Great Easter Sporting Weekends

Like roast lamb and bread and butter pudding, Easter sport is a feast to be savoured.  This year, we had a poignant Boat Race victory for Oxford, which delivered redemption after the Dark Blues suffered an unfortunate reverse twelve months ago.  That day, they came off second best having led when that idiot swam across the course and forced a restart.  Poignant, too, as one of their great stalwarts of recent years, Acer Nethercott, died in January of a brain tumour.  The winning boat carried his name on Sunday.  Even as a man with Light Blue blood in his veins, I reckon the right crew prevailed.

Then there was that pulsating game at Stamford Bridge on Monday.  The two most garlanded English teams of the last decade played out a thoroughly entertaining FA Cup quarter-final replay, settled by two moments of brilliance: Demba Ba’s Inspector Gadget-style volley and Petr Cech’s remarkable point-blank save to deny Javier Hernández.

What other great Easter moments spring to mind?

Angel Cabrera – US Masters 2009

The Masters has always been my favourite golf tournament.  The other-worldly majesty of the Augusta National with its famous azaleas and glassy greens; the spectacular iron play and putting in the face of the keenest tension; the fact that the final-day drama unfolds on a Sunday night UK time.  Sporting romance of the very highest order.  I have fond teenage memories of Jack Nicklaus defying middle age to land his eighteenth Major, Sandy Lyle’s all-time-great bunker shot and over-active armpit sweat glands, and Nick Faldo winning his first green jacket by sinking a monster putt while simultaneously sporting the worst jumper in the history of golf (against some pretty stiff opposition).

The tournament occasionally coincides with Easter, the last time being in 2009.  It went to a play-off, fellow Bible-Belters Kenny Perry and Chad Campbell facing off with the avuncular Argentinian, Angel Cabrera.  I was rooting for Cabrera, whose effortless swing I’d fallen in love with.  But after one shot of the play-off, it looked most unlikely my man would come through.  Cabrera had driven his ball right behind a Georgia pine, while his opponents had both found the fairway.  Despite hitting another tree with his second, though, he scraped a par.  Meanwhile, Campbell found a greenside bunker, splashed out to six feet and missed his par putt, thereby eliminating himself.  At the second play-off hole Perry, who had earlier dropped shots on the seventeenth and eighteenth of the final round, recorded a bogey after his ball unfortunately picked up mud on the fairway.  Cabrera made par to take the green jacket.

I don’t know about you but I love it when sporting champions look nothing like the stereotype of chiselled athletic perfection.  Cabrera could easily have passed for one of the less mobile members at my old man’s golf club.  All power to the Easter Angel.  And I’d had a few quid on him.

Brian Lara 400 not out – Antigua 2004

Ashley Giles got this one right.  The ‘King Of Spain’ took one look at the pitch on the morning of the first day, came down with a mystery illness and cried off.  Then he watched his fellow bowlers disappear to all parts of St John’s for about three days.

Tormentor-in-chief for the West Indies, inevitably, was Brian Charles Lara.  From the moment he strode to the crease, he looked immovable.  With trademark high backlift, the Caribbean sun glinting off his blade, he unleashed his full repertoire of cuts, pulls and drives.  On Easter Sunday itself, he advanced from 86 to 313 not out.

Gareth Batty, who’d replaced the wily Giles in the England line-up, had the dubious honour of bowling the ball that Lara paddled to the boundary to pass Matthew Hayden’s previous record of 380.  I have a vivid memory of Graham Thorpe, ‘fielding’ at backward square leg, ushering the ball to the rope.  Can’t blame him really.

In truth, the game was pretty dull as a spectacle.  England had been utterly dominant throughout the series and were 3-0 up coming into the fourth and final Test.  Dead rubbers rarely produce scintillating cricket.  Add to that an absolute featherbed of a pitch and we were never in for a thrilling contest.  Lara’s innings was astonishing, of course it was, and one should always feel privileged to witness a world record.  But, to me, it was the sporting equivalent of watching a man break the record for eating Flying Saucers: impressive in a perverse kind of way, but flimsy and, you suspect, easily equalled by other talented Flying Saucer eaters if they put their mind to it.

It was the second time Lara had registered the highest individual Test score, the first being his 375 on the same ground in 1994, against England once again.  It might have been this game that generated the following piece of lovely journalism.  One observer – I can’t remember who it was and would be grateful if someone else can – described either Gus Fraser or Andy Caddick as follows: ‘runs in to bowl as if he’s caught his braces in the pavilion door.’

The ultimate futility of West Indies’ undoubtedly monumental batting performance in the context of the 2004 series was not lost on the locals.  I still have a T-shirt, bought from an enterprising chap in the crowd the day after West Indies had declared, which reads: ‘751-5.  We Have Dem Now!’

Irish Grand National 2005 – Numbersixvalverde

The Irish Grand National is traditionally run on Easter Monday at Fairyhouse.  Numbersixvalverde’s 2005 victory was significant for a number of reasons.  Firstly, the race itself.  The eventual winner, with the outstanding Ruby Walsh in the saddle, had made stealthy progress through the field but hit the fourth last, an error that might have knocked the stuffing out of him.  It didn’t.  Galvanised by Walsh, he put it up to Jack High approaching the final fence, before staying on strongly to hold that rival by three-quarters of a length in a rousing finish.  Secondly, Jack High was trained by Ruby’s father, Ted.  Good thing they’d already enjoyed the family roast the day before.  Thirdly, in winning the race, Ruby became the only jockey to take the Irish National, Aintree Grand National and Welsh National in the same season.

And finally, Numbersixvalverde was giving notice that he was a live contender for the following year’s Aintree contest.  He won at Liverpool in 2006, on that occasion piloted by Aintree debutant Niall ‘Slippers’ Madden (his dad was known as ‘Boots’, a younger family member is ‘Socks’).  The horse he beat into second that day was Hedgehunter, ridden by – you guessed it – Ruby Walsh.

If you’re thinking of using this system to pick the winner of this Saturday’s Grand National, forget it.  Lion Na Bearnai, last year’s Irish National hero, has just been ruled out of the race with an infection.  That’s racing.

