As I met a distant relative today, whom I have not seen for 20 years, I was reminded of two things: how old I am, and how great it is to be able to refer to London as home. Unlike my age, which I never really enjoy referring to in any context unless I am conversing with people over the age of 40, the ability to refer to London as home is one that always evokes a certain feeling of pride. Yes, I left London over a year ago for sunnier climes, but I still remember that feeling you get when someone asks you where you live. Most cities or towns would be mumbled quietly in response, perhaps as you thrust your hands defensively into your pockets and look down at the ground; “Um, Oswaldtwhistle, you know, just outside Blackburn … up north?” You might even throw in a general geographic reference to minimise the damage. But when you reside in one of the world’s truly great cities the response is completely different. You still might put your hands in your pockets but this time with your head held high, and perhaps with an accompanying pivot on the toes and gentle pelvic thrust, depending on the company: “LONDON.” You spit it out at the interrogator like you’ve just slapped down an unbeatable hand in poker. You challenge them to better it. Few can, except perhaps Parisians and New Yorkers. But it is days like today when London gives you a glimpse into the heart of what truly makes it great. Forget the multicultural faces of Oxford Street, or Somers Town alleys full of pubs and chippies. Forget the black cabs and red buses. Today, tonight, it is all about White Hart Lane.
With the English Premier League season drawing to a breathless close all eyes are focussed on Manchester United and Chelsea. United are doing their best to hold on to their chances like a slippery bar of Cussons Imperial Leather; Chelsea are positioning themselves perfectly to take advantage when the soap is dropped. But there is another entity lurking in this misty, steamy shower scene, dagger in hand, waiting for that Hitchcock moment to yank back the shower curtain: Arsenal. Do not be fooled by the studious Wenger and his perceived lack of killer instinct. Arsenal have not been in this position for almost ten years and believe you me, they are not about to waste it. The French have a habit of conjuring up some real magic when it matters most – please resist the urge at this point to think of that famous volleyball player Thierry Henry, or that martial arts expert Eric Cantona – and I suspect the “prestige”, as magicians say when referring to their big finale, is very close to being revealed by Wenger and his charges. With respect to some amazing clashes at both ends of the table this season, tonight may very well be an all-time classic. Arsenal are up against their greatest rivals Tottenham Hotspur, and it’s this sort of clash that brings life to the streets of North London. Occasionally a bit of death too. Spurs are smarting from their recent FA Cup exit. Arsenal are potentially timing their run for the league title to perfection. The resulting clash could prove astonishing.
The distant relative I was speaking to earlier told me she now lives in Hackney, and it immediately brought back those fond memories of just what life in London meant to me: kebabs, ale (not usually in that order), shops, good food, great music, movies, shows, traffic, tube delays, rain, crime, Gordon Brown. I think I just remembered why I left. I digress … I only ever watched two Premier League games in my eight years in the capital of England – neither of them London derbies – and few sporting occasions, barring perhaps Wimbledon, the FA Cup and the Olympics, can bring such a buzz and vibrant atmosphere to the city. Tonight will be a massive show, but such is the sheer size of London it will probably go largely unnoticed by the majority of Londoners. And that’s part of the brilliance of the place. There is always something going on that satisfies every interest. So as I sit here on the other side of the world preparing myself for yet another early morning in order to watch a recording of the match, I cannot help but feel a pang of jealousy. An old colleague who sat across from me in London is equipped with as much wit in his sense of humour as he is with passion for his beloved Arsenal. He attends every game, which I guess makes him very witty. He is one of those lucky few who, tonight, are part of something special; part of the great beating heart of London. It reminds me of the day when managed to catch the opening stage of the Tour de France shooting by outside Buckingham Palace, followed by a quick beer in a Kensington pub, and the final few sets of the mixed doubles semi-finals at Wimbledon on my way home. Those were the days. I guess I will have to settle for the Red Bull Air Race this weekend in Perth. For the record Arsenal will win 2-1. They will also go on and win the title. I hope the pigs that fly don’t hit any planes at the Air Race.
