I stayed up past my bedtime last night to watch the climax to the US Open from Winged Foot (surely Masonic overtones there? Someone call Dan Brown . . .). For once this usually attritional golfing major actually offered up a thrilling finish with no less than seven or eight players in with a real shout coming down the home stretch. The glorious failures piled up before us like chasing squad cars in The Blues Brothers.
Monty, the butt of so many American jokes over the years, grumpy, corpulent, disrupted by the uproar of butterflies mating in the next field, received unprecedented support from the galleries. Coming down the 18th he had this, his first ‘major’, in the bag. Smiling affably at the whooping New Yorkers as he strode purposefully down the final parched fairway towards his inexorable fate. Just an easy six iron to the heart of the green, two puts for victory; the monkey on his back that makes King Kong look like a marmoset would be banished forever.
The caddie handed him the club, the Great Scot went through his pre-shot routine . . . and then that famously trouble brow folded like Peter Crouch attempting an overhead, dark thoughts scudded across his troubled face . . . and Monty changed his mind. Who knows where these demons spring from at such critical moments? No matter, the dye was cast, and the greatest-golfer-never-to-have-won-a-major dumped his approach into thick, cloying clag alongside the green. It was horrible to watch, as uncomfortable as Micheal Barrymore’s public unravelling in the Big Brother House. He sclarfed the ball out of the rough and proceeded to three put from twenty feet in almost pin-drop-perfect silence.
Back down the fairway Phil Mickelson, the equally portly American with the sprayed on grin from hell duck-hooked his tee shot onto the roof of the hospitality tent, the ball rebounding into play to the delight of the baying crowd. Had that been you or I there would have been no tent (nor hospitality) and we’d be re-loading for three off the tee. But these pampered darlings get all sorts of help, Mickelson enjoying almost shameful relief having carved his previous drive into a rubbish sack. Without a drop he’d have been blocked by a might oak; as it was he managed to hack onto the 17th in two to make an improbable and undeserved par. His luck ran out on the 18th. Like the tortured Scot before him Big Phil hacked and clumped his way to an equally poor double-bogey, handing the title (and 1.2 million dollars) to Jeff Ogilvy, a young Australian already in the clubhouse. The inane grin never left the American's face but the colour did. By the time he walked off the last green he had the look of a man seriously unhinged by his 'ordeal'.
Try as I might I just couldn’t celebrate Monty’s downfall.
OK, so he’s Scottish. To be honest I’m finding less and less time for his kith and kin. They dominate our country’s parliament, declare undying allegiance to anyone facing England on the field of sport and generally whine unstoppably about how unfair life is for those of a tartan persuasion. They could almsot be Antipodean for chrissakes. But as I watched Monty’s shattered countenance struggle through the obligatory press conference, desperately trying to salvage something positive from his pain, there was no joy in my heart.
Zut Alors! Ici nous alons . . .
I can take a tad more pleasure in the squirming discomfort of our cross-channel neighbours.
I don’t know what magical formula the French have for self-destruction but lets hope they keep it to themselves. I’ve rarely seen a side more in control of a match yet apparently too lazy (too cool? Too French?) to go for the jugular.
One moment of fabulous Fabien magic later and it’s all shoulder-shrugs and big bottom lips. ZZ Top is out of the next match, maybe off the world stage forever. Should it be so, what an ignominious way to go.
Speaking from the Baaden-Worsen camp I’d have to say the misery of other nations is a welcome relief from all the self-flagellation over here.
Two matches, two wins, six points.
I know a few Frenchman who’d bite your hand off for less.
______________________ Lord Haw-Haw-Haw
[SIZE="1"]Sweder, Hillside Loper has temporarily suspended all loping activities pending further medical reports [/SIZE]
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
I too stayed up and watched the closing moments of the golf. Gripping stuff, and Monty's reasoning for switching from a 6 to a 7 iron into the last green was that adrenalin usually gives him another 10 yards and he didn't want to tonk it long.
Magnanimous in defeat (if you can call finishing 2nd in a Major, defeat), it was heartening to see a new, corpulent Mickelson cock-up too.
Well played to Aussie Ogilvy (cue comment from MLC Man), and perhaps it was just as well that he didn't know that he was putting out to win his first Major.