Cheltenham Festival, Friday 15th March

Dispatches from the front line of The Greatest Show On Turf

I cried today.  Not because of a narrow defeat or an overdose of Champagne, both of which would’ve been decent excuses.  Nor for the over-crowding which, as usual, was ridiculous despite an apparent reduction of 5,000 versus last year’s Gold Cup day.  No, these tears were provoked by the unseating of amateur rider Jane Mangan in the Foxhunter Chase.  Her mount Oscar Delta (backed by my sister and brother-in-law after their third child – that’s Oscar rather than Delta) had travelled like a dream and was still full of running as he led over the last.  An exuberant leap appeared to have sealed it but the horse jinked left and Mangan fell out of the side door.  Only when watching the replay did I clock the jockey’s reaction, immediate and utter devastation, and that’s what set the old lachrymal glands off.  Nothing gets me like the theatre of sport.

Our Conor was the most impressive winner of the Triumph Hurdle I’ve ever seen.  Soft ground can have the effect of exaggerating winning distances but it was hard not to be bowled over by the way Dessie Hughes’ charge hacked all over his rivals, not coming off the bridle to score by fifteen lengths.  You could make an exhilarating 2014 Champion Hurdle field from this year’s novices alone: Our Conor, Champagne Fever, My Tent Or Yours, The New One.  Mouth-watering stuff for next season.

In the Albert Bartlett Novices’ Hurdle, At Fishers Cross relished the testing conditions, biding his time before taking the lead over the final flight and accelerating away from his rivals up the hill.  A first victory of the week for champion jockey AP McCoy.

And, as you’ll know by now, Bobs Worth won the Gold Cup.  Nicky Henderson’s doughty stayer added the blue riband event to the Hennessy he won earlier in the season and in the process maintained his unbeaten record at the home of Jump racing.  It was a thrilling encounter.  Long Run, fitted with cheek pieces for the first time, – headgear that had sparked him into new life according to his work rider – attempted to make all.  He gave it a darn good go too.  Sir Des Champs came there to challenge heading for home and the long-time leader was just starting to feel the pinch.  Then Bobs Worth, patiently ridden by Barry Geraghty, appeared on the scene and once he grabbed the lead, there was no stopping him.

So that’s it for another year.  Battered, broken, beleaguered.  It takes a full 365 days to recover.  But only a day or so before you wish all those days away.

Cheltenham Festival, Thursday 14th March

Dispatches from the front line of The Greatest Show On Turf

Thursday at the Festival used to offer significantly poorer fare than the other three days.  Not now.  Today we witnessed the most competitive Ryanair Chase and the most intriguing World Hurdle of recent years.

The select Ryanair field was made up of three groups.  Horses who preferred not to take on the unbeatable Sprinter Sacre in yesterday’s Queen Mother, thank you very much, such as Cue Card (the only horse to get within eight lengths of the ‘Black Aeroplane’ over fences).  Those stepping down from staying trips, such as Irish raider First Lieutenant.  And the middle-distance specialists, like two-time winner Albertas Run and last year’s hero Riverside Theatre.

Colin Tizzard, Cue Card’s trainer, had thrown down the verbal gauntlet to his rivals pre-race, daring any of the competitors to go with his front-running charge.  Champion Court it was who accepted the challenge, pestering Cue Card for much of the first half of the race and forcing a couple of half-errors.  At the three-quarter mark, For Non Stop was travelling ominously well in behind as Champion Court started to feel the pinch.  Then the favourite First Lieutenant worked his way into contention and the race was well and truly on.  But still they couldn’t get to the strong-travelling Cue Card.  Three out and First Lieutenant blundered, knocking the stuffing out of himself; For Non Stop, too, was labouring.  And all the while, Cue Card pressed on in front.  Another bold leap at the last sealed it, Colin’s son Joe urging his mount to stay on up the hill to record a nine-length victory over the favourite.  I’d like to say the whole place went wild but it might just have been me.

In the absence of Big Buck’s, the World Hurdle was wide open.  Would Oscar Whisky be able to prove he stays three miles in top-grade company?  Could Reve De Sivola repeat his performances from earlier this season on better ground?  What else might surprise us?  The answer to the latter question was this: Solwhit, a multiple Grade One winner in Ireland who's quietly crept back to the top table after a frustrating couple of years.  It could have been an even bigger shock if Celestial Halo (40/1) had jumped the last cleanly.  However, Charles Byrnes’s inmate made no mistake and powered up the hill to score.  Personally, I’m pleased for Paul Carberry.  The winning jockey is, in my untutored eyes, the most stylish horseman around; not only that, but he was injured yesterday and must’ve gritted teeth through the pain to pass himself fit today.  Well done, Carbs.

By the way, if anyone had a winning accumulator in the other races today, I should like to hear from you.  20/1, 25/1 and 50/1 would make a lovely Trixie.

Cheltenham Festival, Wednesday 13th March

Dispatches from the front line of The Greatest Show On Turf

Incredible scenes.

A group of mates I like to call ‘London Irish’ were huddled, as they usually are, in a corner of the Mandarin Bar.  I visited them there shortly before the Coral Cup, an impossible-to-predict 24-runner handicap that has the bookies cackling all the way to the bank.  The boys have a group bet each Festival – twenties in and hope for the best – and for reasons unknown this is the race they targeted this year.  Medinas, a 33/1 shot from the Alan King yard, was Sean’s selection.

Rounding the home bend, as the gloves came off, Medinas got a nice run up the inner but still had a handful of lengths to find on the leaders approaching the final flight of hurdles.  “Come on, Medinas,” a few of the lads said.  Over the last and Medinas winged it, eating further into the deficit.  “Come on, Medinas!”  Maybe he could nab a place.  The leaders weren’t stopping but the selection continued to power up the hill.  “Come on, Medinas!!!”  He couldn’t, could he?  Oh yes he could, scooting clear in the final half furlong to land the mother of all touches.  The place went wild.  This is what the Festival’s all about.

