The Human Side.

G'day Tragics,

A somewhat sombre tale this time round...one for reflection and taste of reality.

Today's passing of  League legend, Artie Beetson and the recent tragic suicides of cricket personality, Peter Roebuck and English soccer great, Gary Speed have again served as stark reminders that the stars we love and hate are mere mortals...just like us.

It's easy to forget that sports people who've lived and flourished in the public eye, battle problems, issues and bad luck similar to any poor sod.  Over time there have been so many champions that've had their lives and careers cuts short by illness, accident or dare I say it... fate.

One that springs to mind, is the tarnished figure of South African cricket, Hansie Cronje.  The man that shattered the hearts and minds of all cricket fans by being ousted as a match fixer and cheat.  Cronje died tragically in a plane crash not long after his name and reputation were completely shit-mixed by his greed and poor judgement.  The guy stuffed up...do you think death was his punishment?...Spooky.

On the other side of the coin, who could forget the emotional wave ridden by 38 year old  Aussie Mum, Kerryn McCann as she entered a packed MCG to win the marathon at the 2006 Melbourne Commonwealth games (she won in 2002 also).  It will be burnt into the memory of everyone that was old enough to witness and enjoy one of the bravest performances I can remember.  McCann would be diagnosed with Breast Cancer a year later and live for only one further year.  Gone too soon, but the memories left are priceless.

When someone famous dies it always seems to come as a massive shock.  Celebrities and especially sports heroes appear immortal to us.  It's like they live in a parallel universe where they are destined to be admired forever.  Their deaths snap us back to planet Earth and we realise their private lives mirror the trials and tribulations we roll with every day.  They are flesh and blood....surprise!

Marco Simoncelli and Dan Wheldon both died doing what they loved.  An overly used cliche.  Did they really love their sports enough to give their life.  Maybe it was the risk they loved... who knows?  A duel tragedy that gets forgotten about as soon as the next big sports scandal crashes the back page. 

It seems so unfair that a death in sport stays in our minds for only as long as the media allows.  It's sad to dwell on - don't you think?

Flo Jo, Phar Lap and Australian cricket are sporting deaths shrouded in mystery.  Intriguing stories that are part of folklore.  Let's hope our cricketers can rise from the ashes.....sorry that was terrible.  Early sporting deaths add to the mystic, brilliance, adoration and even infamy of the departed.  Early deaths have transformed the good into great, the hated into loved and the larrikins into angels.

There are so many that enjoyed glittering careers, but struggled once the ride was over.  Speed obviously had some hidden demons, while Roebuck was engulfed in a moment of madness.  Another that springs to mind is poor old wrestler Chris Benoit who hung himself after killing his wife and son.  On the surface they had it all - fame, money, popularity.....but I guess those things don't complete the package.

As I mentioned, the recent string of sporting deaths have made me think about things.  My conclusion is that whatever you do with your life, it is ultimately going to be just as important as what Michael Jordan did with his.  Just Do It!

R.I.P.....Tragic

Good Things Must End!

G'day Tragics,

Remember that bully at school that used to punish you with wedgies and intimidation?  That guy/girl would always be bigger, tougher and hold a blanket of fear over everyone that crossed their path.  School life for them was a breeze...they were kings of the castle.

Fast forward 20 years and you may see that bully walking down the street, overweight, shy and the same size that they were in Primary school.  Things flip and they now kiss the footprints you leave behind.  Life's funny like that and so is sport.  All good things must end.

Currently there is a wave of once dominant forces in world sport that have lost that "bully like" aura and have slipped back into the pack with the "also rans".

The Australian cricket team dominated world cricket for 15 years and didn't the Australian public love them for it.  A batch of superstar retirements, a nutty selector, the quagmire 3 forms of cricket has caused and in my opinion a batch of young players with heads the size of Texas, has launched Australian cricket into freefall.

Never has the Australian cricket team been less popular and on the nose.  You would think that such a long period of success would buy some slack from the cricket loving public, but success breeds a hunger for more success, it appears that eventual failure is not an option.

Tiger Woods and Roger Federer are a pair of individuals that have had no peer in their respective sports.  Lately and for very different reasons, both have been struggling to stay balanced on top of Everest.

We have always expected these chaps to win or be at the very top of their game.  To watch them flounder is uncomfortable...like introducing your missus to an ex....it's awkward.  This may be why "experts" are floating the idea for these lads to hang up their Nike deals.  Bit silly isn't it?

So it's OK for a bunch of unknown mud crabs to ramble along on the golf or tennis tours ranked at 137 for 15 years, going completely un-noticed like a muppett-like ninja, but the blokes that have been number 1 for 10 years and have "crashed" into the top 20 should give the game away?  Sport is funny isn't it.

People can't handle seeing their sporting heroes fall from the top of the tree.  Fans take it personally and live their sporting dreams through their heroes.  You're not a true tragic if you disagree with this.

Being a proud Tasmanian, it's been devastating for me to watch Ricky Ponting carry on like a tool at times and not make any runs.  Sad thing is, he is still in Australia's top 3 batsmen.  Time to go Rick?

Knowing when to give the game away and go out on top is a skill.  In a team sport this is impossible.  Team sport success, like interest rates is cyclic.  There are periods of winning, but the natural evoloution of a team will see low patches roll through.  Only the exceptionally managed teams have long periods of success (eg. Yankees, Man U and Geelong).

Back to individuals.  Retiring on top is ideal, then moving on completely is the best option in my book.  Too many of my sporting idols have made complete dicks of themselves by becoming commentators or media personalities.  This is how I'll remember them and it hurts.

