPL will go and play on the Sub-Continent, some with success, some with humiliation, but they will earn their wages and they will learn from playing with top-notch Twenty20 proponents of the game. They will become stronger and better and this will benefit their counties and England.
It’s a good thing and only a fool would descry it as simply money.
Sunday, January 25, 2009
A Report from Our Cricket Correspondent by Beyond the Pale
(With brief explanatory note re. the provenance of the document)
Richard Wilson: The Cock Tavern (Tate Gallery)
(Ed. note: As rosy-fingered dawn inveigled her roseate dactyls into the shadows still enclosing the pleasant village of Quatt in gentle slumber, a vague form gradually began to take shape upon the quiet lawn before the Cock Tavern: a crumpled, prostrate and inert body, its limbs splayed in awkward disarray, its head tilted oddly to one side as if improperly attached, its several eyes impressed with strange ancient coins--one to each of the three--upon which infinitely small hieroglyphic characters were seen to have been inscribed. A party of local investigators, led by Prof. Greengrass of the Univ. of Stockholm (emeritus head of the Department of Cuneiform Studies), removed these unusual coins and subjected them to scholarly analysis. Upon one of them was discovered and decoded the micro-inscription of the remarkable essay to be found below. Upon the second was found the tiny image of a profile head, thought to be that of Ricky Ponting. Upon the third, the coded text of a most extraordinary confession of human error, beginning: "Margin, over recent days the stab of compunction has deeply penetrated my ancient heart and pervaded it with a state of profound misericordia. Should in later times my remains be found, and this coin inscription along with them, all the world may at last plainly know: I have wronged you, good sir, and must now end my days by uttering these abject last words: I am deeply sorry, I have erred and must now accept the mortal consequence of my misdeed. I shall therefore now imbibe a potion of hemlock-laced cider and lay myself down here in this shady place forever, seeking whatever solace may be found beyond the troubled knowledge that my days ended with the commission of a Grave Crime, for which, I know, apology is required even as I also know forgiveness neither can nor should be granted. Signed, Beyond the Pale." )
As the league reached its climax on the final Saturday of the season, the teams at the bottom of the table played each other. Quatt went into the match bottom of the table with Madeley just above them and knew that a win was the only result possible to guarantee they could lift themselves away from the foot of the table. Twenty-six consecutive years in that lowly station was a total many found difficult to bear. Others counselled courage, recalling the famous victories of the past (though mean-spirited questions have lingered concerning the possible memory impairment of some of our senior members).
Having won the toss the home side decided to take the game to Madeley and batted first. On a lush and damp outfield boundaries were going to be even more difficult to come by than usual. But the reassuring sounds of leather on willow, the applause, the calls for out, all served to calm the nerves of the tense populace.
Beyond the fence--extended, with a net added for the safety of spectators, by community-minded members of the Club--a throng of at least sixty local citizens paused with baited breath awaiting the fated outcome. Bravery in the hearts of all, and a squirt of cream in the tea thermos, our trusty milkman having made his way especially early from Wolverhampton to fortify us for the test.
At that perilous point in the proceedings a naked young woman was seen to rush upon the pitch singing out happily in what sounded to all of us like that strange barbaric language the frightful Norse invaders employed when they barged our grounds some while back. Older members of the club, remembering, began to quaver and list dangerously toward the dampened turf.
Events took a happy turn however when a proud native son, the emeritus historian Professor Greengrass of the University of Stockholm, pince-nez dangling into his disturbed chinwhiskers what with the excitement of it all, emerged unexpectedly from the surrounding bush and began to thrash the unclad intruder quite smartly with his cane.
The rude pitch-invader was seen to exit sharpish, laughing wildly and uttering curious high-pitched cries later interpreted to us by the heroic professor--himself an accomplished linguist--as signifying "More, more!"