Sean’s now inherited the nickname ‘Judge’, without a trace of irony.  Seany, Mart, Dec, Chris, Bern, Walt, Stu, other Sean and Christian: take a bow.

Earlier, the Neptune Investments Novices’ Hurdle, often the best race of the week, saw The New One give Nigel Twiston-Davies a welcome big-race success.  The stable has been under something of a cloud with a bug in the yard and no winner this month.  But the trainer’s son, Sam, galvanised The New One and the pair shot clear to win in convincing fashion, giving shrewd punters who’d taken the 11/2 on offer this morning (ahem) a nice little windfall.

In other news, oh yes, Sprinter Sacre demolished the opposition in the Queen Mother Champion Chase, recording a provisional Timeform rating of 192, the highest in history.  It was nothing short of an honour and a privilege to witness this freak of nature.  The showiest of show ponies, a big bruising brute of an animal with a ‘look at me’ aura who is quite simply the most incredible equine athlete the sport has ever seen.

Dispatches from the front line of The Greatest Show On Turf

Cheltenham Festival, Tuesday 12^th March

Day One of Cheltenham is over.  Such is the anticipation that greets the Festival that my mate said he already felt sad before the first race because it meant the end was that much nearer.  I told him to stop being a pillock.  But he had a point.

There were a few big questions today.  Firstly, would racing go ahead?  Wind chill assisted temperatures had plummeted to -12C overnight, meaning that it was touch and go whether we’d have any action at all.  Shortly before 10.30 a.m., there was a collective roar of relief around the Cotswolds as word came from the course that we were ON.

Now to the other questions.

Would My Tent Or Yours justify favouritism in the opener, the Supreme Novices Hurdle?  He’d cantered all over his rivals in his last race, making a mockery of a hugely competitive handicap.  And when he came there strongly in today’s race, swinging away on the bridle to challenge long-time leader Champagne Fever, he appeared to be running away with the contest.  But Champagne Fever, piloted by the peerless Ruby Walsh, found more up the hill to land a massive gamble for Ireland.

Next, in the Arkle, would Simonsig be as impressive as stablemate Sprinter Sacre had been 12 months ago?  Answer: no.  But he did prevail after surviving a bad blunder and holding off Irish outsider Baily Green.

In the big one, could Hurricane Fly recapture the Champion Hurdle crown he’d taken two years ago?  Having looked beaten down the back straight, ‘The Fly’ came back on the bridle and powered home to best last year’s champ Rock On Ruby.  It was the first time since Comedy Of Errors in 1975 that a horse had regained the Champion.  Historic stuff.  And we hadn’t seen the last of it.

Quevega is known simply as ‘The Mare’.  A nickname that seems to own the whole of her sex.  For good reason too.  As she lined up in today’s Mares’ Hurdle, would Willie Mullins’ inmate win the race for the fifth time on the trot?  Take a moment to consider the magnitude of this.  It requires a monumental effort just to get a horse to the start line five years running.  To win on all of those occasions is a feat seen about as rarely as Halley’s Comet.  And she did it.  Looking beaten as they rounded the home bend, Quevega – with that man Walsh on board – gradually worked her way back into contention and was travelling strongest as they approached the last.  She still had six lengths to make up but, with an increasing sense of inevitability, she wore down her rivals.  The first horse since Golden Miller in the ‘30s to win five on the trot at the Festival.  And the most delirious reaction from the Arkle Bar since Moscow Flyer’s Champion Chase in 2003.

See you tomorrow, Prestbury Park.

The Greatest Show On Turf

With the Cheltenham Festival just days away, it’s time to look back as well as forward

The Olympics of Jump racing.  The Greatest Show On Turf.  The biggest orgy of gambling, drinking and cavorting of the year.  Call it what you will, it’s the Cheltenham Festival next week.  If you’re a sports fan and you’ve never been, you really must.  If, on the other hand, you’re intending to have a punt and you “hate losing more than you enjoy winning” – in the words of my all-time hero Clement Freud – then find another hobby.

Here are a few memories from the last decade that make the losing tolerable.

Voy Por Ustedes – Arkle 2006

Ante-post betting is a mug’s game.  I remember visiting my favourite trainer Alan King’s yard in 2008.  The other guests that morning were all owners and one asked me if I was going to buy a horse for Alan to train.  “Well,” I said, calling to mind an early-season bet that I’d struck, “if Nenuphar Collonges wins this season’s stayers’ hurdle at the Festival, I might think about it.”  Without looking up from his Racing Post, King muttered: “You’ll be lucky, he’s not going for that race.”  As a friend of mine is fond of saying: “Bang goes another dream.”  The rule ‘never bet ante-post’ is a sensible one to adhere to.

But rules have exceptions.  In my case, it was Voy Por Ustedes in the 2006 Arkle.  I’d seen the French-bred with the Spanish name (it means ‘I go for you’) win a novice chase at Warwick the previous November.  Impressive, I thought, and wondered what price he might be for the two-mile championship race at the Festival, named after the legendary three-times Irish winner of the Gold Cup in the 1960s.  I was surprised to see he was trading at just shy of 50/1 on Betfair.  Worth a few pennies.  As the season wore on, the horse’s odds contracted, and I continued to back him, but he was still widely available at 10/1 or better the week before the race.  On the Friday, after a few Guinnesses in a mate’s pub, I was willing to tell anyone who’d listen: “The first word is ‘Voy’, the second is ‘Por’ and the third is ‘Ustedes’.”  I was tolerated at best.

Cut to the following Tuesday and the Arkle itself.  A friend of mine tells me I was “as quiet as a church mouse” as Voy Por traded blows up front with the classy grey Monet’s Garden, neither touching a twig in a beautiful display of jumping at pace.  Apparently, I continued this silence as my fancy pulled out a little more in the closing stages to win by a length and a half.  Then the shouting started.

Katchit – 2008 Champion Hurdle

Some horses love Cheltenham.  It’s an idiosyncratic, undulating track with a brute of an uphill finish.  One such animal was Katchit, not much bigger than a pony, but with a “heart as big as his body”, as his trainer – that man Alan King again – once put it.