Wednesday, 14 April 2010
Wednesday, 7 April 2010
Masters of their Domain
Will he or won’t he? Everyone wants to know, but not everyone is asking the same question. Will he win? Will he make the cut? Will he be the golfer he once was? Will he be as dominant? Will he return to his old ways? Will he overhaul Nicklaus’s 18 major titles? Every person walking the emerald fairways this week at Augusta National has one such question on their lips, perhaps even Tiger Woods himself, but frustratingly few people are even bothering to consider the most important question of all – who will win this year’s green jacket. It seems like a banal, facile question to ask, but here’s why it isn’t:
Such is the impact Tiger Woods has had on the game that sadly only one thing is more noticeable than his presence on the course, and that is his absence. When a player’s absence in any sport detracts from the actual playing of that sport, questions have to be asked; even more so when that player’s return to the sport overshadows the grand event in which they are due to make their return. No golfer is bigger than the game itself. But Tiger Woods, in his admission that he felt “entitled” to the various indiscretions in which he became involved, has all but admitted he felt above the very spirit and tradition the game is supposed to instil in its fans and players. The spirit and tradition of golf arguably both apply as much on the course as off it, and Tiger has as much impressed as failed to in both departments.
There is no debating what Tiger Woods has done for the game through ratings, charities, raising of the bar, and challenging history, but surely it would ultimately come down in the end to how a player has conducted themselves as a competitor, a role model, a winner, and as a loser? Tiger can take golf to as many grassroots as he likes, but if the children at those levels are aspiring to be him, then we should feel very sorry for them. His recent activities off the course are abominable enough, but what is almost worse is the willingness of the fans and the media in the last few weeks to simply roll over and take him back. Elin Woods is not the only one who has been lied to and left broken-hearted – so has everyone who loves golf. Why do we so easily forget Tiger’s antipathy towards Ryder Cup golf, perhaps the greatest event in the game? Why has nothing more been made of the driver he released in anger in Melbourne in 2009, which bounced about four rows back into a tightly-packed crowd and cracked someone on the head? Why do we look the other way when he swears, spits, and roars in frustration on every other hole? When he slings a club at his bag in disgust? Why do we shrug and simply nod our heads at him when he arrogantly stares down a crowd of journalists at a press conference and answers questions in the most aloof fashion imaginable? Are we that much in awe of the man? He is not the man we once thought he was. Shouldn’t we now start treating him as a golfer, not a god?
Tiger, in his new efforts to be “less hot” on the course, has admitted that his negative and positive outbursts will be kept in check. He has admitted that he has done a lot of soul searching and inward analysis, and that he didn’t like what he saw. But what he was before, which was evidently an arrogant, detached, self-important, over confident and at times obnoxious brat, is precisely what made him into the barely beatable mega-golfer he was. Put yourself in his shoes; if you had found a lethal recipe that enabled you to concoct the most audacious performances on and off the course, would you really, truly, try to throw all that away just because you got caught out? I’d bet my dust-covered golf clubs that you wouldn’t. What you would do, and what I will go out on a limb and suggest Tiger is about to conjure up, is figure out a different way to apply that recipe and return to those heady days you remember so well. How else does he intend to return to the top of the game, and arguably be the best sportsman, let alone golfer, in the world? If he genuinely is changing his ways and is approaching life as a different person, then I am afraid he is saying goodbye to the killer instinct. Nice guys finish last, after all.
So, I’ll ask again; who will win this year’s green jacket? Simple. The person, come Sunday afternoon, who deserves to. And it ain’t Tiger Woods. He knows it, we know it. There are many stories out there this weekend in Georgia; Steve Stricker, the comeback kid. Ernie Els, the resurgent Big Easy. Phil Mickelson, the humble, talented southpaw. Padraig Harrington, the hard working Irishman with the voice of a jockey. What about the Molinari brothers? Kenny Perry? Camilo Villegas? The 16-year-old Matteo Manassero? McIlroy, Poulter, Ishikawa? We need to move on from Tiger. I suspect he has some wins left in him, but his day has come and gone. We are entering the very early stages of the post-Tiger era. However, he has proved me wrong time and time again, and I wouldn’t be surprised if he does again. After all, Jack Nicklaus donned his last green jacket at the ripe old age of 46 in the mid-eighties. He was then, and still is, happily married.
