Sport

Shooting…

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Predictability is a kind of death, is it not, in sport? If your opposition knows what you’re up to; if you ‘telegraph’ things. Practice and conditioning and the set plays or grooved moves of the training pitch are rendered meaningless if they are expressed poorly, robotically. Fans detest and are actually depressed I think, by what they feel to be insultingly obvious routines transferred moronically into the real-deal arena; we hope for some liberation from our sporting heroes rather than mere regurgitation.

Following a clump of disappointments for the English I propose to heroically subvert the prevalence, the dominance of dull order and drudgery by throwing a few wild passes into the mix. Not for me (on this occasion) the considered appreciation hitherto expected of the mature journalist. I’m bullet-pointing you towards my gut. And – even though Capello’s arrogant, undisciplined, unprofessional rabble have again infuriated us – let’s start with the rugby.

  • England went out of the Rugby World Cup at the Quarter-Final stage, in humiliating fashion.
  • Clearly we can blame both the players and the management team; they both failed. Failed to contribute enough.
  • Martin Johnson must surely be sacked. For an age ‘his side’ have been dull, crude, uninspiring, rudderless. It’s his job to facilitate the expression of their talents.
  • Instead he has aimed cynically low – at a kind of “winning rugby” that has won neither admirers nor a particularly high percentage of big games.
  • Against France his players were almost uniformly shockingly poor. They appeared strained rather than energised, wooden rather than dynamic. Being that uncomfortable is a clear failure of preparation, of culture. Johnson takes the blame for that.
  • The central place that Mike Tindall has played in Johnson’s squad is a depressing symbol of their failings. Tindall is surely the most perfectly one-dimensional centre in international rugby. He is allegedly a solid defender but he rarely carries the ball with pace, grace or menace. He rarely passes the ball sharply or with imagination. Contrast his alleged presence and influence with that of Tuilagi, who moves powerfully, sinuously, alarmingly, beautifully even. How obvious does a profound dearth of talent need to be before it is pulled?
  • England have real rugby footballers in different areas. Foden, Ashton, Tuilagi most significantly and perhaps Lawes from amongst the pack – most of whom are legitimate international players but not more than that. Their failure has been largely a thing born of ugliness beyond pragmatism; unambition masquerading as tactical minimalism. This is a central cause for the contempt with which they have understandably been held in the hearts of rugbyfolk worldover. They have largely chosen to deny the beauty and lifeblood of the game by opting for monotones. It is therefore appropriate that the manner of their defeat by an awakening but hardly inspired French side was chastening to the point of embarrassment. People feel that it is just.
  • Aside from this thin tactical meanness now exposed, surely Johnson’s inability to truly motivate his players was also reflected through a lack of leadership on the pitch. Lewis Moody was crippled but was more of a loose cannon by nature. Tindall… ’nuff said. There was a core of very senior players who despite their undoubted honesty lacked belief. If that was because they understood the shallowness of their plans, I look forward to hearing their liberating dissent.

Next up… we sling mud at the footballers.  Or… we revel in the brilliance of the Welsh.

I’m not joking…

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The mother-in-law – sorry, my mother-in-law, if that’s less Les Dawson – has been almost worryingly poorly lately. She needs to do less, without question. (I think) she certainly needs to do less of the rather bitter and energy-sapping judging of things that is absolutely, on one level essential to her. And – because I understand most of the difficulties I am heading for with this foolish and dangerous gambit in a post about World Cup Rugby– I want to try and explain what I mean by that.

I am not trying to deny Edna any of her human rights; or in any way undermine the authenticity of her near-biblical rages against the inevitable offences of modern life. (I am clear that I disagree with the overwhelming number of her positions on politics/race/ethics/sport but I am mostly concerned that her piping hot expressions will render her ill or iller than is presently, almost worryingly the case). Last night, though looking a tad peeky at our daughter’s 9th birthday tea, Edna managed an arch-typical outburst on the subject of the England rugby team. She thinks they should be sent home.

Now it may be the case that there have been ‘issues’ with behaviour which have not reflected well on Martin Johnson’s boys – or, by implication, on the Suited Lamp-post himself. You may or may not be relieved to know that I have no intention to revisit in detail the various alleged misdemeanours and either discard them as minor or calibrate their seriousness. Edna, however, has made it her business to roll deeply in the fox-pooh that is Tindallgate etc etc. using The Daily Mail as her trusty guide. Or should that be bloodhound?

