Author: bowlingatvincent

That’s super, Mario… but…

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It’s probably unwise to view Mario as some sort of symbol. After all, this may only lead to what John Lacey so brilliantly termed a ‘new breed of cliche’. One with a Mohican. But so ripe is the rather magnificent (actually) Italian that if I fall headlong into anything on the saccharoidal or sloppy side of all-consuming here I can live with that. He’s great symbol material. He deals in (or seems to deal in) either comic or provocative gestures;  ‘Why always me?’; a firework up the arse (or somewhere); as Robin Hood for Moss Side; via that hair-cut. He’s – on one level, surely? – bloody good value.

It seems the latest peak – or pique, or peek – in the Mario fable concerns his jolting to a halt at the precipice of outright rebellion earlier this week. When his people called off the Premiership quality, division-amplifying case lodged in some degree of fury against his employers, Manchester City. (For those in the dark about this stuff, basically they had fined him for being prodigiously haughty, naughty and individualist… and Mario objected – spicily and via his lawyers.)

So now, we’re into a kind of rumbling peace. A peace where we can only imagine swear words of the most vile Italian nature are being slid like poison letters under hotel bedroom doors. From the Mancini Family to the Balotelli. Meaning that although the lines of mutual contempt are openly drawn, positions are being re-negotiated, in a suitably febrile atmosphere, where the chamber maid gets frisked and the bellboy practically water-boarded. Because they’re both – they’re all! – working for somebody, right?  Arbitration of the most hopelessly hopeless kind has been going on.  And, for now, it’s worked.

After an opening ten minutes which augured well for the silvered bulk of City’s galacticos, Mario played like a total pussy against United. He may not have been alone in that, but this is the key and the catalyst. Worse – he looked like he wasn’t trying. His sulk condemned him – the feeling being that anyone so insensitive as to openly prioritise his own frustrations, for whatever reasons, over the need to beat The Enemy must surely be the worst and most arrogant kind of traitor. This was how his performance – or his withdrawal of labour? – was widely judged. Mancini, to no-one’s surprise, hoiked him early in the second half and Balotelli stomped defiantly but rather pathetically off down the tunnel. You would be hard pushed to find anyone sympathetic.

There are, of course, issues around this Mariocentric Polarisation Thingy. The Love/Hate boogaboog of his Go Home/Out There/Over My Dead Bodyness. Him drawing that attention or deserving it or not. Him bristling against our prejudices as well as our love of the one-off, the natural. Balotelli pushes all kinds of buttons, and like a miscreant child in a lift, he can’t stop. The result is some dizzying but not typically pleasant lurch from bargain basement through Lingerie to a glorious, metro-cosmopolitan summit, whilst his fellow passengers either indulge him or twitch pre-violently. But who, exactly, in this clumpingly predictable and reductive journey is making it ‘all about him?’ Not just us.

Mourinho famously described Mario as ungovernable and I have no doubt part of the texture of his current relationship (with Mancini) is because of the latter’s need to be seen to deal with him. Roberto is a proud and evidently stubborn man too. Crucially perhaps, he still lacks the seal of approval of the wider Brit Footie Public, who view him as a fortunate inheritor rather than a kosher elite-level manager. Thus whilst on the one hand it may be that Roberto wants shot of Mario immediately if not sooner, some genuine attempt to Be The One Who Tamed That Beast may be part of the equation here. That and some real or heavily prompted desire to facilitate the expression of the Balotelli talent. Which is real.

There is resentment in the air. From City fans as well as those who bawl from the sidelines of the affair. Many do not react well to anyone who struts – whether that be a non-hostile, almost non-contact Berbatovian version or the slightly spikier in-a-coiffured-kindofaway favoured by Ronaldo. It smacks quite simply of arrogance. Balotelli, even when so deliciously-brilliantly demonstrating the art of penalty-taking under extreme pressure, fails to avoid the negativity around this particular charge. His nerveless dinks or doinks or passes into the net and subsequent joyless posing tending to evoke roars of animosity outweighing even the Sky Blue cheer. (Speaking personally mind you, they’ve made me laugh.) More seriously, the generality of footiefolks read his loafing about when things ‘just aren’t happening’ as unforgivable. As stuff he can’t get away with in the Prem, anyway. And sadly, a racial angle on all this anti-Mario hoo-haa cannot be ruled out.

Plus money lurks. Because of the news story, we all know now that two weeks wages for this particular City employee constitutes around £340,000. Three hundred and forty thousand pounds! Which he will now pay in fines to City, following his poor disciplinary record. (Incidentally, a swift reckoning up suggests it would take me 28.3 years, on current earnings, to accumulate this amount. Go on, have some fun! Work out your figures!! And then go barf.) Frankly rather weird that Mario’s initial directive to fight the case was surely barely connected to the amount of money – more the amount of slight against his name, his nature, his talent. These things, understandably, he holds precious. But the manner in which he displays this… pride(?) this self-worth(?) undermines him, does it not?

Perceptions around this Balotelli fellah are so loaded up with tribal cares and personal envies and moralistic tosh that no wonder things blur into symbol. Mario as lone warrior; Mario as renegade, inevitably misunderstood genius. Is this, I wonder, how he sees himself?  Standing there alone, in front of that full-length mirror? In his figure hugging designer undies, his arms spread wide, aloft, his face quizzical?

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Ten

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In Wales, people really do carry the notion of flyhalfism around with them. Women have it tucked in the crook of their armpit as they hightail it down to Morrisons, blokes tucked behind their left ear, like a casually stashed but much-anticipated ciggie. It’s all true yaknow – Welsh kids are born knowing who Phil Bennett was – many have been known to jink bewilderingly past the approaching midwife. It’s maybe not the same everywhere, but the Ten is important here.

Just a few minutes ago I read a report effectively linking a certain Jonny of the half-back persuasion to next year’s Lions Tour. Which focussed – well, everything’s relative – the loose pondering I’ve been engaged in for the last hour or two around that subject of flyhalfism, generally. Focussed it and broadened it out, in fact, because… because The Lions can do that, right? But back to Jonny, momentarily.

Until the wise and oft-crocked-but-indestructible one (now of France) intruded, I had been gainfully employed in ruminations of a hypothetical but distinctly Celtic nature. Like who will play Ten for Wales… and then whether Sexton might finish up as Lions playmaker. (Here, sloppily, I nearly wrote ‘god forbid’.) So hang on – let’s leave the (other) Jonny Factor out of this for now – and return to Wales-in-my-arms again.

Rhys Priestland – he of quite possibly relatively seriously damaged self-confidence and now genuinely compromised lower body-part – is out for months. Crocked. Leading to the likely inclusion of Osprey’s Dan Biggar in the Wales set-up for the Six Nations. Whilst Biggar is widely perceived (in Wales) to be currently best equipped to challenge James Hook for the national half-back role, he is unlikely to threaten the Lions squad. Nor is Rhys Patchell, the emerging Blues star, who may have real quality, but remains a non-starter at this level for his lack of years and experience.

Like Priestland, Biggar is capable; looking to direct with a quiet authority rather than too much explosive brilliance. For them both – and perhaps I do mean this as a slight criticism? – Game Management is all. They are not the Magic Men many would like. Hook, on the other hand, has been known to be.

Like Wilkinson, Hook now plies his trade in France. And the sense is that regular starts in the Ten slot for Perpignan are doing him a power of good – why wouldn’t they? Like many of The Gifted before or since, Hook may not always have made an inviolable case for his own inclusion. He’s thrown intercepts; he’s drifted in and out; we can use that word ‘languid’ against him; we’ve wondered often if he has enough of that controlling thing going on. But Hook has danced past folks… he has genuinely created, when before… there was nothing.

