This July is a veritable whirlwind of sporting events, what with the Tour de France, the Ashes, and, er, the giddy anticipation for the upcoming football season, which will take place exclusively in Madrid.
In France, le quatorze juillet is a particularly important sporting day. Regular readers of Mimi's excellent columns here will be aware that this is the day French riders specifically target for a stage win in Le Tour, only to be thwarted by some Manx upstart, obviously. Others will argue that the main sporting event of the fête nationale is the military parade down the Champs Élysées, followed by the garden party at Carla's place, sorry, palace.
Meanwhile, a little corner of France tucked away in the middle of the Pacific is hosting a totally different, but no less sporty, kind of party. Tiurai is Tahitian for "Juillet", the month of traditional festivities.
(Note from the Pakalolo Institute's Department of Archeo-linguistics: if you say "Tiurai" out loud, with the soft rolling "r", you'll realise it's part of the lexicon the Polynesian language, reo ma'ohi, inherited from the London Missionary Society, along with a host of terms like "Painapo" (pineapple), "Hamara" (hammer) or "Moni". The Department of Archeo-linguistics would like to seize this opportunity to thank and congratulate Professor Hula-Hula Greengrasse for his ongoing missionary efforts, and to apologise for the digression.)
Tiurai, then, is the time for Heiva, or "Festival". This celebration of Tahitian identity and culture through dance and sport does revolve around the 14th of July, a date fostered upon unsuspecting locals by ocean going frogs who insisted on celebrating the storming of a state prison even though they were 18,000km away from Paris now and didn't have to wear socks anymore.
But where the French take a single day off, get pissed on cheap red and watch the fireworks, the Tahitians keep the party going for an entire month. Measure and temperance are not necessarily the first words that come to mind when trying to paint a portrait of this island people. They just don't do things halfway here. The Heiva extravaganza is testament to that.
In Papeete, dancing and singing schools compete in colourful shows that light up the Place To'ata every evening. During the day, Tuaro (traditional sports) take centre stage. javelin throwing, stone lifting, fruit carrier races and coconut tree climbing all draw enthusiastic crowds.
Athletes come from all over Polynesia, from the Marquesas, the atolls of the Tuamotu, and even those tiny, half-forgotten, southernmost dots on Tahiti's ocean territory, the Australes, where a couple of dozen men and women, out of a population of a few thousand, take a break from the watch they keep over the migrating route of humpback whales and come up to the capital to show the world who, exactly, is the best at grating half a ton of coconuts by hand or at slinging a 300-pound pebble over their shoulder.
But the really big events, of course, are the canoe races. For a month, the outriggers, or va'a, are out in force in Papeete harbour. The races are held just off the seafront promenade in the heart of town so that everyone can enjoy the show.
All participants must wear traditional dress: the pareo, or loincloth, and a crown of greenery or flowers. Sadly, I could not make it this year, and so won't be able to give you a first-hand account. Trawling through all the different racing categories in writing would be tedious, so a few pictures will do the job just as well.
The centrepiece of all this paddling is Te Aito, The Warrior's Race, in which about 600 paddlers slug it out on their individual canoes, the V1, for 28km of a shoulder-wrecking ocean and lagoon course. This year's winner, Clovis Trope, hails from Bora Bora, but the sensation came from unknown youngster Steeve Teihotaata.
Although he had won the under-18s race the day before, he entered the main event and gave the more experienced competitors a proper fight. The lad capsized four times and was even thrown on the reef once, a tricky situation he wriggled out of by running along the top of the reef, carrying his canoe over the coral until he found a spot where he could slip into the ocean without being thrown straight back by the waves. He finished fourth, missing out on the podium by mere seconds. Te Aito, indeed.
(…)
Another twelve nautical miles further away from Paris, in Moorea, Bastille Day isn't usually much different from, say, the third Thursday of October, or Christmas even. Nothing much is going on, the lagoon being its old blue self, coconut trees gently swaying, the islands' volcanic peaks patiently crumbling away on their way to atollness in a couple million years, the sun stamping its unwavering mark over everything. And the odd gathering, under whatever pretext.
This year, I got a call from my friend Paddleman (a Pseud of I-Ku fame over at Zeph's place). The newly founded Maharepa Va'a Club is organising its "corpo" race and holding it under the Heiva label. We might be able to slot into a V6 crew with some of our Pihaena training partners, in the over-40's category, or "vétérans" as we call it.
And so he picks me up at eight, and we drive halfway round the island to the deep, steep, fjord-like Bay of Pao Pao. It's called Cook's Bay on the guides, but that name isn't used locally, since the Endeavour was never actually at anchor there, but in the next bay, Opunohu. (Note from the Pakalolo Institute's Department of Uselessfactology: did you know where Captain Cook was eaten by cannibals? The Sandwich Islands. Now, that's what we, at the Institute, call proper English Navy humour.)
When we get to the seaside lay-by near the old Catholic church, our friends are there already. But there are five of them. Looks like I'm the seventh wheel of the va'a. There are two other teams of "vétérans", who will be having a race within a race, as part of the men's V6 event. And among these two is another crew I might slot into, put together by Ed, a bull of a man with a million dollar smile and a perpetual twinkle in his eye, whom I know from my early va'adventures. Their sixth paddler hasn't arrived yet, and if he doesn't make it on time, Ed will let me know. It's early still.
But it doesn't look too promising. There may be a couple of last minute berths to claim, but there is no shortage of available arms that are much more impressive than mine, and just as eager. No worries, I still get to enjoy a day out at the races, in this mind-bogglingly spectacular setting. And there's plenty to take in.
The gymkhana of pick-up trucks, their trailers carrying brightly coloured V6 outriggers, manoeuvring round the lay-by, through the alert crowd, with no need for a traffic warden or the sound of a horn. Things are fluid. Smaller cars are unloading their roof-strapped V1s, which will open the day's racing. Forty-foot canoes weighing over 300 pounds are passed from hands to hands, and set in neat parallel rows along the shore without a scratch on them.
People move with the grace that comes from a near unbroken line of generations who spent their lives walking, running, swimming, paddling, diving, fishing and generally tackling wholebodiedly everything a truly extraordinary natural environment could throw at them.
A couple of tents have been erected for the organisers' signing-up table and food stall. The main object of a "corpo" (or district club) race is to raise funds the club will use to participate in the official races organised by the Fédération Tahitienne de Va'a, most notably the Hawaiki Nui Va'a in November, three days of high-sea racing between the islands of Huahine, Raiatea, Taha'a and Bora Bora, the logistics of which can be costly.
The food stall is a guaranteed financial success. Paddleman and I stump up our modest contribution by buying a couple of sandwiches and drinks. It's a bit early in the morning for lamb's heart on a skewer, deep-fried spare ribs, smoked chicken or even chips.
As the V1 races get underway, the Vahine, the female crews, are getting ready for their V6 event. Some of them have participated in the official Heiva races in Papeete and have had matching outfits made for the occasion. Some of the crowns of flowers on display are highly elaborate, fragrant compositions.
Throughout the centuries, seafaring experts on aesthetics from all over the world have come to the unanimous and timeless conclusion that a vahine va'a race is very easy on the eye and who am I to argue. As Paddleman gets to work on his own vegetal crown, I wander around, looking for familiar faces in the small groups of people scattered around the place, sitting huddled in every last pocket of shade from which to watch the day unfold.
Under the officials' tent, the MC bellows into his mike: results of the first races, encouragement for the paddlers, the cut-price lamb hearts skewers, the licence plate of that car that really needs to be moved now rather than later, messages of thanks for the sponsors, results of the next race, on and on and on and at full blast.
The president of the organising club is well connected in Moorea's small world of business and a lot of the island's banks, shops, hotels and restaurants have pitched in to offer prizes. There will be shiny golden cups for the winners of each main event and plenty of vouchers and goodies for winners of lesser categories and runners-up.
At 1,000 Pacific francs signing-up fee per paddler, the club should be doing brisk business today (still 119.33 Pacific francs to the euro). The income from the races and the food stall will even be supplemented by a raffle, with tickets going also for 1,000 francs. First prize is a 40,000 Franc piece of jewellery and there's also a breakfast for two at one of Moorea's five-star hotels to be claimed.
I never win anything, and so don't usually bother, but either prize would be a nice surprise for Mrs Offside, the tickets are being sold by a Miss Tahiti contestant and a young va'a club needs every bit of help it can get, so I try my luck and end up with ticket number 37. I've only just put it in my pocket when Paddleman comes out of the crowd, looking for me.
"Pedro has gone missing, you're on. We're on. Now."
The canoe is already on the water. I race back to the car to grab my paddle, tie the loincloth over my shorts, and realise I don't have a crown. I had given up on the idea of paddling and so didn't worry about the headgear.
Our helmsman hastily plucks a long leaf of Hauti, shreds it into thin strips along the stem and ties it around my forehead with a couple of quick knots. I can't see anything and refuse to even think about what I look like. I head for the water. Friendly voices call me back.
"Hey, hey, Offie, hey, you can't go like that, this is Heiva". So what? "No t-shirt, no sunglasses, no hat. They're not traditional." I point at the merciless two o'clock sun, but they won't be swayed. No quarter for palefaces. And how they grin.
I hear the grins widen behind my back as I set foot in the water and begin to wade towards the canoe. Near the shore, the bottom is silt, which would be fine if it hadn't been stirred all day to the point of utter murkiness and wasn't littered with thousands of now invisible broken pieces of sharp coral.
The strips of Hauti in my eyes are not that much of a hindrance, since I can't see where I'm stepping anyway. It's laughter I hear on the shore now. Like they've never seen a lettuce-coiffed heron on acid before. Always a pleasure to provide mirth for a friendly, good-natured crowd. Is that a gunwale I feel? I hoist myself on board, sit down, and fold the strips of Hauti leaf behind my ears.
Sadly, no cameras were on hand to record the moment for posterity, except Mr and Mrs Wilmington's from Minnesota, but they were back in their rented Peugeot and had gone off to discover other wonders of Moorea before I could ask for their number (or name, in fact, as I've just made it up to illustrate the point that there were quite a few bemused mainlanders of various origins wandering around this highly organised pandemonium). Sorry.
There are ten six-men canoes on the line when the starting flag is lowered from the safety boat. The race itself is a brief, breathless affair. Across to the far side of the bay, up that side, around the buoys at the pass and back down the other side to where we started from. Less than half an hour of paddling, a three-mile sprint. I'm in fifth, two seats behind Paddleman, which means we'll always be paddling on the same side, so I must focus on his paddle and try to achieve perfect sync.
A truly synchronised stroke is what makes a canoe glide on the water. It beats pure power every time. I wish the bits of salad on my head would stop getting into my eyes and flying into my mouth every time I breathe in.
I'm conscious that some canoes are ahead of us and some behind, as I can hear their captains calling out the switches and orders, but I have no idea how the field is shaping up. All I can think of is "this is going to be short, give it everything", and "whatever you do, don't swallow that".
On a va'a, the fahoro, or leader, gives the cadence that everyone must follow. The paddlers in 3rd and 4th are the engines, supplying the most important part of the canoe's power. The peperu, or helmsman, steers from the back, and joins in the paddling when the racing line is good. The positions of 2nd and 5th don't have a name, since those paddlers don't have any special function, apart from the obvious.
