Satdee Night’s alright for something. But first we have the afternooon, where we watch mighty Clarby Road FC take on Wdig (Goodwick, to you lot) in the Pembrokeshire Senior Cup. Eleven hundred people there – yes, you read that right – to see the strong favourites from the North roll over the Welsh-speaking farmers from the Preselis. Only dieu, dieu, that’s not what happened.
I have to declare an interest: my daughter’s fella was playing centre-back, for Clarbeston. He was plainly playing hurt (so maybe heroically) but that didn’t stop him volleying in the first goal, during an early foray into the six yard box, at a corner. ‘Oof’, said the crowd – in two languages at least. Whilst I wondered how best to make my claim for an assist.
There were kids with drums, and families and yes, a few dogs. A nine year-old hardman challenged me as I wandered behind the goal, through the Clarby Massive: “Clarbee or Goodwick?” Edgy. Thank gawd I was able to provide a prompt-enough lifesaving retort, reinforced with a cheesy-but-comradely raising of the fist, confirming tenuous loyalty to the Farmer-zone. Then the more I cruised around the ground, the more I liked the overdue conversations with colleagues in footie and cricket and the fabulous ridicu-tribalism. Old blokes; young girls; badges and blazers and that sideways shuffling that so often signals nerves. Lots of folks in on this – so yeh – nervous.
The venerable Fraser Watson – top fella and local/national journo – has written of The Meaning of this stuff (in fact, of this particular event) so unusually I’ll swerve most of that. Despite my social-occasioning it was clear that not just players and ‘staff’ at the clubs were bristling with intensity: most of the extant universe was. Mr Walton, formerly of Solva AFC – so without hands in the fire of this thing but understanding of it – was by contrast able to waft abart and enjoy; which he did.
Bridge Meadow is Pembrokeshire’s Bernabeu, minus the cosmic city views and some of the other guff. Just a hint or two of rolling undulations about the pitch, which is/was better than most recreational jobs – as it should be, what with Haverfordwest being a fixture in the largely semi-pro Ardal League. Netting, behind both goals. A closed stand, where seats are either damaged or unsafe. Stewards and two seven foot nine blokes doing security around the ground and at the clubhouse door. Hot dogs. But mainly people, catching up; stirring, or not. Circling – or ovalling? – I saw everybody I’ve ever met, at least four times
Clarby went and won it – a hearty, competitive game with plenty spice – by three goals to two. They deserved it, meaning Goodwick should and will be disappointed, for not expressing their widely-recognised quality. (Head-up football *at a premium*, as they say). As so often, nerves and physicality and lack of composure blunted the allegedly better side’s capacity to express. Clarbeston Road found the grit and (just about) the discipline to not only see it through, but walk away with that hugely gratifying sense – that luxury in the feels – that it was their lot that played more of the football.
Meanwhile, my gurl’s fella’s sister was at fly-half for Wales, in the Six Nations. Her mum confirmed to us, on one of our many sunny perambulations, that they too had won: finally. Their single victory of another campaign that had felt closer to concerning than encouraging.
But one of the seminal Sports Moment’s of the weekend (for your scribe, obvs) landed about twenty-four hours after this, when I caught up with brief highlights via BBC iplayer. These included Ioan Cunningham – the Wales coach – openly blubbing at the final whistle. Relief and emotion and powerful, powerful angst: shed, I hope, in a moment that really should have been private. Wales – even this Wales – probably should have beaten Italy, at home, and they did. He/they still felt the ignominy of the wooden spoon. There was obviously some Big Unseen Stuff in play for the fella and I felt for the guy.
Muggins had been one of many keyboard warriors that (without, from memory, naming him) suggested ‘bad coaching’ over several years had been at least partly responsible for Wales women’s rugby remaining so far behind. (I was, in fairness, also remembering previous incumbents but the sharpness of my attack felt unwise – maybe be even unfair or ignorant – in the face of Cunningham’s outpouring of grief/joy/relief).
Wales Women are understandably uncompetitive with England. Fair enough. But my beef and my point was that they should be organised and prepared enough to compete with Scotland and Ireland – especially given that the players’ commitment does not appear to be at issue. Speaking as a fan, like a fan, as I do, I had hoped to call out that perceived under-achievement.
Mostly I think this modus-wotsits is legit: I guess I’m trusting that anyone daft enough to read me gets that this is not journalism; it has more freedom and more risk than that; for better, for worse.
Ah the voices. In my head, broiling or brewing or maybe just a chemical reaction to the (breaking) toast or full-on sausage sarny issue swishing abart in me stomach. Should be writing on cricket – Glam and the boy Northeast. No! Goddabee United! Or maybe drop back into women’s cricket mode? Bouchier and the Shawly-Redemptive Amy Jones Not-Shanking-to-the-Circle thing? Or maybe the whole lot? Or more wisely (don’t be daft) *not writing at all* while everything remains a mess.
*Nips to kitchen. Pricks bangers.*
Hunger and too much sport. These are the great tormentors. Caffling-up our very souls, I tell you – or at least competing with the crap wifi to undermine our otherwise serene (s)elective processes. Eng Women in NZ. Town in the mire. Glammy in dreamland. Celtic-Rangers. Paree-Roubaix. United in hysterical disarray. Days – longer days! – melting into Eastery, chocolatey night and then back into febrile couch-surfing. Our choices once again cruelly undermined by a heathenfest of opportunity. What day is it, anyway? Did I really do all that chocolate?
Sometime in the last x hours I was watching England lose. Until 3 am closed in around me and then socials kicked in – or maybe sleep – until a rare, spirited spurt of seamlessly decent wifi made the Old Firm possible, then MU, then bits of Tottingham. And a nod or three hundred towards Lords. Via that cycling madness. So if you’ve landed here expecting ‘clarity’ best hold on tight.
The England Women tour of Kiwiville is done. Successful, largely, in the sense that both legs – T20 and 50 over – registered a W. (Hate or o-kaaay dislike that single-letter descriptor, by the way: surely insinuated in to Proper Sport by slick graph-competent anti-souls, yes?) Batting collapses still a concern but significant positives include the emergence of Bouchier as a rival or foil to Dunkley – she’s ‘classier’ and a better athlete – and further evidence that England simply have the quality to be more dynamic than ‘chasing pack’ nations like the White Ferns, *at this stage*. (I include that qualification a) to snuff out the dangers of International Incident and b) because it’s mischievously true). On.
Jones is the other story, I suppose. Viewed by many as the best keeper in the women’s game and a stylish and clean striker of the ball – can and does score relatively quickly at 6 or 7. But for me, historically scrambled faaar too often and therefore fortunate to have retained her place in the side: lack of genuine alternatives and her work behind the sticks have kept her in there. Now three fine knocks, in succession and under the cosh, have rendered the AJ Question irrelevant. She’s been lucky… but also brilliant on this tour.