The more I see of Boonie, the more I can't stand the 5 foot 2 Tasmanian with the flared pants....and the diamond earring....So many try to go out on top, then ruin it with a comeback, Tony Lockett, Michael Jordan and even Hingis spring to mind.

In sport, all good things come to an end...it's just so hard for athletes and fans accept.....Tragic!

Middle Age Madness!

G'day Tragics,

When you slide into your mid thirties it is more than likely that you have given away playing sport at a competitive level and have traded in the "weekend warrior" tag for a more suitable "midweek marshmallow" label.  You have a hit of golf with the lads, play a social game of basketball and even whack a tennis ball every blue moon. 

This brand of sport is fun, keeps you active and is a good release of stress from the daily, weekly and yearly realisation that you are past your sporting prime.  Sorry, I know that sounds a bit melodramatic, but that's exactly how I feel and I know I'm not alone.  Men especially need competition by nature.  No matter what age you are, you need a metaphorical fight to the death every now and then.  You have to compete for something real.  My mates and I thought we had concocted the perfect antidote.

Seven sports in a day.  A heptathlon if you will.  Points on the line for each sport and money on the line for the whole tournament.   Bring it on!  Golf, squash, ping pong, tennis, darts, pool and ten pin bowling.
We planned out the times required to complete each event on a pretty spreadsheet....it looked do-able and to make it even more mouth watering, we all fancied ourselves to take out the title.  This was the contest we'd been craving.

Four of us were competing.  Ages of 33, 35, 46 and 53.  The only handicapping for our heptathlon was our official golf handicaps.  The other sports were man on man.

Golf was first on the agenda, teeing off at 5.30am.  You didn't have to be Bruce McAvaney to predict it would be a massive day. 

The four of us play golf every fortnight.  There is plenty of sledging and the atmosphere is fairly relaxed....not on heptathlon day.  We were much quieter, spent an eternity planning shots and beat ourselves up more than usual when things hit the skids.  We were well and truly in competition mode and loving it.

Why do men need to play for the win?  I get upset if my wife beats me at scrabble.  Why do we take it so personally when we lose?  It could stem from caveman days, where men used to fight it out for a cave chick's affections.  That will to win has stuck.  Win at all costs....we are wired that way i guess.

Golf was intense.  Winners were grinners and losers gutted.  One event down, six to go.  Squash was next and I was personally concerned...definitely not my strong suit.  As anyone who's played squash knows, it is brutal, especially if you're shit at it.  You run around like a headless chook, sweating your arse off, running into walls, running into each other and occasionally getting smacked in the face with the racket or hit in the balls with ...the ball.

When the dust had settled, the leader for the day was further in front and the loser (myself) was further behind.  The heckling began and the enjoyment of the day was transforming into a blood lust.  This was no longer a social day out with the boys, it was all out war.

On the fitness side of things after 2 events, we were all rooted.  Squash had smashed us up badly and the realisation that the day had only just started began to sink in.  Had we bitten off more than we could chew....stiff shit, we were committed....Onwards!

After munching down a dodgy lunch we arrived at the ping pong/darts arena (one of the boys garages).  It was a bloody sweat box, but the relief of tackling two midly draining events compensated.  Over lunch there was a few rows/discussions regarding rules and prize money. Tension grew proportionately to fatigue, as did poor skill execution.

Darts and pong were as tight and competitive as ever, but the results did little to the overall leader board.  I was sitting in 4th and by this stage was completely demoralised that these three has-beens (sorry boys), could have the wood over me in sports that I thought I had mastered.  The thought of 2 hours of tennis in the Gold Coast sun was as appealing as getting a prostate examination from John Hopoate.

Tennis was a nightmare.  We had stiffened up to the point of no return and the quality of rallies were embarrassing at best.  We were all sitting the mental toughness exam and none of us had the cheat sheet.
The results again had little bearing on the overall standings and the day was becoming a survival of the stupidest.  We were dead men walking.

Showers and a few beers before the final two events was tonic enough to regenerate a final charge.  We started to remember that what we were doing was fun, but three of us were secretly seething simply because: we weren't winning!

A few more beers during pool lightened the atmosphere and we enjoyed each others company as we should have been all day.  We started to speak about improvements for next years events and which sports should stay and go.  Surprise surprise, everyone wanted to ditch something they were crap at and bring in something they couldn't lose.  Kind of defeats the purpose, but we didn't care...we wanted to win!

Ten pin bowling was a bit of a blur. It wrapped up at around 11.30pm  We'd been at it for 17 hours.  The after party we'd planned was cancelled.  It was bed time for the heroes of yesteryear.  We'd proved something to ourselves...I'll let you decide what it was.  One of us was happy and the other three distraught.  Once the three days of pain had wore off, it was time to reflect on the day.  Was it worth it?  Did it scratch an itch?  Will we do it next year?   Five seconds to think....Of course!

To my fellow gladiators : Peaky, Lukey and G.O, well done boys and thanks for a great day and for goodness sake....act your age!.....Tragic!

Spring Means Racing!

G'day Tragics,

How good is the Spring Racing Carnival?  Hordes of closet race fans explode from the woodwork, clogging up TAB queues Australia-wide.  Punters confidently armed with unique betting systems based on jockey colours, lucky numbers and catchy names.

Mum “going berko” after her “fifty cents each way” favourite comes in third.  The freaks in the office arguing over who picked the best horse in the one, two and five dollar sweeps.  So many things make this time of year truly unique.