Any one of the six can be the tare, or captain, who signals the switches with a sonorous "Hep!", which also demands a certain type of stroke and intensity according to the energy with which the cry is delivered. The tare thus, crucially, demands more or less effort from his paddlers at certain times and hence regulates the supply of power and the exertion levels throughout the race.
This course is too short for any kind of meaningful tactics or changes in rhythm, but our silver-haired peperu has been around the block, and the island, quite a few times. On the home straight he takes a very central line, nearly down the middle of the bay. In order to remind us that we must pass between the shore and that yellow buoy over there, the safety boat catches up with us at full throttle. And in doing so, creates a lovely swelling wave in its wake.
This is exactly what our peperu was planning on. At his signal, we push that little bit harder on the paddle to catch the surf, he gently curves the racing line towards the buoy with a nod of thanks to the safety boat and we cruise to the finish line. The canoe in front is too far ahead to be caught, I can still hear shouts behind us, but I have no idea how well we've done.
It's only after we've crossed the line that I look up and assess the damage. Six canoes are already at rest by the shore. A quick look at the three we've left trailing confirms that the other two teams of "vétérans" are behind us. We're seventh overall, but we've won our category and that, Ladies and Gents, is a first in your correspondent's va'adventures.
We're even more chuffed that we've left one of the younger crews in our wake. As I gingerly pick my way back to shore through the coral minefield, the MC announces that a few raffle prizes are still to be claimed, 13, 29, and 37. Ha, maybe I can treat Mrs Offside to that dream breakfast…
I slip into more sensible attire and walk over to the tent to hand over my winning ticket. Who's grinning now, eh? She fishes around a large plastic bag. I catch a glimpse of a jeweller's wrapping paper, but her hand comes out holding a supermarket-style plastic bag. I've won two cartons of vanilla-flavoured iced tea, courtesy of Moorea's fruit juice factory, a subdivision of Tahiti's main beer brewer.
But I'd forgotten there was another prize to claim. The winner's prize of the "vétérans" race is not a shiny pot, but, you guessed it, breakfast at the Ia Ora hotel. For the six of us paddlers. It seems the romantic morning meal I had envisaged will be a more virile proposition altogether. Hey, no day is perfect, as we reflected later, sipping vanilla iced tea in the evening cool of the home deck with Mr and Mrs Paddleman, but some come mightily close.
Sunday, July 19, 2009
Friday, July 17, 2009
Stand Your Ground
It was the early 1990s and the face of English football was to change forever. Grounds were becoming ‘all-seater’ so as to make the game safe. Soon we would sit through matches instead of stand and jostle and occasionally fall with excitement. And my dad, like many others, lamented that that his son’s generation would be the last of the boys to stand on the Shelf.
I remembered that lament recently while thinking about the impressive new White Hart Lane that will soon be built. It will be at the same location as its predecessor, but will be shifted somewhat north. So I lamented that a younger generation than mine will be the last to stand in my beloved Park Lane.
And that made me realise my dad was wrong.
My generation was the last to remember the century old weekly regime of shallow concrete steps bordering famous touchlines. We were the last to fight for our place at the front with an old blue milk crate to stand on. No one younger will ever duck under the wide metal beams placed up and down the terracing to ease the pressure of the surging crowd. And we were the last to suffer the shrill clanging of the murderous fences.
But we were not the last to stand.
Over 100 years of tradition and natural behaviour didn’t end just because some one grafted cheap plastic seats onto our space. And for all their arm waving and verbal requests, stewards simply won’t throw out hundreds of fans for standing in support of their team. So I would imagine that dads in the Kop, the Shed, and dare I say it even the Clock End, got it just as wrong when they thought just as mournfully about their sons and grandsons never standing.
For many, and certainly in select corners of each old ground, plastic seats go unused. Perhaps they take the weight of an old fan at half time, or of a child raising himself up to get a good view. But the Park Lane is still for standing, and it is not unique.
So why, since we all stand safely anyway, can we not just take some seats away and give ourselves some room to move? Why will the new White Hart Lane not include a section behind each goal without seating and with shallow steps for traditionalists? Why can we not learn from countries like Germany where seats are removed and then replaced, depending on the nature of the upcoming match?
I ask that question knowing that part of the reason is fear. There were of course accusations that decision makers owned shares in firms that provide stadia with seats. But fear is the real problem.
Many still associate terracing with violence. And it is hard to break that prejudice with no peaceful terracing to point to. It is also understandable that authorities stay risk averse, keeping things the same in case change is blamed for mishap.
So we should not take the plunge. We should not hope beyond hope that terraces might magically return. We should not expect people to do something that frightens them the way football crowds can.
Instead we should set the conditions and change perceptions. People need to be won round, and two simpler changes might help do that.
First, we should simply let fans stand when they want to.
Yes you read that right. At present every fan at every ground for every Premier League match is required to sit throughout the match. The seats are not a benevolent gift to let us rest our legs if we choose. We are obliged by law to use them. We can be banned from future fixtures for standing. Grounds can be closed down and kept empty on match days if fans stand in large numbers. Sitting is mandatory.
In other words, there is a lie at the heart of the matter. Those of us who stand throughout football matches are officially seated. So let us simply change the rules so that I, like thousands of others, need not break them. Nothing would change in practice. The chairs would remain, and fans would still stand. But we could then rightly argue that we already stand safely at football.
Not that sitting is the only aspect to seating. There was also a cinematic anarchy we have lost when the chairs were bought in.
On the terracing there was no regimented grid in which we each took a pre-determined position within the well ordered crowd. With seating there clearly is. So let football learn from cinema. Most screens on a Saturday night do not allocate each seat. Instead you must arrive early to get two seats together in the middle of the back row, or seven seats together near the front. Those who turn up late still find a place, but have less choice and tend to fit in amongst the crowd. Even in cinemas that serve beer and wine I’ve never seen a fight break out because of this.
Surely England can do what Italy’s many ‘curva’ do just fine. Surely we can sell tickets to a section of the ground rather than a specific seat. Those who want a particular space can turn up early. And by encouraging earlier arrivals, maybe more fans would stand and wait and sing and chant and build the atmosphere that many feel seating undermined.
I know these are tiny steps. They are a small nod to the past rather than a headfirst lunge to reclaim it. And that matters. This gradual move could reassure people that perhaps the chaos was not so chaotic as some now imagine. These small technical changes would invoke little fear and people would probably back them. That way the culture of the terraces might return to the stands, and then maybe people would fear safe standing a little less too.
I remembered that lament recently while thinking about the impressive new White Hart Lane that will soon be built. It will be at the same location as its predecessor, but will be shifted somewhat north. So I lamented that a younger generation than mine will be the last to stand in my beloved Park Lane.
And that made me realise my dad was wrong.
My generation was the last to remember the century old weekly regime of shallow concrete steps bordering famous touchlines. We were the last to fight for our place at the front with an old blue milk crate to stand on. No one younger will ever duck under the wide metal beams placed up and down the terracing to ease the pressure of the surging crowd. And we were the last to suffer the shrill clanging of the murderous fences.
But we were not the last to stand.
Over 100 years of tradition and natural behaviour didn’t end just because some one grafted cheap plastic seats onto our space. And for all their arm waving and verbal requests, stewards simply won’t throw out hundreds of fans for standing in support of their team. So I would imagine that dads in the Kop, the Shed, and dare I say it even the Clock End, got it just as wrong when they thought just as mournfully about their sons and grandsons never standing.
For many, and certainly in select corners of each old ground, plastic seats go unused. Perhaps they take the weight of an old fan at half time, or of a child raising himself up to get a good view. But the Park Lane is still for standing, and it is not unique.
So why, since we all stand safely anyway, can we not just take some seats away and give ourselves some room to move? Why will the new White Hart Lane not include a section behind each goal without seating and with shallow steps for traditionalists? Why can we not learn from countries like Germany where seats are removed and then replaced, depending on the nature of the upcoming match?
I ask that question knowing that part of the reason is fear. There were of course accusations that decision makers owned shares in firms that provide stadia with seats. But fear is the real problem.
Many still associate terracing with violence. And it is hard to break that prejudice with no peaceful terracing to point to. It is also understandable that authorities stay risk averse, keeping things the same in case change is blamed for mishap.
So we should not take the plunge. We should not hope beyond hope that terraces might magically return. We should not expect people to do something that frightens them the way football crowds can.
Instead we should set the conditions and change perceptions. People need to be won round, and two simpler changes might help do that.
First, we should simply let fans stand when they want to.
Yes you read that right. At present every fan at every ground for every Premier League match is required to sit throughout the match. The seats are not a benevolent gift to let us rest our legs if we choose. We are obliged by law to use them. We can be banned from future fixtures for standing. Grounds can be closed down and kept empty on match days if fans stand in large numbers. Sitting is mandatory.
In other words, there is a lie at the heart of the matter. Those of us who stand throughout football matches are officially seated. So let us simply change the rules so that I, like thousands of others, need not break them. Nothing would change in practice. The chairs would remain, and fans would still stand. But we could then rightly argue that we already stand safely at football.
Not that sitting is the only aspect to seating. There was also a cinematic anarchy we have lost when the chairs were bought in.
On the terracing there was no regimented grid in which we each took a pre-determined position within the well ordered crowd. With seating there clearly is. So let football learn from cinema. Most screens on a Saturday night do not allocate each seat. Instead you must arrive early to get two seats together in the middle of the back row, or seven seats together near the front. Those who turn up late still find a place, but have less choice and tend to fit in amongst the crowd. Even in cinemas that serve beer and wine I’ve never seen a fight break out because of this.
Surely England can do what Italy’s many ‘curva’ do just fine. Surely we can sell tickets to a section of the ground rather than a specific seat. Those who want a particular space can turn up early. And by encouraging earlier arrivals, maybe more fans would stand and wait and sing and chant and build the atmosphere that many feel seating undermined.
I know these are tiny steps. They are a small nod to the past rather than a headfirst lunge to reclaim it. And that matters. This gradual move could reassure people that perhaps the chaos was not so chaotic as some now imagine. These small technical changes would invoke little fear and people would probably back them. That way the culture of the terraces might return to the stands, and then maybe people would fear safe standing a little less too.
Thursday, July 16, 2009
One draw, four wins – mimitig
Two of the great sporting events of summer 2009 are now underway. Le Tour has faced its first great hurdle – the Pyrenees – and the first Ashes Test came to a dramatic conclusion at Sophia Gardens in Cardiff.
England posted a nondescript first innings score of 435 and none of the specialist batsmen made the most of a flat wicket. When Australia got in, they certainly did. Four made centuries and England were under the cosh. One session was lost to rain and on Sunday, England had to find some steel and try to bat out the day for a draw.
Early wickets were given away and it was only the nuggetty grit of Durham man Paul Collingwood – who batted for nigh on six hours – that gave England the sniff of a draw. When he fell with 12 overs to go, most thought it was simply a matter of a few fast balls before the tailenders would be back in the pavilion.
Jimmy Anderson and Monty Panesar, however, were dogged and determined and admirably held out against the Aussie bowlers. Ponting whinged about England’s “gamesmanship” after the match. Someone in the England dressing room sent on first the 12th Man and then the Physio in the last few overs. True it was a bit questionable but this is the Ashes, we want to win and any chance to get under Ponting’s skin should be taken Anyway, the Aussies took questionable gamesmanship to new heights at the MCG in 1981. A bit of flim flam with new gloves is hardly comparable to underarm bowling.
The Second Test begins on Thursday 16 July with the score 0-0.