Such is the impact Tiger Woods has had on the game that sadly only one thing is more noticeable than his presence on the course, and that is his absence. When a player’s absence in any sport detracts from the actual playing of that sport, questions have to be asked; even more so when that player’s return to the sport overshadows the grand event in which they are due to make their return. No golfer is bigger than the game itself. But Tiger Woods, in his admission that he felt “entitled” to the various indiscretions in which he became involved, has all but admitted he felt above the very spirit and tradition the game is supposed to instil in its fans and players. The spirit and tradition of golf arguably both apply as much on the course as off it, and Tiger has as much impressed as failed to in both departments.
There is no debating what Tiger Woods has done for the game through ratings, charities, raising of the bar, and challenging history, but surely it would ultimately come down in the end to how a player has conducted themselves as a competitor, a role model, a winner, and as a loser? Tiger can take golf to as many grassroots as he likes, but if the children at those levels are aspiring to be him, then we should feel very sorry for them. His recent activities off the course are abominable enough, but what is almost worse is the willingness of the fans and the media in the last few weeks to simply roll over and take him back. Elin Woods is not the only one who has been lied to and left broken-hearted – so has everyone who loves golf. Why do we so easily forget Tiger’s antipathy towards Ryder Cup golf, perhaps the greatest event in the game? Why has nothing more been made of the driver he released in anger in Melbourne in 2009, which bounced about four rows back into a tightly-packed crowd and cracked someone on the head? Why do we look the other way when he swears, spits, and roars in frustration on every other hole? When he slings a club at his bag in disgust? Why do we shrug and simply nod our heads at him when he arrogantly stares down a crowd of journalists at a press conference and answers questions in the most aloof fashion imaginable? Are we that much in awe of the man? He is not the man we once thought he was. Shouldn’t we now start treating him as a golfer, not a god?
Tiger, in his new efforts to be “less hot” on the course, has admitted that his negative and positive outbursts will be kept in check. He has admitted that he has done a lot of soul searching and inward analysis, and that he didn’t like what he saw. But what he was before, which was evidently an arrogant, detached, self-important, over confident and at times obnoxious brat, is precisely what made him into the barely beatable mega-golfer he was. Put yourself in his shoes; if you had found a lethal recipe that enabled you to concoct the most audacious performances on and off the course, would you really, truly, try to throw all that away just because you got caught out? I’d bet my dust-covered golf clubs that you wouldn’t. What you would do, and what I will go out on a limb and suggest Tiger is about to conjure up, is figure out a different way to apply that recipe and return to those heady days you remember so well. How else does he intend to return to the top of the game, and arguably be the best sportsman, let alone golfer, in the world? If he genuinely is changing his ways and is approaching life as a different person, then I am afraid he is saying goodbye to the killer instinct. Nice guys finish last, after all.
So, I’ll ask again; who will win this year’s green jacket? Simple. The person, come Sunday afternoon, who deserves to. And it ain’t Tiger Woods. He knows it, we know it. There are many stories out there this weekend in Georgia; Steve Stricker, the comeback kid. Ernie Els, the resurgent Big Easy. Phil Mickelson, the humble, talented southpaw. Padraig Harrington, the hard working Irishman with the voice of a jockey. What about the Molinari brothers? Kenny Perry? Camilo Villegas? The 16-year-old Matteo Manassero? McIlroy, Poulter, Ishikawa? We need to move on from Tiger. I suspect he has some wins left in him, but his day has come and gone. We are entering the very early stages of the post-Tiger era. However, he has proved me wrong time and time again, and I wouldn’t be surprised if he does again. After all, Jack Nicklaus donned his last green jacket at the ripe old age of 46 in the mid-eighties. He was then, and still is, happily married.
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