Young James could play the kind of off-the-cuff rugby that most international coaches now perennially enthuse about – and then seem to de-bar amongst their backline employees come match day. In few cases does it seem that the liberated approach survives the transition from interview room to pitch. Meaning even in an expansive-game-friendly Wales, Hook became droppable rather than essential.  Moreover he bulked up, he conformed, becoming more like everyone else and less mercurially James.

One view is that he just wasn’t sufficiently favoured or trusted, entirely, to orchestrate. Or that and the fact that he may simply be short of durability in defence, or for the longish haul of a Six Nations or World Cup campaign. Personally, I think the management of James Hook may be amongst the most serious errors committed by the Wales backroom staff over the last six-eight years. If he felt secure enough, wanted enough, I think Hook may have been the man. Now it feels as though he may not even inherit from the stricken Priestland. Gatland will take a close look at Patchell for Wales but Hook may remain in that destabilising limbo whilst Biggar steps in.

So a Wales Ten for the Lions seems unlikely. Over to Ireland.

In the last year Johnny Sexton has usurped the previously untouchable Ronan O’Gara as Ireland’s leading fly-half. He has also been prominent in the three or four year storm that is Leinster Rugby, hoofing them capably towards a state of European dominance. This bone-crunching process has naturally boosted his profile – he seems a quietish sort? – whilst relentlessly exposing him (generally in a good way) to healthy, high-level competition. Thus a relatively slick and uncontested accession of the O’Gara berth in the national side has been achieved – plus an undeniably significant bucket-load of Big Match game-time. Sexton may have much of what Gatland is looking for, given the secure national role and this familiarity with hyper-intensity Heineken hoopla. However. I’m not convinced.

I had a great argument very recently with a passionate Irishman who (dammitt!) pretty much dismantled my objections to Johnny S. He was outraged, frankly, that I suggested the Leinster Ten as a possible liability if called upon for Lions action. When asked to describe exactly his alleged vulnerabilities compared to the other candidates, I could only offer the feeling that Sexton has the capacity to implode… or maybe his kicking does? Which then buggers up the rest. He hasn’t, for me, looked either supremely talented enough or doughty enough to lift either himself or a tight game, when the most searching issues arise. When the psychology of the thing (as well as the meat-and-drink physicality) begins to rumble and rail against his will, what might he manage then? Another hunch? Perhaps I am wrong to doubt him.

To Scotland. And away, swiftly, because they have no credible contender for the post in mind.

England I think have one – Farrell. The slightly more experienced but slightly less durable Flood is edged very narrowly out, I think. Farrell is cool, strong with a relatively mixed game. What he lacks is what Sexton, Priestland, Biggar and perhaps Flood too lack – real dash. Whether this rules him out or in remains to be seen. But he will fight… he has bottle… and a compelling will, I think. Farrell nips in ahead of Sexton for me.

What is maybe most striking in all this is the lack of an obvious candidate; maybe that’s actually a worry for us Lions fans? If all those named above apart from Hook are a shade one-dimensional, where might that leave our hopes in Oz? Head-thumpingly frustrated? When the one thing that the Australians seem to have consistently brought to the rugby party of late is invention in the backs, are we likely to get simply outscored? Will Howley really be able to generate a Wales early 2011-style Brotherhood of Liberation amongst the Lions backs? Or will a phone call go out – it couldn’t, could it – to that other Jonny? The English one.

I have just published an ebook of selected posts, plus substantial new material.  It features an introduction from Paul Mason and kind support from Brian Moore and Paul Hayward of the Daily Telegraph, amongst others. It’s really not bad – and it’s only £2.83!

You can find it on Amazon ebooks, under the title ‘Unweighted – the bowlingatvincent compendium’.  Check it out.

Manc.

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A relatively commercial break –

Back in April, I tried to write about the Manchester derby but got caught in a web of sentiment; something to do with family connections to United and regrets over footie’s slippage into capitalistic mania. I tripped up, maybe, on a foot dangled out for contact, meaning I barely spoke, in my distracted fury, about the game. Having said all that, I did feel there was something true there, so I bunged it – I mean carefully selected it – for inclusion in my ebook.

(If you’re reading on twitter try this link – amzn.to/SSc9To – otherwise, the book’s called Unweighted – the bowlingatvincent compendium. On Amazon ebooks.)

Today’s ‘Title Decider’ – volume 2 or 3? – came around pretty quick, and gives me the opportunity to talk about action on the pitch. Something I will get round to eventually – I promise. After my anthropological warm-up.

So what is it to be Manc, then? A handful of years ago a monsoon of helpful, though not necessarily definitive labels might have bucketed down, under a sky full of thunderous Stone Roses riffs. The bow-legged swagger; the distracting Northern Wit thing – distracting whilst a mate robs your car; the Authentic Footie Obsession. Whilst the Guardian-reading amongst us might pause to reflect on the unacceptable lack of sensitivity mooning out from these caricatures, the rest of us can slurp beer, belch… and carry on with the blog(ging.) Because the truth drinks Stella, right?

Everywhere and everything changes. The city of Manchester has changed… somewhat unremarkably perhaps. Structurally and architecturally. However things are SO-O massively different in the urban psyche here that it may be new species of Manc are emerging, to reflect the maddest and genuinely most transformative ‘development’ in the region – that City football-thing , that Sky Blue usurpation.

Nought to everywhere; nought to somewhere mightier than Manfookin United, canya believe? City – a New City FC suddenly transplanted in. Now suspiciously performance-enhanced as viewed from the Red Side. Absurdly mighty, its largesse looming irresistibly over Fergie’s previously unchallenged dominion. Suddenly, something credible with which to counter-bulldoze, something with greater mass, critically, than Sir Alex’s attacking principles; something bigger, fuller, more extravagant even, than the Scot dictator’s red wine cellar.

Welcome in that zillion quid’s worth of psycho-plaything, melted down into the bustling warrior that is… Yaya Fookin Touré. (Take that ya Red Bass-ted!) Now just the one amongst a platoon of parachuted-in Manc galacticos patrolling the Etihad.

So… pinch yourself and you tell me – how could this all be possible? When we thought the existing scale of the rivalry was about right? When the world had kindof settled for the MCFC Perennial Overshadowment project? Is it just me that finds it head-hurtingly beyond surreal, this latest edit – Madderthaneverchester? Replete as I hope and trust it is with scarred Argie Judas and gorgeously Italian dugout dreamboat puppet. Sky Blues, of course think the current scenario more of a Revengeoftheproperfanschester.

Whichever way we look at it, money – as though blasted at us through an early machine gun – has pinned all of us footiefolks down whilst City swarm relentlessly over. It’s just the Reds are taking the onslaught most front-on. And those faceless überMancs feeding the weapon from er… somewhere well out of Lancashire, actually, really have changed everything. Maybe in an evolutionary way (because we knew that the next instalment of Depressingly Unjust Transformation was coming, right, after Blackburn, after Chelsea?) There has been no surprise, as such – just a series of game-changing purchases.

Now, another Derby.

United – the away team – pick Young, Rooney, Valencia, Van Persie. No doubt believing that City, featuring a strangely out-of-sorts Kompany, can be got at. City – unbeaten at home for the proverbial and now proudly restored Blue Moons – feature Balotelli from the outset, believing (arguably naively) that the Mohicanned One will probably be prepared to stir for the cameras, if not for his manager, in this one.