While five days of not exactly high-octane, but nail-biting, cricket were being played out in Wales, nearly 200 questionably sane men were hurtling round France, Monaco, Andorra, Spain and France again.
The Paul and Phil show was underway.
Le Grand Depart had been spectacular and the next stages have not disappointed. Mark Cavendish became the first Briton to take the Green Jersey since its introduction in 1953 by taking wins on Stages Two and Three. He lost it to Big Thor Hushovd, but as the race resumed after the rest day on Monday 13 July, two flat stages from Limoges to Issoudun and Vatan to Saint Vargeau provided the opportunities for bunch sprints.
As was to be expected on Bastille Day, French riders made the breakaway and Sammy Dumoulin, Thierry Hupond and Benoit Vaugrenard (accompanied by Mikhail Ignatiev) led for most of the 194.5 km. The peloton, however, while happy to let the French boys have their time in the sun, never lost control and lined up for a bunch sprint with 2 km to go. Columbia HTC led the train and Mark Renshaw delivered the fastest man in the world at exactly the right point. Hushovd retained the Green Jersey but only by six points and a situation Mark rectified on Stage 11, with possibly his best ever Tour win, and relegating Thor to fifth place.
Cavendish has now, in just two Tours, equalled the all time British record held by Barry Hoban of eight stage wins. His post-race interview is here:
In the higher echelons of the General Classification – ie those riders who are favourites to win the race itself, there has been plenty to hold our interest.
Lance Armstrong has proved his mettle by riding almost as well as he ever did and is only a few seconds off the lead. Contador holds a lead of just 2 seconds over the Texan and the battle for the leadership of Team Astana will carry on well into the Alps, maybe even all the way to Mont Ventoux on Saturday 25 July. These two lie currently third and second respectively with the Maillot Jaune remaining with Italian Rinaldo Nocentini – who is not a contender but did a fine job holding on over the Pyrenees.
Levi Leipheimer has lost a few seconds – now 39 back and Britain’s own Bradley Wiggins is sitting high in the General Classification at fifth, just 46 seconds behind the leader. He has transformed his World Championship and Olympic Gold medal winning track performances into sheer class on the road.
The French have had the best start in a Tour for most of our lifetimes. Finally with the peloton transparently cleaner than it has been for decades, what the French have been saying for years really does ring true. The sport in France took steps to be drug-free long before any other nations or teams were prepared to admit the problem. The result has been that for years, French teams and riders have not featured much in big stage races. In the Tour they have often managed to pull off a spectacular breakaway win on Bastille Day but not much else besides.
This year, Frenchmen have won three stages in the first nine days. Fedrigo’s win on Sunday was a triumph for France and French cycling.
Paul and Phil continue to make Tour commentary one of the best in sport. As well as being informative and utterly professional, with both men drawing appropriately on their own experiences of riding the Tour, there are moments of delightful eccentricity. So far this year we have heard Paul’s unusual pronunciation of Monaaco, and Phil’s best so far – as he described the “violent”seconds leading up to the bunch sprint finish on Stage 10. I think he meant “vital” but violent is so much better and works so well with his and Paul’s continuing use of “killermeters”.
I leave you with my Tour highlight so far: it can only be Cav.
England posted a nondescript first innings score of 435 and none of the specialist batsmen made the most of a flat wicket. When Australia got in, they certainly did. Four made centuries and England were under the cosh. One session was lost to rain and on Sunday, England had to find some steel and try to bat out the day for a draw.
Early wickets were given away and it was only the nuggetty grit of Durham man Paul Collingwood – who batted for nigh on six hours – that gave England the sniff of a draw. When he fell with 12 overs to go, most thought it was simply a matter of a few fast balls before the tailenders would be back in the pavilion.
Jimmy Anderson and Monty Panesar, however, were dogged and determined and admirably held out against the Aussie bowlers. Ponting whinged about England’s “gamesmanship” after the match. Someone in the England dressing room sent on first the 12th Man and then the Physio in the last few overs. True it was a bit questionable but this is the Ashes, we want to win and any chance to get under Ponting’s skin should be taken Anyway, the Aussies took questionable gamesmanship to new heights at the MCG in 1981. A bit of flim flam with new gloves is hardly comparable to underarm bowling.
The Second Test begins on Thursday 16 July with the score 0-0.
While five days of not exactly high-octane, but nail-biting, cricket were being played out in Wales, nearly 200 questionably sane men were hurtling round France, Monaco, Andorra, Spain and France again.
The Paul and Phil show was underway.
Le Grand Depart had been spectacular and the next stages have not disappointed. Mark Cavendish became the first Briton to take the Green Jersey since its introduction in 1953 by taking wins on Stages Two and Three. He lost it to Big Thor Hushovd, but as the race resumed after the rest day on Monday 13 July, two flat stages from Limoges to Issoudun and Vatan to Saint Vargeau provided the opportunities for bunch sprints.
As was to be expected on Bastille Day, French riders made the breakaway and Sammy Dumoulin, Thierry Hupond and Benoit Vaugrenard (accompanied by Mikhail Ignatiev) led for most of the 194.5 km. The peloton, however, while happy to let the French boys have their time in the sun, never lost control and lined up for a bunch sprint with 2 km to go. Columbia HTC led the train and Mark Renshaw delivered the fastest man in the world at exactly the right point. Hushovd retained the Green Jersey but only by six points and a situation Mark rectified on Stage 11, with possibly his best ever Tour win, and relegating Thor to fifth place.
Cavendish has now, in just two Tours, equalled the all time British record held by Barry Hoban of eight stage wins. His post-race interview is here:
In the higher echelons of the General Classification – ie those riders who are favourites to win the race itself, there has been plenty to hold our interest.
Lance Armstrong has proved his mettle by riding almost as well as he ever did and is only a few seconds off the lead. Contador holds a lead of just 2 seconds over the Texan and the battle for the leadership of Team Astana will carry on well into the Alps, maybe even all the way to Mont Ventoux on Saturday 25 July. These two lie currently third and second respectively with the Maillot Jaune remaining with Italian Rinaldo Nocentini – who is not a contender but did a fine job holding on over the Pyrenees.
Levi Leipheimer has lost a few seconds – now 39 back and Britain’s own Bradley Wiggins is sitting high in the General Classification at fifth, just 46 seconds behind the leader. He has transformed his World Championship and Olympic Gold medal winning track performances into sheer class on the road.
The French have had the best start in a Tour for most of our lifetimes. Finally with the peloton transparently cleaner than it has been for decades, what the French have been saying for years really does ring true. The sport in France took steps to be drug-free long before any other nations or teams were prepared to admit the problem. The result has been that for years, French teams and riders have not featured much in big stage races. In the Tour they have often managed to pull off a spectacular breakaway win on Bastille Day but not much else besides.
This year, Frenchmen have won three stages in the first nine days. Fedrigo’s win on Sunday was a triumph for France and French cycling.
Paul and Phil continue to make Tour commentary one of the best in sport. As well as being informative and utterly professional, with both men drawing appropriately on their own experiences of riding the Tour, there are moments of delightful eccentricity. So far this year we have heard Paul’s unusual pronunciation of Monaaco, and Phil’s best so far – as he described the “violent”seconds leading up to the bunch sprint finish on Stage 10. I think he meant “vital” but violent is so much better and works so well with his and Paul’s continuing use of “killermeters”.
I leave you with my Tour highlight so far: it can only be Cav.
Sunday, July 5, 2009
Le Grand Depart 2009 - mimitig
It’s the beginning of July and that means only one thing: the summer of sport is about to get even better: motor sports reach the crucial half-way point in their season, the biggest contest in cricket starts (The Ashes) and the men in lycra embark on the toughest challenge in cycling.
Literally millions of people, the world over, become armchair cycling fans for the duration of Le Tour de France. A fair few haul out their old replica strips and take to the roads in a vain attempt to convince themselves that they could have been a contender.
However, before Le Tour takes over completely, mention must be made of the incredible achievement of Valentino Rossi last weekend in Assen.
At the circuit known as ‘The Cathedral of Speed’, Rossi gave the fans and the field a master class in speed, determination and technique to claim his 100th victory in MotoGP – the pinnacle of motorcycle track racing.
The great Giacomo Agostini describes Rossi the Greatest of all Time, and who could argue with that?
As the MotoGP cavalcade moved off to the USA for the next race at the breath-taking Laguna Seca circuit, nearly 200 men on two-wheeled machines with no engines, prepared to race for 3500 km in the most gruelling ordeal known to sporting man.
This year race director Christian Prudhomme decided to honour the Principality of Monaco by granting them the right to host day one of the Tour – Le Grand Depart. Even before the day arrived there was much excitement buzzing around. Not since London in 2007 has an opening Time Trial generated so much hype. For a start there is just something special about Monte Carlo – the amazing mountain scenery, the dramatic views across the harbour, the scent of freshly banked money and of course the preponderance of “beautiful people”. Then there’s the course itself: 15.5 km making it one of the longest Time Trials in Tour history, and including a steep ascent at the start and a testing technical descent of 4 km before finishing on the flat.
Happily the racing on the day did not disappoint. All eyes were on Lance Armstrong – returning to the Tour after a three-year lay off. How fast would he go? How fit would he look? Well the answers to those questions are: pretty damn fast (he came 10th) and lean, hungry and fit as a butcher’s dog. For all those who have mixed feelings about his return to the Tour, there is no denying that he has put in the hard yards and is most definitely not there for the publicity or to make up the numbers.
Lance chose to go out quite early in the Trial and for a while was second only to Astana team mate and fellow American Levi Leipheimer. But the big guns, the really big guns were the last to ride and the tension mounted.
First of the true challengers to set off was our very own Bradley Wiggins, Olympic gold-medallist and potential stage winner this year. He put in a great ride, gave it all he had, but only made the bottom step of the podium. Unfortunately for Brad, not only was the course less suited to his skills than a flatter route would have been, but he is up against two of the strongest riders the Tour has seen in recent years.
Alberto Contador, many people’s favourite for Tour winner, was on fire when he took to the track. As we watched him make the ascent look easy and hurtle round the corners, it seemed impossible for anyone to beat him. Only one man in the world could – Fabian Cancellara. According to Phil Ligget, Cancellara “flew down the mountain like an eagle”. According to Phil’s co-commentator, Paul Sherwen, the Swiss was “in turbo jetville”.
And so ended a thrilling day of cycling. Le Grand Depart of 2009 lived up to all expectations and three weeks of thrills and spills, sprints, breakaways and crashes lie ahead before the peloton rolls down the Champs Elysees on Sunday 26 July.
Literally millions of people, the world over, become armchair cycling fans for the duration of Le Tour de France. A fair few haul out their old replica strips and take to the roads in a vain attempt to convince themselves that they could have been a contender.
However, before Le Tour takes over completely, mention must be made of the incredible achievement of Valentino Rossi last weekend in Assen.
At the circuit known as ‘The Cathedral of Speed’, Rossi gave the fans and the field a master class in speed, determination and technique to claim his 100th victory in MotoGP – the pinnacle of motorcycle track racing.
The great Giacomo Agostini describes Rossi the Greatest of all Time, and who could argue with that?
As the MotoGP cavalcade moved off to the USA for the next race at the breath-taking Laguna Seca circuit, nearly 200 men on two-wheeled machines with no engines, prepared to race for 3500 km in the most gruelling ordeal known to sporting man.
