redfiona99 (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
redfiona99) wrote2009-12-19 03:01 pm
redfiona99) wrote2009-12-19 03:01 pm
Entry tags:
Sport and ever more sport
First, Gareth Thomas came out. The article, on the BBC website, must have been taken from a pretty long interview (for the Daily Fail, hence no link to that), and it's totally worth a read - http://news.bbc.co.uk/sport1/hi/rugby_union/welsh/8421956.stm
And don't worry Alfie, I'm sure people are far more likely to remember those awesome tries you scored than anything else.
The Times have put up it's top 5 sporting moment of the decade: I disagree with number 5, but I like the rest:
The 2005 Ashes series is regarded as one of, if not the, greatest of all time. Within that series, the Edgbaston Test, the second match of five, was the greatest game, and the greatest moment within that game was when Flintoff, the victor, commiserated with the vanquished Lee just after the final ball.
It is worth revisiting for a moment. Lee and Michael Kasprowicz had taken Australia to within a whisker of an unbelievable victory, one that would have put them 2-0 up in the series and all but settled the destination of the Ashes. Suddenly, Stephen Harmison produced an awkward, lifting ball that brushed Kasprowicz’s glove on the way to Geraint Jones, the England wicketkeeper. England had won by two runs, the tightest margin of victory in the history of the Ashes.
Edgbaston went wild; the England team went wild. Michael Vaughan, the captain, was lifted up in a giant bear hug by Flintoff and the England captain proceeded almost to pull off the great all-rounder’s ears in celebration.
But then, the pause. As Lee knelt at the non-striker’s end, Flintoff took a moment to think of his opponent, one who had played hard and fair and in the best traditions of sport. Flintoff knelt, shook Lee’s hand and whispered a few words of commiseration.
It was a great moment. Flintoff, of course, has done rather well out of it since — not that it was in any way a cynical act. Whenever Flintoff is asked what he whispered to Lee, the Lancastrian plays dumb and says: “I told him, ‘That’s one-all, you Aussie b*****d.’”
This one would have been in my top 5 too. Because, when I say I <3 Freddie, it's not just how he played, or how he encouraged his own team, it's because he plays with the right spirit.
If the greatest gift of sport is the capacity to surprise — those “football, bloody hell” occasions — then the Champions League final of 2005 remains the benchmark for the ages.
There have been comebacks, recoveries and reversals of fortune aplenty; and then there is the “Miracle of Istanbul”, which, as miracles should, continues to defy sensible analysis.
Not a single person on the planet thought that Liverpool could recover from a half-time deficit of 3-0. But three goals in six crazy minutes turned the game, and all logic, on its head. Yet even then the miracle so nearly never happened — which, I guess, is what confirms it as miraculous.
When Andriy Shevchenko headed goalwards three minutes from the end of extra time, Jerzy Dudek could only parry downwards. The ball reared up, hanging in the air, waiting for Shevchenko to score the winner for AC Milan; how could he miss from three yards?
We waited for the net to bulge. But instead of going into the goal, the ball looped over the bar.
Replays would show that Shevchenko’s shot hit Dudek’s right forearm — not that the goalkeeper knew much about it. If it wasn’t skill, was it luck? Or was some benign force on Liverpool’s side that night?
Shevchenko grabbed his head in disbelief. Not long afterwards he would fail to score the decisive penalty — but we knew he would. “I knew that save was the moment we said bye-bye to the cup,” Hernán Crespo would say. Miracles do happen.
Matt Dickinson, who wrote the blurb, is not joking about nobody believing that Liverpool could win. Our old next door neighbour was at the match and walked out at half time. He's still kicking himself.
Me, I was watching it on TV, and when I turned it on it was already 1-0 to AC after 9 minutes. To this day, I have no idea how Liverpool did it.
Try to eradicate from your minds the dramatic tension of the last two minutes of the 2003 rugby union World Cup because that is what Clive Woodward’s England team did.
The score was 17-17 and extra time was excruciating and an England team were on the verge of blowing it or nailing the biggest prize since 1966. Yet down on the pitch, 15 Englishmen were impervious to the emotion, executing their duties to the letter; they were not thinking “Bloody hell!” like the rest of us, they were delivering to perfection the World Cup-winning move called “Zigzag”.
Zigzag was the code for scoring from a restart. The obsession with detail and planning that was the hallmark of Woodward’s coaching regime was such that all 15 players not only knew the pattern, they knew also that if it was carried out as planned and practised, then 20 seconds and five phases of ball were all that were required to deliver an 85 per cent chance of scoring points.
Thus it was that Woodward’s England played out their famous zigzagging move, from the lineout by Steve Thompson, through Mike Catt’s burst, Matt Dawson’s sniping break and Martin Johnson’s charge before Dawson’s pass back to Jonny Wilkinson. And we know what happened next.