Excellent comment by whoever was commentating on Mickelson coming up the last... "He's playing this hole like an 18 handicap hacker"
Sad to hear about Monty's mayhem on the last. The drive off the 18th is usually the downfall of the faint-hearted. Going all the way back to the Open in 1969, finding the short grass is usually enough to separate the Jacklins from the Van de Veldes. Subsequent hacking may be very memorable, as in Jean VdV's case, especially, but usually it does follow calamity of one sort or another from the tee.
Throwing away a major from the middle of the final fairway happens much more rarely. I can't think of any recent perpetrators, with the best example probably being Greg Norman in the Masters of 1986. Everyone remembers Seve dumping it into the water from a great position on 15 to enable Jack to win his final green jacket, but later on I seem to remember Norman missing the 18th green by forty yards right, for not much good reason at all.
Greatly enjoyed the second half of the France - South Korea game, with the ecstatic South Korean crowd being the real stars of the occasion. Attempting to close down the game and hold on to a 1-0 lead, as the French did, is so often a big mistake, and England were extremely lucky to get away with that approach against Paraguay. The Koreans seemed to have no physical strength whatsoever - it was almost like watching kids trying to play in a pub football game. What they were very good at, though, was moving the ball around very quickly with excellent first touch passing. It made the chess-like build-ups of many other teams look very ponderous.
Of other fallen giants, that Italy - USA match also had a lot to offer, despite the ridiculously reduced cast still left on the field for the final whistle. It must have been an eventful first half, with the die of the match really cast right at the moment I turned on when the second American was sent off. And yet, for all of that, the USA just kept rampaging forwards in numbers, looking for a winner, and almost looked like getting it. That group still looks wide open, although I for one would really like to see Ghana make it to the second stage after their great match against the Czechs.
Just a brief note to share a gem from today's Grauniad piece on commentators.
'Lawro', perhaps the least abrasive of the Liverpool Mafia - Shepperds Bush Wing - gets the treatment, described as a 'camp hairdresser' most likely to say 'He's brought on Joe Cole and Ashley Cole . . . it'll be Nat King Cole next, John' closely followed by the sound of tumbleweed bumping against the commentary box.
Mick McCarthy, 'the Most Northern Man In The World', is most likely to say 'they talk about the heat and tiredness . . . get out there and get on wi' it ah say . . .'
The last section on each of six commentators describes where you'd be most likely to bump into them on holiday. McCarthy?
Walking his dog on the seafront in Scarborough in a force 6.
'It's just a breeze, this'.
The Times started a 'Fly Wrighty Home' appeal last week. I've already mortgaged my home and put my children on E-Bay to raise my contribution. Gabby's make-up seems to have settled down (phew), although I feel ITV have yet to settle on a match-winning line-up. I'm enjoying O'Neil, equal to Wrighty in his apparent discomfort at being on camera (they also share a worrying aversion to eye contact of any kind with anyone else on the panel) but infinitely superior in his reasoned analysis. Strachan remains my favorite.
When recently asked if they were right when they expressed concerns over Rooney's earlier than expected return to action the diminutive Celtic manager replied
'You'd best ask 'they'.
An hour with the Ginger Wizard and the likeable and terribly honest Adrian Chiles is the perfect end to my World Cup day.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Sweder Wrote:Just a brief note to share a gem from today's Grauniad piece on commentators...............
Was this from the paper itself or "The Fiver"? The latter is well worth subscribing to. It drops into your email in the late afternoon each day, and never fails to raise a smile. http://www.guardian.co.uk/football/fiver
This was their QUOTE OF THE DAY recently:
"If they make noise or cheer as they watch, they will lose their monkhoods" - Phnom Penh patriarch Non Nget gets tough with Cambodia's 40,000 Buddhist monks by ordering them to remain passive while watching the World Cup. Unsurprisingly, no defrockings were reported during the second half of England v Paraguay.
Sweder Wrote:An hour with the Ginger Wizard and the likeable and terribly honest Adrian Chiles is the perfect end to my World Cup day.
Adrian Chiles is the biggest star of the tournament so far, apart from Crouchie of course.
El Gordo
Great things are done when men and mountains meet.
I know why England look poor in the second half of matches . . .
