April - Old Mutual Two Oceans Marathon

[Sweder]

Shocking news this morning that the youngest member of the 1966 England squad, Alan Ball, has died. He suffered a heart attack aged 61, three years after his wife passed away. His son, wracked with sobs speaking on Radio Solent, remarked that he had been 'devastated' by that loss and hoped they were now re-united.

Stories flood in of Ball the man and Ball the player, a tigerish, all-action bustler who snapped at the ankles of his opponents and drove his team-mates mad with his incessant dressing room banter. He was known for his running commentaries during games - a fitting subject for this forum then - when he would describe how he was going to turn a player inside out even as he did so. He revelled in the England-Scotland rivalry, never happier than when he'd vanquished the oldest enemy. Jack Charlton, voice shaking with emotion, called him 'my best friend in football' and 'the hammer of the Scots', a title that earns huge respect in my book.

Ball was an iconic figure in that '66 squad, a redheaded midfield dynamo.
That description has lead to comparisons with Paul Scholes, drawing the yawningly predictable response from a number of correspondents that Scholes 'isn't fit to lace Ball's boots.' Comparisons between eras are spurious at best - think Best v Giggs, for example - but Scholes is/ was as important a player for his club and country as any in the modern game. As far as role models go he stands out as a shining beacon in a sport riddled with prima donnas, cheats and poseurs - and, yes, I do know that he can't tackle. The ability to make a hard but fair challenge is not the only difference between them. Whilst Scholes is the Quiet Man AB was certainly not. According to Alan Mullery Ball bunked down with Jeff Astle whilst on England duty. Astle, no slouch in the chattering department himself, was 'driven to distraction' by the irrepressible effervescence of his room-mate. For Mullery it was Ball, not Hurst, who did most to deliver the Jules Rimet trophy that famous day at Wembley.

Rest in peace 'Bouncy'.
You were a marvellous character, a very good footballer and, by all accounts, a real gentleman.
The tributes flowing in from supporters and players of all denominations are testament to a player whose stature in the game belied your diminutive physical size.

As the City faithful sang when you took your place in the dugout;
And after all . . .
You're my Alan Ball

[Seafront Plodder]

Remember that old joke about Alan Ball.

"He's a great bloke, spoke highly about everything".



First player to wear white boots IIRC.

[Sweder]

The Caribbean cruise that was to be the ICC Cricket World Cup is in severe danger of capsizing. Holed below the water line early on by nefarious tragedy, the competition is listing badly following two of the most one-sided semi-finals in the competition's history. First up, the Kiwis lost their nerve against the fiery Sri Lankans, then South Africa, in an embarrassing facsimile of England, imploded. It was an ugly affair that was tough to watch, the sound of hard men quietly weeping drifting up from the Cape.

But wait – what’s this steaming over the horizon? Has someone seen the flare sent up by the gaggle of wretched hacks drowning in the tepid waters of sporting mediocrity, their expense accounts drained along with their ability to focus? I swear I saw Bob Willis slip a note into an empty rum bottle last week, casually tossing it into the azure waters behind David Gower’s picnic table in the midst of one of Nasser Hussein’s diatribes on the forward defensive. The final, the long, long awaited show-down at the end of this rambling, stumbling, everlasting competition, is in sight, and the portents are good. Sri Lanka’s warriors may have names that sound like tropical diseases but in Malinga the Slinga and Murali the Chucka they possess the two genuinely mercurial talents in the tournament. Predictability is never an option with these guys, and in Sanath Jayasuriya and Mahela Jayawardene they offer strong resistance and attacking flair with the willow.

Standing astride the crease at the other end is a brooding colossus. Mathew Hayden is a man who seems able to increase in size at any given moment. Striding out to the crease, his lone eyebrow sheltering his piercing eyes from the blazing sun, he appears to be a man of impressive, if human, proportions. But once installed at the crease, his bat, by all accounts a mighty instrument, looks like a toothpick in hands that could bend girders. Like the incredible Hulk Hayden seems to enlarge himself as the bowler rushes in; strong shoulders tense the fabric of his green and gold shirt, the sleeves stretched to breaking point as mighty muscles prepare to inflict untold pain on ball and fielding side alike. And on the other side of the coin, surrounded by rapacious, testosterone-fuelled youth, stands a man for whom time has been called so often you’d think him a bar-fly. Glenn McGrath, scourge of the English, Mr Outside-Off-stump: And-There’s-No-Run, is a man whose thirst for glory is not yet slaked. Already the leading wicket-taker and now holder of the all-time tournament record, this ageless performer will once again tease and frustrate the opposition, all the while predicting damnation for all who stand before him through the broadest, shiniest grin.