The beauty in all this was its sheer professionalism. There remains an impression that England just about limped over the finish line in that final. They did not. Yes, it was close, horribly so. But that last flourish was planned, delivered, pure Zigzag perfection.
I was in halls for this, and when Mike Catt came on I realised that, while I hated Clive Woodward, and I hated English rugby union, that wasn't enough to make me cheer against the combined powers of Catt and Delaligio.
The whole room stopped for that kick.
It was the fastest dance in history. Bolt spread his arms, slapped his chest, lifted his knees to his chin and danced 100 metres in a reality-defying 9.69 seconds.
The final of the men’s 100 metres at the Olympic Games is the greatest occasion in sport — the race of races at the event of events. To be in the Olympic Stadium when a world record is broken is like nothing else in sport. I remember — cannot forget — the desperate brilliance of Ben Johnson’s run in Seoul 20 years earlier. A world record was followed with devastating speed by the devastation of disgrace.
As the rounds ticked down in the 100 metres at the Beijing Games of 2008, so Bolt ran faster and faster. He loped into the final; only the clock thought he sprinted. The 100 metres final is supposed to be gunfight-crazy, hair-trigger nerves, macho posturing. Bolt strolled to the line like a man at a mildly amusing party.
Bang. Bolt got to his feet, always a protracted business. Found his stride, again, not a thing he does in a hurry. And was gone. Clean gone. He danced his dance in the final few strides and still set a world record.
Joy. Joy, joy, joy, joy, joy.
Like the other members of the impartial press, I was on my feet, yelling prayerful blasphemies and poetic obscenities: “Nine point six! Nine point f***ing six!” And sitting down while the yelling went on, in a personal space of complete quiet, total wonder.
I was in an ecstasy of vicarious brilliance. The greatest piece of sport I had seen. That anyone had seen. And soon I would be writing about the greatest piece of sport that anyone had ever written about. Imagine that.
With the time he set, Bolt ran beyond anyone else who has ever run — the fastest man in history. With his time, with his dance, he had run far beyond mere victory.
Sport has a hierarchy of enjoyment. Partisanship is at the lowest level, then drama, and at the summit, excellence. Bolt ran beyond partisanship, beyond any need for drama. But he also ran beyond mere excellence, into a place unavailable to anyone else.
And one more thing. Bolt also ran beyond cynicism. In the moment of victory the world united in yearning. As yet, it remains unspoilt. Usain Bolt gave us back the 100 metres. He gave us back belief. He gave us back sport.
I cut the blurb but you should read it, because it's a perfect piece of Simon Barnes writing. Because he's not wrong. By the time Bolt ran, we had twitter, we had facebook, everything was instant, and in that instant, the only thing anyone wrote was, 'wow'.
And don't worry Alfie, I'm sure people are far more likely to remember those awesome tries you scored than anything else.
The Times have put up it's top 5 sporting moment of the decade: I disagree with number 5, but I like the rest:
The 2005 Ashes series is regarded as one of, if not the, greatest of all time. Within that series, the Edgbaston Test, the second match of five, was the greatest game, and the greatest moment within that game was when Flintoff, the victor, commiserated with the vanquished Lee just after the final ball.
It is worth revisiting for a moment. Lee and Michael Kasprowicz had taken Australia to within a whisker of an unbelievable victory, one that would have put them 2-0 up in the series and all but settled the destination of the Ashes. Suddenly, Stephen Harmison produced an awkward, lifting ball that brushed Kasprowicz’s glove on the way to Geraint Jones, the England wicketkeeper. England had won by two runs, the tightest margin of victory in the history of the Ashes.
Edgbaston went wild; the England team went wild. Michael Vaughan, the captain, was lifted up in a giant bear hug by Flintoff and the England captain proceeded almost to pull off the great all-rounder’s ears in celebration.
But then, the pause. As Lee knelt at the non-striker’s end, Flintoff took a moment to think of his opponent, one who had played hard and fair and in the best traditions of sport. Flintoff knelt, shook Lee’s hand and whispered a few words of commiseration.
It was a great moment. Flintoff, of course, has done rather well out of it since — not that it was in any way a cynical act. Whenever Flintoff is asked what he whispered to Lee, the Lancastrian plays dumb and says: “I told him, ‘That’s one-all, you Aussie b*****d.’”
This one would have been in my top 5 too. Because, when I say I <3 Freddie, it's not just how he played, or how he encouraged his own team, it's because he plays with the right spirit.
If the greatest gift of sport is the capacity to surprise — those “football, bloody hell” occasions — then the Champions League final of 2005 remains the benchmark for the ages.
There have been comebacks, recoveries and reversals of fortune aplenty; and then there is the “Miracle of Istanbul”, which, as miracles should, continues to defy sensible analysis.
Not a single person on the planet thought that Liverpool could recover from a half-time deficit of 3-0. But three goals in six crazy minutes turned the game, and all logic, on its head. Yet even then the miracle so nearly never happened — which, I guess, is what confirms it as miraculous.
