Sport

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.

Iron Man Wales

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In Tenby the wind gathered, cruelly, for the final unforgiving hours of Iron Man Wales, together with that spirit-sapping drizzle familiar to all those who bumble through their local parks. Generous crowds – certainly in the tens of thousands if village clappers and farmstead fans are included – had assembled to heartily cheer the contestants round. Those at the forefront of this appallingly demanding event cruised relatively serenely through both transition and through the town; for those hanging on, the warmth extended to them seemed more essential to that primary goal – completion.

We watched as Sylvain Rota of France swooped impressively through the bike/run changeover, with the kind of faintly absurd ease befitting an unchallenged leader of the wonderfully diverse multitudes. Should we have stayed rooted to that spot, we might have seen allegedly lesser athletes trundle through for a further three or four hours; this prior to the 26 miles 385 yards still to be enjoyed in that increasingly testing seaside weather.

1500 competitors, supported and processed by an army of volunteers and officials hauled themselves in order or disorder through the decidedly nippy waters, the lush countryside and the hugely atmospheric streets around this iconic South Pembrokeshire resort. In view of the stats – 2.4 mile swim, 112 mile bike ride, full marathon – words such as ‘punishing’ spring inadequately to mind. Hard here not to simply express every superlative available to the (medium) literary consciousness and then daub it on every numbered vest.

When it came down to it, along the genuinely splendid Esplanade overlooking Caldey and the by now deserted South Beach, Rota did indeed triumph – his first Iron Man victory – in 8 hours 52 minutes and 43 seconds. Daniel Niederreiter of Austria and Christian Ritter of Germany pursued him home at roughly three minute intervals, followed by first GB athlete Daniel Halksworth in fourth. Joanna Carritt of GB finished an impressive 18th overall.

As I walked away from the finish line some 30 minutes after Rota, a cavalry charge of what looked like solid club athletes were concluding their bike ride on a parallel street. Suggesting finishing times for these individuals around 12 hours.

The fact that the park and ride service from the local airfield was scheduled to run until midnight may give some indication of the frayed edges of such a challenge; I try not to think too precisely about the state the very latest contestants may clock in at. Fear of glibness only prevents me from be-medalling them personally, in this column.

As a venue Tenby rose to this. Following the outstanding success of the Red Bull Cliff Diving World Series event in North Pembrokeshire last weekend, local chests have been thrust out proudly – in certain cases, athletically. But even the sedentary seemed to have stirred to their doorstep or street corner to applaud the whoosh or whirr or gasp and splutter of the passing über-humans. The red-carpeted finish was appropriately ‘rammed’ as we say in Wales, as well as spectacularly TV-friendly. Even in the rain.

Crofty.

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I was about 30 feet away as Dominic Cork, the slickish rather than truly urbane linkman thrust that furry mic into the poor fellah’s face. Crofty, looking a tad drawn after long hours in the field and no doubt more aware than anyone of the poignancy of the moment, drew in visibly and spoke. Not remotely as easily as is his chirpy wont but, given he was immediately asked effectively to encapsulate a sporting life, he did okay. He then grabbed clumsily for his son’s outstretched hand for an inadequately rehearsed but final clamber up those dressing-room stairs. Tears, as they say, weren’t far away. Real ones, not High Definition jobs.

The small Cardiff crowd – in which I consider myself privileged to have been included – clapped with gusto in that way suggestive of building emotion. We felt entitled to offer up a kind of knowing but all the same deferential appreciation. I heard the words ‘wonderful, Crofty’ aimed like a kiss on the top of his lowered forehead.

All of us knew something quite special was passing. Let’s be clear, the 21 Tests, the 903 First Class/List A/20-20 matches played, the 1673 wickets taken really matter; they just don’t, in themselves, account for the love.

The home side by this stage had all but won the game (against Kent) barring a Glamorgan-scale debacle in their reply, which fortunately failed to materialise. The man himself had taken the final wicket and mostly, the September sun had obligingly produced. Robert Croft – with a one year contract at Glamorgan to do ambassadorial/corporate work and surely genuine possibilities for wider media work – will hardly be disappearing. But he will not, apparently, be bowling. So it felt – it feels – like a shame.