Fortunately (I think), lack of competent defending – Ferdinand possibly being the honourable exception here – made for a compelling and ultimately nerve-jangling game. Whilst some distance short of a quality spectacle, this was full-blooded and eventful in the full-on derby mode. Alan Hansen – if he dare to take on United’s defensive work – might find plenty to playfully dissect. City’s back four, perhaps with Hansen’s difficulties in mind? – were equally as culpable, however.

A general point or two: whilst it may be true that Evra and Rafael remain United’s first choice fullbacks, they defend poorly – if at all. Rafael charges in impetuously far too often for a top level player and Evra simply doesn’t bother; or that’s how it seems, such is his inability to focus on even the fundamentals of the game once the ball enters the left back zone. Personally, if I was Fergie, I’d look to spend big on three defenders fit for a Champions League challenge in the January window; two fullbacks and a centre-half. Evra and Rafael and possibly the injury-prone Evans are not worthy. But back to the game.

City bossed the opening spell without dazzling; United threw the ball carelessly back at them. Then out of nothing they countered. Rooney – who had been largely absent – scored two breakaway goals, one of them featuring a sublime chest-pass from Van Persie to Young which released the winger down the left. In both cases defending from City was poor. They were accomplices, in fact, to the robbery.

Without gaining any measure of control, United had what should have been an unassailable lead. In both cases Rooney had unthreatened space in which to operate… and in he cashed, with a slightly scuffed shot and an easy side-footer. Mancini fumed.

Late in the first half, the body-language of Silva and Touré did not augur well, and Balotelli still jogged around the periphery. Yet with Aguero looking up for it and the game alarmingly open already, this had the look of a goal-fest. Fifty further minutes without goals seemed unlikely.

Immediately after the break, Evans retired hurt and was replaced by Smalling. Tempting to suggest that this unsettled the United back four but all season long that mob have jostled and harried unconvincingly and critically they have failed to mark; City came back. Tevez came on, to generally inflame things and Zabaleta, very much to his credit, having taken the armband from the retiring Kompany, seemed intent on hauling his club back into contention. (Would that most of his team-mates – half of whom seem to lack any urgent understanding of what communal effort is all about – might follow.)

The Argentine deservedly scored an equaliser when exploiting acres of space on the edge of the penalty box following a corner but again the goal was noteworthy more for amateurish defending rather than some glorious strike. Not that he cared. As the contest went into overtime an unnecessarily sloppy challenge from Tevez gave Van Persie the chance to have the final say. Via a slight deflection, he did.

Sadly the match – which had neither been brutal nor sporting and which was refereed rather leniently by Mr Atkinson – finished amongst controversy. Ferdinand was struck by a coin thrown by irate City fans whilst he celebrated. Tevez should have been red-carded for a crass kick out by the touchline. It was a great win for United, celebrated ingloriously. We, the watching world, left amongst bitterness.

In work, in the city tomorrow, Reds will be smiling smugly. Mancini still lacks a team, Fergie a defence.

Could it really be gone?

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Welsh rugby. How could it be such a pale shadow so alarmingly quickly? After that wonderful World Cup; after that seemingly world-wide groundswell of lurv was drawn to it, by the nature of what they did, in New Zealand. (If you didn’t see, or can’t remember, they lifted the whole tournament, breathing a genuinely friendly fire into its pallid rounds.) They charged and offloaded our expectations, our understandings of what ‘winning rugby’ might be. They – in their fanatically/fascistically brutal/beautiful condition – recaptured something preciously liberated… and hearty… and filled with Gareth Edward’s dive-passes. And in offering it to us, they denied cynicism; they attacked; they welcomed something back. And my god how quickly it’s gone.

The nation is in quiet mourning these dewy mornings. Since Argentina; since Samoa. Since those doubts ate up that freedom. In a land where rugby IS king, there is bound to be ‘discussion’.

I am mildly fascinated in the as yet relatively unaired suspicion that the awesome Polish beastings may yet be packaged up within some argument for the Great Welsh Distraction. As though all that hardcore physical inevitably contributed to a retreat into Gym Bunny Blinkerhood – and failure. Certainly the unfeasible intensity of all that preparation grates with some, who fear some link between cryotherapy (for extending the level of punishment a man might take?) and the inability to naturally play what’s in front of you. Expressivity or power? Is it insightful or just plain daft to imagine the men from the Land of My Fathers make better poets than cyborgs?

Conversations tend not to be as sci-fi marginal as that, but conversations aboundeth. Everywhere I go they talk of team selection (the copper, in the playground)… and Gatland’s absence… and half-backs gone missing. It’s a much talked about unspoken clammed up dagger-to-the-heart secret everyone knows. The team’s gone backwards or sideways, the team’s not the same – the world’s Just Not The Same. It’s dead, or at least the hwyl is – our most precious bit is. And we who feel it, in this screeching valley of quiet, we are suddenly hopeless. We can’t run straight; any of us! We can’t get momentum or we can’t manage the game. All cruelly felt, in the post office or the pub. We who could jink and dance and juggle coal or sheep or yards of Felinfoel, or sing the starlings out the dingletrees cannot, apparently run. Our poetry is lost. This is the blackest, blackest thing.

Injuries. Wales lose two or three (Joneses? Byrne? Lydiate? Davies?) and the pool is exposed. Priestland dips and the relative ordinariness of Priestlandhood, the non-PhilBennetflyhalfness of Priestland becomes vulnerable. And with it, the whole of Wales. Phillips struts too much and darts too little and the principality shrinks before us. Or worse – before everyone. That whole punching-above-our-weight-thing deflates itself. It’s a fine line. Ryan Jones in and out. Warburton leader or no? Fine.

After the sound beating by the Pumas, the National Mood booked in for a once-over at the trusty local surgery. After Samoa it flung itself wheezing onto the slab. Can Dr Gatland restore? With a full complement of Edwards/Howley vaccine drawn down again from the shelf? Hard to say. Certainly when the patient is this crippled by unbelief the prognosis really may not be good. It really may not be good. And the particular pressure means that experiments – the necessary blooding of A or B – become a real danger to the integrity of the project. Or so it is felt.

If there is a consensus it may be around this notion that a Full Team Out – or something very close – means everything to Wales. Despite hopes a year ago for a splendidly inviolable SQUAD SCENARIO it now seems clear that numbers matter – unless you happen to be (back) in New Zealand. Wales don’t have the strength in depth to maintain some idealised period of domination. Not anymore, when the game is so ruthlessly dynamic and physical and unforgiving of weakness. So if some curly haired geezer disappears from the front row – or perhaps two Lions do? – then trouble. If the half-backs do splutter, or reveal some unWelsh one-dimensionality – then trouble. Because there is a train coming. Pretty much every match. And if there is a flicker in that inviolable, Brothers-in-Redness conviction that Gatland undeniably instilled… ouch. Look out.

Stoke Mandeville – a memory. (It’s nothing.)

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I have blurred recollections of visiting Stoke Mandeville Hospital back in about 1980. In fact so blurred and alround unreliable are they that I have seriously considered slinging this wee epistle – both during and after its invention. But I’ve stuck with it, as much as anything because I think it may ask questions around the quality or veracity of my/our reactions to what we might have seen, or felt, or heard about this Savile bloke. Or anything else. And if at any stage it becomes clear I’ve totally misrepresented something then that in itself may be interesting or in some way informative, perhaps? It being something of a test for us to stay true when broiling opinions call so loudly to intervene in ‘evidence’.

