A (Black and) Golden Era of Tennis...

How cool is Juan Martín Del Potro? Not only is his name as fun to say as Chattanooga is to write, but his distinct black and gold livery gives him the appearance of a 6’ 6” Argentinean bumble-bee with issues, plying his trade as a racket-wielding bandit. He looks like Lucky Luke without the Lucky Strike. He may not have the cigarette, but he’s sure as hell got the fire power as he demonstrated by out-gunning Roger Federer in the US Open final.

For years I have loved Federer. Genuinely loved him. I don’t fancy him, per se, but one swoosh of his well-kempt curls and I start acting like Sue Barker whenever David Ginola looks at her.

And that’s just embarrassing. I mean, for God’s sake! Ginola would totally go for Sue if she’d just ask him out He’s French and hung like a horse for crying out loud. He’s not going to turn down the 1976 French open champion. Or anyone in a skirt for that matter…

As indisputably wonderful as Federer has been over the past decade, there came a point when his total dominance of all slams but the French started to grate on a few in the know, and led them to suggest that his bulldozing of the opposition was little more than a formality due to the lack of talent out there to slow down his race to a record number of majors. There was, of course, Nadal, but until that epic Wimbledon final, his ability to win on anything other than clay, and do so in consistent enough fashion to win a grand slam, was questionable. But then he proved his critics wrong and set about making Roger cry like a little girl at every opportunity. After that somewhat cringe worthy period in Federer’s career, which I like to term ‘the collapse’, the boy from Basel has bounced back, snaring that elusive French open with a cool-headed win over Sweden’s Robin Söderling – the first, and thus far only, man to beat Nadal at Stade Roland Garros. With Nadal’s knees giving him enough gip to make an early retirement a legitimate possibility, Federer was expected to stockpile trophies wholesale.

Britain’s Andy Murray seems to have his number in all tournaments but the ones anyone who doesn’t follow tennis cares about, which is refreshing, but with the King of Clay either on the sidelines or unable to reach them in his usual battling style while on court, there seemed little in Federer’s way when it came to the majors.
And then the bad-ass bumble-bee from Tandil came along. He’s tall, rangy, powerful, fast, deft, combative and, best of all, possesses a temperament that stands up nicely to the unflappable demeanours of the world 1 and 2. He won the US at 21. Twenty bloody one and already that good. I know we’ve had false dawns aplenty in sport – tennis is no exception – but a tour that boasts tournament winning talent in the form of Murray, Federer, Nadal, Djokovic, A-Rod and now Del Potro, means a whetted appetite is now as common as strawberries and cream at SW19.

So who benefits from Del Potro’s rise to the top? Well, him, obviously, but the man who stands to gain the most is old Roger.

Think back to the last time Tennis experienced a Golden era. I’d say it can be found in the heart of the eighties: Borg; Connors; McEnroe; Becker; Lendl; Edberg. The list goes on. What was great about that era? The match-ups; the rivalries; the iconic battles that inspired a generation. Sure, none of those guys came close to matching the sheer wealth of titles Federer has already amassed, but maybe theirs were worth more due to the level of competition. But thanks to JM Del Potro people might not say that when they look back on Federer’s career and count back over the high profile losses: the 5 setter to Nadal at Wimbledon; the 5 setter to Nadal in Melbourne; the 5 setter to Del Potro at Flushing Meadows, and realise that each one, however heart-rending it was at the time, was perhaps more valuable than the ones that went his way.

Winning is all well and good, but without a loss or two to put things in perspective, victory can lose its value.


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Spain on Top of the World After Enduring Dutch Physicality...

Brutal. That's the word. Brutally tough play from the Dutch (a seemingly successful strategy for disrupting Spanish fluidity); brutally harsh refereeing; and a brutally painful end to the Dutch win-streak that how no doubt inspired the cruelest of hopes throughout the Oranje nation.

For 116 minutes the game was deadlocked. The best two chances of the game fell to the feet of Arjen Robben who, in the 62nd minute, was put through on goal by a wonderful Sneijder pass that split the Spanish centre backs in a way previously unseen in the tournament. But Robben was unable to lift the ball over the outstretched leg of Spanish captain, Iker Casillas of Real Madrid. Casillas was once agin called upon to save Spain's title ambitions when Robben's blistering pace saw him bundle his way through the last line of defence, being fouled by Semi-final goal scorer Carlos Puyol. Uncharicteristically, Robben stayed on his feet but the ball ran away from him and into the skidding torso of the Spanish stopper, whose quick reactions preserved the tie at the most crucial moment of the game.

