The scene was set for the perfect Hollywood ending. When Zenyatta lined up in the Breeders’ Cup Classic at Churchill Downs, Kentucky, on Saturday night, the wonder mare was bidding to bring the curtain down on an unblemished career by registering a twentieth consecutive victory.
It’s not just the statistics of a remarkable record that have endeared Zenyatta to the American – and indeed global – racing public. It is the heart-stopping manner of her victories. Her signature race is as follows. Break slowly from the stalls, allow the oppo a significant lead, lob along lazily at the rear of the field, and then gobble up the ground with a stride seemingly twice as long as that of any other animal in the race, scoring by a cosy margin (about half of her successes have been gained by under a length). The most celebrated example of this was in last year’s Classic, where she overcame a self-imposed deficit of 15 lengths to swoop past everything and become the only female horse ever to win the race. A literally breath-taking performance, as commentator Trevor Denman will testify. In those final few strides as Zenyatta flew into the history books, a hyper-ventilating Denman screamed his now legendary phrase: “THIS…IS….UN….BE….LIEVABLE!”
And of course in racing it takes two to pull off this sort of drama: a wildly talented horse and a skilful jockey with balls of steel. The man in the plate aboard Zenyatta was Mike Smith, who had ridden her in all but three of her career starts, including that historic 2009 Classic. Smith had publicly declared that his mount was “the best racehorse that ever lived” in the build-up to this year’s race. If he were worried about heaping undue pressure on himself and his partner, he had a funny way of showing it. But then Smith doesn’t lack for confidence and, in the words of one American pundit, is renowned for having “ice in his veins”.
This time, though, the ice melted under the Churchill Downs lights. As the stalls pinged open, Smith took the usual pull on Zenyatta to settle her at the back. But instead of finding her rhythm, she hardly broke into a canter through the first two furlongs, looking for all the world as though she’d either ‘gone wrong’ or was refusing to race. So instead of the 15 lengths she’d surrendered to the leaders twelve months ago, it was more like 30 this time round. Smith didn’t panic, nudging her gently into the bit to make up ground on the tail-enders of the main group, themselves 12-15 lengths ahead of her.
Still, it looked an impossible task in a race of this calibre. And yet. And yet. This was Zenyatta. By the time they reached the home turn, she had picked off a few stragglers and, despite still having ten lengths to find, was now poised to strike. Smith was confident enough to sit still for a few strides and whip off his goggles: an astonishing display of bravura under the circumstances. Having rounded that final turn, Smith elected to pull Zenyatta wide, as he had done twelve months earlier. The manoeuvre forfeited a little more ground but at least she had a clear run to the line.
Now Smith really got to work on her. In fact, that’s a euphemism. What he actually did was to administer a brutal flogging to his champion mare: thwack, thwack, thwack thwack! Four blows in as many strides. He switched his whip to his left hand and did the same again: thwack, thwack, thwack, thwack! A disgraceful act of savagery (the British Horseracing Authority’s Paul Struthers was quoted as saying it would have led to a month-long ban in Britain) and the desperate act of a man who knows he’s got it dreadfully wrong. To her credit, Zenyatta responded to these ‘urgings’, picking up late and mowing down all her rivals bar one, the eventual winner holding on by a short head.
The recriminations were immediate. Blogs and forums were flooded with angry fans (and punters, no doubt), raging at Smith’s exaggerated waiting tactics. TV commentators and pundits were united in condemning him, too. If Zenyatta wasn’t right on the first circuit, why did he not pull her up? If she was fine, why on earth was he show-boating like that? The crowd at Churchill Downs left in shock and near-silence. Smith himself broke down in a post-race interview, saying “It hurts more than I can explain, just because it was my fault.”
The name of the horse that beat Zenyatta? Blame.
--
Horse racing, by its nature, frequently throws up such stories. Paul Carberry famously failed to land the 2005 Champion Hurdle despite his mount Harchibald travelling like the best horse in the race until 50 yards from the line. Harchibald was a well-known ‘bridle horse’ who was best when cruising into his races off a strong pace, but often found little when asked for an effort in front. That same year, in a more freakish incident, Roger Loughran celebrated an Irish Grade 1 victory aboard Central House by standing up in his irons and giving it the full round-arm celebration in front of the grandstand. The only trouble: he was 80 yards too early, having mistaken the end of a running rail for the winning post, and was overhauled by two rivals before the line. Magnifying this crass error was the fact that it would have been not only Loughran’s first Grade 1 but his first victory as a professional rider.
But it’s not just horse racing. All sport is littered with examples of brinkmanship gone wrong. Here are a few that spring to mind.
--
Saint Jonny’s intercepted pass – Melbourne, Australia, July 2001
Rugby union is a game won and lost at the margins. Infinitesimal differences in strength, technique, skill and canniness are magnified into significant gaps on the scoreboard. Backs-against-the-wall defence can be turned into game-changing attack in the blinking of an eye. Never was this more starkly illustrated than in the second Test at the Telstra Dome that July evening in 2001.
The British and Irish Lions were underdogs in the series with the then world champions, Australia. Thrillingly, though, the Lions had blitzed the first Test in Brisbane, stunning their hosts with a scintillating display of running rugby, scoring four tries and running out convincing 29-13 winners (I remember seeing Matt Burke wink at the camera while singing the Aussie national anthem and having a premonition that that little show of cheeky pride would precede a fall).