So yes, I did go to Stoke Mandeville. And now, of course, like some highly-strung, high maintenance but laceratingly brilliant Scandinavian detective, I’m trawling through the memory – its shadows, its strip lights, its blandnesses – hoping or expecting some incongruity, some trauma to roar out at me. It hasn’t. This is some relief, although with the memory still relatively undisturbed, with its doors so un-kicked in, there is that delicious/nauseous air of prequel about it. What did really happen, if anything? What did I really see, feel, hear? Were any doors or spaces energetically different, suggestively blanked, violently inert? From what I can remember… no. But is it wrong to be drawn into this anyway? Am I on some particularly mawkish celeb-fixated trip here, or what? And are we all on that trip, more or less?

I went down there to visit my second cousin, who had done that classically awful dive into almost no water thing during hijinks at college. He remains one of the most outstandingly bright blokes I’ve known (but) he also remains paralysed and wheelchair-bound. We’ve not spoken for years, in fact – not from any falling out (he hastened to add) – but because, frankly, we shared little. He was both spookily bright and a little headstrong in a way I liked; known, for example, (aged 18) to trace the number of some berk who’d written parochial cobblers in the local rag and harangue him with An Argument Far Too Good.

He also had an alarmingly healthy mop of black hair; hair which despite its casual air of well-trimmedness kindof swung around the place like some quasi-liquid; on one occasion lassoing a particularly lush Lower Sixth Former, if I remember correctly. Which I often don’t. But I remember her -leading to a clear and legitimate difficulty – and a diversion. How to honestly recount a memory – a clear and specific one – which may, quite frankly be inappropriate. As may that word ‘lush’.

I vividly remember certain hormonal kickings-in accompanying any degree of proximity to this genuinely beautiful girl… and her (what’s the word?) beautiful body. To deny that or try to skip past via some more or less witty or subtle euphemism seems raw dishonest. (Goddammit I wish I had done, mind.) But no amount of growed up etch-a-sketching over late seventies hornarama erases either that dumb desire or the feeling that generally us blokes are crap.

So I went down to Stoke Mandeville. In a by now early 80’s state of Savile ‘awareness’, with no idea what to expect of the hospital itself; just some amorphously received knowledge of the place – Savile’s place. I wish I could be clearer on the details. I’m pin sharp on what I (by then) thought of the track-suited cigar-wielder, having grown through the dim familial appreciation for Jim’ll Fix It. I thought (I knew) he was a total arse… but no more. There was no sense that I was going to bump into Jimmy (and waft past him, disinterested, in my overcoat and JD badge) but maybe there was the wonder
if he may be there thing going on. We never met.

I recall being more than slightly disappointed to find that a lump of Stoke Mandeville was apparently barely-converted Nissen huts – air-raid shelters – or similar. Just a bigger version of the corrugated iron-roofed effort we had in our garden – the one my old man had done that fascinatingly bad brickwork against, to ‘shore up’ the rear wall. SM was like an RAF Camp, converted with the minimum of love and colour and expenditure to provide cover for injured folks. (The fear dawns that I may have this wrong – and I’m happy to be corrected on any of this – but this is what I hold in my head. A fusty and almost completely unlovely military camp.) I barely went in; this may have been due to some embarrassment from my cousin or just eagerness to get out; to the pub.

We went to a nearby hostelry, me a little self-consciously pawing at the wheelchair that he bundled expertly forward. As we entered an area apparently patronised only by patients and guardians or friends from Stoke Mandeville a young man walked unconvincingly to the bar. In fact unconvincingly overstates his level of his proficiency; which was clumpingly, one foot-draggingly low. He beamed as he turned back to the small gathering in the corner, all of whom were beaming or applauding back. His first steps for months. And now with that foam-topped incentive triumphantly clasped… and downed. It was a choice moment that we’d happened upon; one I will always remember – but clearly something of a commonplace in this quietly boozy bolthole for the spinally-injured.

The next bit really galls me because if it were full of lucid observations on the nature of relationships or even the geography of stuff at Stoke Mandeville then phwarrr! – this piece might be saleably incendiary. However, it really isn’t. No contact or conversation that might lead me to some revelation; nothing to exclusively pitch. I remember only being both disturbed and unsubtly fixated on the fear of and then sight of my second cousins’ atrophied legs as he swung them expertly into his bed later. No memory of landings or corridors or conversation-averse nurses. Or of his room, even. I didn’t stay.

So nothing. Except the feeling – which I dare not trust, having no doubt that many outstanding humans did some great work there – that it was an environment relatively devoid of comfort and of warmth. Somewhere – ouch – that it kindof figures bad stuff might have happened.

I know how lazy and quite possibly appallingly unfair that last speculation is. But it’s there, in my head. An atmosphere, an association, between poor buildings and assumptions about poor procedure leading to Savile stuff. Meaning that never mind having no value, this whole concoction may be positively unhelpful in its vacuity; a story about a void of observation. But I am interested in our capacity to judge; particularly when this capacity is stressed.

With Savile being such an outrage, with the man perpetrating such evil with such cynicism, it asks a lot of us – of anyone – to deal sagely with the aftermath. He’s truly a lucky man to be dead. We’d all, surely, be tempted to roast him on a spit? For me, things have become so loaded that it would be unthinkable to get in touch with my cousin (just) to ask him how it really was, being there, for some months, back then. I can’t ask him specifically about possible arrangements or the known or unknown machinations of some creep in a track suit. That would feel just too crass.

The end of something.

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As I write the Lance Armstrong saga is still twirling away; revelation and statement, bombshell and rumour. Today’s news again included collateral – the departure of Bobby Julich from Team Sky, following his confessions over doping in the Armstrong posse of the 70’s. Fascinatingly, despite the sport’s genuinely low profile, this Lancething has become a fully-fledged sporting monster, substantially outgrowing the cycling hinterland. In its black and whiteness, its moral and dope-linked certainties, this is one Recognisably Juicy Story – something for everyone to hang a prejudice or molten opinion upon – even though only six of us in Britain watched Armstrong win all this stuff. In France; whenever he won it. On Channel 4.

Yup, suddenly, we all want to spout polemically on the Tour – you do call it just like ‘the Tour’, right? – something we knew nothing about until wooh, last Wednesday? Because it’s a pearler, this; a truly striking and intoxicating fable where the appalling quality of the breach of honesty at its devilish heart cries out for reaction from honest folks like us. Downing again our Doritos, we rise magnificently to bawl in outrage ’til the thing splatters exponentially across the screens of lives normally blissfully immune from interest in U.S freakin’ Postal. And the guy himself goes from being a cancer-defying god to a hollow cheat and liar. Who goes on lying, woodyabelieveit?!?

Who goes on lying… about drugs. Because it’s presumably just too big a deal to row back from this very biggest of porkies; the one that was SO big he felt (in his kingly arrogance) unimpeachable, unassailable, unapproachably clear of exposure as the blood-doped fraud he was. He who bullied and led; he who made blood transfusion an essential part of his winning process. (Yes, that’s er… blood transfusion – lying in the back of a bus – I picture him in some zonked-out cruciform, arms splayed – with ‘fresh’ blood coursing in like some scarlet, performance-enhancing elixir.) See? It’s beyond mere sporting crime and well, we-ell into symbol. And that’s properly big, right?

The fact that Armstrong is an American Icon does surely add some spice to all this. Witness the outbreak of world class wallowing amongst lefty Europeans as another absurd empire falls. Rarely, surely, has there been a clearer or better confirmation in the eyes of the liberal Old World of the essential unchristian hypocrisy of that same Great Nation – Lance’s – the one that gave us U.S. Postal. It’s right up there with Evangelical Frauds and Preacher Paedophiles; it has the quintessential grossness, the lies, the money, the betrayal. We’re loving it, aren’t we?