May his legacy (that word again!) persist; infectious, on the pleasing side of jaunty, like his approach to the crease. And on that irresistible nature, a small wager; that reminders to Rob to show some enthusiasm will remain unnecessary; whether working at the Swalec or beyond, in an office or net, the fellah will still bounce in.  He may even appeal.

Crofty I think of as the chopsy poet of off-spin – maybe the chopsy Taff poet – and I view this as complimentary in every detail. I hope he does.

Having attended a workshop he gave to us Regional Coaches and seen him deliver both those absurdly fluent, flighted or flattened right-armers together with informal masterclass-isms for the benefit of us lesser life-forms, I can make surprisingly valid comment upon the man. Spluttering before the cameras I might muster… “he’s a bloody good bloke”. Elsewhere, with time to re-grasp reflections more or less blurred by time or Felinfoel I might suggest an outstanding Welshman, full of that rich mixture of public house verbals and proper sporting sparkle befitting a Premier Grade Dragon. A real player, in fact.

So as not to patronise him entirely with stories of his chummily colourful past let’s reinforce this essential rider; Crofty has performed, with rare diligence and consistency and passion for his beloved Glamorgan. Look at the stats if you will. Consider the fact that he’s often opened the bowling in 20-20’s, for example – an invitation to get humbled for any off-spinner.  Or look elsewhere in the columns, the how many’s. You will find something pretty remarkable. The woolly, immeasurable truth however is surely that few can match either his quality as a slow bowler or his loyalty and commitment to a single cause; very few have matched that combination of gift and heart.

Slow bowlers need a certain guile to go with any spin they may have. Croft personified a further extra-curricular dimension; he was a personality on the pitch. He believed and expressed the belief that body language – the oohs and aahs and OWIZZEE’S as well as the physical whirlings – were key to the armoury.

Tellingly, during the spin workshop – in front of 40-odd coaches uniformly but perhaps unknown to him slightly awed to be in his presence – Croft seemed inconsistently served by words. But when he demonstrated some of this intensity, in alliance with a fluency bordering the bewitching he impacted most fully upon the room. You use that seam – at 45 degrees; you follow through; you engage with the batsman – you get in his head. Like this!

I have a clear memory of leaving with a smile on my face, surer than ever that this occasionally combative professional sportsman might reasonably have the words ‘artist at work’ daubed on the flip-chart at the mouth of his net. He has a quality perhaps best recorded by such graffiti. Plus I suspect he might like the ambiguity – the banter? – such a tribute might evoke.

When relaxed, Croft has that blokey ease found all over; when riled, he is allegedly capable of stubbornness or worse – perhaps especially if he feels the county, the team risks being undermined. But when bowling – when released into the flow of his natural state – Croft (if it doesn’t sound too absurd?) outlives himself. Meaning something to do with poetry occurs; meaning something bigger than Robert Croft occurs.

Whether I am daft or delusional or dynamically charged in this, I hope young spinners in Wales will get some sense of his boundlessly purposeful bound, his zealot’s wheeling. And… enjoy that.

Dive dive dive!

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There’s no mobile signal down in Abereiddy, the fulmars having failed to raise a clamour of the necessary pitch to sort that one with Orange or with Vodaphone. But who cares? Surely not a beaming Steve Lobue of the US of A – his victory amongst the gulls eclipsing any broiling techno-hitch. This place finds ways to compensate. Mom and Pop can wait; at least until that cliff is scaled again.

The Red Bull Cliff Diving World Series. 2012. In allegedly sleepy North Pembrokeshire. On the one hand absurdly interloping; on the other a pure and appropriately balletic tribute to cliff, to water, to mad, mad bloke.

For implausibly, around some temporary ‘ledge’, 14 competitors have gathered to the vortex of some par-hyped yet understated circus; a convention for stylishly icy floppers. It’s at once remarkably un-Pembrokeshire and in smiling sympathy with the native spirit for clowning about, wearing helmets, coasteering, slugging recklessly from flasks.

Turns out this place was simply made for it. Cliffs? We have cliffs. Views? We have views. Views that even the divers – seasoned travellers all – later rated as right up there with the World Series finest. Views this weekend drawn along and out to that beatific channel; flitting the former slate quarry itself, long disembowelled and blasted open to the Irish Sea. A coast here almost shorn of current human foible; a coast to walk silently and gawp – or throw yourself in.