Seemingly inspired by the untoward events, openers Paul Chadworth (34) and Mal Chiddick-Wibble (15) got the home side off to a solid start notching up 42 in the first 10 overs before Chiddick-Wibble was bowled. With Paul Twittenham and Nigel Ballsworthy both going cheaply, Quatt had a wobble at 49 for 3 before Stephen Thong-Jones came to the crease and he and Chadworth put on 60 before Chadworth was caught running off into the woods grasping at willow branches, seemingly in hopes of securing a firm switch with which to punish the unmannerly female should she be bold enough to dare a return.
With all eyes now divided between the pitch and the copse from which another dangerous intrusion seemed liable to issue at any time, Drivel took advantage of the youthful visitors' distraction to knock up a seasons best 70 not out, including 10 fours, and with Trevor Beaver-Eagersley (25) put on another 49 and then with Graham Hedgebets (9) another 23. Members of the Quatt Ladies Cricket Support Group moved among the crowd with tissues, mopping many an anxious-fevered brow. Calls went out for a supplementary supply of tissues. But in evidence of the fortitude of all, the match went boldly on.
Quatt finished with an impressive highest ever total of 202 off their 40 overs. Credit must go to the visitors for putting out a young and inexperienced team and for giving them all an opportunity to bowl. The temporary suspension of good manners was now being overlooked if not indeed quite forgotten, though brief flicks of glances beyond the greensward indicated the earlier fears of further unsporting conduct had not entirely subsided.
Opening for the visitors, Blunden-Pease and Crock-Offit looked dangerous as they put on a quickfire 45 before Pishley Smarm had Blunden-Pease trapped lbw for 22. Smarm finished with seasons best figures of 3 for 11 off 5 overs. A gentle breeze stirring the drooping appendages of the willows brought an occasional glimpse of what appeared to many pale and tender flesh, while these qualms were assuaged by others who opined the apparition to be merely heat-induced hallucination.
When Blunden-Pease was caught by Ben Densmore off the bowling of Drivel in the 14 over with just 52 on the board it looked all over for Madeley. With only Percy Kneckshaw providing any resistance, knocking up 12, the young visitors capitulated as wickets fell to Norman Egglesworth (2), Peter Drubbingham and Stephen Bingely-Fitts, Madeley were eventually all out in the 31 over for 78. An ominous rumbling in the sky suggested the thunder gods may have been looking on all along, and were perhaps not entirely pleased. But our local men, now heartened by a great resolve, and showing impressive bulges in virtually every pocket, labored on to complete the great work so nobly begun.
Quatt took all 23 points to ensure that they wouldn't finish bottom of the table. As the long day closed, members of the club formed exploratory parties to forage the woods for signs of the vanished intruder from the north, uttering strong expletives indicating their noble intent to deal with further misconduct in firm Quattian fashion.
The reputation of the Club and the spirits of the village now restored, all adjourned to the Sombre Arms, Professor Greengrass at the forefront, to quaff a victorious flagon. It had been a day etched into the annals forever.Scott’s miscellany - Ringo37
The helmets-for-goalposts kickarounds of Der Kleine Frieden – the ‘little peace’ that broke out along the Western Front on Christmas Day 1914 – have been well-documented, and represent perhaps the best-known examples of sport played in the greatest extremity. Less celebrated, though, is a game – or, rather, a series of games – that took place in an even less hospitable environment three years earlier. These games were conducted at -20°C, in winds of up to 30mph; to glance at the opposing line-ups gives a fresh meaning to the term ‘journeymen footballers’. These were the games played by the crew of the Terra Nova at Cape Evans, Antarctica, in the autumn of 1911: wearing the skipper’s armband for one side was Captain Robert Falcon Scott.
The members of Scott’s ill-fated last expedition were keen to take exercise whenever they could, and football was a popular pastime. To picture these men hoofing the ball around the ice-sheets is to conjure an image familiar from Sunday morning park pitches, complete with the usual personnel: the enforcer (hard-as-nails Irish seaman Tom Crean bore a passing resemblance to late-period Roy Keane), the ringer (skiing ace Tryggve Gran had played for the Norwegian international side) and the quavering rookie (young Russian pony-groom Anton Omelchenko had never even seen a football before arriving at Cape Evans).