My pet group of spring carnival experts are none other than my mates.  Granted these boys know their sport, but to put it mildly, the gee gees are well out of their jurisdiction.  Undeterred, they still unashamedly spew out phrases like “good over the last furlong”, “I think my nag’s thrown a shoe” and “I was going to box those three”.

Banter between the boys is far more entertaining that any photo finish.  By the time the Cup rolls around, the lads are comprehensively baffled by each other’s bull dust and have secretly converted to one of the juvenile methods of horse selection I mentioned earlier. Their confusion does little to stem their torrent of macho horsey dribble.

What about the fashions on the field.  Priceless!  It’s a time when anything goes and usually does.  Who can resist watching the racing telecast as “B” and even “C grade” celebrities’ gush about who they’re dressed by and which envelope opening they’ll be attending next.  Pass me the sick bag please!

It’s pure gold watching the dregs of the Australian talent pool swanning around like Hollywood buffoons.  It’s impossible to beat the avalanche of colours and textures that are associated the spring racing carnival, even if the majority of them are expelled in the car-park by the masses of intoxicated youth.

Rubbish aside; it’s the jockeys, trainers, owners and especially the magnificent animals that capture the hearts and minds of the nation.  Whether you’re a punter,  clothes horse or just get infected with “racing fever,” it’s a time on the sporting calendar to be cherished and enjoyed, no matter which category you slot into.

Bets please!.....Tragic.

My Grand Day Out.

G'day Tragics,

I have been a rabid Geelong supporter for as long as I can remember.  My Dad followed the Cats for some reason and that was good enough for me.  My brother, Joe and I were mascots for our local club, Ulverstone. The mighty Robins wore Essendon colours, but I insisted on running out in my navy and white hoops...I'm sure some people thought I'd eaten too much sherbet.

I love the Geelong footy club and like all footy fans have been through some tough times supporting them.  The last 5 years have more than cancelled out 20 years of frustration...it has been pure bliss!

Once we disposed of the brave Weagles in the pre-final, it hit me that we were in the Grand Final against the mighty and revered Magpies.  I decided then and there that if a ticket came my way, I would jump on a plane and head South to the "G".

A combination of the planets aligning and some great mates being great mates, I was blessed with a ticket.  My wonderful wife knew what it meant to me and almost packed my bag for me.  Even before the game I was very lucky.  My third Grand Final was on the menu, and it was easily going to be the biggest feast I'd tackled.

An elaborate function on the Friday was the perfect lead-up to a relaxed Saturday morning.  I caught up with a few mates, picked up some merch, to ensure everyone knew I was a "crazy cat".  I made my way to the famous Melbourne Hilton Hotel for a few nerve settlers...the anticipation was a cocktail of butterflies and vomit.  It was almost game time!

If you've ever been to the MCG and you're a mad footy tragic like myself, you are well aware of the magic that borders the historic arena.  The trees, the car parks, the houses surrounding the ground, all play a big part in the experience of attending a match at the scared site.  I was soaking it up like it was my last day on earth.

My seat was in the Olympic Stand....very back row.  I didn't give a rats....I'd made it this far without losing my ticket.  Once Meatloaf finished strangling a chicken and Vanessa Amorossi did her best Cameron Ling impersonation, it was on!

The game is a blur....so much tension, so much excitement, so much emotion was going through me the entire match.  Both teams were giving their all and 96,000 fans were riding every bump with them.  It was different to the other granny's I'd been to, there was just something special about it.

I have to be honest, I had the same sick feeling in my guts that was present when Hawthorn rolled us in '08. There were times when the bounce of the Sherrin just wasn't going our way.  My mind flashed back to that losing feeling I'd experienced as a player in my day....it scared me.  C'mon boys tough it out!

Tough it out they did!  Our guts and spirit was exhilarating.  I not ashamed to admit tearing up a few times during the day...tears of pride and tears of gratitude that my life had taken such a path that I was able to be present at this once in a lifetime event.

The last quarter was a hammering and the Cats faithful waved off the Magpies fans as one.  Our tail end dominance allowed me to finally relax and enjoy a quarter of footy like I never have before.  It was ecstasy!

The siren sounded and we all sang the theme song until they kicked us out...it was brilliant....just brilliant.  It will be very hard to top in my life (sports wise) and I don't think I'll need to attend another AFL GF....but I might.

Surely watching your team beat Collingwood for the Premiership is the AFL Everest?....Tragic.

Chokers!

G'day Tragics,

The Wallabies sensational defeat of the All Blacks last week has got me all pumped up for the upcoming Rugby World Cup and the thought of the World Cup got me thinking about how the mighty All Blacks have spectacularly failed as raging favourites in numerous quests to capture the "Billy" Webb Ellis trophy.

The Kiwi crashes then directed my mind to other great/horrific chokes in sporting history and the causes behind them.  We must remember, a choke is a one off capitulation, where a team or individual is unable to cut the mustard when it counts.  It's a failure on the big stage, when triumph appeared to be a forgone conclusion.

A choke is not a form slump, a drought, a hoodoo or a collingwobble...do I make myself clear?  There have been some rippers in history that are generally the sports equivalent of a train wreck.  They're horrible to watch, yet compelling viewing.  It's impossible to look away.

Poor old Gregory Norman is a famous choker.  He had the coveted US Masters in the bag on a few occasions, only to have it ripped away by the curse of nerves, pressure, expectation and a huge dose of arse from his competitors.  Unfortunately the "Shark"  has been unfairly tarred with the choker brush, even though his career was dotted with amazing achievements.  A few dramatic meltdowns have become a big part of his legacy.