At Abereiddy – at the ‘Blue Lagoon’ – the now-quiet quarry that lips out into the tide they dove from 27 metres; 90 feet in old money. It may be some comfort that the pool is deep, deeper than the dive. But given the very real dangers of impaction (at 85-90km an hour), into a surface that really might deflower the aspirations of any incautious male, this is a sport for elite levels of control. Elite levels.

From this extraordinary height the water must be breached feet-first; for safety’s sake. Heads? Heavens no! Think of that, as the divers spiral and plummet before gathering their extended feet beneath at the last jangling instant. The clapping then… is about relief.

I declare an interest. I too have leapt fearlessly into this spookily generous (and notoriously cold) eel-pit. Often, with my children, both of whom may have leapt with more grace and from a more significant elevation than their now quivering, now bombing dad. I know, I know exactly what these guys up on that airfix balcony are going through. The only difference is they actually depart.

The most chronic abandonment of terra firma imaginable began on Friday morn, not too early. This being the first occasion the Cliff Diving World Series had ventured in to UK waters, few watching had endured this stuff before. This athletic clamber down token ladder to admittedly kosher but still clunky-looking platform-effort, jutting out from far too high up the disinterested cliff. This un-reassuring peek down, before this wildly liberated arc and keenly reined counter-flip.

They are strong, fit men; apparently on the squat side of gymnastic when judged from down amongst the upturned faces. These guys have torsos. Whether Bulgarian, Brit or Russian; they share that. They also share, it transpires, an ability to stop – stop everything – every heartbeat in the county when they need to. At that moment.

About forty only, world-wide, are prepared to this nerveless peak. Watching them tune in at that board’s end, then execute (to borrow the ubiquitous sports-jargon of the moment) the full rare mixture of joy via nausea uncorks. But most jarringly magnificent is their ability to gather in contortions to pencil-slim completion inches before splashdown. Every dive hurts, they say – it’s just a question of how much.

The home crowd, despite their lack of dive education cheered all whilst naturally trying to TeamGB Messrs Hunt and Aldridge – the leading contenders from Blighty. Whooping and misinformed nods of appreciation for technical minutiae prospered in a likeably good-natured way, traceable to quite reasonable post-olympic smugness. Besides, the judges were on it, so… triples? Doubles? Pikes? Who cares?

We were reliably informed that diver A or B – from Russia or Colombia or indeed the winner? – arrived sleepy-eyed direct from some un-named West Wales aero-hub. Whilst others had enjoyed a day or two of practice and acclimatisation to the surprisingly acceptable air temperatures and (allegedly) the local brew. (The suspicion did gather btw, that this exclusive posse of extreme sports gentlemen may indeed be likely to continue the proud tradition for both working and playing hard. A suspicion not dispelled by the post-performance huddle and hearty high-fiving that beta-males such as myself can only imagine precede appalling randiness. I have no doubt that diving groupies were lurking.)

After warm up efforts (hah!) the contest began with a single required dive at a fixed degree of difficulty of 3.6. Meaning even if the contestants chose to do eight trillion somersaults and recite the Mabinogion on the way down, they would only have their score multiplied by 3.6. (I heard no welsh myth-making at this stage.) Later a typical rate of difficulty might be 5.something.

GB’s Blake Aldridge and Gary Hunt and Colombia’s Orlando Duque – a name so absurdly daubed in any context with the threat of exotic brilliance I wish I’d invented it (but I never) – featured strongly immediately, thus putting them in good shape for the next, head-to-head rounds.

Saturday dawned and a crowd of 1400 plus pitched up to enjoy the general sun-kissed fabulousness; godlike specimens like wildcard entry Todor Spasov of Bulgaria hurling their frames against the backdrop of a baking cliff, a sparkling sea, a welsh-mexican wave.

As things developed, with the dives themselves morphing from gracefully replete to gracefully acrobatic with flashy-twisty-flourish, the pressures of competition tightened with our chests. We could barely imagine what the wild card entrant from Leeds was thinking – him having pitched up with his tent and then so impressed the judges during practice days that he was allowed entry, poor lad. (He competed with honour but no cigar, as they say.)

One further required dive remained – by now in a head-to-head situation – followed by a possible two optional dives (depending upon progress against your oppo’.) With scoring being done in the sling-out-the-highs-and-lows tradition onlookers soon became adept at cooing or booing following broad computation of the cards – cards held high by judges including former double double Olympic Diving Champ Greg Louganis.