She now passionately believes that the one-dimensional England centre and sometime skipper is up there with Ashley Cole in the reprehensibility stakes. (Funnily enough, I’m pretty much with her on this one but where we differ is in the weight of punishment for the man – I would settle for less than the hanging in the White Tower that Edna holds out for.) I am more interested in the general question arising from Edna’s belligerent investo-journalism; namely Is England RUFC becoming (as bad as) England FC? Now that’s a substantial as well as a flippant question.

Rugby people are largely and understandably scathing about the coiffured ponces of the Premier League, writhing about, as they do, in swiss chocolate-style decadence, with no sense of what they owe to the game, to the fans. Rugby players, they argue, are manifestly better than this. Now it sounds like Tindall may have been a drunken arse possibly prepared to be unfaithful to his new wife. It sounds like 3 other players may have been disgracefully rude or worse to a female member of staff at their hotel. It sounds like drink has been an unhelpful lubricant in the various situations slavvered over by the press. This perhaps is disturbing in the sense that it may in two ways separate players from fans

  1. Because the players may no longer be able / be allowed to mingle with their fellows
  2. Because those offending players have been unworthy / have been behaving more like… footballers?

Many of us have been present when the What Goes On Tour Stays On Tour banner has been quietly unfurled over an appalling or sometimes hilarious incident. Often the mischief shrouded in this way is insignificant, or at least the machinery of society remains sustained, for better or worse, in sickness and in health despite it. But not always; sometimes it’s serious and it has consequences; I remember a 9 year match being squished after a team-mate successfully Tindalled a young lady in Holland. That’s not funny.

Not that I want to get too drawn into the morality tale end of the market here, but clearly high profile young men (like an international Rugby Team on tour – like England) who are likely to be horny and fit and even on occasion attractive either have to be good, careful, or abstemious. They are pretty likely to get lucky with young members of the opposite (or the same) sex; but they are not likely to get lucky with the press. It is therefore incumbent upon them to contemplate their responsibilities or their exit strategy. What would be a shame is if in a perfectly reasonable hitching of tour perameters players went missing from social intercourse entirely. (Rugby players I mean).

Because therein surely lies one of the keys to that which is most precious – and I use the word in all innocence – in the game. In the knowledge that I repeat myself the general level of honest respect between and for players, fans and the game of rugby itself really is different; it is better than that brittle, ring-fenced arrangement surrounding high-ranking footballers. There is almost no link between Adebayor or Van de Vaart and the fans other than the one-way adoration expended for 90 minutes on a Saturday. Ungentlemanly conduct is massively present in top level soccer. In contrast the commonalities between Chris Ashton and Toby Flood and their respective home fans and the general conduct of rugby ‘stars’ is of a substantially fairer tone. They are still in reach; they still respect the game, the ref. Which is why it is disconcerting that folks like Edna now perceive no meaningful difference. She thinks that like politicians… they’re all the same.

Enter the North?

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The foibles and fateful wotsits have begun to weave their magic and so, in truth , have the Celts. The World Cup Draw, that dull calendar formerly only notable in terms of the scramble to avoid the All Blacks, is now animated; a northern beacon being run across its landscape. Following just a few tweaks of the original presumptions – Ireland and Argentina and Tonga having been arguably the chief protagonists – firstly the balance of the draw and now we hope its democracy, its capacity to permit open challenges has been transformed.

Because Wales should have beaten South Africa; because Ireland did beat Australia and Tonga did beat France, the possibilities swung wide as the draw narrowed against the Tri-Nations. Australia’s defeat effected an unfortunate consequence; they joined South Africa and the home nation in the Quarters. With the Wallabies facing the Springboks for a place in the semi’s and the All Blacks facing Argentina not Scotland (no great surprise, that one) only one of the great Southern powers can reach the final. One the one hand this is a clear affront to sporting justice – the Tri-Nations still providing 3 of the top 4 rugby-playing nations – but on the other this also means that a Six Nations side must make the final, thereby providing a true all-world centrepiece.

I imagine the residents of Sydney or Darwin and possibly Jo’burg berating this freak of fortune; but the truth is a) if the Aussies had beaten Ireland they would have faced Wales not the Springboks and b) Wales punctured most of the arguments for Southern superiority during their group match against the ‘boks, which they contrived to lose (again) from a position of clear … superiority. Wales have now gone on to produce the most fluent and complete performance of the tournament by annihilating Fiji – Fiji, mark you, not Russia or Namibia! – 66 points to nil. In doing so, the names of Warburton and North have been beamed powerfully into the consciousness of the event; Warburton for his inspired leadership and supremely athletic presence all round the pitch and North for his joyful bursts to the line. Wales suddenly have a right to believe they may earn a place in the final. Only Ireland and then perhaps England stand in their way.