Opposition coaches not only work out our game plan during the first half, they know we’re incapable of changing in the second. Witness the snuffing out of Joe Cole after the break. He tormented Sweden for 45 minutes only to apparently disappear later on – apart from his delicious chip for Gerrard’s excellent header.
Peter Crouch . . . I’m sorry, I can’t warm to the big lad.
I really tried tonight. He floated across Sweden’s box like a discarded Pashmina on a blustery day, a spectre of a man trapped in a parallel dimension, miles off the pace, penalised for every other arial challenge. Granted, the industrious Swedes were not ideal opposition for a Duncan Ferguson-lite; we all know only too well that England are a couple of strikers short of a World Cup team and boy how the holes in our petticoats showed tonight.
Captain, my captain! Where the fcuk were you tonight?
Gerrard and Lampard will play just fine together . . . they just need Dead-ball Billboard Boy to have a rest. I’ve been a loyal supporter of the Lad from Leytonstone over the years but I struggled to defend him tonight. My eleven year-old daughter was moved to ask ‘where does David Beckham play on the pitch?’
Anywhere he feels like, apparently, even when he’s in a semi-coma.
[SIZE="3"]BUT[/SIZE]
We topped the group
We avoided the hosts
AND
Theo Walcott is still as fresh as a daisy!
I’m off to study my Lonely Planet Guide to Ecuador . . .
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Attention over here now is very firmly focussed on the upcoming Australia -v- Croatia match. Whoever wins will qualify for the next round, although Oz only needs to draw to qualify, but quite rightly are concentrating on winning the game.
Much is also being made of the fact that three of the Croatians are actually Australians, and three of the Australians are Croatians! It all gets a bit confusing - suffice to say there is a large Croat population over here who have had no small part in getting Oz soccer to where it is today, um, which is in Germany. Yeah.
When I was a kid it was not unusual to go to the local soccer ground and not be able to understand any of the abuse being hurled at the ref, it of course being one of those very weird languages from some distant and little known part of Europe. I also remember my (much) older brother spending long hours at the Australian Croatian club with his soccer mates getting gut-rot pissed on cheap Croatian raki, which was (is) apparently far superior (despite its cheapness) to the crap Albanian raki they drank down the road at the Hellenic Club.
In an interesting experiment that you may wish to try over the next few days I adopted a second nation this evening. (It is of course very possible my fellow countrymen may be forced to follow suit some time all too soon).
I’m not alone in pouring scorn on the suggestion that England have any chance of winning this World Cup. Impassioned nationals can never be the best judge of their country’s fortunes so I decided to transfer my allegiance; tonight Matthew, I shall be A Cloggie.
Settling down to the second half of tonight’s televised match – Argentina v the Netherlands – I nailed my colours firmly to the orange mast. I’ve done this before, of course, but tonight I watched Van Basten’s men as if they were My England. Would I be as super critical of Van Nisterlrooy, Van Persey and their pals as I have been about Lampard, Beckham and Co?
I didn’t get the chance to find out.
Instead I became outraged – nae, incandescent – with what I perceived to be the constant flow of unpunished Argentinean foul play. Sure their second eleven were excellent, the Netherlands working overtime simply to keep pace with the slick passing, the dazzling turns of pace, the almost telepathic understanding linking defence with a midfield and attack that interchanged at will. But the guild of South American wizardry is tainted by their habitual skulduggery; shin-kicking, foot-treading, achillies-raking, arm-tugging – it’s all there, all the time. The Dutch (sorry Luc) tackle hard and sometimes illegally, but invariably it’s honest foul play Full-on slide-tackling, scathing tackles from behind, genuine (if occasionally posthumous) attempts to reach the ball – good honest European thuggery. Every indiscretion with an orange flavour met the blast of the referee’s whistle whilst time after time the Argies got away with premeditated micro-murder.
I felt helpless – can no-one see what’s going on???
It's like Invasion of the Body Snatchers!!! Referee! Behind you!!!
I’ve lost count of the number of commentators who have helpfully pointed out that ‘if Argentina go through any more gears we may as well give them the cup and go home.’
So long as officials apply an Emperor’s New Clothes policy to their nefarious behaviour I have no doubt they’re right.
Pass the sour grapes old boy . . .