Seen New Zealand live (over here) a certain amount over the last couple of years. They’re getting there; look generally competitive in the field and have bowlers in Amelia Kerr, Rowe and Tahuhu and the two Fern Icons Bates and Devine still provide quality. At times, however, their lack of dynamism was again painfully clear. This will be and should be their signal disappointment from this series: that they were *so obviously* unable to accelerate an innings. Sure, England take some credit for this – good bowling. But the White Ferns were consistently a bit lame when they had to be (had to be!) charging. They will provide the occasional upset but must find some boom, to compete.
Glam is 100 miles away from where I live, in the west of the west. This is my excuse for being a lame supporter. No chance would I go 250-odd to Lords for their opener, so I missed the historic knock from Northeast. Loved seeing posts from friends in the ground, on the Twitters. A total over 600 in the first wallop? We’ll take that – even if subsequent days ease to a ‘no-result’ scenario.
For the first time in living memory I watched a lump of the Old Firm Derby. Incredible and hilarious. And intense, as always. Sunday League defending (see more, below) but some thrilling attacks. *That noise* raised to traditionally awesome levels: scary, inspiring, violent, unforgiving. A wildish, drawn romp with a daftish lap of celebration led by the Rangers gaffer, who took performative misunderstanding to yet another high. #Legend.
And so to MU ‘Pool, via the Paris-Roubaix, which I vowed to watch right through, after the god that is van der Poel scarpered off with almost 60k to suffer. (I *did* watch right through, knowing that I’d miss a wee chunk of the shamateurs of Manchester). On cobbles, through mud and tunnels of deranged ‘supporters’, the World Champ blasted the rest into distant mediocrity, winning by three minutes, on his own, in a display of elite-level guts, control, power and discipline that your average Premier League footballer could neither comprehend nor match. This was a flawless execution: a stunning expression of superior, hard-won gifts. (Hope to god that he’s doing this clean).
Meanwhile at Old Trafford, United continued with their own distant mediocrity, being repeatedly exposed by this goodish but not Peak Scouse-level Liverpool. Sure, United had their moments, even in a first half where the visitors might have scored four, but for lack of completion from Diaz (this we expect?) and a strangely fuzzy Mo Salah. Garnacho had an early goal struck from the record but Klopp’s raging late in the half plainly reflected the mis-match and the threat of another massacre conspiring/unpeeling towards points shared or dropped.
So it turned out. Fernandes was surly, ineffective and repeatedly shockingly wasteful but he scored a worldie. Mainoo was in and out but he scored a worldie. Salah kicked the ball straight and with conviction once, from the penalty spot, for a late equaliser.
For United the issues run on, to the point where Ten Hag must and surely will go. He’s not entirely at fault for players being woefully slack at closing down/tracking/being watchful. But he is palpably responsible for team shape and the disciplines around that. His players are not good enough – most of them. The gaffer has not been smart or tough or inspiring enough to develop or deliver the matrix.
His side remain shapeless in nearly every sense. Non-negotiables remain un-ticked. They are a million miles – still – from producing performances. Any half-decent side can play through them at will.
Klopp was incandescent on 40 minutes because United were so pitifully vulnerable and yet somehow remained in the game. The home team’s three central defenders were constantly over-run, almost incredibly, both from the flanks and through the middle of the park, where Fernandes and Mainoo barely got a foot in. Diaz and Darwin Nunes pace and movement was killing them… but then not.
The stats spoke loudly again about how many strikes on goal Manchester United concede, week after week. Even if they were a fabulous side going forward, this just doesn’t work. (And they’re not).
Eighteen months ago Rashford may have been the most electrifying striker in Europe: now he’s in his own world of pain and disillusionment. Garnacho remains a prospect – Hojlund too. The midfield is so dysfunctional it’s hard to name it. There have been, no doubt, about eight zillion man-hours expended on the training ground about defending – and maybe particularly defending counter-attacks. And United are still absolutely shite at it. So I’ve been relatively supportive of Ten Hag. But now he must go… and the squad must be gutted all over again.
Included below; the audio from our Beautiful games book launch, at The Mariners, Nolton Haven, Pembs, on Sat 23rd March 2024.
Hosted by my good friend the treble-fabulous Mr Stephen Hedges, it features some daft bloke warbling about sport and the Meaning of Everything – as he does – plus some background noises and a wee bit of ambient pre-amble. Would’ve *really loved* to include the genuinely brilliant and hugely generous #pubchat that immediately followed the talk, but certain individuals shared some personal stuff about family experiences that it just wouldn’t have been right to include. So cut.
We had intended that the aforementioned #pubchat would dig in to and expand upon the Waltonian propositions… and it certainly did that. Some concerns were raised about school experiences in activity needing to ‘mirror real life’ rather than ‘just look to cater for all’. I hear that argument, and respect the need for (for example) competitive sport. I grew up – and I do mean grew up – through competitive sport, where (amongst other things) I learned to value guys in my teams who found little support or encouragement elsewhere, because they were either fully-fledged or aspiring football hooligans. Don’t ask them to spell much, or do their French homework but stick ’em on a sports field and watch the fekkers fly. Suddenly brilliant; suddenly selfless; suddenly valuable. I get how magnificent organised sport can be, for shedloads of reasons including that one.
But only about 20% of schoolkids are getting it: or only about 20% are developing a culture of lifelong activity. Twenty per cent. This means that BIG THINGS ARE IN PLAY. It means that (without sacrificing opportunities for ‘organised sport’) we have to include everyone – get everyone active.
The speech and the book then, have to come over all philosophical. I think there are moral imperatives in play as well as economic arguments: society cannot afford for zillions of people to be physically or mentally un-healthy. We all deserve a lump of happiness and the wider clan needs us to be productive. It’s a no-brainer that activity *nearly always supports* health. Great, uplifting, compelling experiences in Physical Education for young people can be personally transformative, can maybe lift where we’re at, as individuals, on the Happiness Index.
I want all of it – generous and ‘holistic’ approaches to PE, throughout the age-groups, and fabulous recreational sports and/or pathways. Change the thinking and invest in all of it. (Surely we’re sliding somewhere quite dark, if we don’t?)
There are political and philosophical notions we just can’t duck out of. My argument, I suppose, is that we need to prioritise and invest in wellness, not maxxing-out on profits. Because every one of us is valuable.
After the verbals I include a transcript of my speech.
BOOK LAUNCH.
Enough already of this welcome and adoration. It can’t last. For as sure as eggs are eggs… and beans are beans… and brown sauce is better than red, on bangers and bacon, you will desert me. For we are fickle, are we not? We ‘like’ everything but then move on, to the next story – the next poor, unfortunate target for our fleeting attention. I’m a realist, friends. There’ll be a lol-tastic notification coming along any minute – over here; over there – cats on the Twitters; dancers on the twick-twocks – and my moment in the spotlight will be gone.
I blame the Kardashians – I blame the Kardashians for everything – just ask the kids. Pouting. Potholes on the A40. Climate Change. Footballers diving and Raducanu changing coaches every twenty minutes. I blame the Kardashians. Cold toast; hot – fuck me, burning hot – Cornish pasties; V.A.R.; 30p Lee; too many adverts spoiling yer telly. I blame the Kardashians.