He’d won at the course several times, including in the juvenile championship race, the Triumph Hurdle, the previous year.  Historically, though, winners of this race had a very poor record in the Champion.  Undeterred, I backed Katchit at some nice double-figure prices.

In the race itself, Katchit was his usual stylish but nuggety self.  Travelling strongly on the home bend, he appeared to eyeball favourite Sizing Europe out of it (although, to be fair, Sizing was later found to have burst a blood vessel) before blasting up his beloved hill to take the crown.

One idiot in the grandstand made a right spectacle of himself.  “They said it couldn’t be done!” he yelled, as parents hid small children and edged away.  “They said a Triumph hurdler couldn’t do it!  They said a five-year-old couldn’t do it!  They were wrong!!”  To anyone who was there, I can only apologise.

Katchit sadly died of colic in January.  RIP, little fella.

As an aside, jockey Robert ‘Choc’ Thornton – who rode both Voy Por Ustedes and Katchit to the victories described above – is injured and will miss this year’s Festival.  Thoughts are with you, Choc.

Moscow Flyer – 2005 Champion Chase

“My wife drove me to drink,” the old joke goes, “and I never thanked her.”  I owe a similar debt of gratitude to Moscow Flyer.  This wonderful Irish two-mile chaser is the reason I fell in love with racing.  It was 2003, the first time I’d done the Festival properly, and I’d had my biggest ever bet on the Jessica Harrington-trained gelding.  He won, thank God, and in the process cemented a unique place in my heart and made me vow to return to the Festival every year until I die.

2004 didn’t go quite as well for Moscow.  Seeking to retain his crown, he unseated his rider.  When he returned the following year at the age of eleven, many thought his best days were behind him.  Blinded by love (another golden rule that I regularly flout is to bet with the head not the heart), I kept the faith and backed him as if defeat were out of the question.

In a pulsating renewal, Moscow set sail for home three fences out.  His market rival, the 2004 champion Azertyuiop, had placed a back hoof in the water jump, effectively putting paid to his challenge.  But the young pretender Well Chief, five years Moscow’s junior, was still in menacing pursuit.  As Moscow rounded the bend to the home straight with one fence left to jump, a tsunami of sound rose right across Prestbury Park and, seemingly blown up the hill by the crowd’s collective will, he crossed the line with two lengths to spare.  “And Moscow Flyer is magnificent!” said the course commentator.  He certainly was.

My 2013 Cheltenham Festival tips (caution advised).  Tuesday Champion Hurdle: Grandouet.  Wednesday Champion Chase: Sprinter Sacre (I recommend backing him to win by 20 lengths or more at 4/1).  Thursday World Hurdle: Oscar Whisky.  Friday Gold Cup: Captain Chris.

Sporting Spectacles

As Sehwag bats in ‘librarian’ glasses, which other sportsmen have excelled in specs?

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To my mind, there is no more exciting player in world cricket than Virender Sehwag.  Part of a golden generation of Indian batsmen, Sehwag holds some astonishing records.  He has no fewer than six double hundreds in Tests, more than any other Indian, and twice he’s gone past 300 (none of his countrymen has even one triple to his name).  He’s scored more Test hundreds than fifties, a record he shares with just four players in history.  In One-Day Internationals, his 219 against West Indies in 2011 is the highest ever individual score.

But it’s not the bare statistics that make Sehwag special.  It’s the manner in which he scores his runs.  The second of his Test triples, for example, was the fastest the game has seen, coming off just 278 balls.  Steve Davis once said that the key to success on the snooker table was to “play like it means nothing when it means everything.”  It’s a mantra to which Sehwag is 100% committed.  Yes, the way in which he frequently goes after the bowling from ball one in any form of the game makes him vulnerable to early dismissals.  But when it comes off, it comes off big.  And, by God, is it thrilling to watch.  The devastating ferocity of his strokes, particularly that square cut, is a true force of sporting nature.

There was something incongruous, then, about seeing Sehwag bat in glasses this week.  These are not the feats you’d readily associate with a man who now resembles a librarian.  I don’t say this to mock – no myopic-baiter, me, as an occasional specs-wearer myself – but, rightly or wrongly, we tend to see glasses as a sign of studiousness rather than sporting excellence.  Possibly a blight on our societal prejudices but it’s true (although not as dramatic as ex-dictator Pol Pot, who executed people with spectacles for fear they were intellectuals who might overthrow him).

Here are a few others who’ve done their bit to buck that stereotype.

Clive Lloyd

I could’ve picked Daniel Vettori or David Steele but Clive Lloyd is probably the most celebrated cricketing spectacles-sporter.  Whenever I picture him in my mind’s eye, it’s those heavy-rimmed goggles that feature most prominently, as in the opening sequence of The Two Ronnies, where the frames appear on screen before the faces.

As a player, Lloyd was a tall, elegant, left-handed batsman, capable of brutal hitting.  Scoring over 7,500 Test runs, he also whacked 77 sixes, making him the sixth most prolific maximum hitter in Test history.  His century in the inaugural World Cup final in 1975 came off 88 balls, bringing victory to his team and the man of the match award to himself.  He was also an exceptional fielder, patrolling the cover-point region with his distinctive loping gait and swooping in feline style, which brought him his nickname Super Cat (later, abject fielder Phil Tufnell would be christened Cat in more ironic fashion).

But it’s perhaps as a man manager and leader that Lloyd should best be remembered.  There have always been differences and rivalries among the Caribbean islands, so that forming a truly united West Indies cricket team has historically been a huge challenge.  Not only did Lloyd meet this challenge, he also set the blueprint for two decades of domination of the world game.  Having seen his team battered 5-1 in Australia, thanks in no small part to Dennis Lillee and Jeff Thompson, Lloyd set about forming his own fast-bowling production line.  In the years that followed, West Indies became arguably the best team in Test history as the revolutionary all-pace attack swept all before it.

Maybe it was the specs but this was visionary stuff.

Ed Moses

To some extent, the peerless Ed Moses conforms to the view of glasses-wearers as academic or studious.  His background is in physics and engineering and, after retiring from competition, he helped to pioneer the out-of-competition drugs test.