Now the mood of the series was different. The Lions started the second Test brightly, surging into an 11-3 lead thanks to a Neil Back try. The lead stood at 11-6 at half-time but the tourists were good for more: dominating possession, showing more invention and generally asserting themselves over their feted opponents. From the kick-off to the second half, the Lions drove to half way. Quick ball was presented to Jonny Wilkinson, who aimed a floated pass towards Dafydd James on the right wing. But Joe Roff, who’d pushed into a dangerously advanced defensive position, reached skyward and plucked the ball from the air. Roff scooted away and was too quick for the pursuing defenders, touching down in the corner to level the scores. It proved to be the pivotal moment of the series. The Lions were stunned, Australia revitalised. That game finished 35-14, and the Aussies went on to secure the rubber with a 29-23 win in Sydney.
As for Wilkinson, it was an uncharacteristically expansive pass for a man whose reputation is built on an obsessively grooved place- and goal-kicking technique. But let’s not forget he was still a young man at this stage, barely 22 years old. Perhaps he was callow enough to have been swept up in the moment, intoxicated by the exhilarating manner of that first Test victory. Perhaps the opportunity to stamp his team’s authority at a crucial stage prompted him to take a risk. Perhaps he simply didn’t see Roff lurking. Whatever the case, it was in keeping with the exuberant style that the Lions had brought to a series few had expected them to compete in; unfortunately, it was a case of live by the sword…
To make matters worse, on that very day, England’s cricketers were in the process of being humiliated by Australia at Edgbaston – the start of yet another Ashes mauling. I’d watched the Lions Test over a few early-morning pints in a Birmingham pub. “Never mind,” chirped one wag after the final whistle had blown in Melbourne, “at least we’ve got the cricket to look forward to.”
Bristow refuses bull, Deller takes title – Stoke-on-Trent, January 1983
Keith Deller’s defeat of Eric Bristow in the 1983 World Darts final is regarded by many as the biggest upset in the history of the sport. The circumstances of the victory, however, make it even more remarkable. Not to mention providing the source of some regret for the vanquished Bristow.
The score was locked at five sets apiece and, with Deller just a leg away from the title, Bristow visited the board requiring 121 to level the set up at 2-2. He hit single 17, then treble 18. With a single dart left in his hand, Bristow opted not to shoot for the bulls-eye, preferring single 18 to leave double 16 for his next visit. He knew Deller was sitting on 138 but clearly reckoned on his failing to take it out. Deller – coolness personified – hit treble 20, treble 18 and double 12 to become the champion and create one of the great giant-killing stories in any sport. Not the craftiest move the Cockney ever pulled.
A footnote. Deller’s victory should not, perhaps, be viewed as such a shock. Prior to beating world number one Bristow in the final, he’d already taken out numbers two and three: John Lowe in the quarters and Jockey Wilson in the semis. Deller remains the only player to beat each of the top three at the World Championships.
Lennox Lewis KO-ed by Hasim Rahman – Gauteng, South Africa, April 2001
Brinkmanship or just not taking an opponent seriously enough? I’m going to nail my colours to the mast here and say it was a clear case of the latter. Still worthy of inclusion, though, as it concerns the over-confidence of an individual who ends up with egg on his face.
Lewis was the heaviest he’d ever been for a professional fight: some 253 pounds (over 18 stone). If that suggested he’d not trained as hard as he might have, then his lacklustre display just lent further weight to that theory. The jab lacked its customary snap, the footwork was sluggish, the eye-lids drooped. His demeanour was that of a deep sleeper sent downstairs to fetch his wife a glass of water in the middle of the night.
It’s just possible that Lewis was thinking ahead to the much-anticipated clash with Mike Tyson that would follow this supposedly regulation defence. Why so? Well, I can think of about 100 million reasons.
Rahman, a 20-1 underdog for the fight, capitalised on his opponent’s complacency with a swinging right hand at the end of the fifth. Lewis had been holding his concrete hands low throughout the bout and his defence generally looked lazy; he had no answer, therefore, to the challenger’s hopeful shot as it bisected his gloves and caught him flush on the button.
If nothing else, the experience appeared to teach Lewis a lesson. He comfortably beat Rahman to regain his crown later that year, and went on to conquer Tyson and then Vitali Klitschko before retiring while still in possession of his title.
Yann Kermorgant – Play-Off Semi-Final, Cardiff, May 2010
Leicester City’s French striker isn’t the first to fall foul the footballing gods, nor will he be the last. His is a particularly de nos jours tale. For one thing, it concerns the Championship play-off final (or attempt to reach it), a game that now comes with the tag ‘most valuable club game in world football’. For another, it features a quite monumental example of ill-advised show-boating.
After a typically stirring two-legged play-off, Cardiff and Leicester were level and, when extra time failed to separate them, the tie went to spot kicks. The penalty score was 3-3 when Kermorgant stepped forward. What goes through a player’s mind in these situations? One can only imagine. If I were to have a wild stab, our Yann might have been thinking something like: “Hey, I can look pretty cool here, and make the ‘keeper look like a doofus into the bargain. I’ll be a You Tube sensation.” Well, he got the last bit right.
Because, you see, he dinked it at about three miles an hour towards the middle of the goal. Goalkeeper David Marshall might actually have been fooled by Kermorgant’s kick. But such was the feathery floaty-ness of the attempt that Marshall was able to dive, go to ground, and then shuffle back across the goal line on his buttocks before sticking up a hand and patting the ball down.