But there is surely more to our appreciation of these knockabouts on the edge of hell than home-from-home sentimentality. The story of the Terra Nova expedition is a story of heroes, and, particularly, of an ensemble heroism that will be fondly familiar to the British sports fan.
British sporting culture has had its individuals, of course, from Shackleton to Boycott, from ’Enry to Henman, but precious few of these have won over the British public as completely as have the country’s greatest sporting teams. Why? Is it simply that these ensembles – the thirteen of Sydney 2003, say, or Ramsey’s 1966 eleven – offer something for everyone (allergic to Botham? Try a Brearley...)?
I prefer to think, instead, that we appreciate these motley crews not because they have something to offer everyone, but because every one of them has something to offer. This may be why, for instance, the identikit beanpoles of basketball – or, for that matter, what Nick Hornby has called the ‘interchangeable physiques’ of our present-day Premiership ‘elite’ – fail to entirely charm the majority of British sports fans; why we’re more comfortable throwing in our lots with the ill-assorted likes of a European Ryder Cup outfit or a medley of touring Baa-baa mavericks.
This affection for the ragtag mob, with all its varieties of appearance, class, age, race and size, can certainly be found in the Antarctic histories. It can be found, too, in the clichés of the sports pages, and at any number of points in between, from the Beano’s Bash Street Kids to The Great Escape. Sports fans have a tendency to succumb easily, it’s true, to the cult of the individual, the icon, The Greatest, The Special One. But surely our enthusiasm for the team – the place where even an oddball can find an oddball-shaped hole – says more about the importance of individuality than such hero-worship ever could.
The members of Scott’s ill-fated last expedition were keen to take exercise whenever they could, and football was a popular pastime. To picture these men hoofing the ball around the ice-sheets is to conjure an image familiar from Sunday morning park pitches, complete with the usual personnel: the enforcer (hard-as-nails Irish seaman Tom Crean bore a passing resemblance to late-period Roy Keane), the ringer (skiing ace Tryggve Gran had played for the Norwegian international side) and the quavering rookie (young Russian pony-groom Anton Omelchenko had never even seen a football before arriving at Cape Evans).
But there is surely more to our appreciation of these knockabouts on the edge of hell than home-from-home sentimentality. The story of the Terra Nova expedition is a story of heroes, and, particularly, of an ensemble heroism that will be fondly familiar to the British sports fan.
British sporting culture has had its individuals, of course, from Shackleton to Boycott, from ’Enry to Henman, but precious few of these have won over the British public as completely as have the country’s greatest sporting teams. Why? Is it simply that these ensembles – the thirteen of Sydney 2003, say, or Ramsey’s 1966 eleven – offer something for everyone (allergic to Botham? Try a Brearley...)?
I prefer to think, instead, that we appreciate these motley crews not because they have something to offer everyone, but because every one of them has something to offer. This may be why, for instance, the identikit beanpoles of basketball – or, for that matter, what Nick Hornby has called the ‘interchangeable physiques’ of our present-day Premiership ‘elite’ – fail to entirely charm the majority of British sports fans; why we’re more comfortable throwing in our lots with the ill-assorted likes of a European Ryder Cup outfit or a medley of touring Baa-baa mavericks.
This affection for the ragtag mob, with all its varieties of appearance, class, age, race and size, can certainly be found in the Antarctic histories. It can be found, too, in the clichés of the sports pages, and at any number of points in between, from the Beano’s Bash Street Kids to The Great Escape. Sports fans have a tendency to succumb easily, it’s true, to the cult of the individual, the icon, The Greatest, The Special One. But surely our enthusiasm for the team – the place where even an oddball can find an oddball-shaped hole – says more about the importance of individuality than such hero-worship ever could.
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