But it’s as a 400m hurdles athlete that we remember him and few have dominated their field so utterly.  After losing to his rival Harald Schmid in August 1977, Moses remained unbeaten for nine years, nine months and nine days.  The streak comprised 122 straight victories.

He won two Olympic golds, in 1976 and 1984, and would surely have made it three had it not been for the USA’s boycott of the 1980 Games in Moscow.  Add to that his two World titles and four world records and it’s not difficult to place Moses alongside the very top sportsmen of the Twentieth Century.  Even today, a quarter of a century after his retirement, he still holds 25 of the quickest 100 times in history.

Dennis Taylor

Not quite the studious academic look, this, more Timmy Mallett on a dress-down day.

Anyone who’s tried playing snooker in specs will understand the problem that Dennis Taylor faced.  You get down on your shot, rest your chin on your cue and look up – and there’s the top rim of your glasses, right in your line of vision.  So you either peer over the top of the rim, which rather defeats the object of wearing the visual aids in the first place, or dispense with them entirely and make do.  Neither could Taylor get on with contact lenses, so he was stumped.

The breakthrough came when snooker guru Jack Karnehm developed a pair of glasses with a far broader field of vision, which allowed the wearer to see through the optical centre of the lens.  What this meant to the casual observer, and there were plenty of them, was that it looked as though Taylor had his glasses on upside-down, like a drunken uncle at a wedding.

But Taylor had the last laugh, winning the World title in 1985 in that final against Steve Davis.  Those who witnessed it (about 18m on BBC2) will never forget Taylor’s joyful, finger-wagging celebration; he was apparently pointing at his manager, to whom he’d said: “I can still win this, you know?” despite being 8-0 down at the time.  No-one else saw that coming.

Oscar Pistorius And Other Fallen Idols

However you view the events at Oscar Pistorius’s Pretoria home yesterday, it’s a tragedy.  For those who’ve been living on Mars, Pistorius’s girlfriend – model Reeva Steenkamp – was shot dead.  Police initially refused to confirm that the suspect they were questioning was Pistorius (standard practice in South Africa, apparently), although they did make the baffling decision to tell us that they’d been called to incidents ‘of a domestic nature’ at the address in the past.

It’ll be months before we know whether or not he’s guilty.  But, whatever happens, it’s hard to see anything other than the ruination of the man who’s arguably been the single-most important sportsperson in the world over the last five years.

As such, his is likely to be the most spectacular plunge from grace by a sporting figure in history.  Here are some other fallen idols, whose descents I’ve attempted to rank.

2. Ben Johnson

From the holder of the most prestigious title in sport to ultimate villain in 72 hours.  In the famous words of Des Lynam, “I've just been handed a piece of paper here that if it's right, it'll be the most dramatic story out of these Olympics or perhaps any others.”

I probably shouldn’t say this but, in my book, that 1988 final remains the greatest race in the history of the 100m.  The look on Carl Lewis’s face!  And four men under 10 seconds for the first time.  It’s been branded ‘the dirtiest race in history’ but at the time it was pure adrenaline-filled theatre.

The saddest part of the whole tawdry business, as I recall it, was that ‘Canadian sprinter Ben Johnson’ became ‘Jamaican-born sprinter Ben Johnson’ in many sections of the media.  Talk about institutional racism.

3. Lance Armstrong

It must be nigh-on impossible for the few journalists who continued to throw awkward questions at Lance Armstrong at the height of his fame, such as the admirable Paul Kimmage, not to be smug now.  Kimmage was once roundly bullied by Armstrong at a press conference for using the phrase ‘the cancer of cycling’.  It’s not certain whether he was referring to drugs in the sport or Armstrong specifically.  Armstrong, who had overcome testicular cancer in the 1990s, chose to interpret it as the latter and lashed out.

Perhaps the most distasteful aspect of the entire affair was Armstrong’s likening of his current situation to the challenge he faced when he found out he had cancer.

It might help the public’s perception of him if he sounded even a little apologetic.

4. Hansie Cronje

A second erstwhile favourite son of South Africa on the list. 

I walked past Cronje at Centurion in Pretoria during the rain-affected fifth Test of England’s 1999-2000 tour.  We’d already lost the series but on the final day, news filtered through that he and England captain Nasser Hussain had agreed to forfeit an innings each to ‘make a game of it.’  For us spectators, it felt like a bit of recompense for what had been a frustrating few days; the sun had shone almost constantly since a deluge on the first day but the wet outfield had prevented any play until day five.

The enterprising agreement by the captains produced a brilliant, one-day-style run chase, England reaching their target of 249 for the loss of eight wickets when Darren Gough pulled Nantie Hayward for four through midwicket with just five balls to spare.  Only in subsequent years did the game look suspicious and, sure enough, it emerged that Cronje had accepted money and a gift from a bookmaker in return for the early declaration.

Cronje’s death at the age of 32 in a plane crash meant South African cricket was able to move on rather more swiftly than would’ve been possible if he’d stayed alive.  One of the reasons that current captain Graeme Smith was ushered into the captaincy at the tender age of 22 – apart from being an admirable character – was that he had no links to Cronje.

5. Tiger Woods

Tiger’s last on this list as his fall from grace has not broken him.  Sure, in the words of The Smiths, ‘at the time it was terrible’, and his carefully-staged apology press conference made for cringe-worthy viewing.  However, he’s emerged from the scandal if not unscathed then at least intact.  He even retained his lucrative association with Nike – unlike Armstrong, who was summarily dumped – although who knows how much money he forfeited from the dozens of other sponsors who walked?

I suppose that in the public consciousness, serial adultery is more forgivable than making a mockery of an entire sport.  Even though the base crime is essentially the same: lying.  People haven’t forgotten Tiger’s exposure as a prolific philanderer but at least he’s back doing what he’s most famous for.  Next question.  Is he good enough these days to add to his 14 majors?

Punting High And Low

United’s foregone title conclusion and more heroic tales of sports betting

Following Manchester United’s routine 2-0 win over Everton at the weekend, Betfred have announced they’re already paying out on bets for the Red Devils to be Premier League champions this season.