If you haven’t heard disgruntled Leicester fan David Henson’s brilliant ‘tribute’, follow the link below.
Confidence is one thing but you took it too far
Did someone tell you you were Eric Cantona?
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Iad3gV-9C1U
Sunday 7 November 2010
Friday 17 September 2010
Somerset mourn…and other unlucky losers
Has there been an unluckier loser in the history of sport than Somerset this season? On Thursday they were denied a first County Championship title by virtue of having won one fewer game than the eventual winners, Nottinghamshire. The weather had appeared to have done for Notts’ chances going into the very last day of the final round of matches. However, the sun shone for long enough for them to gain the requisite number of points against Lancashire, including the three wickets they needed in just 28 balls.
In the Twenty20 Final against Hampshire last month, Somerset’s seemingly inexorable charge to the crown was thwarted first by Dominic Cork, then a piece of high farce. When Somerset batted, Cork bowled an exceptional last over of the innings – including a bouncer that surprised the big-hitting Kieron Pollard to such an extent that it made a rare mess of his right eye. Pollard was led from the pitch to the strains of Coldplay (which I can’t imagine improved his condition or anyone’s mood) and only a handful of runs were scored. So what might have been an un-gettable total was restricted to one that was just within reach. And reach it Hampshire did. With a single ball of the final over remaining, they were only one run shy of Somerset’s score. There had been a delay while a runner was summoned for the injured Hampshire batsman Dan Christian, which itself had prompted one of the groundstaff to tootle onto the pitch with whitewash to mark the creases on the strip the runner would be using. Only in England. Only in cricket. When eventually the last ball was bowled, it was squirted to backward point. Both batsmen and the runner charged through for a leg-bye, the scores finished tied and Hampshire won having lost fewer wickets. When the dust had settled, some bright spark in the Sky studio pointed out that Somerset could have effected a run-out, since both the injured batsman and his runner had left their crease. To his credit the umpire, Rob Bailey, had stood in the middle, mindful of this ruling, waiting for a Somerset player to take the bails off. But none did. Naïve, perhaps, but understandably so in the heat of the game and the disappointment of assumed defeat. Unlucky, unlucky Somerset.
Which other figures and teams have pinched Lady Luck’s arse and received a slap in the face for their troubles? Here are a few qualifiers:
Youmzain 2007-2009 Arc de Triomphe
Mick Channon’s charge has finished runner-up in the last three runnings of the Prix de l’Arc de Triomphe. Last year, he ran into Sea The Stars, arguably the best racehorse that ever lived. Sea The Stars was completing a perfect season which had seen him win six Group One races, including the Derby and 2,000 Guineas. Youmzain finished with his customary rattle but was never getting to the winner. The year before, he was scuppered by the wonder filly Zarkava. [Incidentally, she has since been ‘covered’ (charming term) by Sea The Stars in their respective stud careers – if horse breeding were an exact science, the progeny would be undoubted world beaters.] 2007 was the first and unluckiest of Youmzain’s Arc silver medals. Involved in a head-bobbing finish with Aidan O’Brien’s Dylan Thomas, Youmzain was just touched off. But there had been some significant interference on the run-in. The French stewards – ordinarily far stricter than their British counterparts when it comes to overturning the result of races where interference has taken place – left the placings unchanged after an agonising half hour. Poor old Youmzain. Poor old Mick Channon. Incidentally, for those who love a fairytale ending, Youmzain is currently about 20/1 for this year’s renewal (Longchamp Oct 3).
Mike Gregory Embassy World Darts Final 1992
No sport shines a spotlight – quite literally – on its gallant runners-up in the way that darts does. Mike Gregory’s sporting handshake at the end of this match was a thin veil over disappointment that must’ve felt like bereavement. In truth he probably returned to his dressing room, smashed it up and wept. Look up the clip (after you’ve finished reading this, of course). See the way he can’t make eye contact with his conqueror, one Phil Taylor. Witness the heavenward tut and the plaintive, Oliver Hardy-style swipe with the hand still clutching his arrows. The man is broken.
The match is widely regarded as one of the all-time greats. Gregory was playing out of his skin while Taylor – not yet the unstoppable force we know today, but clearly already a great player, having won the title in 1990 – clung on grimly. And it was Gregory who carved out the chances to take the match, having six darts for the title. He missed them all: two at double 8, two at double top, two at double 10. The sudden-death leg at five sets apiece contained one final kick in the teeth for the Bath man. Having won the nearest-the-bull to throw first, Gregory had an unfortunate bounce-out on his first visit to the board and Taylor eventually won it with double top.
As with so many nearly stories, this is the closest Gregory ever came to winning the Blue Riband event in his sport. But how would it have changed darting history had he scored with one of his six match-winning arrows? Well, Phil Taylor would probably have just the fourteen World titles instead of fifteen.
Bayern Munich 1999 Champions’ League Final
Yes, Manchester United pulled off one of the greatest, most dramatic comebacks of all time. But spare a thought for Bayern. For nigh-on 90 minutes, they’d been comfortably the better side. Mario Basler’s early goal was the least the German side deserved in a game where they out-passed and outclassed United for long periods. The Reds turned in a pallid display and without Keane and Scholes in midfield (both were suspended), they lacked the cohesion and menace we’d come to expect from them that season. Were it not for an inspired Peter Schmeichel in the United goal, not to mention the woodwork, Bayern could have put the game to bed long before the 90th minute. But Sheringham and Solskjaer came on as second-half subs and, well, you know the rest. The sight of Bayern’s Sammy Kuffour pounding the turf at the final whistle, tears streaming, was enough to tug at the heart strings of even the most hardened of football fans.