Surprisingly however, Beautiful Games is not the work of an embittered old bloke who can’t pout. The closest it gets to Worldly Cynicism is maybe through the introductory quote, from Naomi Klein:
‘Everywhere we look we find “binaries where thinking once existed.”
I kinda like that, because it makes me sound brainy. To be honest I haven’t the faintest idea what she’s onnabout but it seemed a good idea to have something wordy and philosophical in the first few pages. The rest is bollocks about Ford Escorts and beer. And sport.
‘Everywhere we look we find “binaries where thinking once existed”. Wish I’d said that. Instead I said
on P xii “I really want this book to be explainer-lite. Can’t stand the idea that the dots have to be joined/profundities unpicked for a readership that is thereby presumed to be brain-dead: insulting bollocks… (more)… not everything will be revealed”.
I also say “this book, whilst wading through the baggage of a middle-aged white guy, will be anti-bigotry. Believe it or not. Its purpose is to celebrate personal and universal stuff about activity. Not sure that can be done without advocating for those damp essentials love and understanding”.
But what the feck does that mean?!?
Glad you asked. Let me have a thrash at this. The book is in three sections: the first is called ‘Formations’ because it digs into things that may have made me… but which also relate, surely, to all of us? Family; environment; good energies; trauma or tragedy.
So ‘Formations’ is Big Relatable Stories. There’s stuff about ‘cannonballs’ – the heavy, soapy, brown-leather footballs we used to head, as kids, even though they weighed about twelve tons. There’s stuff about travelling to Canada dressed as Elvis Costello, and the hairs in my nostrils freezing as we stepped off the plane into the North American winter – at minus 26. (Fact). Then about playing indoor soccer with mad Italians and some geezer pulling a large hairy knife on my best mate in a nightclub in Thunder Bay. Exactly the kind of thing we’ve all experienced, yes?
Look, there is family, adventure and growth and maaaybee one of the central themes of the book, poisons in the ether – machismo; toughness; the ever-present fraudulence that is ‘masculinity.’ But also the wonder of sport and camaraderie and the craic. So the wild, contradictory kaleidoscope that is life… as a bloke(?)… or (know what?) however we may identify.
It’s no accident that chapter one – Unwise Tendencies – is about the violent homophobia that was everywhere, in our childhoods. I may need to come out as boringly, resolutely straight at this point, but that prejudice (in the North of England, in the 60s/70s) had a massive, conditioning effect on how I was and who I became. I wonder if it might be something of a surprise to many of you to discover *how much* the book has to say about blokeyness and ‘strength’ and pressures around behaviour. Let me read you something on this – true story:
Reading from P4 …”Much of the rich hinterland around this…
and no, I don’t know what that means either”.
I don’t happen to be gay… but I/we who were skinny or medium-brainy or had some facility for French or English Lit were in mortal danger, at school and beyond. I understand this excruciatingly poisonous, mind-boggingly pervasive plane of enlightenment marks the extreme edge of ‘laddishness’ but I think we know it’s still with us – and maybe in places we don’t really care to look. Certainly machismo in sport lies very close to prejudice. Beautiful Games deals with some of this; sympathetically, I hope, but also has a pop, creates some mischief.
On a happier note, the first section of the book does contain plenty in the way of wholesome tribute to Welsh heroes at Solva Athletic Football Club and later at Llanrhian CC. There’s lots of heading (a football) and some speculation about the effect of that. There’s a brief ode to K D Lang. There’s a coupla key chapters about family tragedy because *absolutely* that has made us… and a lot of family pride. This is not just about sport: it’s about formation.
Part Two is called ‘Practice’, meaning the hows and whys of sport. And the brilliance, and the inspirational figures or methods that become your way/my way.
We’re into culture and good practice; the Wonderstuff, whether that be through the All Blacks’ ‘No Dickheads’ policy or Brian Clough’s ‘OH YOO ARE BLOODY ‘OPELESS!!’
Both were godlike and inspirational, in ver-ry different ways; the one a kind of code of honour and way of being that set extraordinary and (dare we say it) civilised standards of behaviour *as well as* producing an 86% win-rate in international rugby over more than a decade. (And this is a very high figure). The other – Brian Clough – was a law unto himself but found a way to motivate his teams through personal magnetism, elite-level pig-headedness and a truly intuitive but profound understanding of a) football and b) people.
At my own daft level I love coaching teams: in fact I really like the word – is that sad? TEEEEEAAMMM! Teams are gangs of mates or soul-sisters who do that walk-through-fire thing or just pat you on the shoulder when you’re bowling like an arse. Teams encourage and build and take you, the individual no-hoper somewhere hilarious and miraculous. And know what? Teams aren’t just for sport… and they aren’t *just about* sport.
Clough was maybe something of a drunk and something of a bully. (I’m neither, honest). But he took two mid-ranking teams – Derby and Forest – to league titles and he and Peter Taylor engineered two European Cup wins. Incredible… and I think fascinating. His players ‘just knew’ he was a genius. They followed him and believed in him. He did ‘just know’. This was about relationships as much as skill.
This may be anorak central but bear with. Clough’s former players talk about his team-talks. (I like team-talks). Apparently on occasion, even before massive games, he would spread a towel on the floor of the changing rooms, and place a football on it. Like some druid ritual. Then he would just say something like “OI. You lot. This is a ball. There’ll be one out there. Go get it… and keep the fucking thing”.
Interestingly – I think –the great All Blacks coaches Sir Graham Henry and Sir Steve Hansen – allegedly got to a point where they barely said anything on matchdays. The players were so prepared, so in charge, so empowered, that there was no hairdryer and no Churchillian rhetoric from the coaches. No need. The players are ready. I’m aware this may be a bit niche, friends. But compare and contrast with Guardiola, Klopp, Tuchel, etc etc – with the zillions of messages going out before and during top-level football matches, now. I think that may be a kind of madness.
In Part Two I write chapters on the All Blacks, Clough, Guardiola, Bazball, the fabulous and universe-changing development of women and girl’s sport. There are also Honourable Mentions for Dutch football/Bobby Charlton/Chloe Kelly/Welsh rugby/the Baabaas and many more. I do make the point that though women and girls sport is better supported than before there is still much work to be done and throughout this book, I promise, I am mindful that competitive, organised sport is not the be-all and end-all, in any event. Beautiful Games moves towards being about Sport Development – that is the provision of activity for all. More on this in a moment.
Some of you will know that I have ECB Accreditation as Written Media and most often use this to follow England and Wales Women cricket: it’s been a real privilege to have been quite close to the powerful surge in that half of the game, for towards a decade. I talk about this in the book – in both books, asitappens.
Locally, Llanrhian Ladies are a spectacular example of the joy and development occurring in cricket. They are absolutely magic and have transformed our cricket club so they are in Beautiful Games – of course they are! Finally, in the section on practice, the book turns to the other great revelation of the current moment, namely Pembrokeshire Seniors cricket.
Reading from P155 ‘Here’s something weird and wonderful...
To p157 …”I am going to be bereft when I can’t bowl”.