The Irish have risen from nowhere to join their Celtic brothers in the Quarter-final. For a year or more prior to this tournament, despite the presence of powerful and experienced players throughout their squad, the Irish have seemed frankly a bit lost. Unable to convincingly raise the traditional fires or play expansively with any consistency, it seemed they arrived in New Zealand as makeweights. But the outstanding win against the Wallabies, plus today’s pasting of the Italians makes a nonsense of former blandness. They may be only muttering quietly and darkly in the corner, but Ireland too believe.

England remain both an enigma and a bore. Miraculously shapeless and uninspired – given the awesome proportions and reputation of the Man (very much) At The Top – they have bundled through like the Leeds United of old, knowing they are generally loathed but, unlike Revie’s mob, unable to use that for motivation. But they are immensely durable. Their recent World Cup history is of impeccable over-achievement. They really might play near-shocking ‘winning rugby’ to another final, having bored France and Wales out of the way; a sort of dull parity around the pitch followed by rare interventions by Foden or Ashton really might do it. Possibly even with Wilkinson miscuing – although I fancy his position may genuinely be under review. As should the manager’s, if France beat them.

France have been more French than the French, having gone largely and directly from worse to worse. And this time their propensity for gallic squandering seems likely to fully express itself; following a dour defeat by England they will surely miss the flight home and be found sobbing in isolated clumps in the cheapest of local nightclubs. There to be hugged generously by Mike Tindall.

So – sticking my neck out – New Zealand or Australia or South Africa will meet Wales or Ireland or England for ultimate glory. It’s as simple as that. That, mind you, is discounting the Pumas. But surely the All Blacks couldn’t..? No… no… no.

Listen face-ache…

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Before this broadside gets into full flow may I note to you, sagacious reader, that yes I am aware that there were times when Carlos Tevez was pretty much adored by fans of West Ham/MU, amongst others. And yes I am also aware that this was because of his near magnificent levels of honest commitment to the cause, to the shirt (or so it seemed) – a phenomenon that endears players to fans more than virtually anything else. He could actually play a bit too. However… yaknow… things change but don’t mess with the fans, right…

Listen face-ache, we’ve just about had enough. It was okay ferawhile you moving from club to club every new moon, or whatever it is meks ya skidaddle – ‘ang on, correction, I know exactly what it is but you only got away with that whilst you were patently the best player/most loved scuttler abart the park(er) at West Ham. Now you’re not. Scuttlin’. In fact ya flat refused to scuttle you overpaid scumbag and you are history mate, as far as we are concerned. Ahem.

Us fans – us City fans anyroad – have been absolutely buzzin’ with the way things have gone for us after all the crap we’ve ‘ad to put up with fer decades and you, you come over ‘ere and… first of all… yer unbelievable, ta be fair. But then, then ya get restless or whatever and start fallin’ out and whatever and the club, the club gets… like forgotten! I’ve never seen anybody playin’ fer ’emselves and nobody else so obvious man. You’ve not passed to nobody for twelve month! Embarrassin’! Sub or not; ya’ve played like my nephew’s lot – chase the ball an’ never f***in’ pass!! Ever! What’s all that lot about? It’s not on. Even us stupid fans know when things aren’t right and this started months and months ago and ya could see it on the pitch months and months ago. One ball for yoos and another for the team? Not on mate.

Dunt madder about the money – the money’s just a joke we all know that – but ‘s a team f***in’ sport innit? Ya don’t do that; ya don’t shit on yer mates. However good you are ya don’t shit on yer mates.

An’ now this is like another level innit. Champions League – ya know ‘ow long we been waiting fer Champions League? Need a massive effort from all of us and… to actually refuse to come on, no matter ‘ow much right, ya hate the manager, is unf***ingbelievable. The jury’s still out on the manager, we know that . But there’s no way back from that – there shouldn’t be anyroad. Frannie Lee and Micky Summerbee and all these people are all like… standin’ about in shock I think. Thinkin’ this is like the end… for anybody to do that.