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
I was with you in allegiance, Sweder. Ever since the days of Total Football, I've been hoping in vain that Holland might win the World Cup one day. After Cruyff's time, the various days of Gullit, Rijkard, Seedorf, van Basten and Bergkamp have each sadly failed to deliver all that much more than spit wafting on a summer breeze towards Rudi Voller.
Holland seem to have the more accomplished goalkeeper this time in van der Sar, but beyond that there doesn't look to be that much between the teams. Solid defence for Holland and a strong midfield line-up for England, with disappointment in other areas all around.
As long as the woodwork keeps working for both countries as it did both last night and tonight, then the two teams must each have a chance this time.
Which is perhaps another way of saying that without such plucky interventions from the crossbar, posts, side- and roofnetting, I fear we'll both be swiftly sunk ...
Nigel Wrote:. . . Gullit, Rijkard, Seedorf, van Basten and Bergkamp have each sadly failed to deliver all that much more than spit wafting on a summer breeze towards Rudi Voller.
A Pheonix From the Flames we're unlikely to see, sadly.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Indeed, some of us are of a vintage that remembers the great '74 side. Coming so soon after the mesmeric Brazilians of 1970, I must have thought that this is what World Cups were all about.
In an era when I was being repeatedly sent home from school for allowing my hair to touch my collar, what impressed me about the 'Total Football' Dutch of 74 was their astonishing scruffiness. They were old hippies. We loved their casual appearance and their nonchalant attitude towards their football and towards their opponents. It wasn't disrespect. Far from it. But it was a refusal to be intimidated. And those fluorescent orange shirts...
74 and 78 were also England-less World Cups of course, which surely helped their image here. We had no one else to cheer; they became our surrogate heroes.
Should England exit this tournament without the cup , I'm sure most of us of a certain age would be delighted to see the Dutch take care of the trophy for us until it's passed back to us again in July, 2010..... Yep, I'm absolutely convinced that with all the youngsters coming through, England can definitely win the World Cup in 2010.
Remember, you heard it here first.
El Gordo
Great things are done when men and mountains meet.
Divided loyalties abound in the Fiefdoms of Croatia and Australia this morning.
It appears that Croatia have three Antipodeans in their squad, whilst the mighty Green & Gold boast no less than seven players of Croatian origin. One must fall, and it could well be an odd mixture of merciless boasting and warm-hearted commiseration on the streets of Stuttgard tonight.
It all makes a nice change for Australia.
They are used to winning things without the help of other nations*, and a dash of humility may be a deflected winner away . . .
Good luck to the SocceRoos (sorry) - I'd love to see them in the next round.
Re-heating the old 'soccer' chestnut, I tried something the other night but the results were inconclusive.
Join in when you're ready:
It's coming home
It's coming home
It's coming . . .
Soccer's coming home . . .
Bleurgh.
[SIZE="1"]* If you discount the number of Kiwis, Fijians and others who foresake the land of their birth for the all-powerful Aussie dollar, particularly in the world of the oval ball . . . (choke splutter damn these sour grapes are hard to swallow . . . stand by for long list of dodgy English cricketers from MLCMan . . .)[/SIZE]
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Sweder Wrote:[SIZE="1"]. . . stand by for long list of dodgy English cricketers from MLCMan . . .)[/SIZE]
Don't tempt me. At least it would be a welcome distraction from the deluge of Oz-v-Croatia hysteria hitting us at the moment. The odd thing about it is that if Croatia win, the celebrations here will be louder than if Oz wins. Very boisterous people, our Croat brothers and sisters. At least they know how to choose a decent raki... although I think I'll stick to my home brew.
And to think there's still five long months to go until the first test.
I'm obliged to issue an apology regarding my recent ads for RC in the national press.
It seems that potentially offensive religious overtones have been detected in my pose, one that I selected myself honestly and without malice as an indication of patriotism and enthusiasm. Following a complaint from a Mr D Brown of the USA threatening legal action and on the advice of my colleagues at Messers Sue Grabbit and Runne I have requested that these ads now be withdrawn without delay.
Once again I do apologise unreservedly for any offence caused.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
[/SIZE]
Full-on slide-tackling, scathing tackles from behind, genuine (if occasionally posthumous) attempts to reach the ball – good honest European thuggery. Every indiscretion with an orange flavour met the blast of the referee’s whistle whilst time after time the Argies got away with premeditated micro-murder. 