Sad but true, I really AM gonna be bereft when I can’t bowl. But onwards, in haste. To the final section, which I’ve called ‘The Case for Sport’.
I have worked as a coach for Cricket Wales – still doing it – and as a peripatetic PE teacher for Sport Pembrokeshire. Ver-ry proud of my colleagues in both organisations. Latterly I also did some work ploughing through a significant bundle of reports on wellbeing/activity/lifestyles for children. I’m no academic but this was ‘my territory’ so Matt at Sport Pembrokeshire let me loose on this to try and draw insights about what good, enlightened provision might look like. Who needs activity most? What’s most effective? What can we justify doing? Inevitably political/philosophical and strategic stuff, in an environment where (criminally, to be frank) budgets are likely to tighten, not loosen up.
I may have gone into this feeling a tad cynical about surveys. As a deliverer of sport you can’t help but think that it’s bloody obvious that activity is so essential and life-affirming and developmentally important in every way we don’t need reports to tell us that! They feel a bit like exercises commissioned by dead-souled office wallahs. Like who doesn’t know that exercise is good and that we have to fund absolutely everything that’s legitimate, to fight the good fight against obesity, poor mental health, the fall into sedentary behaviour and the peer pressure around body-image – for which I blame the Kardashians!
We all know this! And yet, because the more I looked at the surveys – from Pembs County Council/Senedd/the Happen Survey/the Good Childhood Report, from the Children’s Society etc, etc – the more I bought into the idea that they are often very sophisticated and skilful, and they do provide us with good, even valuable information. We just have to act on it.
So I talk about personally taking the Happen Survey into Pembrokeshire Primary Schools and then producing a kind of brainstorming document around good practice (for our Sport Pembs practitioners – Active Young People Officers, by name). About the conclusions we might draw, the options we might take. I try to weed out from the mighty, meaty documents some workable priorities or undeniable truths. I offered them to my colleagues in Sport Development across West Wales, and I offer them to you, in Beautiful Games.
Reading from p 195…
“I wrote two reports…
To end of chapter on p196.
Part Three then, does make the Case for Sport, indeed it campaigns, in a way that I hope still manages to provide some entertainment. You don’t have to be wearing a tracksuit to get this book. You really don’t. Despite being ‘sport-mad’, I can tell you that those of us who coach or teach Physical Education (or sports, or games), now understand that given where we are – deep into a wellbeing crisis, with no sign that authorities get that – we have to get moving. All of us. So PE becomes more about everybody; welcomes Joey who can’t catch and Sara who can’t run in. Welcomes them; offers them something they can do and enjoy – probably with their friends.
You don’t have to be a Sports Development geek to sense the requirement for a wider, broader remit, for Physical Education. We have to get every child comfortable with movement. Find the funding, make the change, acknowledge the crisis and the need for a re-fresh of the offer. Ludicrously, in my view, despite being lumped in to a new Area of Learning with Wellbeing & Mental Health, PE is still not a core subject. Make it a core subject.
Let me finish, dear friends, with a Mad Idea. There is nothing more important than the physical and mental health of our young people. Could we be bold enough, then, generous enough, civilised enough to *actually invest* in what matters? By this I mean – amongst other things – look at and think about the UNICEF National Happiness Index as a meaningful measure of where we’re at. Stick the GDP and the Footsie right up yer arris. Forget this charade about ‘economic growth’. Value that which is valuable: health; wellbeing; the capacity to move and make adventures. Let’s ‘get going’ on that.
I was interviewed about Beautiful Games and the meaning of life and all, by the treble-fabulous Mr Fraser Watson, of the Daily Mirror and (more significantly) Llanrhian CC. It sounded like this.
You Folks In A Hurry go to about 34 minutes in – on the Pure WestSports Show. 11/3/2024.
Big call whether to write about Pope or Klopp. May not decide ’til I’m *really in there*. Or, unsurprisingly to the three of you who fall into the Regular Readers category, that issue may remain unresolved.
Day after the first net session where I ‘ran in’ as well as set the world straight. (Been coaching every Sunday for several weeks – and still loving that – but joined some of the old guys soon to set off for Chenai for the Over 60s World Cup and yeh, had a bowl. With mixed success). Oh – and woke up this morning having to acknowledge the schoolboy error of having bowled with toenails just that wee bit too long. Other aches and pains not kicked-in yet.
But Pope. A special, timely knock, which fits with his Golden Boy trajectory-thing – that is, ‘expectation’ – and offers England a chance to meaningfully resist the Indian strut towards a win. He may, despite the distraction of that contraflow between boyishness and the vice-captaincy, be too accomplished to need public affirmation but, let’s face it, it’s always handy. This was top-level classy, in the spotlight, under the cosh, just when we needed it and probably with Delhi Belly. He may have had to overcome a slight niggle or two and no sleep ‘cos the Bharat Army were holding an all-nighter in the hotel car park. Whatever; it was special and ver-ry public. And away; in India. Massive that he got right through the day. Next up, Bumrah with a new ball.
But Klopp. Also a moment. Whether it falls into the Do You Know Where You Were category may hinge on whether you’re a red (obvs), or if you even follow the footie. (If you follow the footie to any degree then it was biggish). I can tell you where I was – and worse still, I’m gonna do that thang.
I was on the cliffs at Strumble Head, North Pembrokeshire, because a) it’s bloody sensational and b) in the faint hope that the humpback whale that (I kid you not) has been cruising the block might reveal itself again. Glorious day, but I under-clubbed on the clothing front.
Anyway, I get out of the car – a mud-splattered VW Polo, with a century on the clock – and shift the Graham Parkeresque shades that are digging into ma beak. There’s something out in front. Wow; forget that Whatsapp notifibloodycation; there’s something there. Unmistakably. It’s a byoodiful day, if parky, but I’ve stepped right into a pod of dolphins doing their arched ‘oi oi geezer’ flypast. Forget the phone. They’re no more than fifty yards off the coast. In front of the line of empty cars – again suggesting that the moment has singled me out. I adjust my box and raise ma bat.
Then I walk to the block building, where the Proper Naturalists are watching. You can tell they’re proper because they have two dogs each and lenses that reach the Wicklow Mountains. Best not talk to them before I’ve looked at the info-posters on the back wall: I need to know what’s a dolphin and what’s a porpoise. Then we can exchange pleasantries and make circuitous (but cool) enquiries about Humpy. (Dolphins have beaks; porpoises don’t).
No sightings. But there are more dolphins to our right. And the fella with the handsome hound-terrier-thing is *actually friendly*. He’s barely anal at all, despite the clobber. We could probably talk about cricket or football as well as cetaceans. I loiter and yes, do raise bi-nocs to my eyes, purposefully, before setting out towards Carregwasted, or somewhere.
Another ping finally prompts the check. Shit – it’s The Lads – meaning elite bantz and/or stuff that matters. It’s only now I see that Klopp has recorded his ‘message to the fans’. Wow. I am 157 yards north of the block building at Strumble Head when I hear that Jurgen’s dipping out. I have no connection to Liverpool Football Club but I’m genuinely bit shocked. And then, listening to that explanation, respectful – respectfully disappointed.
