Frank Lampard’s shunning by Chelsea and other cases of sporting ‘disloyalty’

Poor old Frank Lampard.  Actually, not poor.  Not by a long chalk.  Not that old either.  But old enough for Chelsea to decide, according to Lampard’s agent, not to offer the England midfielder a new contract ‘under any circumstances’ at the end of this season.

It’s a move that’s been criticised by some as a display of disloyalty on the part the club.  I think we’ve got to be careful how we use words like ‘loyalty’ in the context of professional sport.  In much the same way as ‘loyalty card’ is a complete misnomer – it should be ‘bribery voucher’ or some such – notions of loyalty between club and player can only be viewed in relation to the contractual agreement between the two parties.

Sensibly for Chelsea, but unfortunately for Lampard who’s been a great ‘servant’ (now that really is the wrong choice of word), the club are not willing to keep him on the books on improved terms versus his current contract.  Why would they?  In business terms, he’s an asset whose value diminishes over time; no company in its right mind would pay more now than five years ago when he was worth a lot more.

If Lampard winds up at Manchester United, and neither the club nor the fans could complain if he did, that would fire up the disloyalty debate all over again.

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Kieren Fallon switches horses mid-stream

Kieren Fallon has said in the past that he prefers the company of horses to that of many humans.  Certainly, when the six-time champion jockey whispers sweet nothings in the pricked ears of his mounts on the course or the gallops, his words can’t get him into trouble.  When he does interact with people, he attracts controversy as a sweating thoroughbred draws horse flies on a summer’s day.  He’s been banned from racing for drug offences, beating Signor Dettori to that punch by several years.  In 2004, he was the subject of a tabloid sting on race fixing, an offence of which he was later found not guilty at the Old Bailey.

But perhaps the most bizarre row in which Fallon has found himself embroiled came before the Epsom Derby in 2011.  He’d been booked to ride the Ed Dunlop-trained Native Khan, a likeable grey who had a live chance of springing a surprise in the big race.  Fallon had won on Native Khan both times he’d ridden the colt, most recently in the Craven Stakes, a decent Classic trial.  But then, in the week leading up to Epsom, he announced that he would instead be riding Recital, trained by the all-conquering Aidan O’Brien and winner of another Derby trial in Ireland.

This horse-switching is not uncommon, particularly among the top jockeys who are much in demand.  It must be frustrating for connections but that’s just the way it is, for example, where retained relationships take precedence over freelance arrangements.  So when Native Khan’s owner, Ibrahim Araci, threatened legal action to prevent Fallon from riding another horse in the Derby, my reaction was along the lines of: “selfish owner not used to not getting his own way and being vindictive.”

But then it emerged that Fallon had signed a contract.  He’d actually put pen to paper on an agreement to ride Native Khan for a year whenever asked and, if not asked, not to ride a rival in the same race.  Fallon had openly and deliberately reneged on both of these contractual promises.  The result: the court injunction was granted and Fallon was left without a ride in the Derby.

On the surface, these appear to be the arrogant actions of a man who believes the normal rules don’t apply to him.  My take, though, is that Fallon is just, to put it politely, a little naïve.  Either way, best stick to the horses, Kieren.

As a footnote, Native Khan finished fifth under replacement jockey Johnny Murtagh behind the French-trained winner, Pour Moi, with Recital, ridden by Pat Smullen, two lengths back in sixth.

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“Say it ain’t so, Joe”

Perhaps the strangest aspect of the most infamous case of sporting disloyalty in history is that it was never proven.  ‘Shoeless’ Joe Jackson and his seven Chicago White Sox team-mates accused of throwing the 1919 World Series for $5,000 apiece were acquitted of any wrong-doing.

However, the acquittal came in 1921 and the interim saw enough media muddying of the waters for the stain to become permanent.  On the one hand, there’s very little evidence that Jackson himself under-performed in the series to lend weight to the theory that he was party to a fix: statistics note that his batting average was the highest on either side (he also holds the third highest career average in history) and that he made no individual errors in the field.  On the other, newspaper reports carried purported quotes from the grand jury trial in which Jackson owns up to ‘crooked work’ in the field that ‘netted the Cincinnati [Reds] team several runs that they never would have had if we had been playing on the square.’  Important to note, though, that the official grand jury record makes no mention of the quote.