I can’t imagine how anybody – any player, least of all a City player would do that. An there’s no kinda racism in this, we don’t give a f*** where Tevez comes from. If any ar British players – if say Milner had done this – same thing. Sack him now; get ‘im out the club. ‘E’s a greedy, stupid man and we just want rid of ‘im. It’s just sick that he can think he can do that; be bigger than everything. It’s mebbe a sign of the times but… anyway… gizzafag Jordie…

Na wunda there’s riots; ‘cosa twats like ‘im oo’re only thinkin’ me me me. An’ ‘e’s got f***in’ everything; an’ ‘e wants more. It’s just sick in the head that. We’ve been givin’ ‘im two hundred grand a week an’ ‘e wants… wassie want, really, to run the f***in’ club or wha? Get him artof’ere… we’ll pay – dunt madder about the money…

Oh Fernando

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A few days ago I spoke of the acute tensions affecting that formerly boyish, now visibly creasing with world-weariness, Signor Fernando Torres. His is a story absurdly, almost hypnotically full of the contradictions of celebrity life. He is outrageously wealthy and talented; he is handsome, personable and has – unusually for a togger player? – the look of a sensitive human about him. But quietly, for a near-worryingly long period of time, he has been …shredded.

By that I mean that his confidence has been denuded to a mesh-like frailty. I have speculated – as a formerly prolific inside-forward/centre midfielder – that the principal emotion betraying the striker in mid-strike is a kind of glassy-eyed succumbing to a need for things to be over. Over for better or worse. Therefore, rather than showing either devastatingly confident instinct or devastating composure (this latter for me the absolute sign of class as well as goalscoring proficiency) the centre-forward does the difficult bit…but apocalyptically misses the yawning net. Receiving, in the process, a terrifying challenge to his previously invincible belief as well as the bitter mockery of the opposition support.

In the last week or two the cruel peaks and troughs of Fernado’s being – him being a top level footballer player and all – have been as publicly excruciating as the most exploitative X Factor audition. His level of performance has lurched from the sharp and instinctive (occasionally) to the raw embarrassing. But Fernando we know, we understand, should be passed fluffing his lines completely, right? He’s so been there, with all that pressure, all that expectation and worship because he has been brilliant, he has been as good as there is… which makes it news, which makes it poignant.

Today Torres again showed what are destined to be labelled ‘flashes’ for the second game on the trot. And crucially, perhaps, he scored. But then he lunged into a poor challenge – following, we presume prolonged verbals from opponents, who had no doubt quoted observations from my previous blog – and was summarily despatched from the proceedings.

It was an almost inevitably tragic (with the usual caveats) event in the accelerating sequence of almost cartoon-like Fernandoslots we have all been seeing and hearing on hourly sports bulletins for the last several months. And it makes us wonder what comes next. After the ban.

Will it be a prolonged period on the bench? Will it be, given football’s propensity for exposing the sensitive, a gift to heartless centre-halves the Premiership over? Will it be a catalyst for further dissent amongst fellow players, only some of whom are likely to have been truly supportive during Torres’ difficult times at both Liverpool and now Chelsea. We can’t know. But it seems beyond unlikely that Fernando will simply be spurred by a sending off into getting a grip. I wonder if or how he will do that, at all.

A Word about Torres…

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Let’s in a moment get slightly past the obvious; Torres is a formerly brilliant central striker – at one fairly recent stage arguably the best in the world – but he was not worth £50 million when purchased by our Russian friend. Aside from any legitimate argument about whether that fee may be obscene – let’s pretend there is a ‘real’ market price for his value as a player only – there could be no justification for a fee of such magnitude for a player so apparently physically and psychologically damaged.

That may in fact be a rather melodramatic description of where the player is at but surely it’s fairly representative of the feeling around him, following maybe 2 years of admittedly injury-linked frustration, poor goal returns and occasional (out-of-character) petulance at Liverpool. Torres the magnificent and the fluent had become a tetchy, visibly unhappy individual and a player fortunate to be getting regular football at the top level. It was and is questionable whether the toll repeated injuries and surgery had taken on his movement and consequently his form would and will preclude re-capture of the original precious gift for electrifying impact.

Ask Nemanja Vidic – in a few years time perhaps – to honestly assess where Torres ranked, how brilliantly he shone. Ask the average Liverpool fan to describe the relationship that fizzed between the Koppites and the player in his unassailable pomp and the scale of The Fall would be revealed. He was hugely loved, both for his scampering expression of the team ethic and for his exuberant talent. But that was, in football terms, a long time ago. When the fleet-footedness and the confidence petered away Fernando was rather depressingly different. He was not worth a place in the team.