As the MC unconvincingly but jauntily somersaulted then belly-flopped his way through diver introductions, local history and the english language, 6 divers were eliminated after round 3, leaving the remaining 8 to contemplate a final effort. Should it be – need it be – spectacular to the point of lunacy? Or merely an authoritative statement to close the thing out and achieve ‘podium’? It may have just been me but that point of focus before the dive became yet more precious… and more demanding of all of us.

The toned protagonists held themselves in that most unsteady of moments, inviolably gathered, before flipping themselves out and up and around. And down. Three, even four somersaults and a twist, or more. Accelerating cruelly in the last of the three seconds of descent before gathering to that essential entry. And splashing; splashing softly, ideally.

Steve Lobue of the US scored highest, over the four rounds, at this remarkable event, on this remarkable day. He won under pressure from Orlando Duque and then Gary Hunt. For the record, divers from the UK, US, Bulgaria, Russia, Luxembourg, Ukraine, Czech Republic, Mexico and Colombia took part. And at £5 per ticket, with a startling aerobatic display thrown in, this was unfeasibly good value – a rarity for top end sport.

Amongst the departing crowd there were awed conversations particular to such uniquely loaded events, hung with hand-over-mouth expressions and framed by widely smiling eyes. There was respect and there was disbelief. We had seen brave men at the limits of control, of athleticism, of – in fact – durability. They had come through it… and so, miraculously, had we.

Sleepy Abereiddy

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American Steven Lobue won a sparkling and competitive Red Bull Cliff Diving World Series Event held over the weekend in Pembrokeshire. Diving last in the final round, he maintained his lead to stave off strong challenges from Orlando Duque of Colombia in second and GB’s Gary Hunt in third.

The scene could hardly have been more stunning for an event making its debut in the UK – the North Pembrokeshire Coastline magnificently disporting as the athletes leapt from a 27m platform built out from the cliff. Below, in the former slate quarry now marine playground to visitors and locals alike known to all as The Blue Lagoon, a deceptively ‘hard’ and emphatically cool surface lay in wait. From this height, the water must be breached feet-first, such are the forces of compression – such are the perils.

Previous venues have included various locations in Mexico, Corsica, the Azores and Croatia. But Abereiddy, this raw yet majestic hunk of West Wales, with its slate long and deeply disembowelled and the sea invited in showed not a sign of awe. Instead, it glinted and it winked its natural glories at the crew, at the crowds. Towards 3,000 paying guests attended over the two days of competition – that figure excluding the flotilla of kayakers and cheapskates who were welcomed in from the accommodating sea.

The four rounds of competition featured two required dives with a fixed degree of difficulty and two optional dives, where competitors struck out for bigger points through increased tricksiness. Many of us would feel familiar in some degree with the characteristic pikes, tucks, somersaults and twists. What make this special is the elevation and the speed of fall.

In later rounds it seemed de rigeur to throw in 3 or even 4 somersaults and more than a full twist before entering the water at 90 kph. No wonder that moment of focussing before the dive seemed so endless and so precious. Onlookers, fortunately, are trapped into this silence, offering the competitors space to do their very particular thing.

Lobue and his smiling but spiralling posse mastered that moment here, seemingly easy with this conflict between sheer spine-chilling danger and counterintuitive calm and body control. All these guys – including the wild card entrant from Leeds on a brave or foolish mission to join the circus – gracefully, fearlessly shared with us their appreciation of this purest of extreme sports. It was extraordinary.

The Campaign for Gentlemanly Conduct; part 3.

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So now we have the Para’s – is it okay to call them the Para’s? And more genuinely stirring and even remarkable sporting stuff to satiate that proper-joy-meets-nationalist-frisson-thing. A summer of smiling madly and wondering if that’s okay? C’mon… that reading and thinking stuff is … okay… but… give it a rest! BOUNCE – bounce and clap!! TOGETHER!

For life is simple and sport is good and gold is only gold. And these Olympics – these sports – can surely be enjoyed disproportionately in the moment but returned to the real life context promptly. Contemplate later if you will the alarming inconsistencies twixt ‘glory’ and gory chauvinism/materialism midst the nose-bagging or could it be appeasement of our most bovine requirements – for fast-food highlights watchable from our Pringle-caked sofas? If you will. Afterwards. Or not – I’m a fan, me.