The wife of Fred Done, owner of Betfred, must be tearing her curlers out.  A United fan, Done has pulled this stunt a few times over the years and had his fingers burnt not once but twice, in 1998 and again last year when that Sergio Agüero goal handed Manchester City the title and cost Betfred a reported £1m in the process.  Can you imagine anything worse?  Your beloved team has the title snatched away with the last kick of the season; not only that, the winners are your ‘noisy neighbours’ from across the city; oh, and by the way, you’re a million smackers down on the deal.  Ouch!  That apparently prompted Done to promise his good lady never to be such a silly boy again; except he obviously had his charred fingers crossed.

In fact, Betfred is not even the first firm to make the early pay-out this season, rivals Paddy Power doing so before United’s game.  If you’re someone who likes a punt, I can highly recommend Power.  Their innovative money-back offers are second to none and they’re known to give their regular customers – or at least those who lose more than they win – a free bet once in a while.  And, no, I’m not on commission (although I do get the odd free bet).

What are the best bets in sporting history?

Rodney Marsh and Dennis Lillee – 1981

This could never happen today.  Not without the mother of all outcries, an ICC investigation and player bans as hefty as Mark Cosgrove.

It was the Headingley Test of the 1981 Ashes series, and Australia had England in all sorts of bother.  The hosts had followed on and, with seven second-innings wickets down, were still almost a hundred runs behind their opponents.  At about this time, in-play match odds were flashed on the scoreboard: Ladbrokes made England 500/1 to win the Test.

Rod Marsh, the Aussie wicketkeeper, and fast bowler Dennis Lillee clocked the price and raised eyebrows at each other.  500/1?  In a two-horse race?  Even with the match situation as it was, they reasoned, that was ludicrous.  They arranged, via a third party (their team coach driver, apparently), to place £15 on England.

What happened next?  Ian Botham 149 not out and Bob Willis 8-43, that’s what.  Astonishingly, England had won the match and Lillee and Marsh their bet.

Darren Yates – Frankie’s Magnificent Seven

Frankie Dettori made history on 28^th September 1996 by riding the winners of all seven races at Ascot.  For one punter, a joiner from Morecambe, it was a day that changed his life.  Darren Yates had staked £69.76 including betting tax (a concept as out-of-date as smallpox today) on multiples made up of Dettori’s rides, adding in the seven-horse accumulator for good measure.  He pocketed over £550,000.

For every winner, of course, there’s a loser.  One of the biggest on that day was bookmaker Gary Wiltshire.  By the time Dettori rode Fujiyama Crest to victory to complete the seven-timer – the horse had been a general 12/1 in the morning but returned at 2/1 – the larger-than-life bookie was down by at least £800,000, possibly upwards of £1m.  Even worse, Wiltshire was only at Ascot because he’d run into traffic on his way to Worcester.  How’s your luck, Gary?

It was much the same when I backed winners at 33/1 and 14/1 with the same bookie on the rails at Windsor in 2005.  The hapless layer dismantled his board and trudged off before the penultimate race.

These dog days are rare for punters, though, and it’s usually the turf accountants who win.  As my old man is fond of saying, “You never see a bookie on a bike.”

Kerry Packer – heads I win (your estate)

Not strictly a sports wager, this one, but since Kerry Packer brought us World Series Cricket, I’m allowing him in.

Which is more than can be said for one particular individual in the high-stakes room of a casino.  The story goes that Packer walked into the exclusive private area and this chap told him it was “for high rollers only.”  When Packer told him that was fine by him, the man said, “No, you need to go and play out there.  This is out of your league.”  “What’s your league?” Packer asked.  “I’m worth 60 mill,” said the chap.  “Toss you for it,” Packer replied.

The man, we hear, demurred.

Twelvetrees = 36

Great sporting nicknames of our time

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Nicknames perform important functions.  Some represent the high regard in which the recipient is held: Ace, The Panther, Big Man, Love Machine, that sort of thing.  But enough of my school days.  Others confer a sense of belonging, of acceptance to a group: Mr Cricket, The Kid, Eric The Red.

But, personally, I prefer the ones that give me a good old belly laugh.

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Billy ‘36’ Twelvetrees

What a start to the Six Nations.  I’ll let the proper rugby writers dissect England’s new sense of adventure, Ireland’s thrilling near-collapse in Cardiff and Italy’s monumental achievement in overturning the hapless French.

What I want to celebrate here is the emergence onto the international stage of the man with the finest nickname in the modern game.

Respect to Geordan Murphy.  It’s thanks to his Dublin accent that we arrive at this piece of mastery.  As in “Twelve trees are tirty six.”

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Mark Waugh – ‘Afghanistan’

Life isn’t fair, is it?  Mark Waugh was one of the most elegant batsmen ever to take the crease.  He was graceful, technically correct, possessed of a cover drive that somehow managed to be both languid and violent, and able to whip good-length balls from outside off-stump through mid-wicket better than anyone bar Viv Richards.  Not only that but he remains the finest slip fielder I’ve ever seen, gobbling up catches off seamers and spinners alike in kid-leather hands.

And what nickname did this giant of the game get saddled with, being less of an early flourisher than his brother?  ‘Afghanistan’: the forgotten Waugh.

Such is the luck of the draw when you’re a twin, I guess, particularly when that twin is the relentless Steve Waugh (another epithet Mark had to put up with was ‘Junior’).  However, one member of the Barmy Army once tried to redress the balance by shouting, “Oi, Stephen.  Best batsman in the world?  You ain’t even the best batsman in your family!”

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Alex Loudon – ‘Minotaur’

Cricket seems to throw up amusing nicknames for fun.  The late Graham Dilley was known as ‘Picca’.  Allan Lamb was, perhaps more obviously, called ‘Legga’.

My favourite of all time, though, even surpassing dear old Mark Waugh, was the title bestowed on Alex Loudon.  Although a highly talented all-rounder, Loudon never quite fulfilled his potential, gaining a solitary One-Day International cap for England.  He became known as ‘Minotaur’ because, as someone put it, “that’s all he ever went on.”