Spain's best chance was almost easier to capitalise upon than Holland's: an unmarked Sergio Ramos (also Real Madrid) met an inswinging corner only to head over when he had all the time in the world to get the ball on target. And moments later Capdevilla found himself in a fortunate position with an opportunity to score, only to see his shot smothered by the impressive Stekelnberg.

As ninety minutes came around the game was still 0-0 so extra time - and the probability of at least one of the many, many yellow cards dihed-out turning to red - beckoned.

The nature of this game - the most important of these players' lives - was a primal one from the offset. The Dutch seemed intent on breaking Spain's smooth rhythm, by breaking the Spanish players themselves. Howard Webb dug had his hand in his pocket more often than a fat kid packing Lemon Bon Bons and produced 9 yellows for Holland (2 for Heitinga who was sent off in extra time for a disputable pull-back) and 5 for Spain, though it should have been more.

Iniesta, the goalscorer, made about four tackles that warranted a yellow, especially when considering his Dutch counterparts were picking-up cards for bothering to turn-up. The exceptions to my defence of the Dutch being harshly penalised are Nigel de Jong's amazing, studs-first pole-axing of Xabi Alonso (who, unbelievably, got-up and carried on playing with minimal fuss after a tackel that would have literally killed Rivaldo) and Mark Van Bommel, who should probably have been arrested for his constant and unrivalled disregard for the rules of football. Ironically, Iniesta was eventually booked for excessive celebrating, but that's one card I'm sure he'll cherish: he can put it on his bedside table with all the get well cards fans will likely be sending his way after some convincing simulation that should have seen him sent off had us and Webb, believeing he might expire on the field of play having been viciously assaulted by the Earth's uncompromisning atmosphere.

As much as I would have liked the Dutch to win, Spain were the better footballing side. Holland showed a side of their game that was ugly - necessary, but ugly. Spain have been remarkably unremarkable this tournament and, in many ways, epitomise the negative football that has been on show the past month. Their style of play is beautifully methodical, and often results in some finely worked goals, but it is incredibly anal (and not in the good, Tiger Woods kind of way).

The Dutch had fire that, unfortunately on this occassion, translated into violence rather than technical mastery. That's a 0-3 record for the Dutch in WC finals now, and a perfect appearance record for the Spanish, joining England as the only winners to have never lost a final. Sure, it means more when you've won five, but it's a good enough start for a team that has finally fulfilled their potential and the dreams of a nation. Here's to 2014 and a Spain Germany final. I sure as hell can't wait.


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Germany Snare Bronze, Forlan Must Wait for Glory.....

Germany won a thrilling third/fourth place playoff against Uruguay. The Germans started strongly and it looked, for a while at least, as if they might run away with the game in a fashion similar to their destructions of England (4-1) and Argentina (4-0) prior to their upsetting loss to the Spaniards (0-1) who play the Dutch in tonight's final for top honours.

The Schwarz, Rot, Geld took the lead through a Thomas Mueller tap in after Bastian Schweinsteiger's long-range shot rebounded off the keeper and into his young teammate's path. The goal put Mueller on 5 goals for the tournament, tying the tallies of Villa and Sneijder who both play tomorrow. Should either fail to score in the final, the Golden boot will go to Mueller who leads the assists category, which acts as a tiebreaker in such situations.

But shortly after the beginging of what was looking like a routine German rout, Uruguay equalised. And shortly after the restart Diego Forlan brought his own goal tally to 5 by netting a superb volly, driven into the ground and lifting back up into the top corner to leave veteran German keeper Butt stranded.

With Uruguay leading 2-1 the game opened up and both teams found opportunites to score, but it was the German's who capitalised on some poor goalkeeping when Jenson headed in their second. What followed was a furious twenty minutes that somehow remained scoreless. And then, in the last ten minutes of the game, a botched clearance saw a Mesut Ozil corner sit-up for Khedira to nod in a soft, well-placed header for the winner.

Substitute Kiessling missed an absolute sitter than would have been one of the goals of the tournament (and won me £50 having bet on the German's to score four+) but it was not to be their fourth such goal accrual of this, a most magnifcent tournament for the German babes.

They now take home their bronze medals and dreams of glory in 2014. And who would bet against them? The team is solid and entirely based in the bundesliga; the adidas sponsorship of their domestic league means they will always get the World Cup ball before other nations; and in four years time, their whole team will be in the prime of their lives (except for the aging Arne Friedrich who will likely have hung up his boots by then).

Ballack will be srry to have missed out on Germany's run, but his presence may have subdued the livliness his young and eager teammates displayed in his absence. Germany's failure to win the World Cup for a fourth time may signal their longest wait for the cup to return home in the competitions history, but there is much to hearten die-hard fans. Patience is all that is required - their next big chance of silverware will be Euro 2012 and I doubt very much they will be found lacking the desire and cohesion to go all the way and play-out a probable rematch with the Spanish, who too are built to last.