So much for the sympathy. Now the schadenfreude. When Bayern won a corner towards the end of the 90 minutes, Basler strolled over to take it and waved to the fans. His gesture and the grin on his face said: “We’ve done it, boys.” Mario: you hadn’t.
Jimmy White World Snooker Championship 1984-94
This is not so much a tale of bad luck as an injustice of epic proportions. How can Jimmy never have won a World title when you look at some of the names – not fit to polish the Whirlwind’s cue – on the trophy? Peter Ebdon, anyone? Dennis Taylor? Joe Johnson? Graeme sodding Dott? Sometimes life’s not fair.
When White reached the first of his World finals, in 1984, he’d just turned 22. He lost out 18-16 to The Nugget, Steve Davis. I’m not ashamed to say that I cried (I was 11 and it felt inappropriate but such are the emotions White elicits in his followers). But despite the tears, there was an inevitability back then that his time would come.
In fact, Jimmy’s principal misfortune was to play in an era dominated by possibly the best, most ruthless cueman ever to draw breath: Stephen Hendry. He first lost a World final to the acne-faced Scot in 1990. Having also lost the ’91 final to John Parrot, Jimmy had the chance for revenge over Hendry in 1992. He was 14-8 up and needed just two more balls for 15-8. He missed and Hendry reeled off ten frames in a row to take the crown. If my memory serves me right, Jimmy barely had a chance in those final nine frames and Hendry was as near to perfect as it’s possible to be. But 1994 was the real sickener. After a titanic battle, it was 17-17. Jimmy was in the balls but missed a straightforward black off its spot. Hendry, inevitably, cleared up to win.
I’m told that after that ’94 defeat, Jimmy returned to his dressing room and confided in his close mate: “Someone up there don’t want me to win this trophy.” Except I’ve left a couple of words out.
The Whirlwind lost all six of the World finals in which he appeared, including four to Hendry and five in a row between 1990 and 1994. Tragedy, it is often said, is an inappropriate word to apply to sporting defeat. But every time I think of Jimmy’s failure to win the World crown, my heart sinks and my day is a little sadder. The best player in any sport never to win that sport’s premier title. Fact.
--
As for tomorrow’s CB40 Final at Lord’s, what price a tied match and defeat for Somerset on countback for a third time in little over a month?
In the Twenty20 Final against Hampshire last month, Somerset’s seemingly inexorable charge to the crown was thwarted first by Dominic Cork, then a piece of high farce. When Somerset batted, Cork bowled an exceptional last over of the innings – including a bouncer that surprised the big-hitting Kieron Pollard to such an extent that it made a rare mess of his right eye. Pollard was led from the pitch to the strains of Coldplay (which I can’t imagine improved his condition or anyone’s mood) and only a handful of runs were scored. So what might have been an un-gettable total was restricted to one that was just within reach. And reach it Hampshire did. With a single ball of the final over remaining, they were only one run shy of Somerset’s score. There had been a delay while a runner was summoned for the injured Hampshire batsman Dan Christian, which itself had prompted one of the groundstaff to tootle onto the pitch with whitewash to mark the creases on the strip the runner would be using. Only in England. Only in cricket. When eventually the last ball was bowled, it was squirted to backward point. Both batsmen and the runner charged through for a leg-bye, the scores finished tied and Hampshire won having lost fewer wickets. When the dust had settled, some bright spark in the Sky studio pointed out that Somerset could have effected a run-out, since both the injured batsman and his runner had left their crease. To his credit the umpire, Rob Bailey, had stood in the middle, mindful of this ruling, waiting for a Somerset player to take the bails off. But none did. Naïve, perhaps, but understandably so in the heat of the game and the disappointment of assumed defeat. Unlucky, unlucky Somerset.
Which other figures and teams have pinched Lady Luck’s arse and received a slap in the face for their troubles? Here are a few qualifiers:
Youmzain 2007-2009 Arc de Triomphe
Mick Channon’s charge has finished runner-up in the last three runnings of the Prix de l’Arc de Triomphe. Last year, he ran into Sea The Stars, arguably the best racehorse that ever lived. Sea The Stars was completing a perfect season which had seen him win six Group One races, including the Derby and 2,000 Guineas. Youmzain finished with his customary rattle but was never getting to the winner. The year before, he was scuppered by the wonder filly Zarkava. [Incidentally, she has since been ‘covered’ (charming term) by Sea The Stars in their respective stud careers – if horse breeding were an exact science, the progeny would be undoubted world beaters.] 2007 was the first and unluckiest of Youmzain’s Arc silver medals. Involved in a head-bobbing finish with Aidan O’Brien’s Dylan Thomas, Youmzain was just touched off. But there had been some significant interference on the run-in. The French stewards – ordinarily far stricter than their British counterparts when it comes to overturning the result of races where interference has taken place – left the placings unchanged after an agonising half hour. Poor old Youmzain. Poor old Mick Channon. Incidentally, for those who love a fairytale ending, Youmzain is currently about 20/1 for this year’s renewal (Longchamp Oct 3).