Armstrong won the Tour 7 times and yes he did fight off cancer. (I’m hoping nobody discovers some link between EPO and surviving cancer, by the way; that could just get too weird.) But given the serial extravagances here, surely, for this All-American Sinner, there must be an appropriately massive revenge of the masses. Some distant Asphixiatingly Brutal Punishment Planet we could send him to? Where they wear bright orange overalls, maybe? Imagine please the amount of labo(u)r – the amount of galactic rock – Lance Armstrong might un-zip, at peak physical condition in a 12 hour sesh. He could supply the Alpe D’huez Freeway Project with enough stone to cobble a way back to Paris, (ma’an).

That may or may not be funny. Certainly most of this story isn’t. Not in terms of what it says about the sport of cycling (we hope to god just) at that time and about fairness and honesty generally in the competitive situation. People, it seems, cheat in order to win? (Who knew?) The implications for cycling in terms of the likes of Rabo-bank pulling out as major sponsors and likely further and broader allegations arising, are seriously serious. As a slightly more than part-time supporter of the sport, I have gone fulsomely on record to argue for greater and wider acknowledgement of the magnificent levels of courage and athleticism and generosity found in the peloton. And – in defence of cycling, perhaps – I want to re-state some of this. Sadly, with certain qualifications.

If cyclists are clean then they are amongst the finest of athletes because;

  • It takes rare courage and belief to race in a pro road race. Injury through crashes or wear and tear of weary limbs are likely. You descend mountains at around 60 miles an hour, in a racing group – which is phenomenally scary. Every fibre must be brilliantly, twitchily engaged for every moment.
  • Stages in the Tour de France (for example) last typically for about 6 or 7 hours, or 120-odd kilometres. Even when these are not mountain stages, there are climbs; it hurts. Levels of fitness are astonishing. They ride 20 stages – 2,500 miles.
  • Despite the intensity of the physical effort, top riders must be race-aware/tactically cute/ready to cover ‘attacks’. So there is little or no rest. In one of the truly great, possibly unique facets of the sport, ‘domestiques’ dedicate themselves day after day to enable success for a team leader they know has the best chance for an overall win. They ‘chase down’ opponents whilst their leader preserves energy; they ‘carry him’ through agonising climbs or periods of tiredness. And the ‘domestiques’ rarely win – not themselves. It’s about sacrifice; how wonderful is that?

The Olympics – and specifically the sensational and ongoing dominance of GB Cycling in the velodrome – gave us a further, more widely-appreciated reminder of the appeal of haring around on wheels. In fact one of the most anticipated events at London 2012, for die-hard fans and more recent converts was the Olympic Road Race, where a certain Manxman (Cavendish – one of the greatest currently-active champions in any sport, in my view) was challenging for gold. That didn’t work out. But cycling went big anyway, for that short period. Offering the hope that perhaps the most significant Olympic legacy may yet be the health/environmental benefit accruing from people getting off their arses… and onto their bikes. How wonderful is that?

‘Midst the genuinely shocking revelations from former team members/masseuse/(any-time-now?) Lance Groupie, the story of the (actual) action itself is subsumed. Racing action that included the most monumental effort from both Armstrong and his team. Sprinting and climbing; thousands of miles. Effort we now dismiss, if we can, from our memories. As we try to dismiss the inevitable daft questions; could he/they have won without doping? How good was he, really, without that stuff? And what about Indurain?

If we wanted to trawl back through (and beyond?) the major records we might be able to gather some picture of how good Armstrong was before; how good
he honestly might have been.
But that’s irrelevant now.

Today Bobby Julich- who coughed – became a former coach to the mighty Sky Professional Road Racing Team. Because as a team they have sworn to have no truck with cheating. And aeons ago, alongside and quite possibly for his team-mate Lance Armstrong, Julich cheated by doping. Whether this is the end of his career in the sport, who knows? But it is the end of something.

Rooneythoughts.

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Remember that early curler for Everton, against Arsenal? Remember thinking this kid looked like he’d been on a steak diet for too long, such was his power, his doe-eyed but belligerent chunkiness?  Remember that hat-trick on Champion’s League debut? Remember sendings off and tortured bellows into innocently by-standing cameras. Remember the protection he had; so that we hardly heard him speak his name. Remember in weird, slightly garish slabs.

Rooney. The boy wunda, the cocksure virgin, the prodigious-explosive talent gone far too big for his hoodie. Him.

Him with the obscene wage/mansion/lifestyle/twitter following. Him in that dreamscape, that boob-job of a life where the appalling accoutrements of footballing princedom engorge the Scally mortal within. Such that when we do glimpse that doe-eyed boy – less though, now, I admit – we might wish to offer a consoling paternal hug. On the grounds that dumb ecstatic idolatry does not, apparently, fulfil. (Aah, life’s shallow riches.)

Hey but let’s not be duped into flopping so, between sympathy and the red devil. Wayne’s world does have the occasional dollop of normalcy – of proportion even. Sometimes I’m sure he does make his own breakfast – something hopelessly Choco-popsy, I fancy? Sometimes he gets out the hoover. (Yeh right.) Sometimes he dawdles round in his checked jimjams wondering what to do with his Sunday. But okay… mainly it’s that ole treadmill of fantastic luxury. Ordered days, ordered lawns; situations/environments/people groomed towards Wayne-friendly suitability. For running round in his shorts twice a week. Meaning it’s just not possible to stay normal.

Wayne has dealt with this. Sometimes by inspired channelling of all available energies into sporting brilliance, despite the absurdities of distraction; others – in the early days? – by not knowing. Not knowing hardly anything it seemed – Rooney being something of a byword or more-or-less impervious touchstone for shell-suited naivety. His widely perceived lack of thought about x, p, a may, of course, be an essential part of the armoury on the pitch; his rawness, his intuition being central to the Rooney dynamism. It has served him less well elsewhere.

But in fairness I think it likely that Wayne has been stitched up plenty (too). Maybe that unseemly business with a super-annuated lady of the night falls into that category – not that I remotely condone his alleged unfaithfulness to Colleen. Maybe with some of the jostling around contractual matters at MU – which did not resonate with me as Rooneyswerves and bobs so much as intrigues from a more cunning mind. Like an agent’s, perhaps? My heart still says that chavistas extraordinaires though they may be as a couple, Wayne at least remains a comparative innocent.  Who prob’ly needs ‘is mam.

Rooney moments are bound to arrive when you are The One. When Ingerland knows that only you – only you since you were 17 – could or might carry the whites to some overdue triumph for the Home of Football. (And let’s pause here to focus the you-tube in our minds towards the actual playing thing, here). When clear of the red mist of controversy, in an England shirt, fit and fearless, Rooney was nothing short of magnificent. He was almost embarrassingly easily Man-boy of the Match for what seemed like aeons; every time he crossed that line he unleashed himself with a remarkable freedom and consistency. He carried the team; he was what – 19? The record became flawed with the spillage of extra-footie concerns; public ridicule, family ridicule – corrosive media crap. A consensus developed amongst columnists and fans that Wayne’s head was in the wrong place. Justifiably.

The story’s gotten more turgid than we would have liked, these last two years. Intermittent form; issues with weight and fitness. Maybe less of that boyish good humour – that bounce. Neither movement nor demeanour seeming electrifyingly free as it once was… when we were all younger… and less compromised. But – on the plus side! – are we just all growing up? It seems Wayne is.