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Fight for Third...

Germany find themselves contesting third place for the second tournament running. Last time round, they beat a somewhat fortunate-to-be-there Portugal side 3-1. And now, in the penultimate game of South Africa 2010, they will face a team that too has ridden a wave of luck to the latter stages.

Uruguay have been impressive, no doubt. But the 2010 incarnation of the Hand of God shrouds their success in a controversy that has been regrettably exaggerated. In time even the Ghanaians will laugh about the incident that failed to provide La Celeste with a passage to the final after they went down to a solid Holland side in the Semis. Neither Ghana nor Uruguay, however spirited and emotionally indomitable, had the class to go all the way. 3-2 makes it look like the Uruguayans almost beat the Dutch, but the score line is flattering (although some might say it is so both ways, given Holland’s fortunately upheld second goal that shifted them into a higher gear). And even if the South Americans of the Africans had they prevailed, had beaten the Orangemen, they could not have beaten Spain.

Despite losing their opener to the Swiss and then putting-in solid, if vapid performances against Honduras, Chile and Paraguay, Spain are rolling. Their string of one-goal victories may not look impressive, but they have conceded just two goals in the tournament. They are solid, patient and perennially dangerous. Ghana would have looked amateurish in comparison, and Uruguay would have looked like a group of bullies running from the athletically superior police whilst in possession of a stolen ball.

So the best two teams are in the final (I have an inexplicable loathing of watching Brazil win over and over again so I might be slightly biased in that statement). But neither team has yet put-in a performance that evens glimmers of their pre-tournament form. The Dutch are scoring, but how? Sneijder’s last two goals (which moved his tally to 5, joint best with Spain’s David Villa) were deflections. Spain are almost entirely reliant on David Villa to continue his close-to-goal-a-game form, thanks to Fernando Torres being laid up in a Liverpudlian hospital after going on a bender with Alex Ferguson and having to endure the tournament-ending ignominy of having his stomach removed and replaced with that of Tony Adams (a real man), and being forced to send his younger, shorter-haired brother who happens to be shit at football, to the tournament in his place. Who will prevail? I want the Dutch to win (at last), but I think Spain will grind out a technically superb, if slightly un-explosive victory and take the cup back to Madrid to the open arms of their expecting people.

And as for third place, Germany simply have to win. I foresee myriad balls being lofted in to Miroslav Klose as a brace would see him on 16 World Cup goals for his career, and become the World Cup’s highest ever goal scorer, surpassing Fat Ronaldo and breaking the current tie with compatriot Gerd Mueller.

3-1 in the third place playoff for Germany.

1-0 in the final for Spain.

You read it here first.


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All Aboard the Manx Express...

Mark Cavendish is a British Sportsman in the mould of Andy Murray. Almost exactly two years Murray's senior, Cav is less often on in the spotlight given his career as a road cyclist and the frustrating dearth of coverage the sport is given in the UK. When he does make the headlines, however, he does so for similar reasons to Murray: the British public - used to a string of lovable losers, or gentlemen as the softies like to dub heroes like Henman - seem unable to handle the level of bloodlust that drives Cav to be the best. Murray too suffers from such a backlash: He's dubbed "moody", "arrogant, "rude". Well, maybe they are all those things, but one thing they are for sure is winners. Both men manage to make Britain credible on a world stage that is dominated by the cool-headed continentals. We Brits are so often the plucky runners-up that when a ballsy, no-nonense bloke from Blighty steps-up to the plate and serves out seven helpings of Old Aunt Bessie's Right Royal Hidings and then flips his defeated opponent the bird before assaulting the press with a barrage of expletives, we turn bright red and do what we can to distance ourselves from the men, whilst embracing their historical achievements as if they were our own children.

Cav has endured an awful lot of bad press this year, following explosion onto the world cycling scene in 2009 when he won 6 stages of the Tour de France, thus confirming the flashes of elite talent shown the previous year in which he won 4 stages of le Tour. His credentials are superb - almost unrivalled in British history in his category. He is the fastest man on two wheels, the Bullet, the Manx Machine, but the press don't like his brashness; his 'disrespectful' riding style; his recklessness.

He was blamed for a major crash in the Tour of Switzerland and fined for the incident, which, on reflection was probably only half his fault. His reputation was as muddy as his twelve-year old knees might have been when he first got in to mountain bike racing. But Cav - a surprisingly vulnerable character as demonstrated by his emotional breakdown post Stage 5 - has battled through the criticism and is learnng to let his riding do the talking. He's got some way to go before he keeps his mouth shut after the wheels stop turning, but should he even try to placate the naysayers?