So either relax or have fraught moments of post-modernist angst before keeping it simple. And celebrating – continuing to celebrate – on the Brit-funded, Brit-led and spun carousel. Every day there will be a fabulous and a winning smile as our athletes respond magnificently to the world-beating support in the world-class venues. Every day somebody will talk inspiringly modestly and generously of their achievement being rooted in their team, in us. And this sits somewhere rather proudly between heart-warming and outright wonderful. If you just believe.

The thread of my Conduct posts – which I promise I am returning to – has been woven crudely around this un 21st Century wholesomeness; the nature of TeamsGB being so contingent upon, so lifted by some recognition of (dare I use the word communal?) good stuff we might call spirit. It’s something surprisingly pure, this thing – their connection with, even their reliance upon a real and conceptual us. Time after time we have seen athletes rise to the challenge, even when the pressures seem absurdly charged agin them; they’ve performed; they’ve thrived. And this is one of the key things that separates them from (for example) England footballers.

There could be a specific charge here, that Team England FC have perennially wilted when their Olympic equivalents came around. I am more interested in broader charges against the game of football – or allegedly top level football – and its indulged protagonists.

My first two posts on this subject spilt their six-pack of beery moralistic banter around dubious ‘comparisons’ between the Olympic brilliance/properpeople combo as epitomised by Katherine Grainger/Mo Farrah/Justaboutallofthem,actually and (say) Rio Ferdinand. Following that massacre, in which it was scientifically proven that too many footballers really are wankers with the sensitivity of er… oil tankers, I begin to reconstruct the football model in a Danny Boyle-like pastorale. Because diving, screaming abuse at the ref and owning 5 rolexes is well out of order, right? So.

In this anarchic tumble I will again try to key you in to football’s anti-gems – the dollops of doo in the matrix – suggestive or reflective of wider issues. If this seems obtuse, my counter would be simply that I reckon fans feel like this, in spluttering, impassioned bulletpoints. It’s personal. Stuff that gets my wick then, includes;

  • Strikers seeking only to ‘draw’ a foul, or better still a penalty whilst bearing down on goal –or, increasingly, anywhere on the goddam pitch. The traditionally burning, gurning desire of the No. 9 to smash one in the top corner now being gone.
  • Pretending to be religious whilst crossing the threshold of the park.
  • Endless and often aggressive abuse of the referee/officials.
  • Petty appealing for ‘everything’, including everything that patently isn’t ‘ours.’
  • Diving and acting and the generally associated trying to get a fellow pro (hah!) sent off.
  • Note to above; in particular the diabolical histrionics around any slight contact with the face. I’ve seen Scotty Parker – otherwise a proper throwback to good ole English terrierhood – feign acid attack to his fizzog; unforgivable. And diabolically prevalent.
  • That general crassness around money.
  • That general crassness around seemingly knowing the value of nothing.
  • Specifically on Teams England FC – even given their prevailing mediocrity – the galling lack of achievement when Big Days arrive. (And I’m not just talking about penalties.)
  • More than this, the stultifyingly dull and ungenerous manner in which England teams have performed in these major tournaments. Where they play no meaningful football; where they seem pale unbelieving shadows… barely even ticking the ‘honest triers’ box. This chronic unbelief, this inability to rise when atmospheres are at their most magnificent is surely hugely telling of their relative smallness as people as well as damning of England systems? It’s what makes fans wonder if they care… and rightly or wrongly, football fans watching our Olympians and Paralympians will and do wonder why the hell the footballers can’t lift their game like this. Sorry… did I go off on one ?

Much of this counts as a digression I know. So I will attempt to retreat to my argument over Gentlemanly Conduct.

The crassness in Premiership football combined with the Hodgson-led slink back (apparently) to philosophies 30 years plus out of date means there is a crisis in the soul of English football; a real one. It may be business as usual in the Prem but it’s a sour business. Particularly when compared to the smiley-roundedness of what we have seen on tracks, on water and generally all over this summer. Nobody believes in the players because they are mercenaries. They dive, they cheat, they lack much of what is broadly regarded to be sporting. The managers routinely offend our intelligence, either through blandly pursuing the Offer Nothing ritual that is the ‘face the cameras’ moment, or, in the case of someone like the now departed Dalglish, by being actively hostile to the notion that folks might want to know something. Something real. The presiding emotions – if any are apparent – are closer to a kind of barbarism than sport. And football is… a sport.