Even the most celebrated incident of the whole sorry affair – where a young, dewy-eyed fan is said to have pleaded “Say it ain’t so, Joe” as Jackson left the courtroom one day – is widely thought to be apocryphal.

If we’re to hold true to the notion of ‘innocent until proven guilty’, we must maintain that Jackson and his team-mates were clean.  I do hope so.  Say it wasn’t so, Joe.

Nevertheless, it’s a slur on sport made more shocking through the lens of history because it happened in supposedly more innocent times.  Well, whatever the truth, the 1919 World Series scandal and the American media’s reporting of it teach us this: there were never more innocent times.

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Next up: Lance Armstrong explaining his alleged betrayal of cycling on Oprah…

Where Did That Come From?

Sometimes, ordinary sportspeople and teams deliver extraordinary performances.

World darts champion elect, Michael van Gerwen, last night hit a magnificent nine-dart finish in his semi final against James Wade.  It’s always a special moment when you witness sporting perfection – a hole-in-one, a 147, a 300-point ten-pin bowling game – but in van Gerwen’s case, there was something inevitable about his achievement.  His trebling in this tournament has been nothing short of astonishing; in his previous match against reigning champ Adrian Lewis, van Gerwen nailed more treble twenties than singles (170-odd against 140-odd).  So, whilst still a huge thrill to watch, the nine-darter wasn’t the biggest surprise in the world.  Had he completed a second in the very next leg – eight perfect darts were followed by a double-twelve attempt that missed by a millimetre – that really would’ve been something.

This year’s tournament at the Alexandra Palace saw the return to the world stage of Paul Lim.  In 1990, Lim made history by becoming the first player to take out a nine-dart finish in what was then the Embassy World Championship.  Unlike van Gerwen’s, Lim’s feat came right out of the blue.  He had never been further than the second round of the Worlds and most of his tournament success was achieved in less competitive events in Asia.  He was, in short, a decent player at world level but no more than that.  If anyone were going to do it, it would surely be Bristow, Wilson or Lowe (the only man at the time to have a televised nine-darter to his name).  But here he was, this unassuming naturalised American, demonstrating a steady throwing arm and unerring accuracy, and prompting some bizarre commentary from Tony Green: “Yes.  Yes!!  Yes!!!” (on the second 180); then, after the final dart, the wonderfully circular: “Is he excited?  We are.  Is he happy?  We are.  And with fifty-two thousand pound [sic] in the bank, so is he.”

Lim faced a certain Michael van Gerwen in the first round this year.  He lost, of course, but not before taking out a maximum 170 finish.  Proof that he still has the capacity for perfection.

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David Lloyd 214 not out versus India

Dear old Bumble.  Without doubt one of the most eccentric, charismatic and amusing commentators there is.  One of his stock phrases is “Start the car!”, indicating that a match is nearing its climax.  A couple of years ago, when the World Cup was held on the Indian sub-continent, Lloyd adapted this to “Start the tuk tuk!”  I almost fell of the sofa laughing.  An absolute genius.

But even Lloyd himself might acknowledge that he was less of a superstar as a player.  His first-class batting average was 33, he bowled decent slow left-armers and he helped Lancashire to four Gillette Cups in the early-mid 70s.  A good, talented, whole-hearted cricketer, no doubt, but not a world beater.  Nevertheless, he was drafted in to the Test team in 1974 to replace the self-exiled Geoff Boycott as opener.  In just his second match, against India at Edgbaston, Lloyd made 214 not out as England racked up 459/2 declared.

A Test match double hundred is a rare treasure.  By way of illustration, and to take a period of time not quite at random, it’s worth noting that between June 1930 and February 1933, only six doubles were scored in all Test cricket.  All of them by Don Bradman.  For Lloyd to add his name to the ranks of Test double-centurions, then, was a noteworthy achievement.

Sadly for Lloyd, he had a torrid time at the hands of Lillee and Thompson on the following winter’s Ashes tour.  He was injured, came home and never played another Test match.  His Test career spanned nine matches over seven months.  Years later, the peerless John Arlott wrote that Lloyd had been ‘effectively shocked and shattered out of Test cricket.’