Mike Gregory Embassy World Darts Final 1992
No sport shines a spotlight – quite literally – on its gallant runners-up in the way that darts does. Mike Gregory’s sporting handshake at the end of this match was a thin veil over disappointment that must’ve felt like bereavement. In truth he probably returned to his dressing room, smashed it up and wept. Look up the clip (after you’ve finished reading this, of course). See the way he can’t make eye contact with his conqueror, one Phil Taylor. Witness the heavenward tut and the plaintive, Oliver Hardy-style swipe with the hand still clutching his arrows. The man is broken.
The match is widely regarded as one of the all-time greats. Gregory was playing out of his skin while Taylor – not yet the unstoppable force we know today, but clearly already a great player, having won the title in 1990 – clung on grimly. And it was Gregory who carved out the chances to take the match, having six darts for the title. He missed them all: two at double 8, two at double top, two at double 10. The sudden-death leg at five sets apiece contained one final kick in the teeth for the Bath man. Having won the nearest-the-bull to throw first, Gregory had an unfortunate bounce-out on his first visit to the board and Taylor eventually won it with double top.
As with so many nearly stories, this is the closest Gregory ever came to winning the Blue Riband event in his sport. But how would it have changed darting history had he scored with one of his six match-winning arrows? Well, Phil Taylor would probably have just the fourteen World titles instead of fifteen.
Bayern Munich 1999 Champions’ League Final
Yes, Manchester United pulled off one of the greatest, most dramatic comebacks of all time. But spare a thought for Bayern. For nigh-on 90 minutes, they’d been comfortably the better side. Mario Basler’s early goal was the least the German side deserved in a game where they out-passed and outclassed United for long periods. The Reds turned in a pallid display and without Keane and Scholes in midfield (both were suspended), they lacked the cohesion and menace we’d come to expect from them that season. Were it not for an inspired Peter Schmeichel in the United goal, not to mention the woodwork, Bayern could have put the game to bed long before the 90th minute. But Sheringham and Solskjaer came on as second-half subs and, well, you know the rest. The sight of Bayern’s Sammy Kuffour pounding the turf at the final whistle, tears streaming, was enough to tug at the heart strings of even the most hardened of football fans.
So much for the sympathy. Now the schadenfreude. When Bayern won a corner towards the end of the 90 minutes, Basler strolled over to take it and waved to the fans. His gesture and the grin on his face said: “We’ve done it, boys.” Mario: you hadn’t.
Jimmy White World Snooker Championship 1984-94
This is not so much a tale of bad luck as an injustice of epic proportions. How can Jimmy never have won a World title when you look at some of the names – not fit to polish the Whirlwind’s cue – on the trophy? Peter Ebdon, anyone? Dennis Taylor? Joe Johnson? Graeme sodding Dott? Sometimes life’s not fair.
When White reached the first of his World finals, in 1984, he’d just turned 22. He lost out 18-16 to The Nugget, Steve Davis. I’m not ashamed to say that I cried (I was 11 and it felt inappropriate but such are the emotions White elicits in his followers). But despite the tears, there was an inevitability back then that his time would come.
In fact, Jimmy’s principal misfortune was to play in an era dominated by possibly the best, most ruthless cueman ever to draw breath: Stephen Hendry. He first lost a World final to the acne-faced Scot in 1990. Having also lost the ’91 final to John Parrot, Jimmy had the chance for revenge over Hendry in 1992. He was 14-8 up and needed just two more balls for 15-8. He missed and Hendry reeled off ten frames in a row to take the crown. If my memory serves me right, Jimmy barely had a chance in those final nine frames and Hendry was as near to perfect as it’s possible to be. But 1994 was the real sickener. After a titanic battle, it was 17-17. Jimmy was in the balls but missed a straightforward black off its spot. Hendry, inevitably, cleared up to win.
I’m told that after that ’94 defeat, Jimmy returned to his dressing room and confided in his close mate: “Someone up there don’t want me to win this trophy.” Except I’ve left a couple of words out.
The Whirlwind lost all six of the World finals in which he appeared, including four to Hendry and five in a row between 1990 and 1994. Tragedy, it is often said, is an inappropriate word to apply to sporting defeat. But every time I think of Jimmy’s failure to win the World crown, my heart sinks and my day is a little sadder. The best player in any sport never to win that sport’s premier title. Fact.
--
As for tomorrow’s CB40 Final at Lord’s, what price a tied match and defeat for Somerset on countback for a third time in little over a month?
Tuesday 13 July 2010
Der Wiels On Del Bosque Go Round And Round…Team Of South Africa 2010
Right. The time has come to issue our Team Of The Tournament. Although my absolute favourite player-in-song-title from South Africa 2010 is ‘Ello John, Got Inamoto? (credit to Dan), I’ve gone for an eleven that reflects performances on the park.
A couple of parish notices. Eye Of The Schweinsteiger is asked to play the defensive midfield role he’s used to fulfilling for his club, rather than operating in the more advanced position from which he thrived in South Africa. Mary Had A Little Lahm comes in at left back, where he’s equally comfortable as in his usual right-sided station. Unlucky absentees are Rockin’ Robben and Hold Me Klose (himself a late replacement for Don’t Stand So Klose To Me).