My Campaign for Gentlemanly Conduct is a loose and I hope likeably unthreatening but genuine call for that tumbleweed moment to turn into that lightbulb moment; for some change. Footie is so in my blood it’s not true; yet I find myself turning elsewhere, increasingly, for that daft but preciously sustaining glimpse of triumph or grace. Because too much in the game is not good enough; leading me to ask why and what might be done.

My conclusion is that a recalibration of notions of respect – and the Law of the Game around this – is necessary. This seems central to the major problems (and major turn-offs), namely the poor or disrespectful or dishonest conduct of players and managers.

It’s one of the great no-brainers of world sport that footballers must be in whatever way works re-educated in terms of their relationship with referees in particular. This will probably mean bans for abuse, fines in the modern era being sadly meaningless. Beyond this, I contend there really is a role for some panel of wise men or women who review controversial moments or incidents that in some way bring the game into disrepute. They should be empowered to penalise offenders against sportsmanship as well as the Laws of the Game.

I realise the difficulties around such a panel but see little hope for improvements unless at some stage player X is materially judged against for obvious simulation – for example. If this necessitates changes or extensions to the laws so be it; that might where that politically unsound but retrievable Ungentlemanly Conduct concept comes in.  Making things or people better.  Then 3 former players or officials in a room – job done.

Us fans feel that stuff is wrong and needs righting somehow. Having a foot in other sporting camps I can tell you that rugbyfolks and cricketers and sportsfolk generally really are offended and really do relentlessly mock the arrogance and the lack of honour (however pompous that might sound) amongst footballers. The Campaign for Gentlemanly Conduct has been (and is) about representing that amorphous groundswell-thing against crap in football. Crap behaviour, crap attitudes, crap awareness. Football… take a look at yourself.

The Campaign for Gentlemanly Conduct; part two.

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Previously I have made heartfelt but no doubt ludicrous generalisations about TeamGBsters being better people than say… Rio Ferdinand, the Olympics having shown up the inadequacies of our football stars through the inconsiderate revelation of dee-lightful rowing chap after unassumingly lush cyclistess. Rio – a deliberately relatively inoffensive choice, as it ‘appens – in interview, would stand no chance against… well… against any of them. Imagine the poor fellah pitched into some comparison with (specimen-of-all-specimens?) Katherine Grainger. Nuff sed.

I hope to move on from this unlicensed judgementalism by getting further into the issue of, the contrasts re respect in sport. This is something even I slightly fear threatens to align me with a currently mercifully subterranean (to-the-point-of-imaginary, actually) arch-conservative group fronted by that former decathlete now eminent flopster/middle distance scapegoat Michael Gove but such are the dangers of the hunt for the righteous . (On that political orientation thing I will just confirm that my own lunacy tends to spring awkwardly from the softish left rather than the anal right.) However because  footballers do seem to have no respect and this does I think draw more flak than almost any other complaint against yer Rooney and yer Terry, stuff must surely be said.  About respect.  But… respect for what?

Broadly, the Olympians – our Olympians, for let’s be honest, we didn’t see too much of the rest of the world’s – were universally received as beacons of treble-fabulous good; partly, surely, because of the obvious contrast with footballers? Wherever you looked there was modesty and rounded good-humour of the sort last seen in football circa 1953 when some bloke called Matthews skipped round a bewildered First Division whilst supping mild, knitting nightcaps and discovering the potato; all to general hat-throwing acclaim.

Now the accuracy or validity of any emotion against shallowness, arrogance and disturbing unworldliness amongst footballers may be open to debate.  It is nevertheless certain that large chunks of us – even those who consider ourselves fans – feel they behave, in the widely used vernacular, like wankers. This is often due to their petulance or lack of respect for officials. We understand that players have in the moment some urgent need to express disappointment or to otherwise ‘react’. It does not follow that this reaction might need to be so essentially cheap.

In rugby circles the drama-queendom and simulation in soccer means coaches tear into footballers for precisely these shameful or cynical episodes – acting or disrespectful and inflammatory celebrations being particularly offensive to the rugby community. Coaches in the 15-man game do routinely warn their own players against such dishonour, such poncification – I know, in coaching rugby myself, I have done this.

