The name Serena literally translates as The Peaceful One – not, as one of it’s more notorious owners fondly imagines, The Earful One.
The truly appalling, there is no other word for it, display by Serena Williams at the US Open will haunt tennis forever.
Do not, at your peril, compare it to the amusing antics of Mcenroe or Nastase. Williams took it to another level – there was a menace, an evil intent about her attack on the line judge, which went beyond an emotional outburst. Under pressure, she had reverted to type. She looks evil, she plays evilly, and when push came to shove she revealed herself in her true colours – an evil woman so out of place in a genteel sport, even in this day and age of grunters and munters.
If the tennis authorities do not carry out the ultimate sanction – she should be banned for life from pro tennis – then they are in effect endorsing it, and as such we will breed generation after generation of violently abusive tennis players who will push the envelope further and further until one carries a gun on court and blows away a hapless umpire or errant ball girl.
To her credit, I think it was a moment of madness born out of the absolute will to win – once the issue had been resolved, and the match lost, she departed with a minimum of fuss, pausing only to congratulate the bemused Clijsters. That in itself may the most damning evidence of all – her tacit acknowledgement that she had crossed the boundary.
Clijsters went on to cap a fairytale comeback by winning the tournament, but unless Williams is ejected from the game forthwith, I suspect it is her behaviour which we will remember for years to come, as we stand appalled by its legacy.
Tuesday, September 15, 2009
On another poor decision
The decision by Andrew Freelance-Flintoff to reject a central contract, and instead tout his wares to the highest bidder, is a significant one for cricket.
In deciding to become a hired gun, Freddie has done no more than indicate that his playing days are numbered, doubtless because his injuries are worse than we know, and he intends to milk what dollars he can out of the Delhi Daredevils, Lashmipur Longdrops or whoever before he ends up in a wheelchair.
We should not castigate him for this, instead remembering how he has soldiered manfully through his career to bear an England workload of immense proportions.
But we should be frightened, very frightened indeed. Because lots of promising all-rounders to whom Old Freelance is something of a guiding beacon may well follow his example and become the latter day Ronin of the cricketing world, masterless men who ply their trade wherever they can.
The likes of Luke Wright, Ravi Bopara and even Stuart Broad could well be lost to England. NZ rugby has already experienced this phenomenon – play a few games for the All Blacks, up your worth then sod off to the highest dollar in Europe. It’s a national pandemic, sadly, but amusingly keeps them from winning the world cup on a quadrannual basis.
But heaven forbid it should happen to English cricket. We can lose a world cup without this sort of hoohah. So I think the answer is clear – the MCC should dispatch a hit squad – old Deadly Derek himself could lead it, and quietly bring an end to the sorry Freddie saga – they could use a poisoned pedalo – which would send a quiet but firm message to budding all-rounders – play for England or you get it.
In deciding to become a hired gun, Freddie has done no more than indicate that his playing days are numbered, doubtless because his injuries are worse than we know, and he intends to milk what dollars he can out of the Delhi Daredevils, Lashmipur Longdrops or whoever before he ends up in a wheelchair.
We should not castigate him for this, instead remembering how he has soldiered manfully through his career to bear an England workload of immense proportions.
But we should be frightened, very frightened indeed. Because lots of promising all-rounders to whom Old Freelance is something of a guiding beacon may well follow his example and become the latter day Ronin of the cricketing world, masterless men who ply their trade wherever they can.
The likes of Luke Wright, Ravi Bopara and even Stuart Broad could well be lost to England. NZ rugby has already experienced this phenomenon – play a few games for the All Blacks, up your worth then sod off to the highest dollar in Europe. It’s a national pandemic, sadly, but amusingly keeps them from winning the world cup on a quadrannual basis.
But heaven forbid it should happen to English cricket. We can lose a world cup without this sort of hoohah. So I think the answer is clear – the MCC should dispatch a hit squad – old Deadly Derek himself could lead it, and quietly bring an end to the sorry Freddie saga – they could use a poisoned pedalo – which would send a quiet but firm message to budding all-rounders – play for England or you get it.