I’ve plumped for a 4-4-2, which has the flexibility to become 4-5-1 with Villa The World slotting into a wide left midfield berth; or 4-3-3 if Sneijders On The Storm and Villa The World push forward to flank I Can’t Help Forlan In Love With You; or even 4-1-4-1 or 4-1-3-2 with Eye Of The Schweinsteiger in that withdrawn role. Players’ numbers are, broadly speaking, those that correspond to the evolved 4-4-2 system. For a full explanation of how each number came to represent a particular position, see the excellent Inverting The Pyramid, by Jonathan Wilson:
http://www.amazon.co.uk/Inverting-Pyramid-History-Football-Tactics/dp/0752889958
(That’ll be a tenner, Troph).
That South Africa World Cup XI in full, then:
1. Villar So Vain
2. Oh Maicon I Can’t Believe It
3. Mary Had A Little Lahm
4. Eye Of The Schweinsteiger
5. Puyol Live In A Yellow Submarine
6. Lugano Go Far, Kid
7. Mueller Kintyre
8. Iniesta-day
9. Villa The World
10. I Can’t Help Forlan In Love With You
11. Sneijders On The Storm
And it would be remiss not to put forward an All-Time XI.
Imagine I Wish I Was A Little Bit Augenthaler and Sweet Charlton Mine (Jack) bearing down on you from centre half, with All I Need Is Vieira I Breathe ‘protecting’ them!
It’s a funny old world where Bobby Charlton misses out and brother Jackie gets the nod. But the way I see it, the elder Charlton has lived in his brother’s shadow too long, the poor lad (or ‘laird’, as Big Jack would have it).
All-time World Cup XI:
1. We’re Zoff To See The Wizard
2. Are You Cohen To Scarborough Fayre?
3. While My Guitar Gentile Weeps
4. All I Need Is Vieira I Breathe
5. Sweet Charlton Mine
6. I Wish I Was A Little Bit Augenthaler
7. The Future’s So Breitner I Gotta Wear Shades
8. Whiskey In The Jairzinho
9. When Eusebio Nothing At All
10. Pele That Funky Music
11. Waddle You Wanna Make Those Eyes At Me For?
Thanks for reading, thanks for contributing. More sport-related japery soon.
A couple of parish notices. Eye Of The Schweinsteiger is asked to play the defensive midfield role he’s used to fulfilling for his club, rather than operating in the more advanced position from which he thrived in South Africa. Mary Had A Little Lahm comes in at left back, where he’s equally comfortable as in his usual right-sided station. Unlucky absentees are Rockin’ Robben and Hold Me Klose (himself a late replacement for Don’t Stand So Klose To Me).
I’ve plumped for a 4-4-2, which has the flexibility to become 4-5-1 with Villa The World slotting into a wide left midfield berth; or 4-3-3 if Sneijders On The Storm and Villa The World push forward to flank I Can’t Help Forlan In Love With You; or even 4-1-4-1 or 4-1-3-2 with Eye Of The Schweinsteiger in that withdrawn role. Players’ numbers are, broadly speaking, those that correspond to the evolved 4-4-2 system. For a full explanation of how each number came to represent a particular position, see the excellent Inverting The Pyramid, by Jonathan Wilson:
http://www.amazon.co.uk/Inverting-Pyramid-History-Football-Tactics/dp/0752889958
(That’ll be a tenner, Troph).
That South Africa World Cup XI in full, then:
1. Villar So Vain
2. Oh Maicon I Can’t Believe It
3. Mary Had A Little Lahm
4. Eye Of The Schweinsteiger
5. Puyol Live In A Yellow Submarine
6. Lugano Go Far, Kid
7. Mueller Kintyre
8. Iniesta-day
9. Villa The World
10. I Can’t Help Forlan In Love With You
11. Sneijders On The Storm
And it would be remiss not to put forward an All-Time XI.
Imagine I Wish I Was A Little Bit Augenthaler and Sweet Charlton Mine (Jack) bearing down on you from centre half, with All I Need Is Vieira I Breathe ‘protecting’ them!
It’s a funny old world where Bobby Charlton misses out and brother Jackie gets the nod. But the way I see it, the elder Charlton has lived in his brother’s shadow too long, the poor lad (or ‘laird’, as Big Jack would have it).
All-time World Cup XI:
1. We’re Zoff To See The Wizard
2. Are You Cohen To Scarborough Fayre?
3. While My Guitar Gentile Weeps
4. All I Need Is Vieira I Breathe
5. Sweet Charlton Mine
6. I Wish I Was A Little Bit Augenthaler
7. The Future’s So Breitner I Gotta Wear Shades
8. Whiskey In The Jairzinho
9. When Eusebio Nothing At All
10. Pele That Funky Music
11. Waddle You Wanna Make Those Eyes At Me For?
Thanks for reading, thanks for contributing. More sport-related japery soon.
Wednesday 7 July 2010
While My Guitar Gentile Weeps
OK, someone’s been cheating.
Since the publication of Navas What I Call Music, new suggestions for 2010 World Cup players in song titles have been literally trickling in. Some are posted on the original blog but others have been reaching me via other means. Among my favourites are Sneijders On The Storm, Mueller Kintyre and Iniesta-day.
However, a text arrived only this morning with an effort that’s in flagrant breach of the rules: Mrdja On Zidane’s Floor.
Clearly, the use of a player not appearing at South Africa 2010 bars this entry from inclusion. Shame on you, nameless person, for attempting to squeak it under the radar.
And yet. It does open up the possibility of an exciting new list. An all-time greats collection, featuring World Cup stars of yesteryear. Inspired by the shameful cheat, here are a few to get us started:
Murder On Zidane’s Floor
While My Guitar Gentile Weeps
Sweet Charlton Mine (we don’t normally do individual credits, but thanks to the missus for this one)
I Would Walk 500 Gemmills
Banks For The Memories
All I Need Is Vieira I Breathe
Little Green Baggio
Cry Me A Rivelino
Are You Cohen To Scarborough Fayre?