Elite sports people are just that...people and can easily become overwhelmed under extreme pressure.  The all time greats are the rare exceptions that are able to block out any distractions, negativity or nerves and produce a business like performance with robotic precision time and time again.

Getting back to the chokers.  LeBron James pissed off the entire city of Cleveland last year to join a bevy of stars at the Miami Heat.  After strolling through to the finals, it looked elementary that LeBron and co. would give the Dallas Mavericks a pasting.  Guess what happened?  That's right, the Heat crapped the bed and Mr James produced his worse batch of games for the season.  Again unfairly, James was ridiculed and left with egg on his face, the folks of Cleveland were happy again.

There's something we love about seeing the mighty fail or is it the joy in an under-dog victory.  Either way, sports chokes are big news and can radiate shock waves through the sports mad community.  Another casualty of a catastrophic panic is the high stakes sports punter.  Thousands of dollars are wagered on "sure things", in the knowledge that a  safe collect is imminent.  Chokes often create rumours of foul play or teams/players/athletes "taking a dive".

This season 1 million was staked on the mighty Geelong Cats in the AFL to knock over the struggling Essendon Bombers.  A Cats victory appeared certain, but they had an off night, with the Bombers taking the chocolates and the mystery punter losing his mill.  Granted, this was probably more an upset than a choke, but it clearly illustrates how much money can be wagered on a supposed sure thing.

Personally I love a good choke every now and then (as long as it's not one of my teams).  A meltdown adds to the excitement and drama of a sometimes dull contest.  It also reinforces that it's never over until that fat bird sings....tragic.

Rules, Rules and More Rules.

G'day Tragics,

It's a given in society that we need rules.  Without them there would be chaos and things would quickly spiral out of control.  The same applies to sport.  There must be rules to ensure that games function orderly, athletes are protected and fans get to enjoy as big a spectacle as possible.

My concern is that rules in sport are starting to go mad.  Like it or not, these days professional sport is all about the mighty dollar.  Most sports are driven by television deals, therefore rules are now tailored to make sport as watchable as possible on the box.  This doesn't necessarily mean that it's best for the sport as a whole.

My first sporting love, AFL has been butchered over the last 10 years with constant rule changes that have made some aspects of the game laughable.  Don't get me wrong, there have been some positive rules implemented, but the majority of tweaks are needless and merely a way for the rules committee to justify their existence.

There are two types of rules:  black and white and rules open to the officials interpretation.  The later of the two are necessary, but surely must be a simple as possible for the umpires/referees, players and fans to interpret.  Currently there are rules in all major sports that leave people scratching their noggins, swearing and occasionally pegging the remote at the plasma.

The disappointing thing is that the knob shiners who set these rules are former players or officials, who know and love their sports, but are too gutless to do the right thing.  The fact that the AFL experiment with 3 or 4 rules every year in the pre-season competition tells me that the fat cats see our great games as a toys they can play with and manipulate until they resembles shiny money making machines.  This is bullshit!

It's a sporting pastime to give officials a hard time, but lately i have began to realise that these poor buggers are trying their best to interpret the ridiculous rules that have been dealt to them.  Some umpires are definitely shite on given days, but the rules they are force to decipher are shite ever day.  You have to ask yourself sometimes: Is it the ref or is it the rules that piss you off?  I bet I know the answer.

When you begin to follow a new sport, it's a given that it will take some time to pick up the rules and learn to appreciate the true essence of the game.  I have been living in Qld for 10 years now and have grown to love rugby league, however there are still quite a few rules that I am baffled by. 

To add to my confusion, when watching a game on telly, they constantly go to the "video referee" for a ruling.  During the 500 replays, the "expert" commentators explain what has happened and what the outcome will be.  When the video ref eventually makes his decision it quite often turns out to be the exact opposite of what we've been told.  Surely this is no way to attract new fans.

It's not only the football codes that are constantly tampered with.  Cricket, basketball and tiddly winks have all been molested.  I have been so livid this year with some of the rules in the AFL that I've almost...almost been driven to switch off.  Those who know me will know this is big, very big.  I'm sure I'm not the only passionate sports lover that is incensed by rule changes in their favourite game.  Repeated tweaks are putting fans off big time.  I hope and pray administrators will eventually pull their fingers out of their money hungry arses and stop vandalising sport.

In conclusion: I really think we should go back in time to when the rules were at their most basic.  With the increased speed, skill and technology meshed evenly with these grass roots rules, I'm sure we would end up with a spectacularly pure and watchable product that would makes angry fans like me happy once again...Tragic.

It's a Confidence Thing.

G'day Tragics,

Lately I have been playing a fair bit of golf and I must say I have been hitting it pretty well.  You could say my form has been so hot that I've almost burnt the arse out of my golf dacks!

On the weekend myself and a group of lads headed up to the Sunshine Coast for a golf weekend, playing a couple of rip-snorting courses.  These courses were tough and I struggled.  By the fifth hole my smokin' swing had turned to mush and by the back nine was a basket case.  I carried my shattered confidence and a nasty hangover into day 2 and my game was well and truly shagged.