Extraordinary then, that at this time of near-poignancy for the Spanish superstar, Abramovitch stepped in. I myself hope that he put an arm round Torres, told him he believed in him and would guarantee him a chance to gather and then express his deadly genius once more. (I suspect that the money was less an issue for Abramovitch than it would be for most minor nations but let’s assume the best and applaud the Russian for his faith – generosity even. Doubly so if we imagine the purchase as a reflection that he really does want to excite the Chelsea support on the way to the next level of glory). Torres may have seen the move more prosaically, as a step closer to silverware, rather than an opportunity to nestle under the warm wing of the owners’ casual jacket. Whatever, the blonde former bombshell moved south.

To further difficulties. A spiky or likely surly dressing-room, a club perennially now in flux. Ego’s the size of the Ivory Coast/France maybe. A new, sharp and pressing need to show that the Price Tag was irrelevant and the gift alive. Impossible? Could any manager build a side around this particular striker – let alone, after a series of underwhelming early performances, justifiably pick him?

A new season brought certain signs that key instincts may be returning… but not, sadly, the essential goals. And then there is today, and an absurdly wonderful, open game at Manchester United. Some of the movements – the commitments – are back. In a game brimming with opportunities and space, Torres scores a fabulous goal with an expressive flick of the right foot; it’s a trademark, top of the range finish; it’s beyond encouraging. But tomorrow’s papers I fear will be more likely to concentrate on the stomach-churning miss achieved shortly afterwards; the Sunday League miss, the one executed surely by an interloping donkey from park football, who, having rounded the keeper with contempt, stabs it laughably wide. To world-wide disbelief.

Cruelly, this one is right up there with the very best open goal misses. Massively saleable and destined to be forever referenced by fan and pundit alike. How did he miss? Because suddenly, he wanted the moment to be over. Over for better or worse. As a consequence, if Fernando is the sensitive boy many believe, he is going to have to disconnect his capacity to feel for some time. I wish him luck and the mental and physical wellbeing to recover.

Eight changes…

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“Eight changes” – of what, kit?  Once every 12 minutes or so, to maximise bird-pulling possibilities/employment of backroom staff? Of formation? Of tack, or strategy, or manager? (Now we know it can’t be that). No, this phrase that seemed to resonate so, from the Five Live commentary from Lisbon was merely a matter of numbers – superficially. Playing numbers; meaning players who are good enough to wear the red of United, away, in the Champions League, in what is likely to be the most challenging fixture of their group stage.

But I’m even more than usual an unreliable witness. In fact no kind of witness, other than the aural kind, following the infuriating refusal of our antiquated telly to trap ITV. (For some reason the channels are slipping away like a soapy ball circa 1968 from under Bill Foulkes’s boot.) And rather than sling the thing out into the street, after having the kids take turns to hold down the 1 on the remote – which worked for about 30 seconds – I spoke gently to the telly and doinked it,  reaching for the laptop… and Five Live.

Which is rarely a disappointment.

And so, whilst other senses were engaged with the business of wolfing down pasta/tuna/pesto – or P and T as it is affectionately known in our house – my ears tell me that a proper European night was unfolding in balmy Lisbon. Atmosphere; chances; flashes of brilliance or that diaphragm-gurning fear of such brilliance from their number 8/9/delete where appropriate. A stunning home goal, with Johnny Evans critically drifting when an admittedly special pass unzipped him. A rare but welcome sharp finish from everybody’s favourite shagger, Ryan Giggs. (Blimey girls, imagine how sexy the boy Ryan would be if only he could have… finished?)

United are ludicrously tooled up in the penetration department. Though I didn’t actually see them I believe Berbatov and Owen were amongst the predators left unspent on the bench – this in addition to the part-used Nani and Hernandez. A small digression here, before I go onto further labour this point about United’s absurd luxury of gifts…

I was on the Llyn Peninsula only the other week when who should almost bump into me – presumably in some crass attempt to get my autograph – but M Owen esquire. He looked small, young and very fit; end of. He will clearly have few opportunities but the otherwise supra-dull Mr Owen will, in his boringly defiant way, surprise no-one with a couple of significant, well-taken goals (Carling Cup/late on in Champions League matches?) and I for one, will be pleased for him.