We’re Zoff To See The Wizard
The Future’s So Breitner I Gotta Wear Shades
Pele That Funky Music
When Eusebio Nothing At All
I Wish I Was A Little Bit Augenthaler
Since the publication of Navas What I Call Music, new suggestions for 2010 World Cup players in song titles have been literally trickling in. Some are posted on the original blog but others have been reaching me via other means. Among my favourites are Sneijders On The Storm, Mueller Kintyre and Iniesta-day.
However, a text arrived only this morning with an effort that’s in flagrant breach of the rules: Mrdja On Zidane’s Floor.
Clearly, the use of a player not appearing at South Africa 2010 bars this entry from inclusion. Shame on you, nameless person, for attempting to squeak it under the radar.
And yet. It does open up the possibility of an exciting new list. An all-time greats collection, featuring World Cup stars of yesteryear. Inspired by the shameful cheat, here are a few to get us started:
Murder On Zidane’s Floor
While My Guitar Gentile Weeps
Sweet Charlton Mine (we don’t normally do individual credits, but thanks to the missus for this one)
I Would Walk 500 Gemmills
Banks For The Memories
All I Need Is Vieira I Breathe
Little Green Baggio
Cry Me A Rivelino
Are You Cohen To Scarborough Fayre?
We’re Zoff To See The Wizard
The Future’s So Breitner I Gotta Wear Shades
Pele That Funky Music
When Eusebio Nothing At All
I Wish I Was A Little Bit Augenthaler
Thursday 1 July 2010
From Relight Ketsbaia to Navas What I Call Music
It all started in 1997. Big Tony and I were tickled by a Sun headline that read ‘Relight Ketsbaia!’ after the Georgian had scored for Tone’s beloved Newcastle United the previous evening. And it got us thinking. How many song titles featuring Premier League players could we think of?
In no time, we had a good couple of albums’ worth. Stand-out tracks included Di Canio Feel It?, Le Saux-ing The Seeds Of Love, Hazy Shade Of Winterburn, Owen Me Owen You and the sublime Do Ginola Way To San José? Tony kept a notebook of all entries that passed muster, and the list was updated regularly.
The rules, as they evolved, were straightforward. Both song title and player had to be immediately recognisable. Songs and players could only be used once on the list, which led to some tough editing choices – would we plump for Ndlovu Is A Battlefield, The Greatest Ndlovu Of All or All You Need’s Ndlovu? (We went for the last-named, but not before a heated committee meeting.) Where the player name was the same as a word in the song, this would render it inadmissible. For example, Old King Cole would not do, whereas London Cole-ing would, assuming it fulfilled the final and most important criterion: that it made us both chuckle.
Inveigling others into the game held its own perverse pleasure. First, select your target: a football fan, certainly; a music lover, ideally; a compiler of lists à la Nick Hornby, definitely; and a player of childish games, crucially. Next, casually describe the rules and mention some of the doosies you’ve already come up with. Finally, stand back and watch as the target withdraws from social interaction, reduced to a thousand-yard-staring shell of an individual. Our finest hour was the temporary ruination of our mate Dave, a fervent Manchester United supporter and a man who wrote advertising creative ideas for a living. After a full hour and a half during which Tony and I had to make our own conversation as Dave muttered insanely under his breath and supped Guinness at the end of the bar, the whole pub was startled into silence by Dave’s triumphant exclamation of “Have I Told You Hately That I Love You!!” The relief was palpable.
The game really caught on. Hitherto unknown colleagues would whisper coded messages to us in the corridor like Le Carré spies or slip scraps of paper into our hands with suggestions. IT wanted to know why the newly installed email system kept crashing under the weight of messages with subject boxes like Love Is In McClair and Emotional Petrescu. And we appeared to have gone mainstream as Chris Evans started playing suspiciously similar games on his radio show, such as foodstuffs in film titles (The Texas Chainsaw Moussaka, anyone?). Tony was particularly exasperated, convinced as he was that Evans had also nicked the idea for Don’t Forget Your Toothbrush from him in the late ‘80s.
So it was with more than a tinge of nostalgia that I resurrected the game for this year’s World Cup. With the help of a carefully selected panel of experts, the list was compiled. Ladies and gents, I give you…
Navas What I Call Music…The Soundtrack To South Africa 2010
Return To Senderos
Rockin’ Robben
Smeltz Like Teen Spirit
Skip To Malouda
Anelka In The UK
Don’t Go Breakin’ Joe Hart
Agger Do
Shabalala Ding Dong
I Like Driving In My Kaka
The Juander Of You
Eye Of The Schweinsteiger
Honda The Moon Of Love
A Message To You Rooney
Don’t Stand So Klose To Me
A Boy Named Lee Jung-Soo
I Can’t Help Forlan In Love With You
Knockin On Heaven’s Altidore
Blame It On The Bougherra
Hi Ho Silva Lining
I Will Always Govou
All The Young Dudas
Diamonds Are For Evra
Falling In Love Higuain
Probably A Ribery
Rabbit Rabbit Yak Yak Rabbit
The First Time Ever Osorio Face
Landon Calling
Dindane Gooly Gooly Gooly Gooly Wash Wash
Villa The World Villa The Children
Puyol Live In A Yellow Submarine
Ramos Beautiful Girl In The World
Too Much Chu-Young
Ayew The Rocksteady Crew
‘Ello John, Got Inamoto?