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Coventry City 1987 FA Cup

Coventry were 70/1 with the bookmakers to lift the 1987 FA Cup.  I know this because a few years later I met a chap called Bernard who would have a tenner on them every year.  The £700 he trousered that year will, I’m guessing, just about allow him to break even over his lifetime.

Sorry, Tottenham fans, but everyone apart from you lot was cheering on the Sky Blues on 16 May 1987.  It was classic FA Cup.  The footballing aristocrats from North London versus the blue-collars from the industrial West Midlands.  How could the Lilywhites, boasting such talents as Hoddle, Waddle and Ardiles, be upstaged by the likes of Lloyd McGrath, Greg Downs and Micky Gynn?  [Clearly what swayed it for Coventry was having future Ipswich playmaker Steve Sedgley on the bench.]  This was Tottenham Hotspur, for God’s sake, bidding for an eighth FA Cup success.  The club had never lost in the final.

Having fallen behind to the prolific Clive Allen’s early goal – his 49^th of the season – Coventry twice came from behind to level the score at 2-2 after 90 minutes.  Their second equaliser, Keith Houchen’s flying header, is one of the most famous goals in Wembley history and earned the player that season’s BBC Goal Of The Season award.  In extra time, the footballing gods decreed that Gary Mabbutt should be the fall guy of the piece and it was his unfortunate own goal that handed the redoubtable Sky Blues victory.  Captain Brian ‘Killer’ Kilcline’s primal roar as he lifts the trophy is an enduring image.  As for Mabbutt, well, he too is immortalised in the Coventry fanzine GMK – Gary Mabbutt’s Knee.

The 1987 FA Cup remains Coventry’s only major trophy in their 93-year history.

Sporting Rock ‘N’ Rollers

 As wannabe modfather Bradley Wiggins wins SPOTY, which other sportspeople have been known for their rock ‘n’ roll tendencies?

What I know about cycling you could pretty much write on the back of a postage stamp with a fat crayon.  But even I can appreciate the magnitude of Bradley Wiggins’ achievements in 2012.

I’m a huge fan of Jessica Ennis (show me a man of my age who isn’t) and wanted her to win BBC Sports Personality Of The Year purely because she had to withstand more pressure than any other competitor in the run-up to London 2012.  As the poster girl of the Games, she had a good eighteen months of expectation to deal with, and deal with it she did in emphatic fashion.

However, Wiggins’ unique success is worthy of the highest recognition.  Claiming the Tour De France is, on its own, a staggering feat and one never before achieved by a Briton.  As if losing out to Britain in the race to host 2012 wasn’t difficile enough for the French to swallow, here’s some skinny, brash, side-burned fella from these shores winning their race and lording it over the crowd on the Champs Elysées.  To follow that up a week later with Gold in the time trial at London 2012 was nothing short of superhuman.

And did you see him at the Excel the other night at SPOTY?  The studiously brushed-forward hair, the bespoke double-breaster by Soho tailor Mark Powell.  Wiggins’ hero is Paul Weller, in case you’re blind.  He also did his best to remind us that the P in SPOTY stands for ‘personality’, impishly referring to Sue Barker as ‘Susan’ throughout their interview (sorry, Brad, Matt Dawson’s been doing that for years) and, later, urging everyone to make full use of the free bar laid on by the BBC.

So, not only the best-loved and most-garlanded sportsperson of the year but a man who looks, sounds and acts like a rock star.  Mind you, he’d be doing well to match the exploits of the characters below.

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Serena Williams

Everything about Serena Williams screams rock star.  The clothes, for starters.  Black lycra catsuits, knee-high boots, short denim skirts and white trenchcoats are just a few of the items she’s worn.  On the court.  She even has her own apparel label, called Aneres (see what she’s done there?).

Williams has appeared in music videos, lent her voice to The Simpsons, done a turn on a comedy improv show and, if rumours are to be believed and a leaked hip-hop track extrapolated upon, is planning to release an album.

