Breed 'Em And Weep

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.

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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.

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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.