Tuesday, August 25, 2009
On a seemingly Pyrrhic victory
You did it! You did it! You said that you would do it, And indeed you did. I thought that you would rue it; I doubted you'd do it. But now I must admit it That succeed you did. You should get a medal Or be even made a knight.
Lyrics to the song "You did it", from My Fair Lady.
And indeed they did do it, although not quite in the manner of 2005. There is something a little hollow about this Ashes victory. Perhaps it need a mountainous performance from Freddie in the final test to make it truly the stuff of legend. But nonetheless they did it, so well done.
Lyrics to the song "You did it", from My Fair Lady.
And indeed they did do it, although not quite in the manner of 2005. There is something a little hollow about this Ashes victory. Perhaps it need a mountainous performance from Freddie in the final test to make it truly the stuff of legend. But nonetheless they did it, so well done.
Saturday, August 22, 2009
On the All Blacks and referees
You have to admire the All Black. Through gritted teeth, perhaps, but they can be the most obdurate of teams, albeit when it matters least. Last night’s victory over a hapless Australian side, shorn of it’s inspirational leader Mortlock, and during the match of most of it’s quality backs, was not a pretty affair. Nor was it compelling for any reason other than its closeness.
The delight on the faces of both players and coaching team spoke volumes. The great escape had nothing on this. Inept handling, forward passing en masse, and a clear lack of game plan made for a messy spectacle. The northern hemisphere teams must be licking their lips in anticipation of a reverse grand slam come the end of season tour at this rate.
Am I alone in being sick to the gills of the sight of Riche McCaught-Cheating bleating at the referee? We all know that every match played by the ABs is against 16 men, the opposition ranks being swelled by the ref, but there must come a point when the IRB put in their false teeth and outlaw this soccer style interrogation of every decision.
For those of us privileged enough to enjoy the kiwi commentators, each blast of the whistle is accompanies by a post mortem, which generally finds in favour of pro All Black decisions, but opposes those which themselves oppose their team. It’s great fun to listen to – we play a game where you have to take a drink each time the ref gets it wrong – usually most of us are unconscious well before half time.
Which means we don’t have to listen to them for all that long!
The delight on the faces of both players and coaching team spoke volumes. The great escape had nothing on this. Inept handling, forward passing en masse, and a clear lack of game plan made for a messy spectacle. The northern hemisphere teams must be licking their lips in anticipation of a reverse grand slam come the end of season tour at this rate.
Am I alone in being sick to the gills of the sight of Riche McCaught-Cheating bleating at the referee? We all know that every match played by the ABs is against 16 men, the opposition ranks being swelled by the ref, but there must come a point when the IRB put in their false teeth and outlaw this soccer style interrogation of every decision.
For those of us privileged enough to enjoy the kiwi commentators, each blast of the whistle is accompanies by a post mortem, which generally finds in favour of pro All Black decisions, but opposes those which themselves oppose their team. It’s great fun to listen to – we play a game where you have to take a drink each time the ref gets it wrong – usually most of us are unconscious well before half time.
Which means we don’t have to listen to them for all that long!
On the path to glory
Trott cantered to a ton, Swan galloped to 50, and England appeared to walk the walk just when it mattered most.
In golf they call day 3 moving day. Day 3 at the Oval saw England move into a seemingly unassailable position. Seemingly. 80-0 at the close has just the tiniest hint of ominous possibility about it. It has never been done before, but then they said that about Everest, The South Pole, and Elizabeth the First.
2 days is a long time in cricket, and as we all know, abject capitulation is a sort of surreal, contrived anagram of English cricket. If anyone can throw it away, we can. Step forward Stuart Broad, Andrew Flintoff and Graeme Swan.
Imagine if Flintoff and Broad could breed. What all-rounders they would produce. It wouldn’t take much, a bit of lippy, a couple of squirts of silicone, and a quick chopmecockoffermy performed by one of Harley Street’s most eminent, and I am sure Freddie might find young Broad appealing. The Aussie must be fed up with his appealing, especially on day 2 where he ripped their guts out, for all the world like a cross between a young Barry Manilow and a sabre-toothed tiger!
Just a thought.
So on we go. The double-decker is ready, the Queen is prepared to knight Collingwood, and glory awaits. England expects!
