Winning Memories, Losing Faith...

This article was written for THE HARE Newspaper in October 2009

Earlier this week I decided to write an anecdotal piece on a gambling experience that taught me something about life. Well, I struggled for a while to ascertain what the two starkest sporting memories in my life had taught me, and whether, once I had strained away the tears and mopped up all the pain, there was anything of note left to discuss.

It was only after I forced myself to relive the earlier of the two sporting tragedies to which I have alluded, that the shuddering realisation of what I’d learned hit home.

Roll back the clock twelve years: August 1997, Norfolk. My granddad – the one sentient grandparent I had ever known – died. I cried – quite a bit. In the ten years that followed I refused to cry, no matter how bad I felt, no matter what was said about me or the trials I, like any other teenager, was forced to endure, because nothing – nothing – was worse than losing my granddad.

And then it happened – the first week of February 2008. Tom Brady and his previously undefeated New England Patriots moved me to tears. On the floor of the bar in which I had just watched the upstart New York Giants led by the cool hand of Eli Malling and the freakish athleticism of the now incarcerated Plaxico Burress, defeat the team of dreams. Okay. So you may hate the Pats. You may hate Tom Brady’s perfect jaw line or the fact that he’s a lock for the Hall of Fame, looks good in a Stetson and even better in Gisele Bündchen. But I – a long-standing Arizona Cardinals supporter – was behind New England that year because of what they were doing: they were writing history. And, on the final page of their magnum opus, Eli and the blessed bunch of blue-clad bastards from the big apple, burst into their study and knocked over the pot of ink. All that work; all those amazing victories: wasted; ruined; doomed to be forgotten.

Of course it was the greatest and the most terrible moment of sport I had ever witnessed. Manning and co had brutally raped perfection before my eyes, with no little thanks going to David Tyree who performed an acrobatic, spine-defying play now known simply as ‘the catch’. Brady was disconsolate and, with the clinical stoicism they had displayed throughout a truly remarkable, however dispassionate season, the Patriots trudged off the field as the Giants collected the Lombardi trophy and streamers of Giants red, Giants white and Giants blue, rained around.

By this time I was lying on my back – my Tom Brady jersey an inch deep in beer – in the middle of the bar, bawling my eyes out. Something had broken inside me. Something beautiful had been destroyed and in its place a monument to possibility had been erected.

Wonderful for sport? I would say so. Horrible for history? I don’t know…either way you look at it, history was made that night. But it is sad to acknowledge that the Giants’ achievements will not seem so unrivalled down the stretch. Underdog victories are ten a penny, especially in American Football.

But seven in a row! Now that is magnificent.

I am referring to an accumulator bet I placed on Euro 2008. I predicted wins in seven games and, having won the first six – one or two in fantastically dramatic fashion – the final game, Italy versus France, was set to be a corker. I had backed the French to the disbelief of my friends, but when the pundit’s marked them as pre-match favourites my hopes were cruelly raised. Ten minutes in it was all over. France were reduced to ten men via a harsh red card and their most electrifying payer, Franck Ribery, had been carted off the field with a tournament-ending injury. Italy’s defence held fast and the world champions ran out comfortable winners. I didn’t cry this time. I was sick to the stomach. I had stood to win £1000 from a £2 stake, but it wasn’t even the money that got to me (well, maybe a little). It was the bastardisation of history: a spoiled fairytale. I had already rehearsed the version I would tell to my grandkids. Now they’ll never get to hear how close I came, because, like Tom Brady’s ’07 Patriots, nobody remembers second best.


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Let's Talk About Sex...

This article was written in October 2009 for THE HARE Newspaper

I’m sure you’ve all heard of Caster Semenya. The shy, humble, undeniably talented South African teenager rose from obscurity and endured the kind of press scrutiny that would test the sanity of the most seasoned Hollywood A-list star.

When Semenya stormed to the world 800m gold, nations stood and applauded, but she has since been the subject of a startling controversy, the likes of which almost unknown.

Her crime? Well, smuggling, in a sense. Her illicit cargo? A pair of reproductively useless testes, responsible for generating three times the amount of testosterone than is ‘natural’ for a woman to produce.
The revelation of Semenya’s (still medically unconfirmed) intergender status has unfortunately overshadowed what should have been a blistering entry in the history books.

Firstly there was the issue of her being allowed to keep her gold medal. Thankfully the IAAF has had the laudable sense and (pardon the insensitivity) balls to come out and say that regardless of her future eligibility to compete as a woman, she should be allowed to hold on to her medal. But the question of her career being allowed to continue still hangs in the balance.

Whatever the test results, the IAAF will have a decision to make. If (and it is a big if) Semenya is declared a woman they must decide whether she should be allowed to compete given her huge physiological advantage. Is it the responsibility of the IAAF’s to maintain a ‘level playing field’, but the definition of such uniformity is, in itself, open for debate. Their problem arises from Semenya’s fellow athletes’ displeasure at being asked to compete with someone who is at such a patent physiological advantage. But that’s kind of the point of sport: to find the best natural athlete. The IAAF’s responsibilities should extend to the point of ensuring no athlete is ingesting banned substances that artificially enhance their ability to perform, not to discriminate against those who are born with capabilities superior to their peers. The worst thing they could do for their rep would be to ask her to take drugs to suppress her natural advantage.