Still, Loudon had the last laugh.  He quit the game and started dating Pippa Middleton.

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‘One Size’ Fitz Hall

I shall never, ever tire of this one.

I could go on about how appropriate a moniker it is for a journeyman pro with an uncompromising style who’s equally at home in midfield as at centre-half.

But, really, it’s just a very funny pun.

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Martin ‘Chariots’ Offiah

Brilliant on so many levels, this.  As the man himself once explained when asked why he got the nickname:

“Because I could run very fast, I suppose,” he told the interviewer, exhibiting the sort of incisiveness that brought him 501 career tries, “and it rhymed with how people pronounce my last name.”

Reading between the lines, “how people pronounce” his last name is not the way that it should be pronounced.  Something like ‘OFF-y-ah’ is more correct, I believe.  But, hey, let’s not let that ruin a high-quality piece of wordplay.

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Stuart ‘Britsa’ Broad

I know I’ve banged on about cricketers a bit.  But I can’t resist finishing on yet another.

You probably won’t have heard this.  Mainly because the group among which it’s been shared has, thus far, been quite exclusive.  For me and a select band of cricket fans, the current England set-up includes characters such as ‘Tinker’, ‘Foxy’, ‘Yogi’, ‘Previous’ and ‘Vesta’.  But there’s one who stands head and shoulders above the others, and not just because he’s 6’5”.

Ladies and gentlemen, in case you haven’t read the sub-head above, I give you Stuart ‘Britsa’ Broad.

Beat that if you can…

All Fur Coat And No Knickers

Sports stars who make a greater impact on headlines than the field of play

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Thank God for Mario Balotelli.  Without him, this window would’ve been so dull we wouldn’t have needed curtains.

Until Monday, the overall newsworthiness of January transfer stories had been lamentable.  By-lines such as ‘Out-of-favour Aston Villa defender Alan Hutton on the verge of moving to Real Mallorca on initial loan deal’ seemed to take on vast editorial import.

Then along came Super Mario with his probable move back to Italy, hurtling to the rescue of the headline writers and etching his name in meteorites across an otherwise bleak night sky.

But not everyone in the media has greeted the news with the wonder and awe it clearly deserves.  Speaking to talkSPORT, ex-England international Joe Royle said, “I’ve never understood what all the fuss is about.  He’s got no work-rate.  I’ve never seen a player walk as much as he does on the pitch.  He doesn’t score enough goals and there are too many headlines off the pitch, what with the parking fines, fireworks and silly t-shirts.”

To those of us who – by accident of birth or some other misfortune – are Ipswich Town fans, the words of BFJ (the ‘B’ and the ‘J’ stand for ‘Big’ and ‘Joe’ respectively) will come as no surprise.  Here is a man whose most emblematic player purchase while manager at Portman Road was, arguably, Kevin Horlock.  A no-nonsense, hard-knocking, journeyman midfielder, Horlock came to represent a Town side of the mid-Noughties that favoured physical effectiveness over footballing aesthetics.

Balotelli’s goal-scoring record for City isn’t as woeful as Horlock’s was for Town (no goals in 58 appearances for the Northern Irishman).  However, the oh-so-hard-done-by Italian has hardly set the world alight this term, netting just once in 11 league appearances.  Even last season, during which his scoring stats were decent, my memory is of Balotelli as something of a passenger.  And a surly, troublesome passenger at that, his sending-off against Arsenal in April being his fourth of the campaign.

 “It would be no loss if he left,” Royle claimed.

That may be unjust.  But it’s hard to escape the idea that Balotelli’s media persona is greater than his footballing achievements warrant.

Who else from the world of sport is all fur coat and no knickers?

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Paul Nicholson ‘Bad Boy Of Darts’

Since its reinvention under the auspices of Sky TV, the Professional Darts Corporation (PDC) and Barry Hearn, darts has done a remarkable job of selling itself.  The spectacle we see nowadays is a million miles from the fags-and-beer, back-room-of-a-boozer affair that first hit our screens in the 1970s.  With light-shows, music-accompanied walk-ons, Vegas-style boxing announcements and packed, rowdy venues the country over, this is real showbiz.  The standard of the sport has improved too, thanks in no small part to a certain Phil Taylor.  More nine-darters, more 180s, more 100+ checkouts, and higher player averages than there ever were pre-1994 when Sky began its coverage.  So there’s substance beneath the razzmatazz.

Where there was a distinct lack of substance, however, was in Paul Nicholson’s assertion that he was the ‘bad boy of darts.’  The naturalised Australian has frequently walked unsmiling onto stage wearing sunglasses; he’s fired imaginary pistols into the crowd; he often shushes and cups his ears at he inevitable booers.  And he once imitated the antics of American wrestler CM Punk when he knelt on one knee during his walk-on and yelled, “It’s clobberin’ time!” before sitting cross-legged on stage as his opponent (only Taylor) entered.

These are not the actions of a bad boy.  These are the actions of, well, a bit of a twerp.

Perhaps Nicholson’s most infamous display of supposed bad-boy-dom was his calling out of Taylor in 2011.   Interviewed at the World Matchplay, he said, “Mr Taylor and me are gonna meet some time.  And he’d better bring his A-game.  ‘Cos if he doesn’t, I’m gonna put him to bed.”  Really, Paul?  Ovaltine and a Mister Man book with that threat at all?

Nicholson had in fact beaten Taylor at that year’s UK Open.  Next time they met, though, Taylor ‘put him to bed’ by winning 10-6 having been 6-7 behind.  After that, Taylor whitewashed Nicholson in the World Grand Prix.  Hardly the effect the Newcastle-born thrower would’ve been after.

The fact remains that Paul Nicholson has not progressed beyond the quarter-finals of any major PDC event; neither has he competed in the Premier League.  So if he needs evidence of how ‘bad’ he is, maybe his own performances are the place to start.

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Phillips Idowu

I was in a pub a while back and the name of Phillips Idowu came up.  “Ah,” said one of the group who, admittedly, is not one of the more fervent sports nuts I knock about with, “the one with the blue hair, yes?  The long jump fella?” 

