Sunday, 7 June 2009

Never mind the quality...

...Feel the run rate: +1.88.

England ease into the Super-Eights*. You never really doubted them, did you?

* As officially announced by, er Nasser Hussain whilst interviewing Kevin Pietersen on Sky Sports. 

Nasser: 'I can tell you that you're definitely through Kevin'.
KP: 'How do you know that?'
Nasser: 'Maths, Kevin'.

Priceless.


Friday, 5 June 2009

Nether Netherland

Er, lads, don't s'pose anyone's still got that number for Michael Vaughan?

NB: Update from the Planning Dept:
Number of England players entering the tournament with known injuries: 1 [Kevin Pietersen]
Man chosen as Pietersen's replacement: Robert Key
Number of warm-up games for which Key was selected: 0

Ricky Ponting, Assistant to the Regional Manager

A decade ago, Ricky Ponting would have been high on the list of people who might never utter the phrase 'moving through some processes'.

Now though he has uttered it.

There is no hope. We've run it up the flagpole. And the world has finally jumped the shark. 

Thursday, 4 June 2009

Sex drive

Mike Selvey thinks Australia will win the World T20 because they have 'virile batsmen'. 

Not after today they don't.

They just sent their only 'virile' batsman home. As for the rest - Michael Clarke, Mike Hussey and Shane Watson, virile? Not that lot, pal. Bunch of pantywaists. 

So if Selvey is correct and virility is the key to T20, which team is really the manliest? Who has the most testosterone coursing through their blood? Who's really got the balls for the job?

All nominations welcome... 

Tuesday, 2 June 2009

Freddie disses Fiddy, India, hotel receptionists: storm brewing

In an interesting adjunct to the post below, GQ magazine have just released some details of an interview they'll be carrying with Andrew Flintoff. The highlights:

'I have no problems with a multi-cultural society, I think it's to the benefit of the country. But you have to be careful what levels it takes you to. It annoys me when I phone a hotel receptionist in my own country and they don't understand what I am saying because they don't speak English'.

'There are places I wouldn't go to now. You see these reports of stabbings, bottlings, shootings and you think, 'what's happening to this country?' I think rap music's got a lot to do with it. It makes it sound cool not to conform and to be violent. That's why I think sport has such an important role to play. Cricket kept me away from trouble.'

'There's knife crime, gun crime, homelessness, the financial crisis, so many things need fixing. But when you go somewhere like India you realise we're not in that bad a shape. We have a tendency in Britain to talk ourselves down.'

Lucky we've got Andrew Flintoff to, er talk things back up, then...

NB: Excuse odds just in: 
Misquoted 2/1
Taken out of context 7/4
Jocular comments made in private 6/1
'I love going to India/talking to hotel receptionists/listening to rap music' 11-2

Monday, 1 June 2009

Who's boss?

It's fair to say that much of the best sports writing is American. They take it more seriously for a start, and they have a vast but self-contained canvas. The cream of it is in a wonderful book, The Best American Sports Writing Of The Century. The stuff inside is so good, it's kind of irrelevant whether you like the sports they're writing about, or even whether you like sport. 

There's Al Stump on his near-death experiences with the twisted, quite possibly insane baseball genius Ty Cobb, J.R. Moehringer's astonishing story on a boxer's identity, Resurrecting The Champ, Paul Solotaroff's The Power And The Gory, about bodybuilder Steve Michalik ['It was only a question of which organ was going to explode on me first'], Thomas McGuane's obsessive pursuit of an uncatchable fish called a Permit, and much, much more.

The final section is devoted to Muhammad Ali, the defining sportsman of the century and - uncoincidentally - its most accessible. George Plimpton once recounted a story of travelling to Ali's house for a Sports Illustrated cover piece and waiting his turn for an hour because Ali was giving an interview to the local school newspaper. Ali was world champion at the time. 

All of which is a long-winded way of getting round to Sunday's Observer Sport Monthly and its 'Ashes Special'. It was a very modern piece of journalism. On the cover were Andrew Strauss and Kevin Pietersen putting on suits. On the inside front cover and facing page was a double page ad for Hugo Boss suits featuring Steve Harmison, James Anderson, Alastair Cook, Kevin Pietersen and Monty Panesar.

The story itself saw the OSM journalist granted access to, er, the England team's fitting for their Hugo Boss suits. Inbetween taking off their trousers, they offered a few words. A very few. The journalist even noted how keen some of them were to disappear. In case anyone missed the point, all of the pictures featured the players trying on their Hugo Boss suits, and carried the caption 'All clothes and shoes by Hugo Boss. Call 020 7544 5700 for details'.

This is 21st century sports writing: controlled access for a commercial return. Who, apart from Hugo Boss, gains from the arrangement? Not the readers, and ultimately not the players. Part of the resentment towards them comes from the shield that keeps them from the world. It just seems strange, and sad, that in an age of so much media, we know conversely less about them. 

Ali's greatness was apparent in his boxing, but it was enhanced and contextualised by the people who wrote about him. He trusted them to know what to put in and what to leave out [he was given a free pass, for example, about his womanising]. That same relationship was true of the old-school cricket writers and players like Botham and Boycott, yet we have much fuller portraits of them than we do of Pietersen or Ponting. Something that added to the fabric of the game is being lost. 

On the plus side though, Hugo Boss will be pleased. That's 020 7544 5700 if you're interested.

Sledged

On Saturday, I made the worst 30-odd I've ever made. It was an unwatchable and visceral horror, like Oldboy.

Somehow surviving what felt like a stone-dead leg before third ball, I got off the mark with an edge between the keeper and first slip which they both watched sail by. There followed a spell of trancelike Boycottian contemplation when I wondered if I would score another run not just then, but ever. 

The spell was broken by a cut that came off the toe of the bat and went between the wicketkeeper's legs, so I decided to listen to my internal Peter Moores [doesn't everyone have one?] and take the positives from the experience - i.e. that it was quite funny I was still in. 

It lasted another hour or so - oh yes - during which the most productive area was the half-bat squirt through backward point. After the umpteenth one of those, first slip threw back his head and said, 'fucking hell, it's Paul Collingwood...'

I'll take that as a compliment, boys...

NB: One of their openers had a Charlie French bat. It was a handsome blade, the first one I've seen in the flesh [I was going to say in the wood, but that sounds somehow wrong...] I spent his innings making eyes at it.