Tears, outbursts and public breakdowns from the world
of sport
As a proud dad of (now) two
boys, it’s perhaps a little insensitive of me to contend that nothing inspires
such raw emotion as sport. You only need
watch last night’s sensational conclusion to the Ryder Cup, however, to see
what I mean.
Epitomising the mood was
Europe’s non-playing captain José María Olazábal, whose expression
that final afternoon at Medinah ranged from concerned to broken, via
helpless. Asked afterwards to describe
“how it felt” (that asinine staple of the post-event sports reporter), Ollie
said: “I had a few thoughts for my friend, Seve.” Then he stopped, his face crumpled, he tugged
his cap over his face and he only just managed these last few words. “And this one is for him.”
Seve Ballesteros – close friend and mentor to Olazábal, a Ryder Cup
legend and European team talisman – had, of course, died last year. The team all wanted to do it for Seve; the
left sleeves of their shirts yesterday bore a tribute to the great man;
numerous flags carried his name; even some of the more moronic American fans
felt moved to make reference to him (“Screw you, Seve!” yelled one no-mark
after a European drive). His presence
was felt throughout the match just as keenly as if he’d been there in
person. Incidentally, Olympic
organisers, if you need a definition of the word ‘legacy’ in a sporting sense,
and I think you do, this is it.
All of which, alongside the
most thrilling conclusion to the best sporting event there is, explains Olazábal’s emotional
state thereafter. A jolly good show, I
say.
For the record, I did shed a
tear as my son was born on Friday. For
some reason, though, the missus didn’t notice.
So inattentive.
--
Pete Sampras – 1995 Australian Open
Andy Murray endeared himself
to the British public when he cried on Centre Court after losing this year’s
Wimbledon final to Roger Federer.
Classic, isn’t it? He’s widely disliked
for being surly but pretty successful and it’s only when he blubs in defeat
that some people can bring themselves to feel warmly towards him. Federer himself had openly wept after Rafael
Nadal had beaten him in the 2009 Australian Open final, breaking down and
saying, “God, this is killing me”, before being ushered away from the
microphones (why is it compulsory for Grand Slam finalists to give a little
speech in the immediate aftermath these days?).
Then of course there was Jana Novotna, who famously deposited a river of
tears on the Duchess of Kent’s shoulder pad following her Wimbledon defeat to
Steffi Graf in 1993.
These tennis outpourings,
though, were but salt tears in an ocean when compared to Pete Sampras’s
on-court breakdown at the 1995 Aussie Open.
Sampras was locked in a quarter-final battle with Jim Courier when, from
out of nowhere, he began to sob. Bemusement
and concern swept around the venue in equal measure. But Sampras pressed on. One moment, the tears were streaming, his
body convulsing, his facial features seeming to fold in on each other. The next, thwack!, he was serving an
ace. In between games, he simply sat on
his stool and wept. As Sampras continued
to struggle with his emotions into the final set, Courier even offered to play
out the match the following day. A
compassionate and sporting gesture, no doubt, but Sampras was coping well with
his grief and Courier would arguably have had a better chance had they gone
off. As it happened, Sampras won the
match, Courier consoling his fellow countryman at the net for the obvious
torment he was enduring.
It was only after the match
that it emerged Sampras had found out that his coach, Tim Gullikson, had
terminal brain cancer. Some reports have
it that a spectator shouted “Do it for your coach”, which one can’t imagine
helped.
A strong man and a very
public breakdown. Iconic stuff.
--
Chris Hoy – London 2012 Olympics
Even taken as an event in
isolation, Chris Hoy’s victory in the Keirin at this year’s Olympics was
remarkable. He’d taken the brave man’s
route to gold, leading from several laps out, then surrendering that lead on
the final back straight before powering back on the inside to prevail. But set the race in the context of what he’d
already achieved and the unique enormity of his success is apparent. At the age of 36, Hoy was completing the
final act (99.9% certainly, according to him) of an Olympic career that had
already brought him legendary status and a knighthood. By winning the Keirin, he became the greatest
British Olympian of all time, measured by number of gold medals. And all this in front of his home crowd.
Hoy was fairly emotional
straight afterwards. Steve Redgrave,
ever the competitor, told Hoy he was now out on his own as number one, and “not
just on countback” (prior to the Keirin, the two were level on five golds
apiece but Hoy had an additional silver to Redgrave’s bronze).
But it was when he climbed
onto the podium to receive his medal that he really lost it. Either that or it was an elaborate Scottish
ruse to avoid singing the England-biased national anthem. A superhuman athlete with legs like tree
trunks, a man who’s regularly trained to the point of vomiting exhaustion, a
teak-hard competitor who appeared to break his rivals’ hearts through sheer
force of will. Reduced to a blubbering,
snivelling wreck. Beautiful.
Along with team mates and his
growing army of armchair fans, I reckon the headline writers will miss Sir
Chris more than most. “Tears Of Hoy”,
“The Hoy Of Six” and “The Real McHoy” will be consigned to history.
John Higgins – 2011 World Snooker Final
Hazel Irvine is a heartless
bitch. A veritable hyena of the press
room. She couldn’t wait to rush on stage
after John Higgins had secured his fourth world title and get her journalistic teeth
in.
Her opening gambit touched on
the well-publicised ordeal Higgins had been through in the wake of a tabloid
sting, where he’d been accused of agreeing to fix matches in exchange for
money. However, her pointed reference to
“everything that’s happened” was met with a dead-bat answer in which he simply
expressed his delight at being world champ.
Not to be deterred, and
sensing she’d wounded her prey with her first assault, Irvine The Hyena went in
for the kill. “How have you got through
it?” she growled. “What has your family
meant to you?” she leered, gesturing to his wife and kids, who were standing in
the corner. Then, when she’d reduced
Higgins to emotional carrion, she tore out his heart. His father, also John, had died two months
earlier. Higgins clearly didn’t want to
bring this up in the interview. No such
decorum on Hazel Canine’s part, however.
“Well, there’s one fella who’s not here, John, and he passed away in
February, and he’s looking down just now, and he’s raising a glass of whiskey,
I’m sure.”
Higgins – a tough, tough man,
the hardest match-player of his generation, a scrapper of the highest order – dissolved
completely.
Irvine probably loped back to
her dressing room, whipped off her human face and swallowed a rat whole.