But how far will the fizz and the flash and the alround foxy-in-the-boxiness of United take them this campaign? Evans’s blunder will not be a solitary blip on the defensive charts – though he will feature less once a) senior players are fit, if ever and b) Fergie realises he has to pick Jones ahead of him… everytime. Over recent seasons United have been pretty close to outstanding but you would fancy top players to expose their defence. Vidic can be made to look poor by pacy strikers catching him flat-footed; Evra’s defending for the last year has been, in my view, consistently shocking; Ferdinand is often imperious but more often absent.

However, to Ferguson’s great credit, United have been about attacking for aeons. As soon as you give them the ball, they are a threat. Amongst his other undoubted gifts, Rooney’s pace is at times unplayable. A simple one-two may be executed, leaving a defender utterly out of the game as the formerly balding one bolts for the return – or the return of the return. Hernandez is that precious thing the natural snaffler of sharp chances. Nani can play, no question, but needs a kick up the arse and most of us would like to give it to him.

On the one hand the team is manifestly brimming with goals… but hilariously there are a few dunces in the corner in this regard – Carrick/Fletcher/Anderson certainly, and to a lesser extent, Giggs. But to answer my question… United are looking better than last year and I like the freshness (and the challenge) Jones and Smalling are putting out. If they remain impregnable or their relative inexperience is not significantly found out then the reds are serious candidates – as in truth are City – for the last four. Barcelona remain favourites.

Back to Lisbon and a draw probably acceptable to both sides. A match with momentum and colour and something of that special atmosphere. A proper European night then, honourably competitive; one to cap with a walk on the coast path and a humbling perusal of the stars. In reality it’s thirty yards up and down the road, with the dog snorting snail-traces; bats though.

Rugby World Cup Fantasy

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Level One – where our daft fandom spills over like beer…

  • England qualify top of their group / Scotland do…
  • New Zealand get a grip / the grip is tenuous and the choke potential merely rises…
  • Wales go out following tragically breathtaking defeat against Fiji/Samoa or both / Wales beat South Africa in the final
  • Brian Habana refuses to play following spat with the management / Habana gets a pass
  • Argentina second to England in group / After a Puma prop takes over kicking duties
  • Elsom and Pocock guide Australia to glory / Wallaby pack implodes against England
  • Above the other way round
  • Richie McCaw breaks turnover records / McCaw sinbinned in final for persistent offending
  • France make 15 changes to team for quarter final / they get beat by England
  • Ireland proceed as dark horses / O’Driscoll magnificent in quarters victory over South Africa
  • Scottish back row rampages through tournament / Then they wake up
  • Kiwi’s turn on an absolute exhibition in each of the knock-out games and a nation rejoices / the world smiles with them and applauds

Level Two – where surely we must be drunk…

  • Wales qualify top of their group following Springbok implosion / England commit to 15 man rugby
  • Shane Williams scores hat-trick as Wales crush All Blacks / James Hook plays 10 and joins the pantheon of world stars
  • Martin Thomas wins a late call-up for Wales and dives over to win final / Then converts
  • France blitz Australia in magnificent semi / Australia steal it from France
  • Argentina beat All Blacks in quarters
  • Guest appearances from Lomu and Carling / Carling stops Lomu in his tracks
  • Lomu gets up and tramples entire English defence / But McCaw penalised for use of hands

Level Three – where spookily things reflect what might really happen…

  • England All Blacks final
  • Australia New Zealand final
  • Wales beat Aus and Eng but fall to All Blacks
  • South Africa have it relatively easy until clash with NZ in semi
  • Italy make knockout stages
  • Argentina really do beat the All Blacks in the quarters!

‘Real World’ likely fixtures and results…

Quarter Finals

Australia 20 Wales 16

England 16 France 12

S. Africa 19 Ireland 9

NZ 30 Argentina 16

Semi Finals

Australia 16 England 19

South Africa 17 NZ 23

Final

England 18 NZ 30

And what do you think?

No surprises

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Surely the money – the big money, the imaginary money, my money, actually – was on England Argentina being crunchy and one-dimensional rather than Michelin-starred fare. Stodgy, because England will surely have regarded this opening fixture as a serious threat to their tournament. Their victory therefore, in the narrowest sense answers everything. They won.