So it really is true that footballers are held in contempt by many in the rugby community. How many of them appreciate this, I wonder? Or feel the moral depth of that contempt? Would such awareness make any difference? Unknowable – so let’s get back to rules; respect.

First I should probably mention that for those unfamiliar with footielaw (and footie does have Laws not Rules, interestingly or not) Law 12 now includes what was previously recognised as the Ungentlemanly Conduct Law. Now if I understand it correctly kindof subsumed into Fouls and Misconduct, this throwback to the age of honour and imperial plunder is still in use for discretionary expression by refs and, more commonly, though with little discretion, in the bullshitfest that is general discussion and punditry around the game. I think it’s chronically under-used potential reiner-in of modern ills.

For surely this anachronistic, slightly pompous-sounding Ungentlemanly Conduct thing has rather a lot going for it – or could have – alongside its weirdly inappropriate non-PCness, which we need to recognise.

For one thing it unashamedly implies a kind of moral compass; suggesting in its dangerously dated manner that some woolly goodness, some reflection even may be beneficial to the game. (A note here that perhaps you don’t need to be a misogynist traditionalist necessarily to applaud transgenerational sporting values.) Secondly, its non-specificity lends itself to flexibility and discretion. Thirdly, football needs something to latch onto, some cause to cling to or gather around and it may be that post a wonderfully enervating/invigorating and sporting Olympics this notion of good or ‘gentlemanly’ conduct might just help football re-brand. It certainly might help those trying to keep the thing in order.

So let’s just contemplate again, specifically, this thing football has with referees, with its ‘bastards in black’ and on this occasion I promise to jink Steve Coppell-style outside considerations of race before arcing in my devastating cross/theory thing.

We can get a grip on them – referees – there’s something really grabbable in both physical and conceptual terms about their starchy, often geeky authoritarianism drawing them in to our malevolent clutches. They are an almost reassuringly resented presence in football –uniquely so? – there being an extraordinary hostile confluence of opinion upon their role, their nature even.  (But that’s weird, right?)

Led with extravagant charmlessness by the top players and the managers, we the footie public at large – watching either semi-naked on some frosted terrace or listening in to Allan Green whilst our Porsches scoot silently through leafy Mayfair – love to abuse them. We love to abuse them psychotically in fact, with the fullness of our hearts for… for being the ref.

There is a thesis to be written on this alone, this murderous international antipathy to that bloke or woman in the middle; whatever they do; however, pretty much, they do it.
Later, dwarlings, later…

The quality of the abuse of referees in football is peculiarly obscene and its occurrence peculiarly prevalent. It never ends. The players are obviously and enormously culpable in this, as are the managers and there seems to be no significant will from any direction to curb this wholly degrading aspect of the game.

Let me be clear on this. In 2012 swearing is barely an issue – or at least not an issue of the import of racism or homophobia for example. But swearing aggressively and repeatedly and abusively at a referee or an official is. It’s truly an offence in the wider sense of the word and I find it extraordinary that it still goes relatively unpunished season after season.

Very few players are ever actually sent off or banned following such outbursts, yet we see them in gruesome, fulsome high definition in almost every match as players react appallingly to unfavourable decisions. And I know players are under more pressure in the modern game – truly, they are – the exposure being massively greater, the rewards being financially greater. This is no way, however, excuses a disgracefully poor level of discipline amongst players and managers in this regard.

Pity the referees – support the referees I say – with video playback and meaningful assistance from an empowered fourth official and beyond. Currently the man in the middle is utterly undermined by dishonesty and malcontent all around. He or she is there, the Martians have concluded, to collect our madnesses; like some spitbowl for the twisted soul of humanity. And they are in black.

With both a million years of dodgy symbolism and John Terry railed up against them, what chance do referees have?

Well how about if they had a panel of respected footiefolks in their corner? And what if that panel reviewed obviously controversial or mishandled incidents with a view to issuing correctives in the form of warnings or bans to those guilty of (say?) bringing the game into disrepute?

If this group of Goodies riding in to save footie from itself really were concerned to aggressively promote sportsmanship as well as good decision-making, might it even be appropriate for them to use the moniker The Campaign for Gentlemanly Conduct?  Thereby staking a claim on that apparently unnaproachably difficult playing surface… The Higher Ground.

People… there’s more to come on this.