She’s also a complete beast on the court, allying a savage will to win with considerable talent.  I remember watching the Wimbledon final in 2002 when she played big sister Venus, and thinking to myself that only one of them truly wanted it, while the other would be happy to lose graciously to her sibling.  Scope for some proper, deep-seated Freudian analysis there but evidence, for our purposes, of Serena’s unstinting single-mindedness.

Her on-court brutality has, on occasion, manifested itself in ugly outbursts.  When she was foot-faulted at a crucial stage of her 2009 US Open clash with Kim Clijsters, she allegedly told the hapless line judge that she would “…take this ball and shove it down your fucking throat!”  Rather puts McEnroe’s “You’re the pits, man” in the shade, doesn’t it?

Even Pete Townshend would’ve been proud of the abuse she dished out to her racquet that day.

Robin Friday

George Best will be many people’s definitive rock ‘n’ roll sportsman.  But in my view El Beatle couldn’t hold a candle to Robin Friday; if Best had tried, Friday may well have used it to cook up some heroin.

You see, if Serena Williams embodies the glamorous side of being a rock star, then the former Reading and Cardiff City striker represents its seedy, grimy underbelly.  Think Ozzy Osbourne, Pete Doherty or Amy Winehouse in their darkest days.

Friday was a supremely gifted footballer.  He scored goals, he made goals, his vision was on a par with more vaunted flair players of the age such as Tony Currie, Alan Hudson and Stan Bowles.  Friday’s manager at Cardiff, Jimmy Andrews, described him as “the complete centre-forward.”  Many felt he could, and should, have played for England.  When the BBC ran a poll to find the ‘all-time cult hero’ of all English and Scottish league clubs, Friday won the accolade for both Reading and Cardiff.  No other player appeared in the top three of two different clubs.

Friday was as vicious as he was blessed.  On his debut for Cardiff, he lined up against Bobby Moore’s Fulham.  Not only did Friday score twice, but he also grabbed Moore’s testicles, pre-empting Vinnie Jones’ famous attack on Gazza by nearly a decade.  Then there was his sending off against Brighton after he kicked a prone Mark Lawrenson in the face.  With the game still in progress, Friday left the ground.  But not, legend has it, before depositing a large piece of himself into Lawrenson’s kitbag.

Throughout his career, Friday consumed vast amounts of alcohol and drugs such as cocaine, LSD and methadone.  He would binge for days, steal statues from churchyards, dance naked in nightclubs, and turn up to training wearing winklepickers and carrying a plastic bag.

In the end, Friday died a true rock ‘n’ roll death: struck down at 38 by a heart attack brought on, according to his biographer, by a heroin overdose.

Curtly Ambrose

OK, let’s forget all the trappings of the rock star – the drugs, the destructive behaviour, the finery – and talk about someone who’s the real article.

Curtly Ambrose has been playing the bass guitar in the splendidly-named The Big Bad Dread And The Baldhead more or less since the day he gave up terrorising international batsmen.  For good measure, the group also boasts ex-West Indies captain Richie Richardson on rhythm guitar.

If the rhythm section of Big Curtly’s band is as metronomic and menacing as his bowling, ‘The Dread’ will be a tight little outfit indeed.

Have Yourself A Messi Little Christmas

Footballers are complex souls, aren’t they?  Apart from the angelic Leo Messi – who, when not breaking every goal-scoring record in sight, is setting up kids’ foundations or being a UNICEF ambassador or just smiling like the nicest man in the world – they’ve all got a dark side.

Take Didier Drogba.  One minute lavishing the thick end of a million quid on his former Chelsea team-mates (and in the process redefining the word gaudy) or building hospitals in his native Ivory Coast; the next, how to put this delicately, playing at the very limits of the laws of football and falling down far more often than a man of his physique has any right to.

Or Mario Balotelli.  This time last year, it was reported he was dressed as Santa, handing money out to passers-by.  But this came just weeks after the ‘Why Always Me?’ T-shirt, a crass gesture he compounded by chasing Umbro for commission when the sports manufacturer began selling replicas with the slogan.

Then there was Cristiano Ronaldo’s likening of his contract situation to slavery prior to his move from United to Real.  Although, in fairness, he was only echoing the sentiments of some ill-informed, out-of-touch administrator by the name of Blatter.

