The Lions

The ways of providence never cease to amaze me. A second judicial officer decides that Australian captain James Horwill did nothing wrong when he tap-danced on the upturned face of a Lion in the second Test. Therefore Horwill was eligible for the third Test. This travesty of justice was in one way a good thing, because, as Bryan O’Driscoll said,
“We want to play the best team they have, and he is certainly part of that.” So, no pre-match excuses for the Wallabies.

However, let the IRB take warning: if they don’t upgrade the strength of character of future judicial officers, efforts to eliminate foul play will have to wait for an assassination before progress is made.

The first half of the third and decisive Test ended in gloom. I was planning to spend the next hour gardening, so certain was I that defeat was inevitable – unless a certain Lion was replaced. The unfortunate man who has been displeasing me for a decade is called Mike Phillips, a Welshman. He is six foot four, very long in the leg, and weighs sixteen stone. He could be many things but the one thing he will never be is a scrum-half. Apart from being the wrong size and shape, he has a pass that is slow and short, and he is terribly selfish. How this fine potential flank forward managed to become Wales’ most capped scrum-half is one of the great mysteries of life. The service from such a player guarantees that the three-quarters will have neither the time nor the space to work their magic, and will spend most of the game on their backsides and heavily bruised.

Out came the Lions for the second half, and Eureka!, no sight of the Welsh giant.  Instead a handsome young Irishman with a low centre of gravity crouched behind the scrum, and did the business. For just about the first time on the tour the Lions played their real game in that second half, and won by something like 40 – 19. I made much more noise than is my custom.

Wimbledon

Wimbledon was good, but après-Wimbledon was better – for me. The Murray of the past was a bit grumpy sometimes, a bit wary, a bit defensive, a bit stiff, maybe a bit tense, a grinchy sort of person on occasions. Now he is so comfortable in his skin, so relaxed; pleased to be asked questions and perfectly happy to take time answering them. I have the feeling that he is in the same state as Hillary and Tensing on top of Everest – without the ambient temperature of that day in the early fifties.

Murray personifies the state of bliss that comes with achieving a goal to which a man has dedicated his whole life. All those who try very hard should keep his image in the back of their minds as a spur towards whatever they are after. I know that I shall feel exactly like the victorious Scot when I achieve a golf handicap of 18.

Racing

“Men and Horses I have Known” by the Hon. George Lambton is the greatest book about the Turf ever written. Anybody in racing (or not) who hasn’t read it has missed a great delight and an essential educational aid.

I quote: “In the early days of (trainer ) Mat Dawson’s great successes, the Two Thousand Guineas, the Derby, possibly a race at Ascot and the St Leger were the objectives of the great horses. Now (1893) there is the Newmarket Stakes sandwiched between the Two Thousand Guineas and the Derby, and after Ascot the Princess of Wales Stakes and the Eclipse. Mat, who aimed at perfection when he trained a horse for a classic race, did not believe it possible for any man to keep a horse keyed up to its best for so long. He wished the (additional) races at the bottom of the sea.”

A couple of years ago I remember thinking that Aidan O’Brien was running that good Australian horse of his too often for comfort, and I seem to remember that his results during that period suggested he didn’t improve for the treatment, although he came back strong the following year.

I suspect that Mr Dawson (who was Fred Archer’s main employer) was right in his day and age. They used to train horses harder and the whole racing experience demanded more from the horse than it does today. I also suspect that today’s arrangements and facilities (motorised horseboxes, the aeroplane and the swimming pool, for example) help horses to recover quicker (and possibly more completely) than was possible in earlier times. I think it’s a question of eternal vigilance. Bottom line? Don’t be greedy – one race too many is much more harmful than one race too few.

On that subject I am no great authority. Concerning the book, however, I know everything. It is beautifully written, a delight to read and it describes a sixty year period when there was an almost palpable magic about every aspect of life on the Turf.

Chapter 7, penultimate paragraph, beginning “Writing about my brother Hedworth…”

I defy anyone to read the two pages remaining in that chapter without becoming convinced that they have just taken part in a most exciting incident on Nottingham racecourse in the days of Queen Victoria.

Golf

Mickleson is a delight – without his visor he also looks a bit like the late great Tommy Cooper. The après-ski circuit, showing the claret jug to the masses, was quite an ordeal for a big chap who has already spent five hours on his feet in the heat, but he didn’t complain.

I was pleased that Westwood played well. I hear he has hired a mind coach. A few years ago I detected tension (final round tension) in his neck and shoulders – it makes you pull your putts to the left, and the little devil doesn’t make its presence felt in any other way. In my case it is sadly incurable, but I would have had a friendly word with Westwood at that time, were it not for the fact that on an earlier occasion I advised his management team that his colleague McGinley would be more successful if he didn’t do everything so fast (another vice which is an incurable weakness in my own game).

In their wisdom they (very politely) rejected my advice, so I thought it would be wrong to return to the fray in re. Westwood. We will monitor the situation from afar. McGinley, incidentally, didn’t exactly excel after my (non-)intervention, but I’m not going to read too much into that.

However I do believe that nobody knows more about sporting weaknesses than a really, really bad player, and in that respect I have all the badges.