But is she a woman? There are all sorts of ethical, philosophical and sociological ways to approach this question, but the only definition that matters in this case is biological.

As it stands, athletes can compete as men or women. Seems simple enough: if she’s a man, let her race with the boys, if not…well, give it five years and Jenny Meadows will be as well accustomed to the sight of Semenya’s taught cheeks as Roger Black was to Michael Johnson’s.

But what if she’s neither? Unless things change, she might not be eligible for either category. Although it may seem a devastating outcome for Semenya, it may well be the best for the IAAF. Such a result would hand them an opportunity to tinker with the set-up of athletics and move the boundaries of a divide which many believe to have been outdated for sometime.

Given the increasing crossover of female athletes who are comparable in ability to their male counterparts, an open classification – in which any gender could compete – has been suggested. That alone would marginalise women and send us back to the dark ages, but if such a classification was to replace the exclusively male category, many modern day quibblers might be silenced and Paula Radcliffe – Britain’s best marathon runner, period – would be able to teach our men a thing or two. Women who were good enough would be able to let their talents do the talking and would, hopefully, justify the complaints of forward-thinking detractors who claim that sport is lagging behind the times and still rampantly misogynist.
And maybe Semenya would get a reprieve. Granted it would mean the end of her dominance – she is barely average when compared to men – but her livelihood would be restored, and maybe, in time, her confidence and integrity would be too. To come back from such an ordeal would arguably be her greatest achievement yet. Such a show of character requires serious cojones. Fortunately for Semenya and for all of us who want to see the limit of what this truly singular talent is capable, she will not be found lacking.

Update as of 6th July 2010

News has been leaked today that Caster Semenya will iminently be cleared to race as a woman, ending her eleven month exile from the sport. Semenya, 19, is apparently waiting for formal confirmation of her reinstatement. Let us welcome back this remarkable talent and hope that she can continue to produce at the level that catapulted her to international attention. Well done ot the IAAF too for handling this case with as much discretion and sensitivity as was possible. Hopefully Semenya's case and the lessons learned from it will mean that any future scenarios in this mould will be resolved in a swifter manner.


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Swatch Colour Codes

February this year saw the release of the Swatch Colour Code range. The design is simple and available in ten glossy colours (Red, Navy, Yellow, Lime Green, Electric Blue, White, Black, Orange, Purple and Shocking PInk) and ten matt shades (Teal, Dusty Orange, Pale Mocha, Olive, Beige, Black, Purple, Indigo, Scarlet and Grey). The Colour Codes hark back to the eighties when, on March 1st 1983, Swatch launched their first range of watchs, priced reasonably and aimed at both youths who were keen to baulk the stuffy trends of the horology industy by investing in a quality Swiss timepiece made of vibrant plastic and well-off businessmen who were always in need of a watch, but preferred to save their Tag, Patek Phillipe or Raymond Weil for the board room and thus in need of a reliable watch for day-to-day office work. Not many people realise that the original intended meaning for Swatch was a contraction of 'Second Watch', but was later discarded in favour of 'Swiss Watch', which, aside from their plastic casing, is what they are best known for.
In terms of functions, the Colour Code watches have one: they tell the time. They do this well and by utilising the power of a Renatta 390 battery or equivelent The straps are plastic and replacable after the six month warranty expires for the cheap-as-chips price fo £5. The watch itself is guranteed for two years and water resistant to 30 metres. The hands glow in the dark and the watch is the bearer of a prticular loud escapement, which means it ticks audibly (some people love this feature, but it has been known to drive others insane). This loud ticking is true of all Swatch Originals (plastic) and is in part due to the lack of deadening provided by the case material, which, as it is used as the main plate of the watch, allows the construction of a high-quality timepiece with almost half as many parts as are normally required (somewhere beteen 51-54 as opposed to the low nineties).
All in all the Colour Codes are superb value at £29.50, and an accessory you should not be seen without. I personally own four and wear two or three at once on the same wrist depending on what clothes I have on. I wouldn't say they were formal enough for evening wear, but are more than servicable for office work - especially models Just White, Basic Set-up and Black-Suit.

Rating: 7/10


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Nadal Powers Through as Murray Fades Away...

Rafa Nadal will play Tomas Berdych in the first Wimbledon Final in seven years not to feature Roger Federer. Nadal handed the Fed-Express his first lost in 2008 and is the only man to have beaten him in the final of the Grass Grand Slam.

Andy Murray did not play badly - he was simply outclassed by the Mallorcan Machine. Nadal, who dropped a nervy set to his nemesis, Robin Soederling, in the Quarters, never looked in doubt of his own ability to win. Deep in the second set tie-break, Nadal was staring down a set-point to Murray. Three points later, Nadal was 2-0 up and Murray's challenge looked to have gone west.

A spirited break from the Scotsman in the first game of the third revived hopes briefly, but Rafa bided his time and struck back in the eight and tenth games to win the final set 6-4, a break to the good.