In golf they call day 3 moving day. Day 3 at the Oval saw England move into a seemingly unassailable position. Seemingly. 80-0 at the close has just the tiniest hint of ominous possibility about it. It has never been done before, but then they said that about Everest, The South Pole, and Elizabeth the First.
2 days is a long time in cricket, and as we all know, abject capitulation is a sort of surreal, contrived anagram of English cricket. If anyone can throw it away, we can. Step forward Stuart Broad, Andrew Flintoff and Graeme Swan.
Imagine if Flintoff and Broad could breed. What all-rounders they would produce. It wouldn’t take much, a bit of lippy, a couple of squirts of silicone, and a quick chopmecockoffermy performed by one of Harley Street’s most eminent, and I am sure Freddie might find young Broad appealing. The Aussie must be fed up with his appealing, especially on day 2 where he ripped their guts out, for all the world like a cross between a young Barry Manilow and a sabre-toothed tiger!
Just a thought.
So on we go. The double-decker is ready, the Queen is prepared to knight Collingwood, and glory awaits. England expects!
Tuesday, August 18, 2009
On Fans
When I was a stripling, fans were something that belonged to soccer clubs and AHA. To be a fan, you either had to inhabit the terraces every Saturday afternoon, screaming and yelling abuse at your opposite numbers, while 22 men ponced around with a round ball in front of, which was almost entirely incidental. You also need to fortify yourself beforehand with a great volume of lager and meat pies. The other kind of fan was an eye-make-up wearing, quiff haired bloke in skin-tight jeans trying to look like Morton Harkett. I know. I was one of them.
But you never got fans at cricket, golf or rugby – or athletics or lawn bowls, for that matter. People who went to watch these sports were followers, supporters, ex-players etc. But not fans.
Fans have entered the world of historically more genteel sports as a result of money, SKY TV and greedy administrators, who can see no further than midway along their own snout as it is buried in the trough of revenue.
Fans are people who don’t love the game, but are enticed to follow it through the introduction of world cups, the ruination of the game through so called progressive developments designed to simplify it so that it might appeal to even the most moronic of observers.
“We need more money”, say the money men, so they destroy the sport to make it appealing to people with no empathy for it. Fans are fickle. They are enticed into a sport, lured with false promises, swell the coffers for a while then drift away when they realise they don’t like, or appreciate what they are seeing.
Fans don’t know how to behave – witness the witless Barmy Army. In NZ this week a schoolboy match erupted into a mass brawl involving hundreds of spectators. Examples too numerous to enumerate illustrate this. Fans care only about the result, not the game, or quality of play.
That difference is never better illustrated than by the difference between the fans of Cardiff City, and those who attend Welsh rugby internationals at the Millennium Stadium. At City games, they turn into animals, yet at the rugby, win or lose, Cardiff is a great place to be. And yet many of those who attend both are the same people. They love rugby, and a good game. But they are fans of City.
It is unlikely that any major sport’s administrators will turn their back on fans whilst SKY continues to pump obscene amounts of money into sport. Piped pop musak will accompany the bowlers run up at Lords. Obscene chants will be heard on the 18th green at The Masters. Results at Twickenham will be pre arranged and the matches carefully choreographed – all to keep the fans interested, whilst, lovers of the games, retreat further back into our armchairs, watching the SKY broadcast with the volume down allowing us to listen to the commentary on Radio Five Live.
But you never got fans at cricket, golf or rugby – or athletics or lawn bowls, for that matter. People who went to watch these sports were followers, supporters, ex-players etc. But not fans.
Fans have entered the world of historically more genteel sports as a result of money, SKY TV and greedy administrators, who can see no further than midway along their own snout as it is buried in the trough of revenue.
Fans are people who don’t love the game, but are enticed to follow it through the introduction of world cups, the ruination of the game through so called progressive developments designed to simplify it so that it might appeal to even the most moronic of observers.
“We need more money”, say the money men, so they destroy the sport to make it appealing to people with no empathy for it. Fans are fickle. They are enticed into a sport, lured with false promises, swell the coffers for a while then drift away when they realise they don’t like, or appreciate what they are seeing.