I’ve not spent the last twenty-four hours trawling The Athletic (or anywhere else) for in-depth analysis or Insta-goss. This can sit with me as human story; with a thoroughly good man feeling like he best escape into family life/ordinary life ASAP. He owes that to his wife: and crucially, there is life beyond football. Liverpool can’t be everything forever. If there’s a sort of continental drift going on, Klopp’s not going to let his energy combust in the subduction zone. He ain’t gonna go down and let the all-consuming consume him. There’s more ground to discover – a life to be liberated into. Fair play.
Ar Jurgen’s always been easy to love, despite the occasional touchline aberration. (Notes to universe; all managers are monsters). Klopp is unequivocally big-hearted; generous; understanding of and able to coach the best from the human spirit and the collective will. He’s urgent and deep and brilliant, with that soft-left man-hugging soulfulness being a pleasingly sharp contrast to the spiky mania and techno-genius of Pep. The German is more lovable; closer to us; good-natured. A leader who could travel on the bus or tube: and share the jokes about Hendo or the Egyptian King. Even now.
The ‘achievements’ will be listed elsewhere. They’re real, but so too is the feeling. Klopp soaked-up the power of the surge, early doors. He knew he could make a high-energy, irresistible kind of entertainment work at Anfield. It might be high tariff in terms of that gambol around possession as god: he would tilt things more towards directness than control. Liverpool would attack you. The fanbase would identify with that and quite possibly get off, just a little, on the rawness and pace and the somehow ballsy defiance expressed or implied. It would be ‘proper’.
The gaffer understood that Liverpool is unique: there was something he could harness to his own brand. This season, a patently unexceptional Liverpool side – o-kaaay, on the Grand Scale – with a strike force consisting of Mo Salah and two blokes trying to find something find themselves top of the league. Klopp is building quickly,; is ahead of the game again. But he will know that City have more quality and are more likely to approach invulnerability. The reds will need every ounce of the gaffer’s nous and ability to motivate if they are to grab the Prem title.
I do wonder if this is part of Jurgen’s thinking. Plainly he does want to enjoy some semblance of Normal Family Life, *and* avoid a critical loss of verve whilst still in post at Anfield. But could he be stirring yet more definitive defiance amongst the Scouse Posse by announcing this now? Could he be pressing green for go on one more almighty surge? Might he understand that this is the way – the best, most likely way – to keep the storm brewing? I hope the bloke can do it.
Difficult to know, from where most of us are sitting, whether Jadon Sancho has been genuinely worryingly depressed, following his difficult time are Manchester United, or if he’s ‘more simply(?)’ been cheesed-off at his various demotions.
Both scenarios are unfortunate, but only one of them legitimately invokes our sympathy. Either way, and let’s be clear, there may be lots of ways, in this peculiarly contemporary saga – so wise to bin the binaries medium-pronto, yes? – one of few incontrovertible truths here may be the one about how Sancho played his way out of contention. He was poor, on the pitch. But how much of that was a function of stiff, unskilled management of a sensitive or complex soul and how much is down to raw or rather dumb brattishness or lack of application from the player? And, hang on, is that already sounding like another dynamic, oversimplistic duo? ‘Misunderstood’, or ‘Typical Modern Player: lightweight?’
Time-out – early. It can be fun and even invigorating to latch onto View A and judge: or B. It’s just not clever. Deep breath; look in mirror; extend tongue out for inspection. Sniff and re-gather.
We might suspect that Ten Hag is as impassively wooden as his clipped Dutch accent makes him sound. We know that Sancho’s poor timekeeping has been noted over a period – not just at United. But he doesn’t look or feel like a rebel-without-a-clue. Some of us wonder whether the lad was really that good when he came in, or if his stint in Germany was dotted with inconsistency or peripherality. We didn’t really see. Was he truly high-level brilliant, or merely sometimes electrifying? If the former, does over-expectation figure in the matrix, from early-doors?
We ask this because from the moment he stepped out for M U, he rarely looked a top player. Sancho – or this Sancho – could neither do that twisting-the-blood thing nor convincingly play within himself, like an elite player-in-transit might, before finding his or her groove. He looked so short of confidence that even gearing-down to a ‘simple game’ looked beyond him.
We know that (or hear that) a man-hug can sometimes sort this out. The proverbial ‘arm around’. Klopp is likely to be a master at this; Ten Hag, less so. But this does not at all mean that Sancho wasn’t getting enough love, in those early days. He may have been. And besides, for all the legitimate talk of confidence and wellbeing, there is an argument that *in this particular environment*, a measure of resilience is a requirement. Professional sport searches for and supports confidence and makes demands of it. The competitor needs to be resilient: they know this. Theoretically.
An individual may well be delusional about their own contribution but they are aware of what is required. Everywhere, the word ‘expectations’. Who gets in their ears, from club, per-group or family, when times then become challenging, is therefore important. Who’s ‘around?’ How is the challenge met?
Big Brutal Picture. The very nature of ‘form’ – real, constructed or subjectively-viewed – implies judgement and consequence. Sancho plays repeatedly below par and (despite help/support/concern for his wellbeing) he has to be dropped. Whatever the family or agent are saying. Dropped. Not for being a bad man or a weak man or anything else but for playing below par. The reasons are important… but secondary. They will be attended to, but for now, it’s Arsenal away. If, after time, the club hierarchy become displeased by poor attitude or timekeeping or lack of commitment to training; or if the player sparks any difficulties in relationships through petulance or perceived arrogance, then that’s different. Things will deteriorate. The exclusion-through-performance becomes exclusion for misdemeanour.
This will be, weirdly, both an absurdly cushy environment and a disciplined one. (That mad binary is true). Players both ‘don’t know they’re born’ *and* are under a cruel spotlight. Training sessions filmed; contributions checked and logged; bodies sat-navved. Sancho has seemed too bland to fit the role of Champagne Charlie; too quiet to be a subversive. And yet he was banished, to train ‘elsewhere’, suggesting something personal in the drift. Words must have been said.
Of course the club has responsibilities (as well as financial incentives) towards keeping players happy and well. Sancho was a signature investment; whatever the reasons for his poor return, it seems certain that substantial efforts, whether by personal interventions or professional support, will have been made initially, towards appeasing any issues and building ways back to expected form. At Point X, though, a falling-out occurred – a few unwise or spiteful words from either player or manager or both. Given the power-distribution in the relationship, this could only go one way. Ten Hag was right to look to offload.
Leaving, of course, more questions – principally, I would argue, about the younger man. Like who has been around him? He doesn’t appear to have the strut or inclination of a rebel. Who’s in his ear? He was dropped, for playing badly or to little effect. Fine. Work hard, play your way back in. But no. Before we know it trust and those key relationships – that key relationship! – are gone. Busted. We lurch into less edifying territory.