If only there were a way to puncture footballers’ pomposity by hijacking their names for a frivolous festive game.  Well, there is.

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, as long as 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 victim: 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, describe the rules and casually mention some of the doosies you’ve 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 under his breath and supped Guinness at the end of the bar, the whole pub was startled into silence by his 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’s with shameless nostalgia and yuletide cheer that I’m resurrecting The Game.  Ladies and gents, I give you…

Deck Fitz Hall With Boughs Of Holly – footballers in Christmas songs

Ding De Jong Merrily On High

All I Want For Christmas Is Mutu Front Teeth

Oh Little Town Of Bentley-Hem

Away In A Manninger

Cazorla Want For Christmas Is You

Rudolph The Redknapp Reindeer

Harkes!  The Herald Angels Sing.

Ronaldo Come All Ye Faithful.

Balotellitubbies Say Eh-Oh (it was Number 1 in the month of December, OK?)

Drogba-by It’s Cold Outside

I’m sure you’ll have your own to add.  Go on, treat yourself.  It’s the Christmas gift that keeps on giving.

Cheerio, Cheerio, Cheerio

As Ricky Ponting says goodbye to cricket, which other sporting farewells stick in the mind?

If any sports people have a more finely-tuned sense of their place in history than Australia’s cricketers, I’d love to meet them.  Ricky Ponting called time on his career in Perth last week, declaring his innings closed on 168 Test appearances.  Exactly the same number as that other Aussie middle-order warrior and captain, Steve Waugh.  In drawing level with – but refusing to pass – Waugh’s record, Ponting echoed Mark Taylor’s declaration when he was on 334 not out, thus equalling Don Bradman’s then Australian record Test score and declining the opportunity to overtake the great man.

It’s a decision that some feel Ponting shouldn’t have been allowed to make.  By his own admission, his form has been some way short of his best and Australian cricket isn’t renowned for its sentimentality.  However, it’s fitting that this wonderful servant to his country should be granted the right to exit the stage on his own terms.  His reaction to the spontaneous guard of honour formed by the South Africans as he walked in to bat for the final time was typical of the man.

“I was a little bit embarrassed and wish it didn’t happen that way, but it was an amazing gesture by Graeme [Smith] and the South African team,” Ponting said, before promising to buy Smith a beer by way of thanks.

Earlier in his career, Ponting was renowned for neither his humility nor his judicious use of alcohol.  He was a fully paid-up a member of the talented group of larrikins – Shane Warne and Mark Waugh being two others – who were the heartbeat of arguably the greatest Test side in history.  They were good but, by God, they knew it.  Winning with swagger, swigging with vigour and chirping at inferior opponents in the manner of playground bullies.  Ponting’s love of a good bet on his beloved greyhounds – and his inevitable nickname, Punter – simply underscored the cricketing public’s view (alright, my view) of him as a brilliant but unlovable tearaway.

It was only in 2005 that my personal opinion of him changed.  Being on the wrong end of the finest series ever to have been played (fact) must have been nigh-on impossible to take.  Especially as it was at the hands of the Poms.  But the way Ponting conducted himself, his honest appraisal of his own side’s shortcomings, and his genuine congratulations to Michael Vaughan’s men marked him out as a man of the highest calibre.  When he retained his stoical and sanguine demeanour through two further Ashes losses as captain, often in the face of hostile recriminations from the Australian media, Ponting became my most respected sporting opponent.  An accolade I’m sure he’ll be ‘stoked’ about.

So, as Ricky sails off over the horizon, who else has made a memorable exit?

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Frankel – 20 October 2012

The life of a racehorse is often planned with military precision.  So the sport’s followers knew this date would signal the end of the career of the most celebrated animal ever to grace the turf.  And they flocked, all 32,000 of them, to a chilly and damp Ascot to catch one final glimpse of their hero.

He won again, superfluous to report.  Ridiculous that we should take his victory for granted.  Trailing in his wake was officially the second-best horse on the planet, Cirrus Des Aigles from France.  The ground was far softer than Frankel would have wanted (and would’ve suited the French raider much better) but, still, Frankel breezed by his rival in trademark effortless fashion to win by a comfortable length-and-three-quarters.