Fans don’t know how to behave – witness the witless Barmy Army. In NZ this week a schoolboy match erupted into a mass brawl involving hundreds of spectators. Examples too numerous to enumerate illustrate this. Fans care only about the result, not the game, or quality of play.
That difference is never better illustrated than by the difference between the fans of Cardiff City, and those who attend Welsh rugby internationals at the Millennium Stadium. At City games, they turn into animals, yet at the rugby, win or lose, Cardiff is a great place to be. And yet many of those who attend both are the same people. They love rugby, and a good game. But they are fans of City.
It is unlikely that any major sport’s administrators will turn their back on fans whilst SKY continues to pump obscene amounts of money into sport. Piped pop musak will accompany the bowlers run up at Lords. Obscene chants will be heard on the 18th green at The Masters. Results at Twickenham will be pre arranged and the matches carefully choreographed – all to keep the fans interested, whilst, lovers of the games, retreat further back into our armchairs, watching the SKY broadcast with the volume down allowing us to listen to the commentary on Radio Five Live.
On the decider
So this is it, then. After 71 holes it all comes down to this. There's no time to be added on, so this kick could seal it either way. Only one more attempt at this height. The drama of the final moment in sport. There's a deathly hush in the close tonight and all that.
Tomorrow commences the final Ashes test - winner takes all, except that for Australia a draw is victory, in that they retain the Ashes.
The English selectors have resisted all call for change, failing to add Ramps, Tresco, Beefy Botham and other popular choices to the squad. Instead they have called up Trott, a South African. If he, and Cook, and Collingwood, and of course Bell fail, then expect calls for changes amongst the selectors. Especially Ashley Giles.
The drama continues. Freddie Flintoff strides onto the test stage for one final throw of the dice, a cricketing Gielgud about his swansong at Stratford. (http://www.telegraph.co.uk/sport/cricket/international/theashes/6030103/The-Ashes-Andrew-Flintoffs-roller-coaster-Test-career-comes-to-an-end.html) Of course Freddie could singlehandedly sort out the global recession, win world war three on his own, and satisfy all the girls of the playboy mansion in a brisk 30 minute shagathon, but can he on his own win the Oval test and the Ashes for England? For Harry and St George?
It should be compelling stuff, enthralling right up the moment that Ponting brings up his ton before lunch on the first day, or when England shrink off the field 77-4 to munch on their cucumber sarnies. There’s a certain inevitability about it.
In many ways an Australian victory will better serve the English public – we can point to the non selection of ageing failures as the reason for defeat, and Ashley Giles will be burnt in effigy in clubs, coal mines and county grounds the length and breadth of Britain. We will unite in adversity.
There, that feels better, doesn’t it.
Tomorrow commences the final Ashes test - winner takes all, except that for Australia a draw is victory, in that they retain the Ashes.
The English selectors have resisted all call for change, failing to add Ramps, Tresco, Beefy Botham and other popular choices to the squad. Instead they have called up Trott, a South African. If he, and Cook, and Collingwood, and of course Bell fail, then expect calls for changes amongst the selectors. Especially Ashley Giles.
The drama continues. Freddie Flintoff strides onto the test stage for one final throw of the dice, a cricketing Gielgud about his swansong at Stratford. (http://www.telegraph.co.uk/sport/cricket/international/theashes/6030103/The-Ashes-Andrew-Flintoffs-roller-coaster-Test-career-comes-to-an-end.html) Of course Freddie could singlehandedly sort out the global recession, win world war three on his own, and satisfy all the girls of the playboy mansion in a brisk 30 minute shagathon, but can he on his own win the Oval test and the Ashes for England? For Harry and St George?
It should be compelling stuff, enthralling right up the moment that Ponting brings up his ton before lunch on the first day, or when England shrink off the field 77-4 to munch on their cucumber sarnies. There’s a certain inevitability about it.
In many ways an Australian victory will better serve the English public – we can point to the non selection of ageing failures as the reason for defeat, and Ashley Giles will be burnt in effigy in clubs, coal mines and county grounds the length and breadth of Britain. We will unite in adversity.
There, that feels better, doesn’t it.
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