Friday’s drama – San Marino, yer man velcroed up with the skipper’s armband – evidenced minor gathering of the maturing non-phenomenon. Rooney dully accomplished in the verbals beforehand, just like a proper captain; this not a criticism, more a reflection of my own disillusionment with those festivals of blandness, the press conference(s). With Wayne now speaking with some confidence – and well within those crushing limits. On the pitch influential rather than masterful; penalty despatched. The captaincy temporary, we imagine, until he outlasts Gerard, or Hodgson sees more clearly the evolution of the flawed boy saviour towards untouchable maestro.

This is surely the current fascination; the one about whether Rooney turns in to Paul Scholes Plus – and therefore combines quarter back levels of control with occasional hand grenades behind enemy lines – or does he remain essentially that False 9/inside forward combo. The fact is he could do either; or probably both; as well as cover every other outfield position on the park with some distinction. But what does Sir Alex want… and what does England need?

There is every chance that Rooney will withdraw in proportion to that cruel but natural diminution in pace and alongside his gathering maturity. United probably don’t need or expect him to flash into the six yard box as much as he did 2 years ago. Some Dutch bloke will cover that. SAF being wholly conversant with the flow of an individual career in the wider ocean that is Manchester United FC, these things have been thought about and boats floated. And hopefully Wayne consulted. Likewise with England. Rooney remains (probably?) the finest player either outfit can call upon, the player most fans call upon to DO SOMETHING when inertia strikes. But is there a single role awaiting?

In all honesty we can’t know. Many of us I think could see that familiar frame flitting a tad more sideways – or less lung-burstingly forward – within some deeper, creative midfielder slot. Establishing the rhythm of the thing. Holding and waiting and engineering; rather than going past, necessarily.

Would this reduce him as a threat to the opposition? In terms of goals scored, quite possibly. But the glaring deficiency of the national side points towards Rooney the creator. He simply has that capacity to invent. Over and above the extraordinary firepower there is a genius for finding stuff; not through extravagant Ronaldoesque tricksiness but through 20-20 football vision. Through that delicious, natural control.  And yes – that particular power.

Upon this pivot may the fortunes of both club and country turn. Tonight, in Poland, let’s see.

*(Unusually) a post-Poland post-script.

There is another possibility; Rooney may fall into mid-career(?) decline.  This horror scenario rears brutally uninvited into my mind following a decidedly shoddy performance from the England ‘pivot’, who brought back memories of his South African slump with an extraodinarily clumsy showing in Warsaw this afternoon.  Please god let this be an abberation, not a sign.  England needs.

Last night… I played 10 for San Marino.

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A game against San Marino. I wouldn’t mind. Reckon I’d pretty much hold my own, even now. But… get thinking. That how galling is it that only an accident of birth denies me – and most of my mates, come to that – 75 international caps? Proper velvetty jobs. With gold braid tassles on, ideally luridly initialled S.M. like some kinky souvenir to a Dutch weekend. There, casually winking at all-comers from the glass cabinet thingy next to the flying ducks. Caps by the absolute lorry-load – mine! – caps that I could throw around the bedroom in a naked romp with luscious hairdressers from Talinn or Lubjanka. (Cos I’d probably take them to away matches… yeh, I would… in a suitcase full of sex toys and vodka! The caps, I mean, not the…) Euro Qualifiers be like being a proper star. Heh-hee-eyy!!

My nephew lives in Hong Kong, by the way. Citizen. Got all this stuff on a plate. So yeh… posh, posh hotels all over. Prague – fancy Prague – or Istanbul. And fifty caps anyways, at least I reckon – for them. San Marino. For me. Qualified? Check. Got boots? Check. You’re in. Could have cruised round no problem – with all that time to play! – and gotten rave reviews from Glenn Hoddle whilst we got stuffed by Malta or the mighty Faroes.

Mum, dad, what were you playing at? It’s just cruel. I don’t believe it.

Last night though – England. A coach ride through sparkling London to a Stadium That Gives You Some Kindof Chance, looking at it. Wembley. Upliftingly equivocal, one might say. (If one was educated – like a surprising percentage of our side, in fact; them having proper jobs and lives and stuff).

England’s Lionless den. A place you might expect to go on and put up a good show. And maybe get some mild but generous encouragement from the home crowd. Between tutts. Sure Cleverley’s gonna be reasonably busy and quick – against our lot, who isn’t? – but with the two young fliers both starting there’ll be space and time to play. They’re not looking to close me down; they don’t wanna do that. They want to fly down the sides with the ball ten yards in front. Then trip over it.

Round Rooney there will be an opening. He’ll flip in and out of The Hole and win the match for them – fair enough – but he will shin a couple of passes pinged at him from Baines or Jagielka – and I will be able to get on the ball. It’s up to me then. It’s not like they’ve got anyone’s gonna tackle me. They/we don’t do that anyway in internationals. Wish Terry was playin’ actually – him and Lescott. Fancy a run at them. Jagielka’s quick and Cahill… there are time’s when Cahill looks class. Expect him to score too.

We look like we’ll line up pretty much 5-5-0. Meaning I’ve got to break out from just beyond our box and score. Which might be okay if I was Gareth Bale. I’m more of an Iniesta/Wilkins combo meself. So I may have to shoot in desperation from the halfway line and hope for a Seaman moment. (Do think Hart has those moments.) Or I might curl a free-kick if we ever get in range. I’d like to offer our fans hope of some incredible win but this implies actually scoring and … I’m not sure if we’ll actually get within forty yards. Still, remember the Alamo – was it the Alamo? – and er… all that.

We are boosted by the knowledge that England are often crap. With a tendency to go glassy-eyed and irresponsible when things don’t go their way. So we’re looking to block and press and frustrate. Only. And never even worry about breaking out. And leave the rest to bad passes from Walker or Jagielka and poor movement or nervy touch from Welbeck and those flyers. We’ll scurry out at Rooney obviously but we don’t expect to stop him completely. Especially when we’re completely knackered – ten minutes in (ha ha.) What’s that line about blankets? Oh yeh – we wanna throw a blanket over the midfield. A duvet, in fact.

Hodgson – fair play – has picked a young side and one filled with stuff that’s either gonna get called ‘promise’ or ‘inexperience,’ depending on the result. We know he’s thinking ’bout keeping pace on the ball, with sharp passes – forward passes – the order of the day. Will they stick? Who knows. Wellbeck sometimes lets you have one and Oxlade-Oosit. If they start flicking casually at it, mind, we’ll have the ball more than them. Then I’ll either dawdle round the centre-circle or try and lob Hart. If they don’t press me I might do a Peter Barnes – remember that one? Siddonit.

Individuals-wise, Walcott is easy enough to stop; ya get inside ‘is shorts. He’ll only play the first half before he gets ‘withdrawn’ – cruel word, that one – then maybe Lennon. Who also won’t want to get too involved. We won’t let them get round the sides much so they’ll have to thread it through us. Not sure they can do that. No I seriously don’t see why we can’t keep it down to about four.

Right, must go. Il Duce wants a word. Vamos, boys!

The World T20 Final for Women. (That would be cricket, then.)

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I may start with a mutter that may not fully declare.