When Andriy Shevchenko headed goalwards three minutes from the end of extra time, Jerzy Dudek could only parry downwards. The ball reared up, hanging in the air, waiting for Shevchenko to score the winner for AC Milan; how could he miss from three yards?
We waited for the net to bulge. But instead of going into the goal, the ball looped over the bar.
Replays would show that Shevchenko’s shot hit Dudek’s right forearm — not that the goalkeeper knew much about it. If it wasn’t skill, was it luck? Or was some benign force on Liverpool’s side that night?
Shevchenko grabbed his head in disbelief. Not long afterwards he would fail to score the decisive penalty — but we knew he would. “I knew that save was the moment we said bye-bye to the cup,” Hernán Crespo would say. Miracles do happen.
Matt Dickinson, who wrote the blurb, is not joking about nobody believing that Liverpool could win. Our old next door neighbour was at the match and walked out at half time. He's still kicking himself.
Me, I was watching it on TV, and when I turned it on it was already 1-0 to AC after 9 minutes. To this day, I have no idea how Liverpool did it.
Try to eradicate from your minds the dramatic tension of the last two minutes of the 2003 rugby union World Cup because that is what Clive Woodward’s England team did.
The score was 17-17 and extra time was excruciating and an England team were on the verge of blowing it or nailing the biggest prize since 1966. Yet down on the pitch, 15 Englishmen were impervious to the emotion, executing their duties to the letter; they were not thinking “Bloody hell!” like the rest of us, they were delivering to perfection the World Cup-winning move called “Zigzag”.
Zigzag was the code for scoring from a restart. The obsession with detail and planning that was the hallmark of Woodward’s coaching regime was such that all 15 players not only knew the pattern, they knew also that if it was carried out as planned and practised, then 20 seconds and five phases of ball were all that were required to deliver an 85 per cent chance of scoring points.
Thus it was that Woodward’s England played out their famous zigzagging move, from the lineout by Steve Thompson, through Mike Catt’s burst, Matt Dawson’s sniping break and Martin Johnson’s charge before Dawson’s pass back to Jonny Wilkinson. And we know what happened next.
The beauty in all this was its sheer professionalism. There remains an impression that England just about limped over the finish line in that final. They did not. Yes, it was close, horribly so. But that last flourish was planned, delivered, pure Zigzag perfection.
I was in halls for this, and when Mike Catt came on I realised that, while I hated Clive Woodward, and I hated English rugby union, that wasn't enough to make me cheer against the combined powers of Catt and Delaligio.
The whole room stopped for that kick.
It was the fastest dance in history. Bolt spread his arms, slapped his chest, lifted his knees to his chin and danced 100 metres in a reality-defying 9.69 seconds.
The final of the men’s 100 metres at the Olympic Games is the greatest occasion in sport — the race of races at the event of events. To be in the Olympic Stadium when a world record is broken is like nothing else in sport. I remember — cannot forget — the desperate brilliance of Ben Johnson’s run in Seoul 20 years earlier. A world record was followed with devastating speed by the devastation of disgrace.
As the rounds ticked down in the 100 metres at the Beijing Games of 2008, so Bolt ran faster and faster. He loped into the final; only the clock thought he sprinted. The 100 metres final is supposed to be gunfight-crazy, hair-trigger nerves, macho posturing. Bolt strolled to the line like a man at a mildly amusing party.
Bang. Bolt got to his feet, always a protracted business. Found his stride, again, not a thing he does in a hurry. And was gone. Clean gone. He danced his dance in the final few strides and still set a world record.
Joy. Joy, joy, joy, joy, joy.
Like the other members of the impartial press, I was on my feet, yelling prayerful blasphemies and poetic obscenities: “Nine point six! Nine point f***ing six!” And sitting down while the yelling went on, in a personal space of complete quiet, total wonder.
I was in an ecstasy of vicarious brilliance. The greatest piece of sport I had seen. That anyone had seen. And soon I would be writing about the greatest piece of sport that anyone had ever written about. Imagine that.
With the time he set, Bolt ran beyond anyone else who has ever run — the fastest man in history. With his time, with his dance, he had run far beyond mere victory.
Sport has a hierarchy of enjoyment. Partisanship is at the lowest level, then drama, and at the summit, excellence. Bolt ran beyond partisanship, beyond any need for drama. But he also ran beyond mere excellence, into a place unavailable to anyone else.
And one more thing. Bolt also ran beyond cynicism. In the moment of victory the world united in yearning. As yet, it remains unspoilt. Usain Bolt gave us back the 100 metres. He gave us back belief. He gave us back sport.
I cut the blurb but you should read it, because it's a perfect piece of Simon Barnes writing. Because he's not wrong. By the time Bolt ran, we had twitter, we had facebook, everything was instant, and in that instant, the only thing anyone wrote was, 'wow'.