Confidence is a funny human condition.  It can turn the average sportsperson into a giant and a superstar into a chump.  The yips, chokers, slumps and wobbles are all first cousins of confidence that has gone AWOL.  It's an amazing phenomenon and when your confidence is taken in sport it's a very humbling experience and it can feel like being stuck behind a locked door that has no key.(shocking analogy - it's late)

In Aussie rules, goal kicking is the ghost that haunts even the best.  St.Kilda captain, Nick Reiwoldt's goal kicking became so bad, that it almost appeared as if the big Saint didn't want to get the ball inside 50m.  The more trouble an athlete has, the more it becomes a news story.  When everyone knows there's a problem, it becomes amplified and often gets worse before it gets better.

Ian Baker-Finch was a bloody good golfer.  He won the British Open and would be regarded as one of Australia's greats.  Unfortunately IBF will best be remembered for his golf completely falling apart to the point where he quit the tour and took a seat in the commentary box.  Once you lose it, it's not a given you will get it back.  Poor Ian.

Sports psychologists love jittery athletes.  Their insecurities are a sports quack's gold mine.  They make a motza teaching athletes visualization techniques, goal setting and even hypnosis.  There is no obvious cure was missing confidence, if there was it would be hotter than Viagra.

Phillipousis, Norman and even LeBron James in this years finals series would have loved a magical cure for sudden deflated mojo.  Like love, depression or even the runs....confidence is uncontrollable and comes and goes without warning. 

Sports people that have it and harness it are the ones we bet on, buy their merchandise and worship.  Those that lose it, we take the piss of down the pub and they allow us to realise that star athletes are human after all.

Let's hope the Wallabies can rustle up the C word before the World Cup.....Viagra might have to do!....Tragic.

The Good Old Days.

G'day Tragics,

Last week one of the boys at work generously bestowed upon me an old sporting book.  It is called "Great moments in Australian Sport" and contains the legendary feats of hero's such as: Bradman, Lionel Rose, Herb Elliot and Peter Thompson just to name a few. 

It got me thinking about how different these blokes of yesteryear were compared to the sports stars of today.  I wasn't around when these champions were at their peak, but the grainy black and white footage shown on sporting doco's has allowed my imagination to create a portrait of what these guys were possibly like.

I wouldn't imagine that Walter Lindrum, the billiards genius would have sported too many tattoos, or John Landy the distance runner would pop a diamond stud in his ear once his race was run and I certainly don't think that Alex Jesaulenko, the Carlton great would have gave the fans the "handcuffs" gesture after slotting one from the boundary.

Sure it's a different time and a different age.  There's media and there's money.  The two most potent factors that shape today's sporting heroes.  The fame has turned so many hyper skilled athletes into petulant, narcissistic brats that will never secure our respect like the gentleman of the past.

In the black and white days, sports stars were working class, just like everyone else.  Their talent wasn't as refined as today's stock, but it was raw, tough and passionate.  There were no multi-million dollar contracts, no sponsorship deals and no T.V. rights. 

Hairy chests and moustaches were as outrageous as the fashion got and the vintage pros expressed themselves through their craft and not with their mouths.  There was so much to love about sport pre 90's.  Sports people were more humble and money mattered less.  You could tell they loved their sport and any benefits were purely bonus extras.

I miss those days.  Each year there seems to be more strikes by players wanting "their fair share".  Just quietly, doctors earn less than England's best darts player.  You commonly see rookies acting like they own the joint these days, rather than watching and learning from the pros.  The thing that shits me the most is how sports people put more effort into their celebrations, than thanking the team-mates that made them look good.

I really feel that the majority of today's stars know how to play their sport, but know very little about the history or even the heart of the game that pays their bills.  They too often forget about the low income fans that part with their hard earned to watch and cheer for them each week.

I think every sport on the planet should develop a programme in which its professional stars sit down with a legend from the past and hear about how it used to be.  Maybe then some of that old school charm could blend in with the electrifying talent and brashness that forms the fabric of so many modern day sports stars.

Ah the good old days....Tragic.

The Holy Grails of Australian Sport.

G'day Tragics,

I don't know about you, but I'm still coming down from the excitement of Cadel Evans' stunning, gutsy, courageous and awe-inspiring victory in the Tour de France.  It has to be one of the greatest moments in Australian sport.  You have to admire Cadel's unwavering determination following a string of disappointments to ultimately achieve his lifelong goal.

To finally see an Aussie on top of the podium in Paris is amazing and without a doubt has crossed off one of the holy grails of Australian Sport.  This leaves us with the burning question:  What's next?

Here are some of the things that I think are almost impossible dreams for us Sports Tragics:

An Australian winning the US Masters at Augusta.

It's part of Australian golfing folklore, Greg Norman going so close on numerous occasions.  Horrible luck and a gigantic choke cost the Shark from claiming golf's Everest.  We all thought he would do it eventually, but his time has been and gone.  Allenby, Appleby, Scott, Ogilvy and co. have shown promise for years, but never produced when it mattered.

This year we looked like we had it in the bag with young gun, Jason Day playing out of his skin, Adam Scott getting his broomstick putter humming and Geoff Ogilvy back to his best.  With all three playing at a level Sunday hackers could only dream about, a tinny South African was pulling putts out of his backside to ruin it for everyone.

I've got no doubt that the Masters mountain will be scaled in my life-time and I think Jason Day will be the man to do it.  Australian golf is too strong to not take this title, it's surely just a matter of when.

An Australian World Heavyweight Boxing Champion

"Aussie" Joe Bugner, the Hungarian born, British Australian boxer was a legend and a gutsy competitor.  He went the distance with Muhammed Ali and Joe Frazier.  Joe captured one of the minor world titles, but never went all the way.  He retired and came back more times than John Farnham, but never really challenged for the WBC, WBO, IBF or WBA titles.