This year race director Christian Prudhomme decided to honour the Principality of Monaco by granting them the right to host day one of the Tour – Le Grand Depart. Even before the day arrived there was much excitement buzzing around. Not since London in 2007 has an opening Time Trial generated so much hype. For a start there is just something special about Monte Carlo – the amazing mountain scenery, the dramatic views across the harbour, the scent of freshly banked money and of course the preponderance of “beautiful people”. Then there’s the course itself: 15.5 km making it one of the longest Time Trials in Tour history, and including a steep ascent at the start and a testing technical descent of 4 km before finishing on the flat.
Happily the racing on the day did not disappoint. All eyes were on Lance Armstrong – returning to the Tour after a three-year lay off. How fast would he go? How fit would he look? Well the answers to those questions are: pretty damn fast (he came 10th) and lean, hungry and fit as a butcher’s dog. For all those who have mixed feelings about his return to the Tour, there is no denying that he has put in the hard yards and is most definitely not there for the publicity or to make up the numbers.
Lance chose to go out quite early in the Trial and for a while was second only to Astana team mate and fellow American Levi Leipheimer. But the big guns, the really big guns were the last to ride and the tension mounted.
First of the true challengers to set off was our very own Bradley Wiggins, Olympic gold-medallist and potential stage winner this year. He put in a great ride, gave it all he had, but only made the bottom step of the podium. Unfortunately for Brad, not only was the course less suited to his skills than a flatter route would have been, but he is up against two of the strongest riders the Tour has seen in recent years.
Alberto Contador, many people’s favourite for Tour winner, was on fire when he took to the track. As we watched him make the ascent look easy and hurtle round the corners, it seemed impossible for anyone to beat him. Only one man in the world could – Fabian Cancellara. According to Phil Ligget, Cancellara “flew down the mountain like an eagle”. According to Phil’s co-commentator, Paul Sherwen, the Swiss was “in turbo jetville”.
And so ended a thrilling day of cycling. Le Grand Depart of 2009 lived up to all expectations and three weeks of thrills and spills, sprints, breakaways and crashes lie ahead before the peloton rolls down the Champs Elysees on Sunday 26 July.
Sunday, June 28, 2009
Race Against Me: My Story by Dwain Chambers
A review by Mimitig
Over the years of this blogspace’s existence, there has been coverage of football (lots), cricket, motorsport and cycling (quite a lot), rowing (a little bit), very strange sports and occasionally other things.
Book reviews are not our forte.
However, I think there is a reason to focus our attention on a book about a sport we don’t usually cover.
The book is Dwain Chambers’s autobiography, the sport is track athletics and the reason is drugs.
I am not a great fan of athletics – the only time I get enthused is during the Olympics but only someone who throws away the front pages of the newspapers and never listens to news could have avoided hearing about the furore that surrounded Dwain Chambers’s positive drug test and the subsequent battles he has fought to be allowed to compete again.
One of my favourite sports (track cycling) is horribly blighted by drug-cheats and when I heard that Dwain Chambers was going to spill all the beans in his book, I just had to read it.
Everyone has known, since the days of the East Germans, that doping was part of athletics, but until Dwain got caught, cycling has copped all the shit. This, I thought, was a chance to get some inside info into the dirty doings in another sport.
Now, I heard many interviews with Chambers after the publication of this book and he came across as a very arrogant, unpleasant and self-serving person. I didn’t like him at all. Yeah, I thought, you did the drugs, got caught and now trying to justify it.
The first pages of the book did little to change my view. One of his ghost-writers is a chap called Ken Scott. If I’d Googled Scott before I read his preface, I might have been more forgiving of the fact he (while trying to describe the art of sledging) spelled Glenn McGrath’s name wrong. Four times. A Newcastle fan – need I say more?
Anyway, I plunged into the body of the text, trying to rid myself of the ghostwriter who couldn’t be bothered to get a world famous name right and the editor, copy editor and proof reader (forget checking a name but who ever heard of a drug called “heroine”?) who compounded that error, and to my surprise I found myself gripped.
There is no doubt this is a badly-written and horrendously-produced book and - at £18.99 for the hardback - is something any publisher should be ashamed of, but the information inside is both fascinating and incendiary.
Chambers does not write well, and his ghostwriters did nothing for his prose, but he has opened what should be a very large can of worms.
He lays out, in painful, very painful, detail his drugging diaries and how his body reacted. He also makes it clear that he was only one of many. Notes give details of other athletes involved with BALCO including US medal winners Kelli White and Chryste Gaines.
It is not hard to understand how Chambers felt the only way to compete on equal terms was to join Victor Contes’s crew.
While all this is sort of in the public domain, what is most interesting about this book is the way the British Sporting Establishment has reacted to Dwain Chambers, his book and his personal statements to some of the hi-di-his such as Colin Moynihan.
The Establishment has been prepared to accept other “Drug Cheats” back into the fold. Carl Myerscough is a prime example, but they have treated Dwain Chambers with a disdain and unfairness that is out of all previous behaviour. He got caught, he served his ban, but is still, and has been for four years after, been treated as an evil pariah.
This is despite Chambers fully cooperating with investigations, passed on to WADA and UK Athletics and the Olympic authorities, all the information he had about drug-taking in athletics.
The treatment Chambers received, not just from his own sport but also the public and the press, is at odds with the way a certain David Millar was treated makes me wonder whether Chambers is right when he writes:
“It is clear as bottled water that something or someone higher up the chain is out to stop me. They are trying to stop me competing, stop me earning a living and of course trying to prevent me from attending the Olympics in 2012.”
This book, in conclusion, is a must read. It’s badly written, professionally everything about it is horrid – don’t get me started on the spacing and punctuation errors – but the content is worth the crap.
And one of the amazing things about it, is that you know, as you read, that Chambers could crap so heavily on so many other people, but he doesn’t. My opinion of the man changed.
Over the years of this blogspace’s existence, there has been coverage of football (lots), cricket, motorsport and cycling (quite a lot), rowing (a little bit), very strange sports and occasionally other things.
Book reviews are not our forte.
However, I think there is a reason to focus our attention on a book about a sport we don’t usually cover.
The book is Dwain Chambers’s autobiography, the sport is track athletics and the reason is drugs.
I am not a great fan of athletics – the only time I get enthused is during the Olympics but only someone who throws away the front pages of the newspapers and never listens to news could have avoided hearing about the furore that surrounded Dwain Chambers’s positive drug test and the subsequent battles he has fought to be allowed to compete again.
One of my favourite sports (track cycling) is horribly blighted by drug-cheats and when I heard that Dwain Chambers was going to spill all the beans in his book, I just had to read it.
Everyone has known, since the days of the East Germans, that doping was part of athletics, but until Dwain got caught, cycling has copped all the shit. This, I thought, was a chance to get some inside info into the dirty doings in another sport.
Now, I heard many interviews with Chambers after the publication of this book and he came across as a very arrogant, unpleasant and self-serving person. I didn’t like him at all. Yeah, I thought, you did the drugs, got caught and now trying to justify it.
The first pages of the book did little to change my view. One of his ghost-writers is a chap called Ken Scott. If I’d Googled Scott before I read his preface, I might have been more forgiving of the fact he (while trying to describe the art of sledging) spelled Glenn McGrath’s name wrong. Four times. A Newcastle fan – need I say more?
Anyway, I plunged into the body of the text, trying to rid myself of the ghostwriter who couldn’t be bothered to get a world famous name right and the editor, copy editor and proof reader (forget checking a name but who ever heard of a drug called “heroine”?) who compounded that error, and to my surprise I found myself gripped.
There is no doubt this is a badly-written and horrendously-produced book and - at £18.99 for the hardback - is something any publisher should be ashamed of, but the information inside is both fascinating and incendiary.
Chambers does not write well, and his ghostwriters did nothing for his prose, but he has opened what should be a very large can of worms.
He lays out, in painful, very painful, detail his drugging diaries and how his body reacted. He also makes it clear that he was only one of many. Notes give details of other athletes involved with BALCO including US medal winners Kelli White and Chryste Gaines.
It is not hard to understand how Chambers felt the only way to compete on equal terms was to join Victor Contes’s crew.
While all this is sort of in the public domain, what is most interesting about this book is the way the British Sporting Establishment has reacted to Dwain Chambers, his book and his personal statements to some of the hi-di-his such as Colin Moynihan.
The Establishment has been prepared to accept other “Drug Cheats” back into the fold. Carl Myerscough is a prime example, but they have treated Dwain Chambers with a disdain and unfairness that is out of all previous behaviour. He got caught, he served his ban, but is still, and has been for four years after, been treated as an evil pariah.
This is despite Chambers fully cooperating with investigations, passed on to WADA and UK Athletics and the Olympic authorities, all the information he had about drug-taking in athletics.
The treatment Chambers received, not just from his own sport but also the public and the press, is at odds with the way a certain David Millar was treated makes me wonder whether Chambers is right when he writes:
“It is clear as bottled water that something or someone higher up the chain is out to stop me. They are trying to stop me competing, stop me earning a living and of course trying to prevent me from attending the Olympics in 2012.”
This book, in conclusion, is a must read. It’s badly written, professionally everything about it is horrid – don’t get me started on the spacing and punctuation errors – but the content is worth the crap.
And one of the amazing things about it, is that you know, as you read, that Chambers could crap so heavily on so many other people, but he doesn’t. My opinion of the man changed.
In Praise of Ivan Lendl - Mac Millings
Some people just get no respect. There’s always someone better looking, cleverer, a brighter natural spark and no matter how much harder than them you work, or how much better a career you have, when it comes time to reminisce, the beautiful will always inspire the fondest memories, the functional ending up an afterthought. Geography and history conspired to make Ivan Lendl the plain, industrious afterthought of 80s tennis.
Had Mr Gorbachev torn down that wall 10 years earlier, Lendl might have been an exotic European, with a name – one part Slavic, one part Germanic – entirely appropriate for a man born in what is now the Czech Republic, where Eastern Europe meets the West. Instead, as the Cold War raged, he was considered dour, dull and unemotional and was treated by the Wimbledon crowd (among others) with indifference, if not with the kind of disdain that, until the latter part of her career, greeted his compatriot, Martina Navratilova.
In an era when ‘characters’ - which, in the 80s, consisted of: a) players who ranted at the umpire and b) those who, after losing a point, handed their racquet to a ball boy - ruled at the All England Club, the likes of Connors, McEnroe and Becker reigned supreme. (British players, of course, were, and are, an exception – all that’s required of them is to have neat hair and an unthreatening accent, be undemonstrative and, preferably, English. Considered a bonus is the ability to raise hopes of bringing home that elusive Championship, only to pull out, limp, just at the moment of National Orgasm).
Of course, had the 1985 Wimbledon Champion, the 17-year-old Boris Becker, been born in East Germany rather than West, he would not have been considered a glamourous, exciting, Teuton-handsome freak of nature, but instead, a State-sponsored tennis machine, fuelled by repetitive drills and performance-enhancing drugs (although if he had been East German, they’d probably have pumped him full of oestrogen and entered him into the Ladies’ Singles).
At Wimbledon, titles can excuse a lack of personality – hence Bjorn Borg’s popularity – but Lendl never secured the former and was widely perceived to be missing the latter, too. He was the kind of player of whom commentators would repeatedly say: “He’s a funny guy if you get to know him.” On court, however, he was metronomic, mechanical, unloveable – and, crucially, a loser. Seven SW19 semifinals translated to two finals and no tournament victories.