I had expected this game to go the distance, and figured the exhaustion of the victor to play a factor in Berdych's chances of springing a surprise that would be SW19's biggest since the aging Goran Ivanisevic won from a Wild Card in 2001.

As it is, Nadal should steam-roll Berdych in three sets to lift his second, and by far easiest, Wimbledon title. Berdych can win if he plays the game of his life, but in spite of his burgeoning confidence, Rafa's popularity and Grand Slam experience should prove too much for the first Czech to reach the Wimbledon final since Ivan Lendl.

Enjoy!


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Suarez a Hero of Ill-Repute as Uruguay Break African Hearts...

Luis Suarez did what anyone would do when, in the 120th minute of the World Cup Semi-Final, he found himself the last line of defence and in the way of a thunderous shot that, had he failed to save, would have certainly sent his team out of the World Cup.

Suarez - a striker - saved the ball with his hands, received a red-card for the infringement, and was forced to watch Ghana line-up to take the penalty that he had gifted them - the penalty that would send the Africans through and Uruguay home.

Asamoah Gyan - Ghana's top-scorer for the tournament - stepped up with confidence. The ball skimmed the crossbar and went over. The final whistle was blown as Suarez could be seen roaring ecstatically in the tunnel.

Uruguay, with their keeper famed for his penalty saving ability, had been given a second chance.

In credit to Gyan's strength of character, he stepped-up to take Ghana's first penalty, which he slotted home with ease. As he walked back to the centre-circle to await the outcome of the shoot-out, you could almost hear himself asking why he couldn't have done that two minutes earlier and spared a continent of the heartbreak that was to follow.

Uruguay went-on to win the shoot-out 4-2 after Muslera saved two consecutive penalties, that bookended a Uruguay miss.

Suarez will be suspended for at least one game (the Semi-final against the DUtch) and possibly two if FIFA rule his handball a heinous act of unsportsmanlike conduct. I do not think they should: Suarez likely acted instinctively and, even if his actions were pre-meditated, what choice did he have? Let the ball sail past his head and consign his team to relegation? Let's not forget that the free kick awarded to Ghana that led to the goaline scramble was NOT a free kick. Had Urugay gone out becuase of it, it would have been a greater traversty, but probably would've been swept under the mat because everyone loves Ghana, because they're the plucky underdogs. Well, it's rubbish. Gyan had a penalty to win the game and he missed it - Suarez was fully punished for his actions and that should be the end of it.

If you want an underdog story then support Uruguay - they suffered an injustice that could have seen them home, and now must do without their best striker, who himself will have to deal with the backlash of his desperate handball. And they laboured on despite the wealth of neutral support being for Ghana. Well I love Uruguay and I want them or the Dutch to win it all. La Celeste or the Orangemen - either one is fine for me.


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Dutch Courage Drowns Brazil in Sorrow...

Wesley Sneijder is a Dutch hero.

The young maestro marched into yesterday's Quarter-final clash with the hotly-tipped Brazil, hoping to inflict an upset on the five-time champions. And what followed proved just that.

Personally, I had money on the Dutch to win this game - Brazil had failed to impress in all but their 3-0 dispatching of Chile. But after a first-half opener from the South Americans, the boys in blue started to show flashes of dazzling flair that seemed sure to result in the end of Dutch dreams.

Then this happened: Sneijder picked up the ball on the right flank and sent a long, looping cross-cum-shot into the box. It grazed the head of Felipe Melo (who later saw red for stamping on Arjen Robben in the 73rd minute) and wound-up in the back of the net. Cue Dutch mania.

A few minutes later, though, things got even better for the Orangemen: a smart corner, flicked on by the wonderful Dirk Kuyt and powered home by the beautiful forehead of Sneijder, sealed the deal. The Dutch went on to defend everything with fine performances from stand-in centre-back, Ooijer and keeper Stekelenberg.

The Dutch will play another South American team in the Semi-finals after the most dramatic match of the tournament, bar none...


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Masterful Murray Musters Magic...

One set down and many players would let their shoulders droop...

Andy Murray had, upon entering his Quarter-final matchup with Jo-Wilfried Tsonga of France, managed to navigate his way to the last eight without dropping a single set. But Tsonga proved a formidible oponentn and stole the first on a tie-break that was the just conclusion of a set that saw both men play well.

And the second too went down to the wire. Only this time Murray snapped-up the opportunity and took the game to a tie.

The shift in momentum came early in the third set when, tied at one all, Murray moved up a gear to mount an impressive 4-1 lead. The British Number One never looked back.

6-2, 6-2 later, Murray was confirmed as the Semi-final opponent of World Number One - anihilator of Swede Robin Soederling - Rafael Nadal. The winner of this blstering fixture will play the victor of Novak Djokovic and Tomas Berdych (who dismissed Federer in shocking fashion) for the Wimbledon crown.

So the Semis feature two men to have never won a Grand Slam, one man who is looking to add to his Australian Open title, and another who is arguably the most naturally talented player of all time and desperate to prove that his 2008 victory at SW19 was no fluke.

Roll on the weeked...


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