It’s The Endo The World
Kjaer She Goes
Bornstein To Be Wild
Juarez The Love
Veron-Ron-Ron-Ron
Kanu Feel It?
Totally Addicted To Basinas
Mary Had A Little Lahm
Running Up That Cahill
Vidic O Killed The Radio Star
Njitap A Ya Face
Santa Cruz Sorry Now
Kum-Il Feel The Noise
De Jong Ones
The Jean Gignac
He Ain’t Heavy, He’s Zambrotta
It’s Raining Mendes
You Were Alves On My Mind
Concrete Hyung-Il
Night Boateng To Cairo
Hamsik Of You
Villar So Vain (I Bet You Think Bassong Is About You)
Kewell Never Walk Alone
Oh Maicon I Can’t Believe It
Belters, every one. They can’t possibly be beaten…
In no time, we had a good couple of albums’ worth. Stand-out tracks included Di Canio Feel It?, Le Saux-ing The Seeds Of Love, Hazy Shade Of Winterburn, Owen Me Owen You and the sublime Do Ginola Way To San José? Tony kept a notebook of all entries that passed muster, and the list was updated regularly.
The rules, as they evolved, were straightforward. Both song title and player had to be immediately recognisable. Songs and players could only be used once on the list, which led to some tough editing choices – would we plump for Ndlovu Is A Battlefield, The Greatest Ndlovu Of All or All You Need’s Ndlovu? (We went for the last-named, but not before a heated committee meeting.) Where the player name was the same as a word in the song, this would render it inadmissible. For example, Old King Cole would not do, whereas London Cole-ing would, assuming it fulfilled the final and most important criterion: that it made us both chuckle.
Inveigling others into the game held its own perverse pleasure. First, select your target: a football fan, certainly; a music lover, ideally; a compiler of lists à la Nick Hornby, definitely; and a player of childish games, crucially. Next, casually describe the rules and mention some of the doosies you’ve already come up with. Finally, stand back and watch as the target withdraws from social interaction, reduced to a thousand-yard-staring shell of an individual. Our finest hour was the temporary ruination of our mate Dave, a fervent Manchester United supporter and a man who wrote advertising creative ideas for a living. After a full hour and a half during which Tony and I had to make our own conversation as Dave muttered insanely under his breath and supped Guinness at the end of the bar, the whole pub was startled into silence by Dave’s triumphant exclamation of “Have I Told You Hately That I Love You!!” The relief was palpable.
The game really caught on. Hitherto unknown colleagues would whisper coded messages to us in the corridor like Le Carré spies or slip scraps of paper into our hands with suggestions. IT wanted to know why the newly installed email system kept crashing under the weight of messages with subject boxes like Love Is In McClair and Emotional Petrescu. And we appeared to have gone mainstream as Chris Evans started playing suspiciously similar games on his radio show, such as foodstuffs in film titles (The Texas Chainsaw Moussaka, anyone?). Tony was particularly exasperated, convinced as he was that Evans had also nicked the idea for Don’t Forget Your Toothbrush from him in the late ‘80s.
So it was with more than a tinge of nostalgia that I resurrected the game for this year’s World Cup. With the help of a carefully selected panel of experts, the list was compiled. Ladies and gents, I give you…
Navas What I Call Music…The Soundtrack To South Africa 2010
Return To Senderos
Rockin’ Robben
Smeltz Like Teen Spirit
Skip To Malouda
Anelka In The UK
Don’t Go Breakin’ Joe Hart
Agger Do
Shabalala Ding Dong
I Like Driving In My Kaka
The Juander Of You
Eye Of The Schweinsteiger
Honda The Moon Of Love
A Message To You Rooney
Don’t Stand So Klose To Me
A Boy Named Lee Jung-Soo
I Can’t Help Forlan In Love With You
Knockin On Heaven’s Altidore
Blame It On The Bougherra
Hi Ho Silva Lining
I Will Always Govou
All The Young Dudas
Diamonds Are For Evra
Falling In Love Higuain
Probably A Ribery
Rabbit Rabbit Yak Yak Rabbit
The First Time Ever Osorio Face
Landon Calling
Dindane Gooly Gooly Gooly Gooly Wash Wash
Villa The World Villa The Children
Puyol Live In A Yellow Submarine
Ramos Beautiful Girl In The World
Too Much Chu-Young
Ayew The Rocksteady Crew
‘Ello John, Got Inamoto?
It’s The Endo The World
Kjaer She Goes
Bornstein To Be Wild
Juarez The Love
Veron-Ron-Ron-Ron
Kanu Feel It?
Totally Addicted To Basinas
Mary Had A Little Lahm
Running Up That Cahill
Vidic O Killed The Radio Star
Njitap A Ya Face
Santa Cruz Sorry Now
Kum-Il Feel The Noise
De Jong Ones
The Jean Gignac
He Ain’t Heavy, He’s Zambrotta
It’s Raining Mendes
You Were Alves On My Mind
Concrete Hyung-Il
Night Boateng To Cairo
Hamsik Of You
Villar So Vain (I Bet You Think Bassong Is About You)
Kewell Never Walk Alone
Oh Maicon I Can’t Believe It
Belters, every one. They can’t possibly be beaten…
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)