Yet the truth is, Lendl was a pioneer. Considered by most at the time to be among the strongest players in the game, he was perhaps the first to make a rigorous fitness and nutritional regime an integral part of his preparation – something which is taken for granted now, with Rafael Nadal the poster boy for strength and endurance.
On the court, Dan Maskell used to say of Lendl: “He just plants his big feet and whacks it.” Rather than surmising what the Czech was doing while watching the pay-per-view bongo channel in the privacy of his hotel room, Maskell was trying to tell us why Lendl hadn’t (and would never) win Wimbledon. Of course, the comment both overlooked the fact that Lendl was using his devastating inside-out forehand to an unprecedented extent and effect and also failed to foresee that his then-unique modus operandi would go on to become the norm. These days, that forehand is a standard weapon in any good player’s armoury – most notably, that of a certain Swiss.
Perhaps some might blame Lendl for the subsequent paucity of characters in the men’s game and the rise of the machines. But that would be like blaming Hendrix for Hair Metal, or Jack Walker for Roman Abramovich. Besides, why not emulate him? He was, without question, the leading player of his day. His total of eight Grand Slam wins matches Connors’s tally and eclipses that of McEnroe and all his other contemporaries.
On these shores, Lendl’s failure to win Wimbledon counts heavily against him. However Connors, significantly, never won the French (or even reached the final there – and while he did win the US Open when it was a clay court tournament, it was the harder, faster green clay, which bears little relation, as a playing surface, to the European red). McEnroe came up short not only at Roland Garros (where he managed just one final), but also at the Australian, where he only progressed as far as the semis on one occasion, even though it was held on grass until 1987.
Of the other 80s greats, Becker (no French Open title) and Edberg (one final in Paris) won 6 Slams each. Since the early 60s, in men’s tennis only Agassi and Federer have achieved the career Grand Slam. Of his contemporaries, no one got closer to it than Ivan Lendl.
Not only was his Grand Slam record impressive, but his career winning percentage in singles (82%), is the highest in history among those who have played over 1,000 matches and, head-to-head, he boasts a winning record over every significant player of his era, other than Borg (whom he played at the beginning of his own career and at the peak of the Swede’s), Sampras (whom he mostly played well after his peak) and Edberg (for which there is no excuse).
Back in the 80s, Maskell was proven correct. Lendl didn’t have enough at the net to win Wimbledon. But as long ago as 1992 Andre Agassi, a baseliner (albeit a quicker one and a better service returner), won it and within a few short years, as the surface became slower and truer, the hallowed lawns had changed from a beast unlike anything else on the circuit, to the place where hard court and clay court meet – quick enough for Federer, slow enough for Nadal. And perfect for Lendl – it’s just a shame he was a little too far ahead of his time.
Had Mr Gorbachev torn down that wall 10 years earlier, Lendl might have been an exotic European, with a name – one part Slavic, one part Germanic – entirely appropriate for a man born in what is now the Czech Republic, where Eastern Europe meets the West. Instead, as the Cold War raged, he was considered dour, dull and unemotional and was treated by the Wimbledon crowd (among others) with indifference, if not with the kind of disdain that, until the latter part of her career, greeted his compatriot, Martina Navratilova.
In an era when ‘characters’ - which, in the 80s, consisted of: a) players who ranted at the umpire and b) those who, after losing a point, handed their racquet to a ball boy - ruled at the All England Club, the likes of Connors, McEnroe and Becker reigned supreme. (British players, of course, were, and are, an exception – all that’s required of them is to have neat hair and an unthreatening accent, be undemonstrative and, preferably, English. Considered a bonus is the ability to raise hopes of bringing home that elusive Championship, only to pull out, limp, just at the moment of National Orgasm).
Of course, had the 1985 Wimbledon Champion, the 17-year-old Boris Becker, been born in East Germany rather than West, he would not have been considered a glamourous, exciting, Teuton-handsome freak of nature, but instead, a State-sponsored tennis machine, fuelled by repetitive drills and performance-enhancing drugs (although if he had been East German, they’d probably have pumped him full of oestrogen and entered him into the Ladies’ Singles).
At Wimbledon, titles can excuse a lack of personality – hence Bjorn Borg’s popularity – but Lendl never secured the former and was widely perceived to be missing the latter, too. He was the kind of player of whom commentators would repeatedly say: “He’s a funny guy if you get to know him.” On court, however, he was metronomic, mechanical, unloveable – and, crucially, a loser. Seven SW19 semifinals translated to two finals and no tournament victories.
Yet the truth is, Lendl was a pioneer. Considered by most at the time to be among the strongest players in the game, he was perhaps the first to make a rigorous fitness and nutritional regime an integral part of his preparation – something which is taken for granted now, with Rafael Nadal the poster boy for strength and endurance.
On the court, Dan Maskell used to say of Lendl: “He just plants his big feet and whacks it.” Rather than surmising what the Czech was doing while watching the pay-per-view bongo channel in the privacy of his hotel room, Maskell was trying to tell us why Lendl hadn’t (and would never) win Wimbledon. Of course, the comment both overlooked the fact that Lendl was using his devastating inside-out forehand to an unprecedented extent and effect and also failed to foresee that his then-unique modus operandi would go on to become the norm. These days, that forehand is a standard weapon in any good player’s armoury – most notably, that of a certain Swiss.
Perhaps some might blame Lendl for the subsequent paucity of characters in the men’s game and the rise of the machines. But that would be like blaming Hendrix for Hair Metal, or Jack Walker for Roman Abramovich. Besides, why not emulate him? He was, without question, the leading player of his day. His total of eight Grand Slam wins matches Connors’s tally and eclipses that of McEnroe and all his other contemporaries.
On these shores, Lendl’s failure to win Wimbledon counts heavily against him. However Connors, significantly, never won the French (or even reached the final there – and while he did win the US Open when it was a clay court tournament, it was the harder, faster green clay, which bears little relation, as a playing surface, to the European red). McEnroe came up short not only at Roland Garros (where he managed just one final), but also at the Australian, where he only progressed as far as the semis on one occasion, even though it was held on grass until 1987.
Of the other 80s greats, Becker (no French Open title) and Edberg (one final in Paris) won 6 Slams each. Since the early 60s, in men’s tennis only Agassi and Federer have achieved the career Grand Slam. Of his contemporaries, no one got closer to it than Ivan Lendl.
Not only was his Grand Slam record impressive, but his career winning percentage in singles (82%), is the highest in history among those who have played over 1,000 matches and, head-to-head, he boasts a winning record over every significant player of his era, other than Borg (whom he played at the beginning of his own career and at the peak of the Swede’s), Sampras (whom he mostly played well after his peak) and Edberg (for which there is no excuse).
Back in the 80s, Maskell was proven correct. Lendl didn’t have enough at the net to win Wimbledon. But as long ago as 1992 Andre Agassi, a baseliner (albeit a quicker one and a better service returner), won it and within a few short years, as the surface became slower and truer, the hallowed lawns had changed from a beast unlike anything else on the circuit, to the place where hard court and clay court meet – quick enough for Federer, slow enough for Nadal. And perfect for Lendl – it’s just a shame he was a little too far ahead of his time.
Tuesday, June 9, 2009
A week(ish) of sport – Mimitig
There is so much going on at the moment that it is getting very very difficult to keep track.
The weekend just passed saw Roger Federer – the nice, Swiss man – equal Pete Sampras’s (not so nice and definitely not Swiss) record of 14 Grand Slam wins in tennis. Federer now joins a pretty exclusive club of gents who have won each of the Grand Slams – Wimbledon, US Open, Australia and the French Open (I think when I was young that there was also something important in Italy – at the Foro Italico, but we don’t hear of that these days). Swiss Rog received his trophy at Roland Garros from Andre Agassi – the last gent to have done the same. Apparently it was all rather emotional but beautifully done and very nice. So that’s tennis.
On Sunday there was some motorsport. Noticeably none in the Isle of Man – despite this being the first weekend of the TT races, the maverick/predictable weather on the island precluded any racing. Sadly, although the racing will go ahead as soon as conditions allow, last year’s Superbike winner Cameron Donald won’t be competing. A very nasty, and unlucky (hole in field), crash in practice resulted in a dislocated shoulder. Cameron said post-crash that he’d easily do a track race, but admitted that the TT roads are too tough.
Guy Martin, the TT racer and repairer of vans in his working life, has little time for the prima donnas of Formula One: “as for Formula One, Jesus!” See his take on things here
I’ll be following his progress over the next few days and also interested to see what MotoGP legend Valentino Rossi makes of his first (and non-competitive) visit to the island.
I understand Martin’s views on Formula One, but on Sunday there was a race, in Turkey, and the F1 circus pitched up with all it’s public washing of dirty laundry. It is a circus.
However, politics and dirty underwear aside, it remains a globally popular and mightily watched sport and while the race was not hugely exciting – a mistake by pole-sitter Sebastian Vettel on the first lap allowed Jenson Button through. Button then drove magnificently to take an almost lights to flag victory and make it six from seven wins.
He now joins the same sort of exclusive club as Federer. Taking six out of the first seven wins in a season puts Button in the company of Fangio, Jim Clark and some German – what’s his name?
Brawn GP come home in a fortnight to compete at Silverstone – the home of motor racing – probably for the last time. Next year, finance and court-rulings permitting, Donington will take on the job of hosting F1.
In the meantime, after a dream start in the season for Button and Brawn GP, Silverstone will welcome a British hero home. Not the one they thought they would. Last year it was Lewis Hamilton getting the wins and headlines. This year the championship has been turned on it’s head. Button, long written-off by nay-sayers has been proved to be the race-winner many of us had always thought him capable of being, and Hamilton, last year’s media darling has struggled in a dog of a McLaren.
BBC pundit and former Jordan team boss Eddie Jordan has described this season’s McLaren as the worst car they’ve ever designed. While experts and historians might argue that there have been worse, I think Hamilton would agree. He is having the season from hell – perhaps gaining some insight into the seasons from hell that Button has had before the almighty engineering guru who is Ross Brawn hoved into sight for first Honda and now with his own namesake team.
In the wake of British triumph in Turkey, interest, in some homes, has turned to another summer sport.
Cricket. And this is an important summer of cricket for fans. A feeble start for England with a poorly timed and abbreviated series against the West Indies didn’t give much indication of how we would go in the following weeks leading up to the Ashes.
Winning a two Test series and some one-dayers taught us nothing. What is starting to show something now is the World Twenty20.
England lost the opener. Against minnows – the Netherlands. Chaps who have to work for their livings not just play cricket. But after that humiliating defeat, England roared back against Pakistan. Won their way to the Super Eights. As did Ireland. As did NOT the powerhouse of cricket that is Australia.
While England, Ireland and other nations get to hone their skills at the very short version of the game, Australia will be spending the next fortnight in Leicester. No doubt a lovely city, and one that has a very fine cricket ground for the Aussies to get to know very well. One can only hope that the groundsmen will not be open to an Australian dollar and prepare a wicket any way similar to the ones Australia will be playing on during the Ashes.
England fans will no doubt be gloating over Australia’s drubbing by Sri Lanka, but should be minded to remember that there is nothing as dangerous as an angry Aussie with his back against the wall.
It would be so easy to think back to 2005 and see the similarities – Andrew Symonds sent home in disgrace after an “alcohol-related incident” (tick, Cardiff 2005), Australia humiliated in Twenty20 (tick Hampshire 2005), but that was then.