He's not a bad person; he's not even a nasty guy. In fact he is charming; a gentleman; a good laugh. Cav's only problem per se, is his passion. And that's waht makes him awesome. We should embrace the fire; douse it with petrol; stoke it where we can. Murray's the same: we should gee these guys up: if they need to be angry or pissed off or carry a chip on their shoulder to compete at the highest level, then let them get on with it. How nice it is to aspire to emulate a true battler's achievements, and breaking down in tears when all that hard work and dedication fails to pay off, rather than accepting a simpering straight sets loss to a lesser player who had more bottle on the day.

Cav is a hero, as is Murray. For once I am proud and excited to be a British sports fan.


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Spain Look Like Germany in Dispatching the Deutsch Hot-shots...

Well, the dream-run of the inspiring German team that sent England packing, before dismantling fancied Argentina 4-0, is over.

Last night, the high-scoring Germans were beaten 1-0 by a workmanlike Spain, who, in the process, did a fine impression of their opponents' 2002 counterparts who reached the final after a string of solid, if unconvincing, 1-0 victories.

Wanna know an interesting face? I know you do: this final (Holland Vs Spain) is the first final since 1978 when Argentina felled the Dutch (appearing then in the second straight final) that will guarantee us a new champion.

Neither Spain - who prior to this tournament had never reached the Semis - or the Dutch have ever lifted the World Cup. So who deserves it more? It can hardly be argued that Spain have played better football than their orange-clad opponents: they have muddled through the knock-out stages with 3 straight 1-0 victories and even lost their opener by the same score line to the dire Swiss. Holland, however, have won all their games and, although conceding in each of their knock-out contests, have prevailed with style. They dispatched a plucky Slovakia, came from behind to ruin the Brazilian party and won what turned into a shoot-out against the optimistic and opportunistic Uruguayans.

I'm plugging for the Dutch - three losses in the big game would be too much to bear for this, the most overdue nation in international football. I think Sneijder, Kuyt and co have the firepower, but Spain have two things that make them hard to beat in the contests that matter: defence and patience. The Spanish passing game is even better than the Dutch when on form and they will be out to maintain possession and methodically break-down the easily frustrated Netherlanders.

Whatever happens it's gonna be a spectacle. Do Not Miss Out!


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The Sun Sets on La Celeste...

The Dutch have made it to their third World Cup Final after overcoming a spirited Uruguay side who were, for the last ten minutes of what proved to be an overlong match thanks to the unexpected presence of the Old Trafford Clock, without their talismanic striker, and joint top-scorer for the tournament, Diego Forlan. Forlan had, earlier in the night, lashed in a first half equaliser after a 41 yard strike from unlikely hero, Giovanni Van Bronckhorst.

Going in at 1-1 at the break must have heartened the Uruguayans who were in the ascendency. But, half way through the second half, Wesley Sneijder scored his second deflected goal in as many matches in a play that had Robin Van Persie in a dubiously offside position: Van Persie’s trailing leg was offside at the time of Sneijder’s strike and his movement, which in real-time looked to be an attempt on the ball, should have deemed him active and thus negated the goal. However, replays show that Van Persie may have been attempting to get out of the way of the ball, but even if that was the case, his presence in an offside position must surely have hindered the keeper’s chances of saving the errant ball.

Either way, Holland looked to have atoned for their luck when, less than ten minutes later, Arjen Robben scored with his head after a pinpoint cross from Dirk Kuyt (who should, in this writer’s humble opinion, be considered for player of the tournament) found him alone in the box. Robben’s superbly angled header touched the inside of the post as it squirmed in and looked to have booked the Dutch a certain appearance in the greatest game in football.

But Uruguay did not give-in. With the clock on 91 minutes of an expected 93 to be played, a trick free-kick resulted in a powerful swerving shot finding a new home in the back of the Dutch goal – 3-2 with 90 seconds to play. Only there weren’t 90 seconds, but a further 3 minutes thanks to some suspicious time-keeping from the referee. Over those extra seconds, the Uruguayans peppered the Dutch goal with shots and the Orangemen defended desperately; clinging to a lead that, just moments before, had seemed insurmountable.

As vicious as Uruguay’s attempts to equalise were, the Netherlands held on and will now face the winner of Germany and Spain who play tonight.

As a confessed fan of the Dutch I cannot be sad at this result, but I am sorry to see Uruguay go home: they have brought life and passion to this tournament and embody the necessities of hard-work and luck in making it to the final four. Forlan can hold his head up high for leading this team so far. La Celeste will be sorely missed.


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