How truly vulnerable has Sancho been? Why this MASSIVE FALL? Why the sense of animosity, as opposed to shared purpose? Oh – and have people in either camp – or both – been, yaknow, *clutching at agendas?*
This dispiriting episode may yet prove more unsatisfactory if it turns out the player could have bitten his lip and knuckled down but for other influences. Or is he really just a bit young, a bit deluded… a bit unable to accept the non-negotiables?
Sancho will really have to work to restore himself, now. I genuinely hope he can.
70-odd thousand supporters in the ground; a grandstand finish; some heroic effort and some painfully poor choices when Our Lot seemed likely to score. Star player on the night and wisest, coolest head? In the pundit’s chair – Emma Hayes. And goddammit she’s lost to America. Everybody else bit lost in the rush and the ‘urgency’. So yeh, Proper England.
Russo fabulously mobile and full of intent – but only on the park for twenty minutes. James and Kirby and Stanway scandalously wayward or seemingly lazy… but probably just nervy, because despite their experience these MASSIVE, FLOODLIT, WEMBLEY NIGHTS are maybe something you do grow into over time. And then, in any case, they were stirred to brilliance. The visitors run ragged but also doing that ‘we’re here and we’re going to pick our moment because we *just might* have more class (or certainly composure) than you Inglish’ thing. The Oranje looking, in that first half, like they might get battered but win three nil.
Pick your moment to get irate about. Or enthuse about. Or say ‘this could only be England’ about. Because this was/is authentic, now. Was it the godawful second goal, where every Lioness in the building went AWOL, or misjudged, or daren’t commit, before the consistently excellent Earps let a distinctly ordinary shot squirm under her body? Was it when James repeated the Unbelievably Bad Choice Option, despite having time and options? Was it Kirby – the brilliant, low-slung, cerebral, skilful Kirby – being persona non wotsits again; as absent as her fellow water-carrier (and fellow absentee) Walsh? I lost energy on all these things.
But c’mon. We were gripped. By the drama of the last half hour, and the quality of Hemp, despite her cruel isolation, and by the two richly weighted assists from James, and the wonder-pass that made the Netherland’s opener. Gripped.
When Toone – who had rightly been dropped after a series of performances which kinda personified the Lionesses thoroughly disappointing campaign – slid in the winner from James’s perceptive cross, Wembley went medium-bonkers in a particularly satisfying way.
England had surged back, hugely to their credit. The gaffer – Wiegmann – who had maybe been found wanting, tactically, early doors, threw Mead and Russo and probably Stanley Matthews at this, late on. She could have withdrawn Bronze or Stanway or Kirby or anyone but Hemp, at the half. Instead the tangential (and wasteful) Kelly got the hook, with England two-down and weirdly both dominant and worryingly porous. Then Morgan, then everybody with an English passport put shoulder to the wheel. It was a great win.
What it means though, is likely disappointment. Post-match, the wonderfully sturdy Earp heaped the blame on herself. Nah. One big error but she was exposed by poor work in front. Plus England should have capitalized on chances before and after the two weak concessions. Earp we love, for her general quality and the occasional delightfully obvious and possibly marginally defiant ‘what the fuck’, to the nearest and most intrusive camera. You’d want her in your mob.
As a squad, this particular group have under-achieved in this particular competition. But what the fuck? They got Wembley rammed. They won something major. They are worth the investment and the grief. They are our new, watchable, wonderful Ingerland.
Life can be traumatic; we know this. Real Life and when we play.
Often, in the latter, we get sucked in to ‘traumas’ and ‘dramas’ that are so patently manufactured or disproportionate that we should be bloody embarrassed, yes? But hang on. Describing or critiquing levels of authenticity and place and value, as though there’s some hierarchy or league table of meaning? Na. We’re neck-deep in the febrile and the tribal, even us brainy-bums. We’re not gonna escape into clear philosophical waters – not whilst we’re bawling at the telly, coz those footballers are cheating.
It may be true that somehow the universe is conspiring more than ever towards some swamptastic mania, or that we’re falling into it more readily, but perhaps that suspicion is more revealing of my own relative superannuation, than any quantifiable truth? (You Statspeeps, am I right? Can we measure this out? Do ‘socials’ and the surge towards intense, short, highly-colo(u)rific events sling us with developing and increasingly irresistible force into the whirl? Are they doing it more than before? Is everything about lust and intoxication – was it always? Or am becoming a Daft Old Sod?)
Flitting between screens and sports over recent days, it strikes me that the roaring at Elland Road and Goodison, the insane closeness of mountain-stage fans at the Giro and the parallel, if changeful calm at many cricket grounds is an absolute wonder, in its breadth and its signalling of the human condition. We are mad. We are both unhinged from the actual sport and inseparable, just tossed into a capricious mind-stew. We are watchful and equitable and off our heads. We can judge with either crystalline brilliance or the feeblest and most outrageous dishonesty, the shift of a hand or foot. Depends whose team. Depends which player. Depends how many sherberts.
Everton, Leeds, Forest fans. Mad as a box of frogs – and also wonderful. But seething and on the edge, with that rather disturbing sense that they want something to hate. (That’s a bit dark, yes? Sits quite close to the fear that violence may erupt). On the footie scene, was it just me, or, at this season’s end, were there more players and managers conspicuously whipping up the crowd? Sure that’s part of the theatre but… is it a thin bit, a look-at-me bit, or something more unhelpful? Get that it’s inevitably of the now but is This Frenzy a concern – or when is it a concern?
Many of you will know that I have worked in cricket, for years, as a coach. And that I follow the game – in particular England and Wales Women. I’m fascinated by the contraflows around that whole ‘traditional’ cricket narrative and the epoch-changing turbulence currently turning the game upside-down. Again the richness is extraordinary. Go to a well-supported county game at Taunton or The Oval or Headingley and soak up that restful vibe. Check out Glos v Glam, in the Blast, on the live feed. All will be well, in the moment. But wow, behind the scenes…
The times are impacting. Politics, economics, changing fashions, greed and maladministration internationally are impacting – or have. The madness and short-sightedness of (Indocentric), 21st century capitalism is of course the particular and extraordinary context. Some would say that big-money corporatism has replaced glacial imperialism as the controlling force, and that national and county or regional boards have been sucked-in or squished, in the race to provide sexier fayre.
Plainly, in the UK, the fabulous mix of Old Money, ‘traditional support’, exclusion, inclusion and the mass of what I’m going to call *actual cricket-watchers* has been (as they euphemistically say) challenged by the bolt into newness. Things are complex but also heartfelt – so simple. Most County Cricket fans are deeply insulted by the fact of and manner in which the Hundred was parachuted-in. They find the gaudiness offensive, the PR insulting and believe it was part of a plan to slim-down the Counties, by making the Blast non-viable. They think the ECB were suckered or bundled into changes which ticked boxes but utterly disrespected those who most obviously, in their view love and support the game.
The counter-arguments are that a) change had to happen because (for example) the County Championship (and therefore the Counties) is/are not sustainable and b) cricket must grow and find a new audience. In simple terms, not enough people go to watch Four Day Cricket and the game needs re-invigorating, to draw in a further wedge of TV money.