After the race, jockey Tom Queally took Frankel on an impromptu parade in front of the stands.  Queally, who was in the saddle for every one of the unbeaten colt’s fourteen career victories, admitted he deliberately rode further than necessary, “so I could sit on him just a little longer.”  It was a fitting tribute to a mighty equine hero.  We may see Frankel’s like again, such is the idiosyncratic nature of sport, but it’s unlikely.

Meanwhile, I fear for Ascot’s Champions’ Day in 2013.  Without Frankel topping the bill, how can it hope to attract such numbers in the middle of autumn?

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Ayrton Senna – 1 May 1994

Unlike Frankel’s, Ayrton Senna’s exit came as a monumental and tragic shock.  And yet, in some ways, the Brazilian had been saying goodbye for quite some time.  Students of Senna, and particularly those with an interest in conspiracy theories, will be able to point to a number of seemingly prophetic quotes about his own demise.

“If I ever happen to have an accident that eventually costs my life,” he said, “I hope it happens in one instant.”  Mercifully for him, his death at Imola, San Marino, was just as instantaneous as he’d half-predicted.

One of the great paradoxes of the man was this: on the one hand, a sensational, sublimely talented driver whose style and approach bordered on the reckless; on the other, a shop steward of a figure, at the forefront of lobbying F1’s authorities for greater driver safety.  One of the many fantastic scenes in the should-have-won-an-Oscar documentary of his life shows Senna in heated debate with race officials.  He’s basically saying: “This is a dangerous sport, you know.  Someone could get killed.”

After Roland Ratzenberger had lost his own life in qualifying for San Marino, Senna phoned his girlfriend.  He reportedly told her he didn’t want to race but felt obliged to do so because it was his job.  Through the lens of history, this call has a certain valedictory quality about it.

As with many who die young, Senna’s status as a legend was cemented the moment he perished.  And just a small part of his legacy is a safer Formula One.

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Alex Higgins – 14 April 1990

Ronnie O’Sullivan’s always threatening to retire from professional snooker.  In fact, he’s currently taking a year-long sabbatical, from which he may or may not return.  One word, Ronnie.  Boooring.  Retire, don’t retire, go for a run, do whatever, just piss or get off the pot.

If Ronnie, or anyone else, wants a lesson in how to do it, look no further than the granddaddy of all snooker lunatics, Mr Alexander Gordon Higgins.  After losing to Steve James in the 1990 World Championship, Higgins sat in his chair for an eternity, a pathetic figure in the middle of The Crucible, sipping what appeared to be orange juice (but was almost certainly half vodka).  Having had time to collect his thoughts, he delivered one of the most extraordinary, rambling diatribes ever heard at a press conference.  Among the stream-of-consciousness that included accusations of corruption, calls on politicians to investigate the game and an inexplicable “Rock on, Tommy”, Higgins announced his retirement.

“You can shove your snooker up your jacksy,” he slurred.  “I’m not playing no more.”

Yes, it was a sad sight, the very epitome of the tortured genius imploding in an unforgiving media glare.  And I know we shouldn’t delight in the public humiliation of a man battling health problems and psychological demons.  But, on the other hand, what entertainment!  Way to go, Alex.

Now that, Ronnie, is what I call a farewell.

Remember The First Time

Recalling those seminal moments when you just knew you were hooked on sport

“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 two-mile chaser from Ireland is the reason I fell in love with racing.

It was 2003.  I’d gone along to The Cheltenham Festival with a group of mates.  At the time, I wasn’t particularly interested in the sport (football and cricket were my first loves) but was keen to explore this most convivial event, and maybe pick up a few quid along the way.  However, after a barren first afternoon’s punting, I was looking at the second day’s card to recoup my losses.

One of the chaps sidled up to me and, with a conspiratorial nose-tap, told me that Moscow Flyer was a certainty to win the Queen Mother Champion Chase.  With little knowledge of my own to draw on, I latched onto this tip.  I called Paddy Power and placed the largest bet of my life at odds of 9/4.

“Hills are going 11/4, sir,” reported the tipster as I put the phone down.

Typical.  There was only one thing for it.  I called William Hill and doubled my bet.