Now England does not have the pace attack we had in 2005, we don’t have a captain with the devious cunning of Michael Vaughan, and we don’t have the devastating weapon and talisman that is Andrew Flintoff.
What we do have is a team that has a wee bit of self-belief (getting through to the Super Eights), a solid captain in Strauss, a fielding demon (Collingwood) and a devious spinner (Swann).
This is enough for England fans to go hopefully into contest against Australia but as a betting woman (which I’m not), I’d put more money on Button winning the World Championship that I would on England winning back the Ashes.
There’s a fest of sport to come this summer. Not just the rest of the World Cup and the Ashes for the cricket.
We have all this week of the TT, We have the rest of the season for MotoGP – all to play for. F1 – go Jense. Wimbledon – can Murray challenge? Will he be a Scot in failure or British when he wins?
The Tour de France starts in a wee bit more than a month – there is real British interest. Cav is going for the Green Jersey, Wiggo will be going for Time Trial wins and stages and there will be a media circus to rival F1 because of Lance Armstrong.
And while I’m thinking about my love of the leather on willow and rubber on tarmac, our boys are in South Africa being lions.
I haven’t given a line to the exploits of our rugby boys – how is Shane holding up against those rhinos of Saffers? I simply don’t know. There is a limit to the number of sports I can keep track of.
Please god someone else here will do the rugby, and will keep us abreast of the transfer window.
All I’ll be doing for the next few weeks is keeping my eye on cricket, cycling, F1, MotoGP and out of the very corner of my eye, tennis.
The weekend just passed saw Roger Federer – the nice, Swiss man – equal Pete Sampras’s (not so nice and definitely not Swiss) record of 14 Grand Slam wins in tennis. Federer now joins a pretty exclusive club of gents who have won each of the Grand Slams – Wimbledon, US Open, Australia and the French Open (I think when I was young that there was also something important in Italy – at the Foro Italico, but we don’t hear of that these days). Swiss Rog received his trophy at Roland Garros from Andre Agassi – the last gent to have done the same. Apparently it was all rather emotional but beautifully done and very nice. So that’s tennis.
On Sunday there was some motorsport. Noticeably none in the Isle of Man – despite this being the first weekend of the TT races, the maverick/predictable weather on the island precluded any racing. Sadly, although the racing will go ahead as soon as conditions allow, last year’s Superbike winner Cameron Donald won’t be competing. A very nasty, and unlucky (hole in field), crash in practice resulted in a dislocated shoulder. Cameron said post-crash that he’d easily do a track race, but admitted that the TT roads are too tough.
Guy Martin, the TT racer and repairer of vans in his working life, has little time for the prima donnas of Formula One: “as for Formula One, Jesus!” See his take on things here
I’ll be following his progress over the next few days and also interested to see what MotoGP legend Valentino Rossi makes of his first (and non-competitive) visit to the island.
I understand Martin’s views on Formula One, but on Sunday there was a race, in Turkey, and the F1 circus pitched up with all it’s public washing of dirty laundry. It is a circus.
However, politics and dirty underwear aside, it remains a globally popular and mightily watched sport and while the race was not hugely exciting – a mistake by pole-sitter Sebastian Vettel on the first lap allowed Jenson Button through. Button then drove magnificently to take an almost lights to flag victory and make it six from seven wins.
He now joins the same sort of exclusive club as Federer. Taking six out of the first seven wins in a season puts Button in the company of Fangio, Jim Clark and some German – what’s his name?
Brawn GP come home in a fortnight to compete at Silverstone – the home of motor racing – probably for the last time. Next year, finance and court-rulings permitting, Donington will take on the job of hosting F1.
In the meantime, after a dream start in the season for Button and Brawn GP, Silverstone will welcome a British hero home. Not the one they thought they would. Last year it was Lewis Hamilton getting the wins and headlines. This year the championship has been turned on it’s head. Button, long written-off by nay-sayers has been proved to be the race-winner many of us had always thought him capable of being, and Hamilton, last year’s media darling has struggled in a dog of a McLaren.
BBC pundit and former Jordan team boss Eddie Jordan has described this season’s McLaren as the worst car they’ve ever designed. While experts and historians might argue that there have been worse, I think Hamilton would agree. He is having the season from hell – perhaps gaining some insight into the seasons from hell that Button has had before the almighty engineering guru who is Ross Brawn hoved into sight for first Honda and now with his own namesake team.
In the wake of British triumph in Turkey, interest, in some homes, has turned to another summer sport.
Cricket. And this is an important summer of cricket for fans. A feeble start for England with a poorly timed and abbreviated series against the West Indies didn’t give much indication of how we would go in the following weeks leading up to the Ashes.
Winning a two Test series and some one-dayers taught us nothing. What is starting to show something now is the World Twenty20.
England lost the opener. Against minnows – the Netherlands. Chaps who have to work for their livings not just play cricket. But after that humiliating defeat, England roared back against Pakistan. Won their way to the Super Eights. As did Ireland. As did NOT the powerhouse of cricket that is Australia.
While England, Ireland and other nations get to hone their skills at the very short version of the game, Australia will be spending the next fortnight in Leicester. No doubt a lovely city, and one that has a very fine cricket ground for the Aussies to get to know very well. One can only hope that the groundsmen will not be open to an Australian dollar and prepare a wicket any way similar to the ones Australia will be playing on during the Ashes.
England fans will no doubt be gloating over Australia’s drubbing by Sri Lanka, but should be minded to remember that there is nothing as dangerous as an angry Aussie with his back against the wall.
It would be so easy to think back to 2005 and see the similarities – Andrew Symonds sent home in disgrace after an “alcohol-related incident” (tick, Cardiff 2005), Australia humiliated in Twenty20 (tick Hampshire 2005), but that was then.
Now England does not have the pace attack we had in 2005, we don’t have a captain with the devious cunning of Michael Vaughan, and we don’t have the devastating weapon and talisman that is Andrew Flintoff.
What we do have is a team that has a wee bit of self-belief (getting through to the Super Eights), a solid captain in Strauss, a fielding demon (Collingwood) and a devious spinner (Swann).
This is enough for England fans to go hopefully into contest against Australia but as a betting woman (which I’m not), I’d put more money on Button winning the World Championship that I would on England winning back the Ashes.
There’s a fest of sport to come this summer. Not just the rest of the World Cup and the Ashes for the cricket.
We have all this week of the TT, We have the rest of the season for MotoGP – all to play for. F1 – go Jense. Wimbledon – can Murray challenge? Will he be a Scot in failure or British when he wins?
The Tour de France starts in a wee bit more than a month – there is real British interest. Cav is going for the Green Jersey, Wiggo will be going for Time Trial wins and stages and there will be a media circus to rival F1 because of Lance Armstrong.
And while I’m thinking about my love of the leather on willow and rubber on tarmac, our boys are in South Africa being lions.
I haven’t given a line to the exploits of our rugby boys – how is Shane holding up against those rhinos of Saffers? I simply don’t know. There is a limit to the number of sports I can keep track of.
Please god someone else here will do the rugby, and will keep us abreast of the transfer window.
All I’ll be doing for the next few weeks is keeping my eye on cricket, cycling, F1, MotoGP and out of the very corner of my eye, tennis.
Tuesday, May 26, 2009
So what did we learn this Premier League season? – Margin
First the world; then England!
People dallied with the early season notion that a fixture pile up and a deficit to make up on Liverpool might count for something. It didn’t. Manchester had the best manager, the best team, and they won an 18th title at a similar canter to the one United employed for the World Club Cup.
Too good to go down.
Tottenham Hotspur have seemingly made a lie of the claim that no side is too good to go down if it plays badly enough. Two points from eight games, and three from nine a match later, should have made relegation a formality. Still languishing well into the New Year they employed some champions league qualifying form, a proven new manager, and surprising depth to their post transfer window squad to secure their top flight status with seventeen points to spare.
Not too good to go down.
Newcastle United have seemingly proven the truth that no side is too good to go down if it plays badly enough. At one time apparently safe under the much hated Joe Kinnear, his dodgy ticker, an inexcusably weak squad, and an unproven but otherwise much loved new manager secured their Championship status with a final day whimper.
What goes up must come down…
…Unless what goes up is from Stoke or Hull. Hull earned almost all of their points before collapsing half way through the season. Stoke muddled through with a bit of bite, some old fashioned launching tactics, and the signing of the season in James Beattie.
What goes up must come down…
…and go up again. And come down again. etc. Poor West Brom must despair that their sensible business planning, cautious but sound transfer dealings, and commitment to play football without cynicism - has made them consistently better than the Championship but never as good as the Premier League.
Arsenal can splash the cash after all.
But apparently only when they are about to lose everything they hold dear. Arshavin was the big money signing that the Gunners need five of to even consider competing with United next season. Alas they only seem willing when one will save them from losing their Champions League gravy-train ticket. Lets hope he doesn’t go the way of Nasri and vanish after an initial glorious impact.
Good manager + time = results.
While Chelsea screw their aging team up by changing managers every time the owner sneezes, Everton and Aston Villa know better. Moyes and O’Neil have been given time to build their teams. They have been allowed set-backs without the sack. And they have been trusted to use their somewhat different budgets as they see fit. They may not have achieved the highest prize in English football, (a top four finish). But they are each the best of the rest.
Things can always get worse.
Blackburn Rovers were much despised for their violent game under Mark Hughes. Their willingness to kick and jab their way through 90 minutes of football each week was barely tolerably despite occasional good passing play. With Big Sam now in place, the passing turned to punting down field, while dirtiest side around kept their reputation and added some rather adept diving to their repertoire.
One thing we didn’t learn.
As yet no one knows quite why the season went on into late May, and how it is we have passed the bank holiday without an FA Cup winner crowned. This campaign had no more games than any other year but has left fans wearily waiting for it all to be over weeks after we normally start spending sunny days with our families. Or at least rainy ones at the cricket.
And one thing we should have learned years ago
While no one should have learned this, I fear many people will have. Roy Hodgson is a phenomenal manager.
Without cheating or gouging or diving or punting, his teams have always thrived, except of course when they haven’t been given time to. A low injury rate at a club that year after year sells prized assets and never goes down, he has taken Fulham to Europe where many a foreign fan will see his name listed and knowingly recognise a tough team to beat.
People dallied with the early season notion that a fixture pile up and a deficit to make up on Liverpool might count for something. It didn’t. Manchester had the best manager, the best team, and they won an 18th title at a similar canter to the one United employed for the World Club Cup.
Too good to go down.
Tottenham Hotspur have seemingly made a lie of the claim that no side is too good to go down if it plays badly enough. Two points from eight games, and three from nine a match later, should have made relegation a formality. Still languishing well into the New Year they employed some champions league qualifying form, a proven new manager, and surprising depth to their post transfer window squad to secure their top flight status with seventeen points to spare.
Not too good to go down.
Newcastle United have seemingly proven the truth that no side is too good to go down if it plays badly enough. At one time apparently safe under the much hated Joe Kinnear, his dodgy ticker, an inexcusably weak squad, and an unproven but otherwise much loved new manager secured their Championship status with a final day whimper.
What goes up must come down…
…Unless what goes up is from Stoke or Hull. Hull earned almost all of their points before collapsing half way through the season. Stoke muddled through with a bit of bite, some old fashioned launching tactics, and the signing of the season in James Beattie.
What goes up must come down…
…and go up again. And come down again. etc. Poor West Brom must despair that their sensible business planning, cautious but sound transfer dealings, and commitment to play football without cynicism - has made them consistently better than the Championship but never as good as the Premier League.