Martin Johnson would however, probably have delivered a prolonged bollocking to his embarrased players afterwards. Repeatedly giving away cheap early penalties was surely the first sign that English eyes were glazing over but Wilkinson’s poor kicking was perhaps the most striking reflection of the not quite all blacks limitations on the day. I personally expected them to revert to rather depressing Johnsonian type because this England team is both ordinary – but powerful – and manifestly not in the grip of inspired leadership, on or off the pitch. Still they did manage to significantly underperform, again, whilst beating a Pumas side that would have given any of the real contenders in this competition a major test first time out.

( A footnote; I have just this second witnessed the cruel defeat of Wales – again! – by the Springboks in a comparatively luminous match which nevertheless suggested that the Argentinians would, for example, have more than stretched the flawed World Champions and the Welsh).

The Pumas clearly stretched the English to the point where any sympathy amongst the unbiased rugby-watching world for Brian Moore’s compatriots petered out with each slow rotation of the narrow range of possibilities learned, we imagine, by rote by everyone from Armitage to Cole. For a few minutes England looked brutish and purposeful but later they were merely characteristically dour – the epitome of everything rugby purists (epitomised by the Welsh?) detest. Johnson will I think react with fury to the general lack of quality and to specific errors, as well as to failures to execute. Then he will mutter darkly that his undeserving side won… and Gatland’s occasionally inspired boyo’s got beat.

For that, disappointingly for the watching majority, was what happened despite a near-inspired twenty minute period of the second half when it seemed that tries were about to rain for the Welsh. South Africa were reeling; Roberts looked like the Lion of old and Warburton – who’s missed tackle was instrumental in the Springboks 3rd minute score – was becoming the force many are now predicting. It seemed unthinkable that Wales could fail to convert overwhelming possession and territory into a substantial lead. But then following another surge from the rampaging centre the ball was carelessly surrendered and late on Priestland, who had previously shown admirable calm and direction, inexplicably pulled an easy drop wide. Proof yet again that pressure and expectation and the moment separate the winners from the worthy.

Wales’ tournament may now be agonisingly ‘poised’ rather than having taken flight after a famous win. To deservedly beat the Springboks would have been a huge lift from which all-singing and dancing Welsh backs might have threatened even the few world powers of the game. Surely Gatland’s players knew this. Interesting perhaps that few have used the word ‘choke’ to describe Welsh inability to convert opportunity into win(s) – perhaps this is a legacy of the goodwill towards the nation that represents and supports the spirit of rugby playing better and more genuinely than almost any other. Those neutrals will be hoping for Hook and Williams S to respond with flair and imagination to what was undeniably a devastating defeat; whether this will carry them through against the bullocking Fijians and Samoans may be another matter. Some Welsh fans fear it may not.

So again we might feel we can bless the Welsh for their colour whilst condemning the grey English. But look at the scoreboard. Young’s moment of sharpness in a dull matrix of English meanness means almost everything.

Impure speculation

~ bowlingatvincent ~ Leave a comment

Ok so I spent time in Canada and was struck by the locals (everywhere!) passion for hockey. I watched schoolboys from Oakville and semi-pro’s from Thunder Bay; the same. High tensile, testosterone-fuelled balletic brutality cheered upon by parents or truck drivers psychotic with feeling. Equivalent, absolutely, to our footie. Wayne Gretski and Mario Le Mieux (if I remember correctly) were godlike – Rooneyesque – in their pomp. I watched Canada v USSR in a university campus bar and nearly suicidally cheered for the Soviets, such was the volume, magnificence and crassness of the home support. But man they meant it; this was the lurid expression of something powerful and wonderful as well as daft and politically dubious.

Now an appalling number – does the number matter? – of fellow hockey people have been wiped out; in Russia. A sort of Busby Babes echo – only more multi-nationally devastating – reverberates, for now even this hard-wired northern sport has ‘gone big’ and gathered in players from distant lands. Thus in a city we know nothing about (Yaroslavl) a spectacular pool of A list skating talent has been cruelly wasted. Lost too a Canadian coach – Brad McCrimmon.  And inevitably cruel worries will begin to gnaw, about what immediately should have been done and what, more broadly, consists airline safety policy in the region.

But having loved Canada’s heartiness, through the depths of several feet of snow, in fact; through the clatter and skid and bawl and body-check of hockey games; despite the absurdity – perversity even – of this link, I feel sad, deeply sad to hear of this loss. And I imagine and I think I hope that my soul brothers and sisters in Ontario, Manitoba, Saskatchewan are, at least in their minds, laying wreaths for their Russian friends, for the 11 foreign players, as well as the teams Canadian coach.