By most yardsticks – that/those most unscientific of measures – the England and Wales Women’s Cricket team is the best team this island has. Let’s say that again; for there are many doubters and many simply ignorant of the scale of their success, their domination. But our women are our best. Better than Chelsea, better than Manchester City, better than that generally discredited lot The Footballers and The (less discredited/maybe not?) Rugby Boys, certainly. Perhaps our magnificent Athletics team and in particular our Cycling Team might reasonably contest this rash description but as they are plainly super-human and therefore way beyond the norms of best-teamly banter let’s go with my assertion uncontested, please. Otherwise the blog never gets off the ground. Which we don’t want, right?

Earlier today the World T20 Final brought together the two primary powers in women’s cricket – England and Australia. With Australia as holders, but with England consistently trading blows seriously threateningly in this format, and near unassailable market leaders elsewhere, a fierce and even contest was anticipated.  It should be noted that England had beaten the Aussies reasonably comfortably earlier in this very tournament – in the group stage – and therefeore had every right to feel confident.

There was a feeling abroad that this traditionally piquant North-South rivalry might be spiked to the heights of awesomeness by some top level inspiration from key individuals on either side – or both. Perry v Edwards awaited. We hoped for a lung-burster, a record-breaker, a watershed-teetering epoch changer; something which announced the (women’s) game, legitimised it beyond contradiction as well as entertained the pants off us. Some of that, we got.

Thus we are drawn by some philosopho-googly into some early consideration of the value or the quality of Women’s Cricket; regrettably. Clearly it would be a lovelier and easier universe if we had o’er-zoomed gaily into the balmy, spangliferous galaxy where girl-boy parity for stuff like this was a given. Alas not – not yet. Those of us who carry some velveteen sureness about the authenticity of women’s cricket at the international level have work to do still to convince the majority, I suspect. This game felt like an opportunity; something of a moment in a campaign that need never be… but may move sharply forward post a stunning triumph for women’s cricket. So much for the subtext.

England won the toss and put the Aussies in. No quibbling with that one as there seemed no weather or pitch related issues to heavily contradict the natural preference to ‘see what they get first’. And this England had many times previously proved themselves entirely capable of holding their nerve and their game plan together whilst ‘chasing.’ But Australia attacked – successfully. Sloppiness in the field erupted alongside the uncharacteristically mixed bowling, disappointingly so from the England perspective. Plainly they were either nervous of the occasion or unnerved by the positivity from the batters.

Both Lanning and Healy prospered – storming to a swift half-century before Lanning fell with 51 on the board. The bad news for England was that this precipitated the entry of Cameron – who went on to biff 45 off 34 balls. In short, the Green and Golds bossed the innings, rotating the strike and hitting with power and confidence. England’s throwing, in particular, seemed weirdly out of sorts. Any other day these things go instinctively well; here certain fundamentals wobbled. Aah, the spotlight.

Partnerships make any form of cricket seem easy because runs accumulate smoothly and because they make a difference to the sense of control. Lanning and Healy then Cameron and Sthlekar simply worked the thing forward as a project; together. This was to prove central.

Although the England attack prevented an absolute slogfest at the end of the Aussie innings, the final total of 142 for the loss of only 4 wickets reflected the relative serenity of the batting side’s progress. They must have been on the bouncy side of satisfied come the interval and they looked that way as they emerged, ‘pumped’ for the critical period – the Perry v Edwards confrontation.

There was certainly an up-shift in tension quality as Australia’s finest – the tall, fluent and swift strike bowler Ellyse Perry – eyed Charlotte Edwards – England skipper and batting icon – from the end of her run. Perry, we imagined, with her extravagant but athletic cadence providing a genuine extra gear, really might be of a mind to skittle the Pom line-up, thereby making the kind of statement to the enemy most of us have dreamt about. Edwards smashed her first delivery imperiously for four. This did not prove typical.

Marsh, Edward’s opening partner, went slightly clumsily, caught and bowled by Hunter for 8. Whilst not suggesting this setback was wholly responsible for that which followed, from then on it proved fascinatingly beyond England to gather their composure. If the incoming Sarah Taylor used her impressively quick feet to engineer her strokes and skipper Edwards struck from a less skittish base there was never the sense of an innings being built together. Things stuttered; the run rate being substantially down, immediately, on the Australian effort. And though there were hints of real quality and real defiance from Edwards, her dismissal – caught rather tamely off a solid but always inadequately brutal slap to deep midwicket – went with the momentum of the match. Perry – efficient rather than deadly today with ball in hand – took the catch, one of two or three played conveniently and directly at the gratefully receptive field.

England were insufficiently dynamic as much as Australia were efficient. They failed to execute rather than panicked, but the infectious clubbing of the ball to leg with little prospect of clearing a field set for exactly that response undid them. Greenway, like Edwards was caught too cheaply – and both were key wickets. Batters came and went at ten run intervals, approximately; a look back at the scorecard confirms the impression of non-application.

From Australia we had good rather than brilliant work despite Nasser Hussain’s repeated (and understandably supportive) use of the word ‘exceptional’. Some great saves around the boundary undermined by Blackwell’s drop in the circle and another close to the ropes. Meaning England will feel that they underachieved. However, at 71 for 4 England – despite being under pressure they seemed unable to pierce or grind a way through – were only three runs beyond the Aussie score. And with 8 overs remaining they now needed 8 plus per over – a stretch in these circumstances but not impossible.

Brindle had come in and immediately manoeuvred the ball around with some confidence but perhaps insufficient violence. Could she and Gunn cool that strip, flay their way through or nurdle and chase that many? The aforementioned drop by the ropes dawdled cruelly over for four, offering a wee lift to admittedly quietened English expectation. Now Sthalekar re-entered proceedings as if to test the England resolve towards risk; her gentle off-spin perhaps offering an opportunity for expansive hitting. They generally baulked at going big – particularly as the ball began to spin significantly – and Brindle was comprehensively bowled late in the 14th. Meaning 9 an over with 5 wickets remaining.

Again the sense was of individual batters needing to force things, intermittently, in the absence of any comfort from sustained pressure from the willow at both ends simultaneously. It was a lumpy, unconvincing innings. As the game slid further away Gunn and Brunt needed 10 plus an over. Gunn responded with a defiant blow to midwicket off Hunter. 42 needed off last 24 balls. Then Brunt was bowled playing back off a fullish delivery – when forward must surely have been the wiser choice. This became an issue – Eng staying deep in the crease to cut when going positively forward over the top may have been more productive. Inevitably but suddenly, we were at fireworks or bust. And Gunn and Hazell couldn’t effect that; not often enough.

29 off 14 balls however was still not impossible – even if it felt painfully unlikely. Hazell finally launched, with a four followed by a 6, before flicking slightly casually at shortish fine leg; another disappointment. Holly Colvin entered with 2 overs remaining, 23 from 12 balls needed, which fast-forwarded to 16 required from the last over; again, meaning that England were mathematically still kindof in it. But almost unbelievably, Hazell plays a soft paddle for 1 off the first ball. Then a huge no ball – above waist height – gives England an extra delivery. Then a poorish drop at mid-off and we’re down to 9 from 3. Shoddy fielding by now as nerves really bite. 6 to win from the last ball, 5 to tie, with Hazell on strike. Shit or bust. Shit, as it happens, as Aus win by 4.

A match then, that our dear friends from Down Under unquestionably deserved to win. Featuring good and sometimes great athleticism; from both sides. And some outstanding aggression and control and management by the Australian batters in particular. It may be that neither fielding unit brought their A Game to the final – mixed catching and some sloppiness late on from the Aussies just slightly unravelling their aspiration towards a perfectly executed plan. (Mind you, they seemed happy enough to win. Again.) A good final and a proper game of cricket.

