On rare occasions sport can be genuinely moving. For me, this is usually when the human body is celebrated by an individual who at their absolute peak of condition shows off the wonderful things it can do. The triumph of heptathlete Jessica Ennis at the World Athletics Championship over the weekend was an instance. I’ll treasure the memory because she’ll perhaps never again be so perfectly able to deliver her combination of skills free from injury or anxiety. It was the kind of glowing performance only a twenty-two year old who’s never won anything major could turn in. Almost as marvellous was the obvious camaraderie between most of the competitors as they congratulated each other afterwards – I’m not sure the Ukrainians were joining in the dancing, but then there’s always a serpent in Eden.
Her triumph was followed by Usain Bolt’s mind-boggling 9.58 win over one hundred metres. I suppose one’s reaction to that should have been the same, but here it’s the desperate wish to believe which colours the result. His sudden improvement over the distance, along with that of other Jamaican sprinters, and their board’s equivocal reaction to positive doping tests, leaves a nagging anxiety. Some of us remember how we were taken in by ‘Flo Jo’ too well.
I don’t find myself moved by cricket very often, and less as I get older. There are the moments when great cricketers retire. One such was Curtley Ambrose, the great West Indian quick bowler at the Oval ground a few years ago, on a golden late afternoon – the ebbing of his career along with a particular season. Intimations of mortality – but also the celebration of a singular physical presence, fluid, purposeful, a man literally towering above those around him. Again it’s filthy lucre that spoils things. If sports men and women are paid to do a job at outrageous rates, excellence is what they’re supposed to deliver, and woe betide them if they don’t. We, who earn far less than they, are robbed of some of our power to worship and wonder.
The rather abbreviated Edgbaston symphony subsided as we all expected it to, although there was an unexpected coda as, after Anderson’s early departure from the crease, Broad and Swann laid about the bowling joyfully. They both made sixty odd, but might have made fifteen between them on another day. Once they located the ball’s direction of travel (and it took each batsman a while) they struck the thing mightily, and for a while discomfited the Australian bowlers, particularly Clark. He took it in good part, accepting the crowd’s applause for being hit all round the ground, while scratching his head under his baggy green cap. Broad was doing to him what he’d done to Broad a day earlier, but with interest accruing.
Commentators coo about Broad’s potential as a batter, and reminisce about his likeness to his father. I remember Broad senior as an awkward customer, who enjoyed one notably successful season on tour in Austalia, but realistically achieved little else internationally. He had an improbable stance at the crease, born of the fact that like his son he was a tall man – in common with Basharat Hassan the one time Nottinghamshire player his bottom stuck out an amusingly long way as he waited for the bowler. Come and hit me, it said, and I expect they did a few times too. We’re told that Broad Junior was an opening batsman at school and was a relatively late convert to fast bowling. He stands tall, can punch the ball through the off-side, and tucks the ball nicely off his legs, but as yet if he drives from the front foot, he looks uncertain, and the ball often becomes airborne. The repertoire of shot isn’t great at present. Jury out.
Swann is an annoying batsman. He has oodles of talent, and apparently little application. His attitude at the crease rarely suggests permanence. There’s a touch of the Pietersen defence mechanism: this is the way I play – accept me as I am, which is encouraged by modern forms of the game. If he could show some discrimination and learn when to play tight, and when to play expansively, he too could score Test match hundreds. But let’s not cavil: these two entertained the crowd until lunchtime, and recovered some self-belief for a badly battered side. Whether they did enough to dispel the demons in advance of the final act of this Ashes drama remains to be seen.
I find it hard to imagine ever being dewy-eyed about any of the cricketers on display at Edgbaston. What are they doing to engender love in the hearts of those who watch? It’s both what you do, and the way that you do it.
Her triumph was followed by Usain Bolt’s mind-boggling 9.58 win over one hundred metres. I suppose one’s reaction to that should have been the same, but here it’s the desperate wish to believe which colours the result. His sudden improvement over the distance, along with that of other Jamaican sprinters, and their board’s equivocal reaction to positive doping tests, leaves a nagging anxiety. Some of us remember how we were taken in by ‘Flo Jo’ too well.
I don’t find myself moved by cricket very often, and less as I get older. There are the moments when great cricketers retire. One such was Curtley Ambrose, the great West Indian quick bowler at the Oval ground a few years ago, on a golden late afternoon – the ebbing of his career along with a particular season. Intimations of mortality – but also the celebration of a singular physical presence, fluid, purposeful, a man literally towering above those around him. Again it’s filthy lucre that spoils things. If sports men and women are paid to do a job at outrageous rates, excellence is what they’re supposed to deliver, and woe betide them if they don’t. We, who earn far less than they, are robbed of some of our power to worship and wonder.
The rather abbreviated Edgbaston symphony subsided as we all expected it to, although there was an unexpected coda as, after Anderson’s early departure from the crease, Broad and Swann laid about the bowling joyfully. They both made sixty odd, but might have made fifteen between them on another day. Once they located the ball’s direction of travel (and it took each batsman a while) they struck the thing mightily, and for a while discomfited the Australian bowlers, particularly Clark. He took it in good part, accepting the crowd’s applause for being hit all round the ground, while scratching his head under his baggy green cap. Broad was doing to him what he’d done to Broad a day earlier, but with interest accruing.
Commentators coo about Broad’s potential as a batter, and reminisce about his likeness to his father. I remember Broad senior as an awkward customer, who enjoyed one notably successful season on tour in Austalia, but realistically achieved little else internationally. He had an improbable stance at the crease, born of the fact that like his son he was a tall man – in common with Basharat Hassan the one time Nottinghamshire player his bottom stuck out an amusingly long way as he waited for the bowler. Come and hit me, it said, and I expect they did a few times too. We’re told that Broad Junior was an opening batsman at school and was a relatively late convert to fast bowling. He stands tall, can punch the ball through the off-side, and tucks the ball nicely off his legs, but as yet if he drives from the front foot, he looks uncertain, and the ball often becomes airborne. The repertoire of shot isn’t great at present. Jury out.
Swann is an annoying batsman. He has oodles of talent, and apparently little application. His attitude at the crease rarely suggests permanence. There’s a touch of the Pietersen defence mechanism: this is the way I play – accept me as I am, which is encouraged by modern forms of the game. If he could show some discrimination and learn when to play tight, and when to play expansively, he too could score Test match hundreds. But let’s not cavil: these two entertained the crowd until lunchtime, and recovered some self-belief for a badly battered side. Whether they did enough to dispel the demons in advance of the final act of this Ashes drama remains to be seen.
I find it hard to imagine ever being dewy-eyed about any of the cricketers on display at Edgbaston. What are they doing to engender love in the hearts of those who watch? It’s both what you do, and the way that you do it.
England 102 and 263 Australia 445