Few of us would argue that the status quo was entirely fit for purpose, pre- the Hundred, but this not the same as backing it. (Of course we live in our own bubbles but a strong majority of the Cricket People I know think it was not just divisive but flat unnecessary… because the Blast was improving and improvable at massively lower cost, both in terms of cash and goodwill). I would also place myself in the admittedly lower percentage of people dismissing the idea of growth itself. Growth in terms of inclusion – yes, absolutely. But think it’s unrealistic and unnecessary to think in terms of a HUGE GAME. Enough can be enough – not to exclude folks – but because cricket might just always have a lower profile than football. And that might be ok: make the game better, not necessarily bigger.
It’s possible that some of those who voted in the Hundred genuinely want more diverse and younger audiences for cricket, because they feel that is right, as well as smart. It’s possible that some just fell for an attractive power-point. Either way, it was a big moment; one that has not, because of the explosion in international franchise or short-format cricket, secured the future of the game. Far from it. The wider game – the world-wide game – has lurched into another crisis. Everybody wants to own, run, or play in an IPL.
The Indian Premier League is The Beast. Now featuring a women’s tournament, its seemingly undeniable clout and import have sent cricket somewhere else entirely. The money – because of the massive Indian cricket audience, largely – is colossal and life-changing, for players. Revenue from TV and advertising is stupendous. Owners and broadcasters relentlessly ladle on the noise and the colour. It’s febrile; appropriate to the age; possibly defining it.
This affects all of us in cricket. The young players on our pathways are aware of it, administrators the world over are trying to replicate it or ‘factor it in’ – whether that be to corporate planning or junior training. Elite players are right now deciding whether to go all in on ‘franchise opportunities’, ‘stay loyal’ to their national sides, or maybe burn out, trying to do the lot. Heads are being turned, by the numbers, the dancing girls and the dosh. It’s baseballification-plus, with different-level money.
We’re all different and all the same: rubbing shoulders, raising a holler. Being part of the tribe. It’s magic; it’s scary; it’s dumb; it’s wonderful. We all do it, and we sportsfolks do it compulsively. We ‘go ballistic’. It may even be a necessary part of the congenital daft-punkism that drives all games and supporters: essential to the energy and the craic. (And by the way surely something in that fervour drives performance – maybe as much as the eight zillion hours of practice?) I love the crazy difference between Evertonians and Glamorgan Travellers. I love that we both lose ourselves and yet we also have the power. Because we are the crowds.
Go elsewhere for the 5 Moments of Greatest Garethness or the 5 Whitchurch Women Who Withered, Unwanted. For the goss and the factoids, go elsewhere. We’re gonna talk about poetry. Bale the Blistering Wingman of Doom; Bale the Arch-archer of Dead-Ball Wizardry. Gareth the Flier and Gossamer Druid.
He raced in to our lives and lifted the sport and the bloody, blood-red country. More direct, more threatening and winningly more committed to the cause than Giggs, Bale really did seem to ooze Welshness; it was inseparable from his outsize talent, bleeding across a series of developing Red Armies until a Qatar seemed inevitable. And he did it all crocked.
Isolate a few goals – haring down the wing for Tottenham/clubbing obscenely overhead, for Real – and you may have the sense of the generationally-spectacular talent: but there will always be a tension in the wider world around the Bale Enigma thing. By its nature it’s probably unresolvable but that won’t stop the lads on TalkBollocksFM blathering, between farts…
How crocked was he, for how long?
When did he know he would have to ‘manage his way’ through?
(Or) was he just one of those blokes with a lowish pain-threshold?
Not sure many Wales fans were asking or will ask these questions but…
Why did the Real die-hards hate him – did he really spend most of his life on the golf course?
Was he really such an Ex-Pat Air-head that he failed, over all that time, to join in?
Minor fascinations for some. Much of the evidence for his relationships with colleagues points to a good, funny, humble bloke. So an admittedly weird mix of convivial laddishness and excommunication. It’s feasible Bale was both chirpy and ‘quiet’. Certainly he was a low-octane captain for his country, sure enough or quiet enough to single out his moments of import or intervention *at interval*. Meaning he neither blazed nor bawled: he was a god of stealth and inspiration.
Wales has felt blessed to carry him and Bale, wonderfully, has deeply understood and reciprocated. He’s poured what he had back into the surge towards legitimacy. For aeons, the national side simply had no players, or so few that even the crackle and hwyl of their honesty and pride would not, could not get them to the tournaments that mattered. Not quite. Then Bale and Ramsey found themselves amongst a matrix of goodish, competitive individuals. Yes they still had to punch above but the squad could hold their own… and wait for one of those moments.
Gareth Bale provided and kept on doing it. ‘Til the good folks of Abertillery and Aberaeron could finally stop talking about ’58.
If we say little about Qatar it’s because Wales plainly underperformed. The skipper himself was peripheral; unable to string things together, never mind electrify the campaign in the way he and His Country had hoped. But Gareth Bale had already passed into legend – in that sense his work was done. He was bard-like, he was totemic, he was a real Prince of the People already.
Some of us said (and wrote), immediately after the tournament exit that the lad from Whitchurch Comp should call it a day – that it was right and that he deserved to stop. Enough of that nursing.
Wow. Best part of 30 posts, on the site and all but four on cricket. I suppose that’s the legacy of a worldview targeting my former Cricket Man audience. (For newbies, I was @cricketmanwales and cricketmanwales.com for some years, before I decided to freshen this baybee up and use the sportslaureate appendage. I am still proud to work on the Cricket Wales Pathway, as a coach, but may be preparing the ground – honestly dunno – for a combination-thing with bowlingatvincent.com sometime in the future). Anyways. Twenty posts on women’s cricket: perversely proud of that.
Let’s blaze through the oddities. Two posts on important, interesting and influential cricket books – ‘Hitting Against the Spin’ and ‘Different Class’. (Buy and read: simple). The annual (blokes’) Finals Day pilgrimage. An appreciation of Phil Bennett. And four posts on England in Qatar and one on Lionesses v Sweden.
The year started, perhaps appropriately, with something on Bairstow:
Is there also a sense that, being drawn to drama, Bairstow’s juices simply don’t always flow? That he responds to situations which demand heroics? Despite being plainly a mentally and physically tough guy, his contributions seem fickle – less reliable than his personality and grit and gifts would suggest.
If we squint at the notion of the Year As A Whole, somehow Jonny B has retreated into the steamy-glorious wake of Stokes and McCullum.. but this absolute Yorkie, this ‘broad, bellowing, beautiful battler‘ owned, or should own a powerful chunk of our sporting memories.
Because of my traditional support of women’s international cricket, the Hand Grenade of Lurv that Stokes and McCullum have rolled under Test Cricket is woefully under-represented. In Worthy Winners, (December), I do finally capture something of the generosity and yes, wonder implicit in England’s lurch towards fearlessness and out-living.
I may need a month away somewhere exotic, or a pint of poteen, or a long, deep sleep. To find the words, the New Superlatives. But there’s that over-riding urge, is there not, to record it now – the thrill, the love, the stand-up-and-raise-the-rafters-ness? Stokes. Anderson. Robinson. Bazza. And a Great Moment in Sport.
