Taking sport too seriously

I've watched all the World Cup Finals since 1986 but, since that first one, the classic Maradona-defined 5-goal thriller between Argentina and Germany, they haven't really been a great bunch. 1990 was an ugly shocker between the same sides, '94 a boring shocker between Italy and Brazil decided by penalties, 2010 another ugly shocker where Howard Webb had far too much to do. Being the biggest match for the biggest sport in the world, it's rather a shame that it usually doesn't live up to expectation. At least the sequence of finals from 1998 through 2002 to 2006, though none of them great matches in themselves, provide a fascinating narrative which is, fittingly, all about the two greatest players of that era, as the World Cup Final should be. And 1998 and 2006, those were event finals. They contained stories which people will always remember, though neither was captured by the camera, at least not instantly. 1998's final is remembered for Ronaldo, the

Brian O'Driscoll will shortly be the most capped rugby player of all time, and he's possibly the best player of the last 30 years, which realistically means he may well be the best rugby player of all time. Certainly of the Northern Hemisphere. As detailed in my previous blog, Irish rugby was pretty crappy for a pretty long time in the 80s and 90s, perennial underdogs with just the occasional stand-out moment.  Since 1999 it's been a bit different though. They haven't become world beaters, but they've become a force, a unit, both internationally and domestically through Munster and Leinster, no longer subservient to the neighbours across the sea. They don't win every match, but they've always got a very realistic chance. The O'Driscoll era is almost over, but I still remember the day it began in earnest, Sunday March 19th 2000. He'd already impressed me a bit in the that year's Six Nations, and was clearly the future star of Irish rugby. But

I've always loved watching sport in the flesh. From a young age, I'd be mesmerised by a game of park football, watch my brother playing cricket, whatever I could find. But, funnily enough, I've never been a regular, a day-in day-out fan of one team, be it Spurs, Brentford, Middlesex, whatever. The nearest to that I've been was being taken, along with my siblings, to Sunbury to watch London Irish playing rugby in the late 80s. My father was Treasurer of the club and a former player, but I'm not sure I remember seeing him play, maybe once. Thankfully, he stopped when he was 45, when I was 7. When I say he played for London Irish, that really doesn't mean what it means now. He played for the 2nds or 3rds in an old-school funtime amateur set-up. They were all Irish back then, though! Likewise, the fact that he would nearly always take us on a Sunday meant that we probably weren't seeing the very best of the it. I think they had Saturday and Sunday teams, and

From one dour Scot called Andy hitting a ball over a net to another. Seamlessly I move. When I think of moments of pure sporting pleasure in my own life, playing table tennis against a fellow called Andy (no S) Lyle looms surprisingly large. In my Hall of Residence at St Andrews Uni, John Burnet, appeared, at the start of the second term, a table tennis table. Rare delight! I was a pretty nifty player and generally had the beating of all my friends, and you know what it's like with racquet/bat sports, they're very much most enjoyable for everyone if they're a closely fought contest. There were a few good matches, but generally I'd have to play really poorly to lose. I even beat a few folk with the wrong hand, and the jest for me was seeing if they noticed. Aah, the arrogance of youth! This guy, Andy Lyle, was no friend of mine, or it seems, of many people. He was an awkward, geeky, sarcastic Scot of the old school (his only friend was called Jamie Scotland, I reca

Remember this one? The date comes easily to me, as, for the second year in a row, I found myself with my family watching Andy Murray in the Wimbledon final at my niece's birthday. The memories of the strong start then gradual loss of the battle of wills to an inspired Federer from 2012 were fresh in the memory. I expected the same this time round. Djokovic does not know when he is beaten. He could play for days. Despite his epic semi-final against Juan Martin Del Potro, I expected him to have more in the tank than Murray, as he has at the Australian Open earlier in the year. We all remember the incredible last game, where Murray went 40-0, then Djokovic reeled him in to break point, and suddenly it was all on this game, triumph or disaster, and somehow or other Murray held his nerve. The record books show an easy 3 set win, but we all know differently. We all sat, all us adults, glued to our seats as the, dare I say it, slightly neglected children played on behind us, with

Watching the relentless BBC coverage of the Winter Olympics, there's been plenty of time to fill when a plucky Brit wasn't finishing a creditable 19th, and several times they've filled that time by reminding us that it is exactly 30 years since the timeless glory of Torvill and Dean at Sarajevo. While Ice Dancing has never been high up on my list of sports, it is nevertheless an iconic moment, remembered by anyone who watched it. I realised that it is my very first sporting memory, predating the 1984 Los Angeles Summer Olympics, the 1984 West Indies tour to England and the 1985 Davis-Taylor snooker final, which also figure clearly in my early consciousness. So I've been a sports fan for 30 years. A massive sports fan. A sports bore. The title of this blog is exactly what I do. Except I don't actually believe that. I just think most people don't take sport seriously enough. Once, when making my slightly controversial case to an unbeliever that sport is actu

England's most talented, charismatic batsman, whose only rival in the side in terms of achievement is the stolid, workmanlike Essex opener who also happens to be the captain, is summarily barred from further involvement in international cricket after a disastrous Ashes tour where he was by no means the worst batsman statistically. The decision to omit the batsman, a former captain of the side who has spent some of his childhood in Africa, is a controversial one as he has been a divisive figure throughout his career, many feeling that despite his weight of runs and continued commitment to the national cause, he has underachieved, played by his own rules too much, and is an unsettling figure in the dressing room. Up and down the nation, it is debated by cricket fans. "David Gower? David Gower's a waste of space" a boy says in the school playing ground. "Gooch was right to get rid of him ..." See what I've done there. I'm playing with memory a lit