Arsenal can splash the cash after all.
But apparently only when they are about to lose everything they hold dear. Arshavin was the big money signing that the Gunners need five of to even consider competing with United next season. Alas they only seem willing when one will save them from losing their Champions League gravy-train ticket. Lets hope he doesn’t go the way of Nasri and vanish after an initial glorious impact.
Good manager + time = results.
While Chelsea screw their aging team up by changing managers every time the owner sneezes, Everton and Aston Villa know better. Moyes and O’Neil have been given time to build their teams. They have been allowed set-backs without the sack. And they have been trusted to use their somewhat different budgets as they see fit. They may not have achieved the highest prize in English football, (a top four finish). But they are each the best of the rest.
Things can always get worse.
Blackburn Rovers were much despised for their violent game under Mark Hughes. Their willingness to kick and jab their way through 90 minutes of football each week was barely tolerably despite occasional good passing play. With Big Sam now in place, the passing turned to punting down field, while dirtiest side around kept their reputation and added some rather adept diving to their repertoire.
One thing we didn’t learn.
As yet no one knows quite why the season went on into late May, and how it is we have passed the bank holiday without an FA Cup winner crowned. This campaign had no more games than any other year but has left fans wearily waiting for it all to be over weeks after we normally start spending sunny days with our families. Or at least rainy ones at the cricket.
And one thing we should have learned years ago
While no one should have learned this, I fear many people will have. Roy Hodgson is a phenomenal manager.
Without cheating or gouging or diving or punting, his teams have always thrived, except of course when they haven’t been given time to. A low injury rate at a club that year after year sells prized assets and never goes down, he has taken Fulham to Europe where many a foreign fan will see his name listed and knowingly recognise a tough team to beat.
Wednesday, May 20, 2009
Managing the game away – Margin
As the football season finally creeps to its infuriatingly late conclusion, there is growing support for a return to a fairer league structure and wider distribution of television and sponsorship money. Sadly though, this comes at a ludicrous price.
With May now almost over the people who run football can soon cast off the irritating distraction of fans and football so as to discuss what really matters. Money! As such this is a dangerous time for fans. The 39th Game was shelved not binned last year, but for now we face another threat.
New proposals would see the Premier League extended to two divisions. This would create something akin to the historic English league that presently languishes in the third and fourth tier of our national game. Alone it is a positive suggestion and might even set a trend that returns us to the simple unified four division league structure of days gone by.
However, while there is even political pressure from Parliament for better distribution of wealth within the game, this move is attached to an awful idea that should be blocked. You see, for some god-awful reason that has been adequately explained to absolutely no one, the change would include the loss of over 100 matches per season for the affected clubs.
This is not a joke. This is not a flippant remark meant to raise a smirk about the silly ideas that men with money come out with. This is a serious proposal. You see, the Premier League would be expanded to include 36 teams across two divisions.
That would mean each top flight team loses four matches, while a whopping twelve games are taken from each second tier side.
This is clearly an awful idea. Football is very very popular. Fans like watching their team play football matches. And most of the money that clubs make comes directly or indirectly from playing football.
Yet despite all that, most of the clubs concerned may approve of the move.
Among the 36 clubs involved there are sixteen who arrive at the table as non-Premier League teams. For them any chance to climb aboard the greatest money-spinning gravy train in world sport would be embraced at almost any price.
Then there are thirteen of the top-flight twenty who have at some stage experienced life outside of the Premier League. They understandably fear that fate returning one day. As such most, if not all, would welcome the safety net of a second tier of Premier League cash. Indeed their anxieties will be all the more acute right now after seeing recent top flight regulars Charlton and Southampton financially imperilled and plunging into the third tier this season.
And so to the permanent members of the Premier League.
The present top eight, excluding Fulham in seventh, make up the permanent members of the Premier League. And they don’t see relegation as a serious concern. Indeed this season has shown why. Spurs suffered the worst ever start to a Premier League season. They were still bottom three weeks into the January transfer window. Yet few expected they would go down. They splashed the cash, bought in a good manager, and they may yet qualify for Europe.
These teams have no interest in the second tier of English football unless a gem of a youngster turns up there. Indeed they somewhat resent sharing TV and sponsorship money with the rest of the current Premier League. Only Newcastle United among the rest can compete with them for interest among television audiences. Adding a lot more little watched sides will not drive up commercial contracts very far. But it will mean spreading the cash more thinly.
Of course we should not ignore the years of whining from Fergusson, Wenger and numerous less lasting managers about there being too much football in England. They have complained long and hard that what football needs is less football. Apparently players tire and clubs can’t compete in Europe while playing in three domestic competitions.
Fortunately that argument is defunct.
The Premier League once had 22 teams, not 20. FA Cup ties could run to countless replays rather than jump to penalties after 120 minutes. The league Cup had rounds with two legs and even required teams playing in Europe to start in round two rather than round three. Football has been more than adequately cut now and everyone knows it, especially after Manchester United’s expansive and successful year.
Instead those top clubs will note that they sell out of high priced tickets regularly, and that the loss of two home games would cost millions in lost revenue.
So it seems that those seven clubs, which form something of a ruling minority within the game, should block proposals for all the wrong reasons. And that is a good thing. Not because fans don’t want a fairer league format, but because we love football and don’t deserve to have yet more of it taken away from us.
With May now almost over the people who run football can soon cast off the irritating distraction of fans and football so as to discuss what really matters. Money! As such this is a dangerous time for fans. The 39th Game was shelved not binned last year, but for now we face another threat.
New proposals would see the Premier League extended to two divisions. This would create something akin to the historic English league that presently languishes in the third and fourth tier of our national game. Alone it is a positive suggestion and might even set a trend that returns us to the simple unified four division league structure of days gone by.
However, while there is even political pressure from Parliament for better distribution of wealth within the game, this move is attached to an awful idea that should be blocked. You see, for some god-awful reason that has been adequately explained to absolutely no one, the change would include the loss of over 100 matches per season for the affected clubs.
This is not a joke. This is not a flippant remark meant to raise a smirk about the silly ideas that men with money come out with. This is a serious proposal. You see, the Premier League would be expanded to include 36 teams across two divisions.
That would mean each top flight team loses four matches, while a whopping twelve games are taken from each second tier side.
This is clearly an awful idea. Football is very very popular. Fans like watching their team play football matches. And most of the money that clubs make comes directly or indirectly from playing football.
Yet despite all that, most of the clubs concerned may approve of the move.
Among the 36 clubs involved there are sixteen who arrive at the table as non-Premier League teams. For them any chance to climb aboard the greatest money-spinning gravy train in world sport would be embraced at almost any price.
Then there are thirteen of the top-flight twenty who have at some stage experienced life outside of the Premier League. They understandably fear that fate returning one day. As such most, if not all, would welcome the safety net of a second tier of Premier League cash. Indeed their anxieties will be all the more acute right now after seeing recent top flight regulars Charlton and Southampton financially imperilled and plunging into the third tier this season.
And so to the permanent members of the Premier League.
The present top eight, excluding Fulham in seventh, make up the permanent members of the Premier League. And they don’t see relegation as a serious concern. Indeed this season has shown why. Spurs suffered the worst ever start to a Premier League season. They were still bottom three weeks into the January transfer window. Yet few expected they would go down. They splashed the cash, bought in a good manager, and they may yet qualify for Europe.
These teams have no interest in the second tier of English football unless a gem of a youngster turns up there. Indeed they somewhat resent sharing TV and sponsorship money with the rest of the current Premier League. Only Newcastle United among the rest can compete with them for interest among television audiences. Adding a lot more little watched sides will not drive up commercial contracts very far. But it will mean spreading the cash more thinly.
Of course we should not ignore the years of whining from Fergusson, Wenger and numerous less lasting managers about there being too much football in England. They have complained long and hard that what football needs is less football. Apparently players tire and clubs can’t compete in Europe while playing in three domestic competitions.
Fortunately that argument is defunct.
The Premier League once had 22 teams, not 20. FA Cup ties could run to countless replays rather than jump to penalties after 120 minutes. The league Cup had rounds with two legs and even required teams playing in Europe to start in round two rather than round three. Football has been more than adequately cut now and everyone knows it, especially after Manchester United’s expansive and successful year.
Instead those top clubs will note that they sell out of high priced tickets regularly, and that the loss of two home games would cost millions in lost revenue.
So it seems that those seven clubs, which form something of a ruling minority within the game, should block proposals for all the wrong reasons. And that is a good thing. Not because fans don’t want a fairer league format, but because we love football and don’t deserve to have yet more of it taken away from us.
Tuesday, May 19, 2009
Test cricket can be boring, and England defeats depressing, but I’m always glad it exists - Wooley
The size of the crowds has been far more worthy of mention than the cricket on display at the Riverside this week. A mediocre England side faced a dispirited West Indies on a wicket sapped of any life, as the Durham board tried to guarantee five days of advertising revenue, and in the process ensured that whatever happened in between those ad breaks resembled cricket in only the loosest possible sense.
I won't test your patience by explaining at length why the ECB needs to ensure pitches conspire to provide some element of a contest, or why £30-£60 is too much to charge someone to sit in the open air and have the skin on their face eroded by fearsome gales. If the ECB loses money on this game, they only have themselves to blame - contempt for one‘s audience has rarely scaled to these heights since Lou Reed made his fans pay for ‘Metal Machine Music‘.
Anyone who attended the Riverside on Friday, only to sit through hours and hours of lashing rainfall (at least those of us watching in our local pub got to enjoy ‘highlights’ of an equally dull 2007 version of this fixture on Sky Sports) can console themselves with one thought - at least they weren’t at Lords. I say this having turned up for the season opener at the self-styled cradle of cricket a month or so ago, fully aware that sitting and watching the rain fall was a distinct possibility, and was told that no refunds would be offered for lost play. The MCC believe, even when you watch no cricket at all, that the mere use of their plastic seats for an afternoon merits a £15 charge.
And yet I love test cricket. Its sad to think that through mismanagement, arrogance and over-indulgence, the five-day game may genuinely be under-threat. Was it really only five years ago that England won seven consecutive home tests in front of packed houses? Was it only ten years ago when sell out crowds were a given, even to watch England (about to be ranked the worst team in the world) lose to New Zealand (the team relieved of that dubious honour)?
When the music paper Melody Maker closed earlier in the decade, John Peel observed that it was something he felt an enlightened Government should preserve, if only for the good it had done in the past. I feel the same about test matches.
It has actually been a while since I last watched test match cricket in the flesh. I have always meant to take this activity up again, but for various reasons not unrelated to the size of my student debt, I haven’t cheered England on in person since 2001. In fact by splitting the cost of a ‘member and friend’ two-person season ticket for the St Lawrence Ground, I have spent less to watch the entire 2009 season of country cricket than some spent watching Alastair Cook nudge his way to three figures on Thursday.
Frankly, Andrew Strauss might be quite glad of that as in the past I’ve hardly been a good luck charm. Although England had already lost the 2001 Ashes by the time I decided to go to the Oval test, some pride had been rescued as Mark Butcher’s impish 173 not out inspired a fourth-innings run chase at Headingley . And besides, this was the venue where Phil Tufnell had shuffled in to take eleven Australian wickets four years earlier.