This was Rawalpindi but it could have been every time England stepped on the park. It was a travesty of some magnitude that Stokes didn’t gather-in the BBC’s Sports Personality of the Year Award: he certainly gets mine.
My broad choice to deliberately shun men’s cricket in favour of Knight, Sciver and co weakened at two further points. I was there, in Bristol, when things got ‘obscene’ to the tune of 234 in twenty overs and wrote on arguably the sporting performance of the year, when Buttler and Hales carted India into history, in that World Cup semi.
At Gloucester County Cricket Club – or whatever we’re supposed to call it – I went live, as per, as England went ballistic. (Brizzle again. With the blokes – July). But looking back I find I still found the moment to *comment more widely*…
To my right, the recently-retired-into-a-job-on-telly Eoin Morgan, in a very Eoin Morgan jumper – beige/faun, v-neck, politely inoffensive – is with the A-listers Butcher and Ward. Doing his Mr Clean-but-bright thing. No sound on our monitor so can only imagine the chat is high level; usually is with those gents. Life been busy so banging in the coffees. 18.18.
I was working when Buttler and Hales did their utterly remarkable job on India, but scuttled back to – theoretically at least – offer reasoned and informed views. (Can’t wait. November).
About noon. Seen six minutes of highlights so this qualifies me. I can blast away, like Hales and Buttler, confident in the knowledge that my opining is shining and query-proof. Especially as you lot can’t be arsed (allegedly) to think beyond counter-bawls, which don’t count, or only count on the Twitters.
Glad I subconsciously cross-referenced (that’s a thing, right?) the Hales-Morgan divide, during these streams of erm, reportage.
But The Women.
Have moaned a little, over the years, about the lack of support and appreciation for women’s sport generally, and particularly within the field I choose to follow. The BIGGEST, MOST WUNNERFUL THING, in 2022, is/was, of course, the now undeniable surge in quality/exposure and therefore support for female sport. Think England Lionesses – but also the stunning improvements in the WSL – and think cricket.
Australia are streets ahead, still, but England are and have been for some time the #bestteamintheworldthatisntAustralia. For me the Hundred has been only a bit-player in this – but I’m not going to get drawn into that, for now. The ginormous and healthy and fabulously watchable upswing in women’s elite and international cricket has been building relatively unseen, for years but finally, despite continuing, glaring omissions, is (relatively), crucially visible. Folks can see that Wong is a thriller and that Ecclestone a genuine worldie.
The noble (and prickly, and fire-breathing) work of Brunt has earned this. (Not just her, plainly, but Brunty is my Goddess of Wall-dismantleage). Skills and agility and power and pace and inge-bloody-nuity have boomed. Despite poorish crowds and poorish money. Heather Knight has grown from Arch-typically Doughty England Skipper into a great, consistent, sometimes expansive bat. It’s worth paying the entry money to see Villiers throw.
I went to the single Test, in Taunton. (Eng SA, July). It was rain-affected but it mattered. For one thing this is a matter of respect (yes?) For another, as England enter the post Brunt & Shrubsole era, the universe is calling for bonafide, legitimate, ‘saleable’ stars.
Wong is bowling 70-plus. Legitimate bouncer. Then oooff. She bowls Wolvaardt – arguably South Africa’s key bat. Full and straight, didn’t appear do do a huge amount but clattered into the off-stump. Big Moment for Wong and for the game – she looks suitably pumped.
Issy Wong is ready – and more. She can carry the exposure, the hope, the drama. Wong is raw and waggish (in the good way): she’s a talent and a laff and she can hoop the ball around thrillingly. If the world needs fast bowlers (and my god it does!) and ‘characters’ (and my god it does!) Ms I.E.C.M. Wong is the dude. Or duchess. Or star we all need. Seriously; the emergence of Wong/Bell/Capsey to bolster the boostage is important, gratifying, necessary, good. It’s one of many reasons to get into women’s cricket right now.
(Decider: Eng v India, July).
Wong will want a share of this. She looks determined to the point of mild anger. She bowls 69mph, then slaps in a bouncer which Rana can only smile thinly at.
(Spoiler alert: Eng smash the mighty continent, to confirm their clear second place, behind Mighty Oz).
Big Picture. I’ve been saying for years that India are under-achieving, largely because they have remained significantly behind their hosts, tonight. Given the resources theoretically available to the mighty continent, they have been persistently less professional, less convincing and less dynamic than Liccle Ingerland.
There are lots of words about Eng women. Only about half a dozen of us have consistently followed and reported their action. Go read. Then watch them on’t tellybox and go watch them live. It’s lovely.
In November I got into the football, thrashing wildly at the Meaning of Qatar, in Swallow.
We had Russia and now we have Qatar. Both monsters…
I was particularly offended by the fans buyout – i.e. the bribing of the England Band and a clutch of Wales fans, by the Qatari regime. It was like a profoundly appropriate symbol for Trump/Putin/Johnson era shithousery. Magnificently, shamelessly appalling in the manner of the political/philosophical moment: diabolically ‘2022’.
The England Band buy-out is almost funny. Except that I think we should find them, slam them in stocks at St George’s Park and lustily launch any available rotting fruit (and maybe orange paint). Fellas, you might think you are being cute, merely extending the repertoire of your slightly middle-class playfulness, but no. You are t**ts of a very high order. Shameless, brainless, conscienceless t**ts. Same for you taffs.
I also *had words* about Southgate, particularly contrasting his honourable conservatism with the liberating, intuitive McCullum/Stokes axis. This felt a BIG DIFFERENCE.
Bazball is predicated on a hearty kind of fearlessness – but one which*dares* and attacks. Southgate, in my view, is incapable of that – and yes, that does diminish him.I repeat my admiration for the England football gaffer as a man of integrity and political/cultural significance. I also note that my/our criticism of him is absolutely not borne of English exceptionalist entitlement (and therefore delusion). Southgate is a man of caution. He’s not a great coach.
Southgate couldn’t pick Rashford, to race and dazzle, against France. Because despite the United man being plainly on fire, his edgy lack of proportion and reliability – his immediate force, in other words – didn’t fit with Southgate’s measured way. This, for me, was obviously erroneous and yet classic Sir Gareth.
But we can’t finish on either this marginal narrowness, or with the wider, surreal nihilism or negativity of the political milieu, 2022-style. Not when most of The Writing here is essentially an act of protest. In a few words, 2022 was brilliant when we think of…
Women’s sport finally coming into focus – and our livingrooms. Levels of quality soaring.
Stokes, McCullum.
Wong/Bell/Cross – particularly Cross, who is a favourite (and I can’t explain that) – running in, carrying our hopes.
Friends, I have no idea if I can sustain my travelling and ridicu-‘reporting’, into 2023. But I may. Thankyou for your support: please do read/follow/re-tweet – all that bollocks is helpful. Remember my political wing is over on bowlingatvincent.com
sportslaureate 