Now, when your hair’s more famous than you (not to mention your chosen event), you have a problem.  If Idowu had gone on to claim triple jump gold at last year’s London Games, he’d probably have the universal acclaim his talent merits.  Instead, his preparation was hindered by a niggling injury, and the media reported a stand-off with Team GB’s head coach, Charles van Commenee, when the athlete chose to stay away from a pre-Games training camp.  When it came to the event Idowu, clearly not 100% match-fit, failed to qualify for the final.

The perception of Idowu as a supreme headline-maker rather than a supreme competitor is grossly unfair, of course.  Bar the Olympics, where he took silver in Beijing, he has won every major title, indoor and outdoor, that the sport has to offer.

However undeserved, though, the perception becomes reality for many observers and Phillips Idowu remains as well-known by the wider public for his image as for his performances.  Perhaps he should take a leaf out of Kevin Pietersen’s book.  After the 2005 Ashes, KP dispensed with the ludicrous skunk rinse he’d given himself, got his head down and became the model professional we all know today.  Never in the headlines for the wrong reasons.  What’s that…?  Oh.

Sublime Domination

Sportspeople and teams who have lorded it statistically over the opposition

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Maria Sharapova is statistically the most dominant woman ever to reach the semi-final of a Grand Slam.  In progressing like a shouty steamroller to the semis in Melbourne, she won 60 games and lost just nine in her five matches.  So, on average, she was winning her sets by 6 games to 0.9.  (Up to the semis, she hadn’t serve-volleyed once, though, the scaredy-cat).

If you love sport and, like me, dwell on the nerdy side of the bleachers, you’ll love a good stat.  Particularly one that highlights the complete dominance of a team, competitor or performance.  Have a look at this lot, world beaters and statistical freaks all.

Phil Taylor

The late, lamented Sid Waddell called The Power “the greatest sportsman this country’s ever produced.”  Leaving aside the argument about whether or not darts is a sport (it is, by the way, but we can decide that I’m right another day), it’s hard to quibble with Waddell’s assessment.

Taylor recently captured his sixteenth world championship crown.  Nobody else has more than five.  These sixteen titles have come from a total of nineteen finals; only Dennis Priestley, John Part and Raymond van Barneveld have managed to defeat the great man at the last.  In world semi-finals, his record reads 19/19.  That’s right.  Unlike a teenaged boy whose mother bursts into his bedroom, Taylor has never lost a semi.

Consider, too, his consistent high scoring.  Michael van Gerwen, the Dutch wunderkind whom Taylor defeated in this year’s final, last year broke the record for a three-dart average in a televised match, with a quite astounding 121.86.  However, prior to that, Taylor held the top ten highest averages.  He has nine televised nine-darters (van Barneveld is next on the list with five).  I’d also be amazed if he didn’t hold the record for the number of 100+ finishes and the regularity with which he hits his cover shot of treble nineteen – perhaps someone out there can confirm…

Somebody cleverer than me should invent a statistical analysis whereby top performers from different sports can be compared to one another.  A Champions’ Champions Index.  Factors would include: dominance versus other competitors; longevity of achievement; number of awards/accolades/titles; historical standing; and consistency.  I’d be willing to bet that Phil Taylor would emerge victorious on such an index, even against Sir Donald Bradman.

AP McCoy

One measure by which Phil Taylor would lose out is the number of times he’s been champion.  Anthony Peter McCoy – Tony or, more commonly, AP to the racing fraternity – has been champion Jump jockey for seventeen consecutive years.

For those not familiar with racing, this means he’s ridden more winners than any other jockey in each of the last seventeen National Hunt seasons.  Next on the list is Peter Scudamore with eight championships.  Unsurprisingly during that time, McCoy has smashed records left, right and centre.  He’s closing in on 4,000 career wins, with his nearest pursuer on about two-and-a-half thousand.  In 2001/2, he rode an incredible 289 winners, beating the record for Flat or Jumps that had been held by the legendary Gordon Richards since 1947.

But, as ever with statistics, the numbers only tell you the headline story.  ‘Will to win’ is an oft-used phrase in sport.  Well, McCoy’s is cast iron, as his body seems to be.  On 12^th January 2008, he fell at Warwick, fracturing one vertebra and shattering two others.  One possible treatment was to wear a body cast for three months.  That would’ve meant missing the Cheltenham Festival so McCoy opted instead for an operation to insert metal strips into his back and an intense course of cryotherapy; on the final day of his treatment, he endured temperatures of -150 degrees Celsius (breaking the previous ‘record’ of -145) and giving himself frostbite all over his body, “including the tender bits.”  His remarkable comeback was completed when he partnered Albertas Run to victory in the Royal & SunAlliance Chase at the Festival.  It was March 13^th.  Naturally, despite his two-month absence, he still won the jockeys’ title that year.

Spare a thought for Richard Johnson.  In fourteen of McCoy’s winning seasons, Johnson has finished second in the championship; he also holds second place on the all-time winners list without ever being the champ.

Miami Dolphins – the perfect season

“That record will never be broken,” commentators and observers occasionally say.  It’s nonsense, of course, because the nature of sport and human development means that constant improvement is always the most likely trend over the long term.

Which is probably why, legend has it, the surviving members of Don Shula’s 1972 Miami Dolphins team get together to share a toast as soon as the last unblemished record falls each season.  They know their 17-0 (seventeen-and-o) season will be matched one day but, until then, they can bask in the glory of being the only ‘perfect’ team in NFL history.

Puts Arsenal’s ‘Invincibles’ of 2003/4 to shame, doesn’t it?  With 12 draws, the Gunners failed to win about one-third of their games.

Kim Jong-Il

Not just one of the top dictators to walk the planet but, by a distance, the best golfer there’s ever been.  According to North Korean media, the diminutive despot shot a round of 34 (38 under par), including 11 holes-in-one.  And who are we to question the North Korean media?

One point, though.  On the seven holes where he didn’t get an ace, he took 23 strokes.  Plenty of room for improvement there, Kim.  Your being dead surely won’t stop you.