Golf. And that Ryder Cup thing.

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This weekend the Ryder Cup has splattered notions of golf’s crustiness.

A pro-logue.

I’m thinking it’s not just me that conjures visions of a greying generation, pre-disposed to moral outrage? Eyeing disrespectful teens slashing wildly on their hallowed first tee? Stiff, de-sexualised figures in pink v-necks clubbing in weirdly uncoordinated fashion at an unresponsive white dot? Silently enduring the cruelties of this stationary-ball-over-human massacre with a seething grace.

That’s how it seems, mostly – golf. But think again; get with it! Rack up the virility; ignite the intensity; come o-on people, get altogether bigger and realer; more… Chicago!

The Drama

Feel the wind of change, my friends. Feel it here at Medinah. It smells of beer, lakes and a charged banter largely unknown to the ‘traditional club golfer’. Boisterous knockaboutarama, veering to fist-pumping rather than mildly flannel-fluttering entertainment. Far, far too visceral and lusty and nose-bleed inducing for any middle-class frump-in-a-Pringle. Culminating in the most extravagantly tense denouement – as exciting and strangely impactful, you felt, as any contact sport could be – interestingly. (Not that Keegan Bradley and Ian Poulter seem to have been involved in a non-contact sport these last three days.)

The final thwack, which began with our European brotherhood down in points accumulated towards the critical total of 14, had a dramatic prologue. One which we felt we may need to refer back to if such and such happened to beam in the most luscious or most tart possibilities; well, it did. So remember then.

A fulminating charge led late on Saturday by Spiky of Stevenage – aka Ian Poulter – transforming the atmosphere from Doomsville Illinois to something more appealingly Homely Counties. (Make that Countries). An act of will, or two, or five from the man (actually) most likely to be targeted by Yankee vitriol for his raw competitive edge bent the score back towards a more Euro-sympathetic margin. Put simply, he out-yanked the homesters, being pugnaciously In Their Faces, answering their bawling with birdies.

Still, at 10-6 down rather than the deader than dead 11-5, or even the 12-4 that loomed in Olazabal’s darkest recesses, things seemed set for a home-nation roustabout. Instead, a fight-back of the most searingly monumental kind gathered itself. Not in some linear way helpful to our emotional calm but in the most traumatically unaided-by-hand-holds cliff-climb.

Miraculous enough that the top-loaded line-up of Euro-stars eventually, to a man clambered breathless to the summit; Donald,McIlroy, Poulter and Rose all winning in a fashion that varied from LUUU-UUKE’S quiet authority to Rose’s stunning and ultimately successful haul up and over the unbelieving corpse of Mickelson. But the carnage to expectation continued.

We might need new-fangled verbage to characterise the tension; I’m yer man and I’m going for paralytically abstract-volcanic; meaning it went ballistic and back, in high definition kodacolor… with divots… and then some. In an early, shocking daub, that seemingly dormant Aberdonian Paul Lawrie eviscerated Snedeker of the States in a manner that did register, in all this flux, as a properly scaled flagging up of European ambitions. Inspired does not do it justice. The ball rolled.

By the time Garcia cobbled a win against a withered Furyk and Westwood stamped on Kuchar the odds on an almost impossible comeback had scorched from OMG/possible to relentlessly likely; if only Kaymer or Molinari could get something.

Europe had garnered 13 points in what was plainly already one of the genuinely great sporting comebacks, against a home team enjoying belligerent support and 100m wide fairways.

But where did all this come from? We were later to learn that Team Captain Olazabal had excelled himself in the motivating-through-cathartic-blubbing department but live, as it happened, the collective feat of The Euros was a thing of socialistic beauty as much as a Spanish Revolution.

It was essentially – ill-advisedly? Inevitably? – again a war on the shore; with the foot-soldiers from Spain/Sweden/Stevenage advancing as one in a relentless anarchistic surge. They were brilliant, then humbled, then more brilliant again. The golf itself – or the meaning of it – becoming increasingly hard to follow, or bear, or disentangle from beery fantasy. The computations too slippery to gather, the crowd reflected at least as much as it bayed.

Last two Americans out were Stricker and Woods. Playing respectively against the strapping (but struggling) Kaymer and the fluent but unstarry Molinari, this had something of the Out-of-Sorts Club about it. Prior to about the 13th, these games had relatively quietly flipflopped from red to blue and back on the scoreboard as though safe in the knowledge that they wouldn’t actually count. Such was the force of expectation for an untroubled American victory. This changed.

Kaymer – a German Major winner, in fact, but in danger of being bypassed by the billion lenses following this event – was a banker for inconsistency to the end. I blame him now for everything from my hangover to the inadequate bailout of Greece. He, it was, who became central to the unravelling.

Hard to say whether there was A Moment (before Kaymer) when the US fell off that cliff. Perhaps it was when Furyk endured petrification of a sort around two successive greens late on. Perhaps when Justin Rose absurdly rolled in the winning putt against Mickelson – that very symbol of undeniable American wonder. Perhaps when an almost embarrassed Garcia snaffled a point. The very last moments were in any case screechingly fraught with that near unwatchable mixture of horror and magic.

Kaymer struck a wonder-shot from the bunker on 18 but then a jangled putt that left him with seven feet further. For the Trophy. We Europeans reached inside ourselves for memories of German doughtiness under pressure; and just as we were finding them, the ball dropped; to pandemonium. Garcia, inevitably, was first in to lift the ecstatic marksman.

At the final hole Woods, apparently nobly, offered up the most generous ‘gimme’ in world history to procure a further half point – and outright victory – for his lifelong pal Francesco. (Later he woke up with the bookmaking population of the Mid-West battering at his windows. And that friendship cooled.)

The celebrations, the emotions, the sentimentality around a certain mythic Spaniard were top-drawer. Laced with champagne and tears, led – or should that be shared? – notably by a now fully-rounded and expressed Poulter and the irrepressible Garcia, a merry dance unleashed itself from the tee. It really had been special, this – the more so because this was a victory clearly predicated on belief, on brotherhood. You know – those American staples.

An epilogue.

Before we get carried away with mere history, a distraction or two if I may. On the subject of the game itself – our perceptions regarding.

We’ve all got friends who hate golf. I know I have. They either just find it dull, or they don’t get the prevailing stuff – the slacks, the sweaters, the no women(!) thing. I’m with them on all of that.

Plus I’ve been there, as a slightly bewildered 10 year old when my dad was politely asked to leave a club house for not wearing… a collar. I’ve been on the receiving end of world-class pomposity from stewards, players and assistant pro’s at courses so average in every respect you cannot imagine what gives these people the right to snort so, down their carbon-shafted nostrils. In fact, as I write and the words drip blackly onto the page I realise in truth I’m heavily pre-disposed towards despising this game… golf.

But it can be glorious. On a sunny day, balmy wind, with your swing – delicious or devilish? – entirely and often mysteriously under your spell. Infuriating and difficult as golf may be, the purity – the sweet spot – at its heart is exactly that. If those precious things tempo and balance conjoin through that rather explosive instant – the moment of impact – a very special thing happens. Something with its essence in the primeval, perhaps, such is its simplicity. A quiet joy, an arrow.

It may be one of the great feelings in sport to clonk – no creammm a four iron off the fairway. When that ball has been flung so beautifully from the arc, the envelope of your body you hardly felt resistance from the turf; in fact something in that turf seemed to propel the thing forward, so that the conspiracy of loveliness seems complete.

So, as with everything, feelings are conflicted. Great game/twisted game. Full of poetry/full of crap. Golf.