Samoan born Jimmy Thunder also captured a couple of minor belts and was an outstanding competitor, but never scaled the great heights of world domination. 

Australia has produced some great champions over the years in all divisions, but the elusive major heavyweight titles have always been out of reach.  With no-one on the horizon, it could be a while yet before we produce a legitimate "contender".

World Cup Soccer 

Since the beginning of Australia, we had an urge to perform on the world soccer stage.  We tried and tried and tried again, but didn't have the depth to qualify for the Cup.  As our multi-cultural identity matured and established itself, our soccer talent stocks have gradually soared.

Finally in 2007 John Aloisi buried the penalty that told the planet "we have arrived".  We were going to the World Cup!  In Germany our boys played their hearts out, cruelly being robbed in the round of 16 by a bullshit penalty (still burns).

The road to South Africa was easier, but a disastrous first game against the Germans put us behind the 8-ball.  By the end of the tournament we salvaged our pride and continued to shine.  Consistent top 20 rankings show we're on the rise.

Qualification was now not good enough for our hyper competitive nation.  We want to win the bloody thing!  Soccer popularity has since peaked and troughed.  Its development remains a roller coaster, but also a work in progress.  With a men's and women's national league we can be proud of, we are continuing to gradually head in the right direction.

I can't see us winning the trophy in my life time, but we saw what Cadel did this week...there's hope.

A special mention in this post must go to indigenous athlete, Patrick Johnson.  He became the first Australian to break 10sec for the 100m sprint.  This was a huge achievement for Johnson, but unfortunately his form faded and he was unable to qualify for the following Olympic 100m.  It has not been achieved since by an Aussie and remains a great moment.

Cadel's performance this week serves as a potent reminder that Australian's can achieve big on the world stage.  With the work ethic and support, we are capable of scaling heights we never dreamed of.

I'm not going to go out and buy a Malvern Star, but Cadel has inspired me to try that little bit harder at my passions.  I won't be conquering the world anytime soon, but he's made me want to strive to get the best out of myself.  I'm sure other Australian's have felt that hunger...even if it only lasts a day....Tragic.

Back on the Horse.

It was a momentary lapse in concentration and a slip of the circular saw that changed my golf game forever...or so I thought.  A few seconds passed between the initial flash of pain and the realisation that I had severed my left index finger.  During moments like these, a million things flash through your short-circuiting mind and strangely at the top of my list was golf.                           

Don’t get me wrong, it wasn’t exclusively golf.  While trying to stop the bleeding with a bag of frozen peas and battling to remain conscious, I was secretly hoping that this was an extreme enough situation for me to be able to cry like a 12 year old girl without getting teased by my mates.  Somewhere between my blubbering sobs and the arrival of the “meat wagon”, my better half had managed to find my hacked off digit hidden amongst her prize winning lily pillies.  

In the back of the ambulance, heavily sedated, my thoughts returned to my golf swing.  Like many retired footballers, I had turned to golf to fill a void.  Tiger was never going to be challenged, but my handicap had reached a respectable 15 and the noble game was fast becoming an addiction.  The anticipation of Saturday tee-off was the motivation that carried me though the weekly 9 to 5 grind.

There must have been four or five doctors curiously inspect my hand and finger while I sat dumbfounded in accident and emergency.  Intermittently they stopped bedside and stated the obvious, “it’s a clean cut alright,” then busily whizzed off on their rounds.  At this stage I held some hope that they might be able to stitch the little bugger back on.  The surgeon that mattered arrived stony faced; I held my breath while he expressionlessly delivered the verdict.        

A booming drive was my strength.  You can’t hit long ball with nine fingers.  Can you even hit a ball at all?  I wondered how much I’d get on E-Bay for my clubs.  Maybe I can trade them for a tennis racket?  So much negativity, I was angry with myself.  What about the legendary Jack Newton?  He has one arm and still hits a late draw.  That guy on “60 minutes”, no arms or legs and he still gets 18 holes in.  Snap out of it!  Build a bridge and get over it you gigantic sheila!      

“We won’t be re-attaching the finger,” said the doctor.  He went on to explain that it would be more trouble than it was worth to try without guarantee.  The best option was to take the finger down to the middle knuckle, tidy it up and send me home to get on with my life.  In no position to argue or negotiate I told the Doc to “do what you’ve got to do”.  With that I had mentally accepted my fate.  Now comes the hard part.

Two months later the scarring had finally healed.  I had a good range of movement and was coming to terms with simple tasks like: tying my shoes, using a knife and picking my nose.  Every day I would pick up a club and have a gentle swing in the back yard.  My early experimentation with grips proved fruitless; every swing was agony.  Patience is not my strong suit and this was going to take plenty.  Enough time had passed for my “mates” to start calling me Stumpy, 9.5 or Chopper; but I still wasn’t back out on the fairways.  The frustration was suffocating.

Another month had passed and the big day had arrived.  It was time to get back on the horse.  I hadn’t struck a ball in anger, but my back yard sessions were feeling good.  My grip was still in development stage, as was my confidence.  The adrenalin was pumping as I carefully positioned my ball on the tee.  I surveyed the open fairway ahead, wrapped my sweaty palms around the shaft of my beloved Taylor Made driver and began a slow, measured back-swing.  Tentatively I pulled the trigger.