This time, alas, he was playing in what was to be his final test and was tonked for 174 runs out of an Australian total of over 600. On the final day, however, I was still confident that England (who had made over 400 themselves on first innings) would bat out for the draw. Ramprakash was in form having scored a hundred in the first innings, and he would surely see us through. He didn’t, of course. As Aristotle once wrote, when Ramprakash be top scorer, defeat shall surely follow. McGrath and Warne saw to it that the wise old owl wasn’t wrong, and we were in the car and on the way home by mid-afternoon.
Why was I so optimistic? Madness is the only possible answer. After all, two years earlier, in 1999, I turned up to the Oval expecting England to salvage their reputations and chase down a challenging (but not that challenging) total on the final day of the summer’s last test. Instead, as soon as Atherton and Thorpe were out, England meekly rolled over.
Some of you will remember this game as the one which ended with a baying mob of angry England fans booing Nasser Hussain as he was interviewed by Channel 4 on the balcony. I’d like to say that I was part of that mob (bit of history and all that), but the truth is that we were so let down that we’d already packed the thermos and sandwich-cooler into the car boot and were negotiating the Kennington traffic.
And yet, on both occasions I enjoyed the test match experience. Mexican waves were embraced, overpriced burgers were consumed and fawning, uncritical programme notes were read. There was even good natured banter with opposition fans (something you’re not likely to enjoy watching England at Wembley or Twickenham), and an Australian couple even passed round a selection of cheeses to console our spirits.
Of course, despite the prospect of pass-the-cheeseboard, the rowdy test match crowd is not a place for those of a more delicate disposition. A couple in front of me sipped Champagne throughout the day’s play, placated their very, very bored offspring and, after lunch, announced to the friends they’d bought a Surrey membership simply so that ‘we can sit in the Pavilion when we come to the Test next year’. I suppose, for some people, even a cheeseboard does not console one from having to sit near a fat man sunbathing with his top off.
A test match ground is also not the place to be if you want to watch the cricket. The best place for that, obviously, is at home, where you see the day’s play in intricate detail on television. So why do we come? Sometimes, its impossible to say. Yet, if someone now offered me the chance to attend a test this summer, I would probably go . Although, having said that, in my ticket-less state, I’m glad that the £60 I don’t really have, I still don’t have, rather than having even less than that.
You may have noticed that I’ve yet to mention the obvious elephant in the room - Twenty 20 and, specifically, the Indian Premier League. Surely, these don’t need to be a threat to test cricket. The presumption that cricket fans are going to choose to watch the Indian domestic league ahead of their own teams is not grounded in fact. Given that there has been room for six home tests and ten one-day internationals each summer since 1998, there is room for both tests and shorter games now.
India loves cricket, probably more even than England loves football, and has been crying out for a genuinely competitive domestic format, which they now finally have (although hosting the event in South Africa every time they hold a general election is surely unsustainable). The Indian board want to earn as much as they can, and clearly have an eye on football Premier League television revenues. The players, too, are eager to earn as much as they can, and clearly have their eye on Premier League salaries.
But will the IPL organisers be stupid enough to pay future Kevin Pietersens so much before they know for certain they will help their teams win? I doubt it. Chris Gayle may wish he was still in South Africa, but I’m sure Owais Shah (whose stint as a non-player on the IPL bench cost him his England place) hopes he will never have to go back.
I haven’t been watching the IPL, for two reasons. First, its on Setanta, which I don’t have . And second, it’s the Indian league - I’m from Kent. To enjoy sport, I need to care who wins. I want to have my mood lifted when my team wins and to be able to act like a spoilt primary school pupil when it doesn’t (that’s part of the fun). I’m sure the IPL is high quality, and I’m sure that the players are taking it seriously, but (much as was the case when I watched Real Madrid v Barcelona or Inter v AC Milan), the obvious talent on display didn’t mean that the results of the games actually mattered to me. But, I’m glad for the Indian fans, who will care, and deserve a reward like the IPL for decades of rampant enthusiasm.
Back in England I’m hoping (just like like Premier League season ticket holders pray that Scudamore doesn’t move the key fixture deciding their season to Bahrain) that clear heads prevail within the ECB. Cricket fans want test cricket to survive, cricket boards want test cricket to survive, cricket journalists want test cricket to survive and (give or take the odd big-hitting all-rounder) players want test cricket to survive.
To finish, I’ll quote Gideon Haigh (just as I did in my last article, but then he remains the finest of all writers on the game, and he has a new book out, which you should buy) - “the same boneheads who insist that they must ‘give the people what they want’ are seldom if ever around when the people actually want something”.
We all want test cricket to survive. If it doesn’t, Giles Clark and Latit Modi will have a lot to answer for.
I won't test your patience by explaining at length why the ECB needs to ensure pitches conspire to provide some element of a contest, or why £30-£60 is too much to charge someone to sit in the open air and have the skin on their face eroded by fearsome gales. If the ECB loses money on this game, they only have themselves to blame - contempt for one‘s audience has rarely scaled to these heights since Lou Reed made his fans pay for ‘Metal Machine Music‘.
Anyone who attended the Riverside on Friday, only to sit through hours and hours of lashing rainfall (at least those of us watching in our local pub got to enjoy ‘highlights’ of an equally dull 2007 version of this fixture on Sky Sports) can console themselves with one thought - at least they weren’t at Lords. I say this having turned up for the season opener at the self-styled cradle of cricket a month or so ago, fully aware that sitting and watching the rain fall was a distinct possibility, and was told that no refunds would be offered for lost play. The MCC believe, even when you watch no cricket at all, that the mere use of their plastic seats for an afternoon merits a £15 charge.
And yet I love test cricket. Its sad to think that through mismanagement, arrogance and over-indulgence, the five-day game may genuinely be under-threat. Was it really only five years ago that England won seven consecutive home tests in front of packed houses? Was it only ten years ago when sell out crowds were a given, even to watch England (about to be ranked the worst team in the world) lose to New Zealand (the team relieved of that dubious honour)?
When the music paper Melody Maker closed earlier in the decade, John Peel observed that it was something he felt an enlightened Government should preserve, if only for the good it had done in the past. I feel the same about test matches.
It has actually been a while since I last watched test match cricket in the flesh. I have always meant to take this activity up again, but for various reasons not unrelated to the size of my student debt, I haven’t cheered England on in person since 2001. In fact by splitting the cost of a ‘member and friend’ two-person season ticket for the St Lawrence Ground, I have spent less to watch the entire 2009 season of country cricket than some spent watching Alastair Cook nudge his way to three figures on Thursday.
Frankly, Andrew Strauss might be quite glad of that as in the past I’ve hardly been a good luck charm. Although England had already lost the 2001 Ashes by the time I decided to go to the Oval test, some pride had been rescued as Mark Butcher’s impish 173 not out inspired a fourth-innings run chase at Headingley . And besides, this was the venue where Phil Tufnell had shuffled in to take eleven Australian wickets four years earlier.
This time, alas, he was playing in what was to be his final test and was tonked for 174 runs out of an Australian total of over 600. On the final day, however, I was still confident that England (who had made over 400 themselves on first innings) would bat out for the draw. Ramprakash was in form having scored a hundred in the first innings, and he would surely see us through. He didn’t, of course. As Aristotle once wrote, when Ramprakash be top scorer, defeat shall surely follow. McGrath and Warne saw to it that the wise old owl wasn’t wrong, and we were in the car and on the way home by mid-afternoon.
Why was I so optimistic? Madness is the only possible answer. After all, two years earlier, in 1999, I turned up to the Oval expecting England to salvage their reputations and chase down a challenging (but not that challenging) total on the final day of the summer’s last test. Instead, as soon as Atherton and Thorpe were out, England meekly rolled over.
Some of you will remember this game as the one which ended with a baying mob of angry England fans booing Nasser Hussain as he was interviewed by Channel 4 on the balcony. I’d like to say that I was part of that mob (bit of history and all that), but the truth is that we were so let down that we’d already packed the thermos and sandwich-cooler into the car boot and were negotiating the Kennington traffic.
And yet, on both occasions I enjoyed the test match experience. Mexican waves were embraced, overpriced burgers were consumed and fawning, uncritical programme notes were read. There was even good natured banter with opposition fans (something you’re not likely to enjoy watching England at Wembley or Twickenham), and an Australian couple even passed round a selection of cheeses to console our spirits.
Of course, despite the prospect of pass-the-cheeseboard, the rowdy test match crowd is not a place for those of a more delicate disposition. A couple in front of me sipped Champagne throughout the day’s play, placated their very, very bored offspring and, after lunch, announced to the friends they’d bought a Surrey membership simply so that ‘we can sit in the Pavilion when we come to the Test next year’. I suppose, for some people, even a cheeseboard does not console one from having to sit near a fat man sunbathing with his top off.
A test match ground is also not the place to be if you want to watch the cricket. The best place for that, obviously, is at home, where you see the day’s play in intricate detail on television. So why do we come? Sometimes, its impossible to say. Yet, if someone now offered me the chance to attend a test this summer, I would probably go . Although, having said that, in my ticket-less state, I’m glad that the £60 I don’t really have, I still don’t have, rather than having even less than that.
You may have noticed that I’ve yet to mention the obvious elephant in the room - Twenty 20 and, specifically, the Indian Premier League. Surely, these don’t need to be a threat to test cricket. The presumption that cricket fans are going to choose to watch the Indian domestic league ahead of their own teams is not grounded in fact. Given that there has been room for six home tests and ten one-day internationals each summer since 1998, there is room for both tests and shorter games now.
India loves cricket, probably more even than England loves football, and has been crying out for a genuinely competitive domestic format, which they now finally have (although hosting the event in South Africa every time they hold a general election is surely unsustainable). The Indian board want to earn as much as they can, and clearly have an eye on football Premier League television revenues. The players, too, are eager to earn as much as they can, and clearly have their eye on Premier League salaries.
But will the IPL organisers be stupid enough to pay future Kevin Pietersens so much before they know for certain they will help their teams win? I doubt it. Chris Gayle may wish he was still in South Africa, but I’m sure Owais Shah (whose stint as a non-player on the IPL bench cost him his England place) hopes he will never have to go back.
I haven’t been watching the IPL, for two reasons. First, its on Setanta, which I don’t have . And second, it’s the Indian league - I’m from Kent. To enjoy sport, I need to care who wins. I want to have my mood lifted when my team wins and to be able to act like a spoilt primary school pupil when it doesn’t (that’s part of the fun). I’m sure the IPL is high quality, and I’m sure that the players are taking it seriously, but (much as was the case when I watched Real Madrid v Barcelona or Inter v AC Milan), the obvious talent on display didn’t mean that the results of the games actually mattered to me. But, I’m glad for the Indian fans, who will care, and deserve a reward like the IPL for decades of rampant enthusiasm.
Back in England I’m hoping (just like like Premier League season ticket holders pray that Scudamore doesn’t move the key fixture deciding their season to Bahrain) that clear heads prevail within the ECB. Cricket fans want test cricket to survive, cricket boards want test cricket to survive, cricket journalists want test cricket to survive and (give or take the odd big-hitting all-rounder) players want test cricket to survive.
To finish, I’ll quote Gideon Haigh (just as I did in my last article, but then he remains the finest of all writers on the game, and he has a new book out, which you should buy) - “the same boneheads who insist that they must ‘give the people what they want’ are seldom if ever around when the people actually want something”.
We all want test cricket to survive. If it doesn’t, Giles Clark and Latit Modi will have a lot to answer for.
Monday, May 11, 2009
Excitement in Spain – by mimitig
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.
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.
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.
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