On Player Power

The youth of today are a sorry lot. By the youth, I am of course referring to the spoilt, pampered and overpaid individuals that pass for sportsmen in this day and age.

In recent years these sad individuals, whose lives are wrapped in cotton wool, whilst their bank accounts grow forever more bulging, have developed a concept which strikes at the heart of our social problems, a lack of respect for their elders and betters which has manifested itself in the appalling Player Power.

This week we see the demise of Gareth Southgate, Andy Moles from NZ Cricket (you heard it here first) and in all probability Rafa Benitez at Liverpool – hapless victim of the players own shortcomings.

In recent times coaches and managers to many to mention have fallen victim to this inversely vicarious victimisation. If they win, the players cop the credit. If they lose, it’s all the managers fault.

Moles is perhaps the unluckiest of all. He took a shoestring and sealing wax outfit to the Champions Trophy and, albeit with a little help from Younus Khan’s bookie, somehow got them to the final. Now they want rid of him.

If a boxer takes a pounding in the ring (like Stephen Gately), he cannot blame his manager. Is boxing the last true sport, an ironic question when you consider most fights are more fixed than Hanse Cronje’s horoscope.

Cricket, rugby and soccer all suffer from blame the boss syndrome. They are the great team sports, with enormous commercial appeal and, consequently, stuffed to the seams with over paid Maradonnas, sorry, prima donnas.

To manage a group of these individuals, to a man obsessed with their own self serving agendas, may be one of the hardest tasks of all. To be then collectively knifed in the back by them is redolent of Caesar.

Which reminds me.

Once upon a time the great Julius was hosting a tea party for some of his closest friends. After all the food was eaten, all that remained was a tube of smarties.

There were ten remaining, exactly matching the numbers of guests present, so Caesar poured them out onto a plate.

But when it came to his turn, there were none left, and rising to his feet, he turned to the next man and said in an accusing snarl; “Et tu, Brute?”

On the ghastly spectacle of 20/20

The Champions League 20/20. If you exhumed WG Grace, or woke up Ted Dexter after lunch for that matter, and put them on the spot - "What is it", chances are they wouldn't have a clue.

Kerry Packer, on the other hand, doutbless over a game of Texas hold'em with God and St Peter, will be smiling down and saying "that's my baby".

Because that's what it is - the legacy of Packer and his World Cricket Circus. I cannot find it in myself to in any way endorse it.

It's irrelevance is staggering. It's baseball by another name, designed to entertain slack jawed, shifty eyed, unemployable morons, and their teenage mother girlfriends, from the nether regions of the Midlands and Uttar Pradesh.

In fact, I'll go further. It's the sort of thing that undermines sport as we know it.

What will come next? Already, the ghastly spectre of a Test championship has raised it's ugly head. I confidently expect the moneymen at SKY TV to propose 3 aside rugby or KwikGolf as the next big things. "Tiger has just 13 minutes to complete the second 9...."

The sponsors of Test cricket in the UK, nPower, want a return to terrestrial TV. So do I. For all sports. Lower salaries for players, more authority for referees and umpires, and Israeli oranges at half time.