The dimpled sphere soared down the middle, carrying about 250 metres with minimal pain.  The exhilaration was indescribable - I was back and loving it.  As the round progressed, the pain increased dramatically.  By hole five I was struggling to hold the club, let alone make solid contact.  It was obvious that I had wanted too much too soon.  Pig-headed, I played as many as I could before my partners convinced me to call it a day.  My mental state was torn between rags and riches.  When the dust had settled I had calmed enough to realise it was all just a matter of time.  Golf had to be abandoned for a period, so I could come back properly healed and ready.

Three months later I was ready.  I’d made some “MacGyver” like alterations to my glove, cutting out the index finger for my stump and wearing a rubber thimble on it.  Admittedly it looked ridiculous, but I was hoping it would protect me from any friction pain I had experienced the last round.  My new grip consisted of both thumbs pointing down the shaft and my stump well away from the action.  It was comfortable and practical.  This time I actually felt confident.

All good yarns should have a happy ending, and this is no exception.  That afternoon I completed eighteen pain-free holes.  For a good part of the day I had the boys “on toast”.  Unfortunately fatigue got the better of me and I was reeled in.  It mattered little because I’d found that spark again.  I was back in love with the game I was starting to loathe.  Time had healed all wounds and golf had once again proved that it was a sport that doesn’t discriminate.  There is even a place for me and my stump.  

                                                                                                           

The Magical Force of Inspiration.

G'day Tragics,

2011 has seen the state of Queensland go to hell.  You could say that once it got there, the floor collapsed and it toppled down another couple of levels.  Floods, cyclones, storms and politicians have pushed people way past breaking point.  Through the death, destruction and heart-ache, one thing has managed to flourish in the land of the giant pineapple and that thing is...sport.

Amidst the carnage, Queensland has had one of its most successful years in recent memory.  Who could forget the mighty Queensland's Roars heroics.  Their season was unbelievable and spectacularly iced by the stunning grand final win, which I rate as one of the great moments in Australian sport.

The Roar women's team also claimed the chocolates, re-stamping themselves as the dominate force in Australian women's soccer.  Next up the Queensland Firebirds conquered all before them, marching to the Trans-Tasman netball final.  A herculean effort by the girls.

Who could forget Darren Lockyer's send-off in the thrilling Origin matches recently, that saw the cane toads notch up their sixth straight series win. 

Last but not least, the mighty Reds capped off a brilliant season by manufacturing a stirring performance against the Crusaders a few weeks back.  It was something Queenslanders will forever hold dear.

Have all the disasters up north this year inspired the local sports teams to new heights?  Have these teams and individuals been able to find another gear to lift the spirits of so many that have had it so tough?  The romantic side of me says an emphatic Yes!

When something catastrophic happens, all things seem to pale into insignificance...including sport.  It's impossible not to be affected by tragedy and witnessing severe suffering first hand puts the meaning of sport into its rawest perspective.

The pressure on teams and individuals is lifted and replaced by a form of exuberance...a child-like love of the game that may have been missing for a few years.  Combatants feel a responsibility to the people that are hurting and somehow slip into an auto-pilot mode.  The will to win becomes greater and success means so much more to the community than a shiny trophy.

Recent examples aside from the Queensland heroics are:  the New Orleans Saints Superbowl victory in the wake of Hurricane Katrina.  Who could forget the horrific scenes  in the Saints' home stadium, which was transformed into a refuge after the storm tore the city apart.  Rapes, muggings and bashings were taking place on a daily basis in the stadium.  It was hell on Earth for so many.

The Saints became a symbol of hope for the battered people of New Orleans and there's no doubt their win in the Superbowl accelerated the cities recovery and provided an instant shot in the arm of those that were wallowing at their lowest ebb.

Another is when Iraq won the Asian Soccer Cup a few years back.  Never mentioned in the same breath as the favourites, Australia and Japan.  The war ravaged nation went about their business quietly and efficiently, eventually going all the way to claim the title.  Their win brought great joy to the suffering nation and just for a brief moment allowed it to forget about the tragedy it was embroiled in.

I have no doubt that inspiration in its various forms is an extremely potent weapon, that can tap into an individual or teams abilities and give them a super-human boost.

On the flip-side, isn't it funny how seriously we take our sport.  How hard we take a loss by our team or nation.  How Monday can be all the more painful following a loss by our footy team on the weekend.

The scrutiny of the Australian cricket team is a classic example of how one entity can control the mood of a nation.  Our 20 year winning streak was a period of dominance that may never be repeated and during this time our cricketers were heroes...How times change.  Now we are in the midst of a rebuilding phase, which included another recent Ashes capitulation, the cricketers, selectors, board and anyone else associated with Cricket Australia are public enemy number one.

No matter how many times you hear "it's only a game,"  you must realise by now that this sentence is complete and utter bullshit.  Whether you're a sports tragic or not, it is impossible to not be caught up emotionally in a sporting victory, story, moment or incident at least once in your life.

There's no denying that sporting performances inspire and lift the spirits of people and more importantly people inspire and lift the performances of sports people.  Sport can make you believe that dreams are achievable, just like dreamers can teach athletes to throw off the shackles and take flight.

This is the reason why I am a sports tragic.  It's that little thing inside me that ignites when I talk, play or watch sport.  I don't know scientifically what it all means. I'm sure it's some sort of chemical reaction.

Sorry about all the heartfelt dribble this week, but what can I say....it's a passion...Tragic.

Kids...Parents...School...Stuff.

G'day Tragics,

I was playing golf with a mate the other day who is a P.E. teacher.  We got onto the subject of schools that have sporting excellence programs.  In Queensland there are quite a few of these, in which students can enrol in subjects such as AFL, rugby league and surfing just to name a few.  My first thought 20 years ago would have been "totally awesome dude," but nowadays I'm not so sure.