My will to live has been battered, my stamina tested to extremes by the insufferable longevity of this tournament. I was quite prepared to don my life-jacket, put on a wig and huddle down in the escape pod with the women and children, seek the solace of dry land and the prospect of some restorative, rapid-fire footie. But I’ll cling on to the railings for a few more days.

There may yet be a classic ending to this Caribbean odyssey.

[El Gordo]

I hadn't heard that.

Sad news indeed.

[Mid Life Crisis Marathon Man]

South Africa should have read some of the collective widsom here on RC. What's the one thing you don't do on the day of the race? You don't change anything, yet that's what they did. They changed tactics and lost heavily. Sri Lanka did the same thing when they played Oz in the super-8s; they changed their line-up and also lost heavily. If they learned from that, and go into the final playing their normal game that has got them to this point, then yes, of course they can win. I don't think they will, but they are quite capable and an upset is always possible in the one day game.

But frankly I don't think too many care that much. I was at the airport yesterday morning when Australia were crushing Seth Effrika, and honestly I saw only three people watching the TV coverage. We won that match while I was in the air, and there wasn't even a ripple of interest from the passengers. It was the most understated, unenthusiastic response to an Australian win I've ever seen.

The thing has just gone on toooo bloooody looooooooooooooong. :mad:

[Sweder]

Well that’s almost a full week without a run to speak of.
I’m feeling good – well rested, slightly plumper than I’ve been in a while, still a tad sore in the lower limbs. I’ve booked in for treatment next Tuesday following which I intend to return to some light training.

Having said that there may be a gentle hilltop lope in the offing this weekend. Moyleman is limbering up for the Three Forts so I’m steering well clear – I’m in no shape to be hammering out hard-fought slogs just yet. But I do want to get in reasonable shape for the Seaford Half, fast approaching in June.

For now it’s kick back, enjoy the efforts of others and let the microtears knit themselves back together.
Mine’s a pint.

[Sweder]

Marlborough Man
Looks like there's a Jog Shop Jog replica on the immediate horizon.
My good friend and Captain of the Habbakuk Harriers Rog 'Diamond Geezer' Sisley writes with news of the Marlborough Challenge. I'll ponder this over the weekend and make a decision on Monday - entries close on Mayday. Could be an omen.

The Return Of The (Greene) King
On a note of local interest I took myself off, purely in a journalistic capacity you understand, to the Lewes Arms to witness the return of the prodigal drinkers last night. There’s not been a gathering of so much facial hair since the David Bellamy Look-a-like Convention of ’86, the gentle folk of Lewes flocking to their favourite hostelry in their droves. Raucous welcomes and loud high fives were thin on the ground as the revellers backed the success of their campaign by downing unfeasible quantities of local ale. I stood my share, as one must, and can attest with some confidence to the quality of the Best bitter. One curmudgeonly old goat, shoving his impressive belly through the merrymakers, flat cap pulled down over his grisled visage, mumbled cantankerously about having a pint of Greene King, but I suspect this was just for show.

Lopeless in Lewes
Still no running activity to report, and I'm bound to say I'm not really missing it. Areas of my body are softening gently which is disappointing if inevitable. My dogs are giving me daily grief as I emerge from my snorechamber, their resignation coming earlier each day as I slump into my wicker chair armed with toast and coffee.

I can see the need to get out there soon though. All this lethargy is coming way too easily.
Perhaps tomorrow; pass the honey.

[SIZE="1"]Photos: Outside LA; Lewes Folk projected on the wall[/SIZE]

[Mid Life Crisis Marathon Man]

Come on man, think of the poor dogs. Get out there!

Or, you could just slouch off and have another pint. Have one for me while you're at it.

In fact, make it two.

[Sweder]

But I’ll hang on to the railings for a few more days. There may yet be a classic ending to this Caribbean odyssey.

No happy ending I'm afraid. A nasty squall blew up, putting the dampest squib on the finale. Gilchrist did his best to single-handedly light the fireworks only to see the pyrotechnics thwarted by a good old Caribbean hoolie. Messrs Duckworth and Lewis were on the bench but in a farsical facsimile of the last day of the 2005 Ashes series no-one quite knew if it was over or not. A fittingly shabby end to an over-long and ultimately flawed tournament. They'll have to winkle Gower out of his love-nest now - best of luck with that.

Two months on from a hopeful start a world of indifference piles high on the shores of the beautiful host islands. The best team in the world then is the best team in the world now; all we've learned is there's still no-one out there worthy of giving the Aussies a decent game when the blue chips are down.

All hail the mighty Oz and lets draw a veil over this bloated, over-hyped festival of greed.
Good luck to the journos getting those monstrous expenses through.
And RIP Bob Woolmer.

[Mid Life Crisis Marathon Man]

"Bizarre, bordering on farcical" was how I heard one commentator declare the last hour of play. A ridiculous finish to a crazy, tedious contest.

I just hope Bob isn't spinning in his grave.