Come race time the following day, I was as nervous as a kitten.  So nervous, in fact, that I chose to watch the race on a tiny screen in the Arkle Bar, a comforting Guinness in hand, rather than on the course.  A couple of the chaps gave me back-slaps and words of encouragement; I put a brave face on but inside I was churning.  When Moscow Flyer’s two nearest pursuers fell at the second last, my mate grabbed my arm and said something like, “Done it, son!”  I hate early celebrations.  But, as it turned out, he was right.  Moscow safely negotiated the last fence and scooted up the famous Cheltenham hill to score comfortably.

Exhilaration and relief in equal measure, Champagne in even greater quantities.  There’s no such thing as a sporting certainty.  But I knew for sure, there and then in the Arkle, that I’d be attending the Festival every year till the day I die. 

So, yes, the recently-retired Kauto Star and Frankel are once-in-a-lifetime horses (we’ll allow them both that accolade since one represents national hunt, while the other is from the flat code).  I salute them, as do all racing fans.  But there’s only one horse I’m ever likely to get tattooed on my shoulder and I fell for him one dank afternoon nearly a decade ago in the shadow of Cleeve Hill.  Thanks again, Moscow.

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Ipswich Town 0 West Bromwich Albion 0, October 1980

Not a fixture or a score-line to set the pulse racing.  But that’s just the point, isn’t it?  Being a football fan is all about the misery, the hard-done-by-ship, the blind love in the face of countless wet slaps in the face.

As such this, my first live game, was the perfect apprenticeship.  To think, I could’ve seen the Town demolish Manchester United 6-0 had we decided to make that fixture the previous March my cherry-popper.  And that might have been the ruining of me.  Imagine an 8-year-old boy, wide-eyed and suggestible, seeing his heroes romping all over footballing royalty (let’s not dwell on the fact that Ashley Grimes was on the park for United).  Easy, this game.  Just tip up and score at will.  The comedown from that would’ve been bigger than Keith Allen’s Tuesday hangover.

No, no.  Far better to witness a contest of truly gargantuan attritional proportions.  I think it’s Nick Hornby who writes about the improbability of a goal being scored.  This, he argues, goes some way to explaining the football fan’s euphoria when the ball actually does hit the back of the net.  Well, that improbability was embodied in exemplary fashion that afternoon at Portman Road.  Thereafter, and forever more, I’d appreciate a goal as would a starving man the sight of a frying pan-toting Nigella Lawson.  Hell, I’d even salivate over a fizzed cross or an ankle-crunching tackle.  Anything.

My two abiding memories of the game were as follows.  Firstly, Cyril Regis hit the bar for Albion.  By a country mile the closest either side came to scoring.  Secondly, the sheer size of Terry Butcher.  I’d stopped reading fairy tales by then but had my dad told me this was the giant from Jack And The Beanstalk, I’d have believed him.  When my hero Eric Gates stood next to him, I feared for the little snaggle-toothed genius, lest Butcher should come over all peckish.

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Botham’s Ashes

“What a glorious way to go to a six,” malaprop-ed dear old Jim Laker.  An eccentric piece of commentary to greet the completion of Ian Botham’s century at Old Trafford against Australia in that series in 1981.

One can only imagine that Laker, like the rest of us that summer, was stupefied by Botham’s violent brilliance.  The shot that brought his ton up in Manchester was actually a rather cultured sweep off Ray Bright that sailed over the long leg boundary.  Prior to that, though, the Somerset all-rounder had hooked Dennis Lillee off his nose for a couple of maximums, often without looking at the ball as he did so. 

For all its physicality and power, this was a more cultured cricket innings than the more celebrated 149 not out at Headingley (not just my opinion but one held by Mr D K Lillee himself).  But sport’s all about moments.  And it was when Beefy ‘went to his six’ at Old Trafford that a life-long love of Test cricket was cemented in my nine-year-old heart.

On the downside, the 1981 Ashes was responsible for much of my mis-placed cricket optimism over the next couple of decades or so.  When your formative memories are of a fairy tale, it’s natural to expect a happy ending every time.  Sadly, Derek Pringle, David Capel, Chris Lewis et al were never likely to write the scripts that Botham did.

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.