A fair portion of the kids that attend these schools, focus heavily on their sport, which more often than not leads to a loss of direction with their studies.  It's also fair to say in my humble opinion, that manners, respect and general social skills can also be a casualty in the quest for sporting super stardom.

I'm told that less than 1% of the children involved in these programs go on to become professionals in their chosen sport.  Once they fail, they are left poorly educated, lacking social etiquette and low on self-confidence.  They are virtually unemployable and most don't even care.  I'm sure I'm not the only one that has noticed the influx of smart arse teenagers simply "hanging around" these days.

Sport isn't completely to blame, so let's move on to Mum and Dad.  There are a few different types of parents when it comes to their kids and sport.  There's the "My little Johnny is the best thing since sliced bread and he's going to play for Australia" type, then you get the pushy parents that drive their youngsters into the ground through training and attempting to live out their own sporting dreams through their kids - think tennis parents and finally you get the encouraging, supportive folks, that don't over praise, point out mistakes when required and ensure their juniors get the sport/study balance just right.

It doesn't take rocket science to pick which type is straight out of parenting 101, but I'm sure real life is completely different to the perfect ideal.  I don't have kids yet, but I have an idea of how I will bring them up.  I want them to play and enjoy sport, but also gain a solid education so they have options.  I'm sure I'll brag about my kids, but only in a proud way, not a "my kids the best...chuck out the rest" manner.

Why do parents put their kids in these sports school and wait for a Brownlow medallist to be pumped out the other end?  Are they hoping their kids will be good at sport just in case it turns out they're not that bright?    What happened to the days of "no kicking the footy till you've finished your homework"? Apparently kicking the footy is homework now.  I was born in the wrong era!

There is definitely a place for elite sports programs in schools, but they need to be meshed with the necessities of reading, writing and arithmetic.  Parents need to ensure that their kids recognise these opportunities as privileges and not god given rights.

I'm sick of cheeky little buggers back-chatting me down the road, I'm sick kids not having any general knowledge other that what's on the TV or their iPhone and I'm sick of parents telling me how good their kid is, rather than how hard their kid tries and how much they enjoy themselves in their sports. 

I personally hate the way things are going and it sucks that your actually shocked when you meet a child that is great at sport, study and well mannered to boot.  This used to be the norm.  Sport has a vital role in developing our youth. If used correctly it can be an effective tool used to inject confidence, discipline and team/social ethics into the children. 

It's so easy to miss this point when the lure of wealth and fame is so potent in today's society.  It's up to parents to guide their kids in the right direction and hope that sports stars will go back to being clean cut, humble and educated role models.

I know what you're going to say...I'm dreaming...Tragic.

The Girls Are Alright.

G'day
Tragics,

This week I lay my feminine side on the line for all to see.  As you know by now, I'm not ashamed at what I post on this blog and this weeks entry will confirm just that.

Women's sport is pretty good to watch...in fact, I quite enjoy it!  Now before you super Aussie mega-blokes start calling me a big woolly woofta and telling me to go grow a beard, give me a chance to plead my case.

There was a time when women's sport was merely a token fixture..sorry ladies but it's true.  Girls sport was a politically correct centre piece on the table of world sport.   It was never taken seriously by anyone apart from the participants and generally failed to capture the imagination of the sports loving public.

I'm here to inform you that times have changed...the girls are here and they're making a statement!  Women's sport today is not only popular...but enjoyable.  The high standards set by the fairer sex, has made the world stand up and take notice.

The introduction of national girls leagues in cricket, soccer and netball has given the countries best athletes something to strive for.  Increased funding in these and already established sports such as basketball has allowed the stars of the game to become more professional.  If women are given the chance to pursue their chosen sports full-time, then they will be able to train more, improving their skills and ultimately elevating their sport to a higher level. 

Female tennis has become a hard hitting slug fest, with the muscle bound sheilas giving the fluffy gold sphere a pasting.  The serving is bigger, the rallies longer and the winners more breathtaking.  The shorter matches make women's tennis an exciting package to view on the box.  The only negative I can see is the ridiculous grunting....you can't have everything!

Netball is fast and rough as guts.  The stadiums are packed and the televised matches have great atmosphere.  Clever marketing by channel One, has seen the big streak, Luke Darcy of AFL fame injected into the coverage team.  They are trying to win over a few blokes and no doubt have done so with the slickly presented game.  Let's face it...chicks in short skirts bashing each other...sounds watchable!

Golf is another example I'll use.  Not only do you have the "Super Granny", Laura Davies, smacking the little white thing 300m, but there's a host a upcoming young Tigress's that are threatening to take the game by storm.  To be honest, there's bugger all difference between watching men's and women's golf.  I'd rather watch a bunch of 20 something year old ladies strutting around a course than a pack of middle aged men waddling their way round.  You getting my drift?

Now before you call up a bunch of dudes to come round, paint each others nails, have pillow fights and watch the ladies tennis, settle down.  The point I'm making is that the days of channel surfing, stumbling over the WNBL for example and then quickly moving on should well and truly be a thing of the past.  Women's sport has really come a long way. It showcases talent, aggression, grace, beauty, strength, excitement and a handbag full of brilliance.

I'm not going to say girls deserve equal prize money...that's another bowl of goldfish, but they have earned the right to equal air-time.  Women's sport is no longer the "chips with no dip".

If you don't believe me, see for yourself...tragic.