Masters Shows The Value of Everything

Talking about commercialisation in sport these days is something of a tautology, like referring to the grapiness of wine or the four-leggedness of a horse. The very dignity of any sporting enterprise is often tied into the blue-chippiness of their sponsor portfolio, as the poor old Celtic League found in its wilderness years before the intervention of Magners.

Professional sports wear their commercial and sponsorship ties like fashion-fraught teens bedecked in brand-name clothing: there are prom queens like the Champions League, with its flawless garb of Sonys and Mastercards, but equally there are Ugly Bettys like snooker, with its Travis Perkins cast-offs and naff online gaming-house tank-tops.

When we fetched up at the match venues at last year's football World Cup, unsurprisingly, FIFA had covered itself from top to toe in designer gear. While acknowledging in advance the fear of banging on like a tree-dwelling hippy malcontent, the corporate and commercial presence which enveloped the stadium environs was frightening in its scope and corresponding power.

Easily the most dispiriting experience of last the tournament was not seeing Zinedine Zidane's sad valedictory moments in football, nor was it having to watch England play. No, having several oranges confiscated from my rucksack outside of Dortmund's Westfalenstadion (or Signal-Iduna Park as it is now known, or FIFA World Cup Stadium, Dortmund as it was magically renamed for the duration of last summer's tournament, the insurance company which had purchased naming rights for Borussia Dortmund's ground not being a FIFA sponsorship 'partner') was a profoundly depressing welcome to football's big party.

Presumably the fruit seller at Dortmund's central rail station had neglected to join McDonald's and Budweiser as official sponsors and providers of match venue sustenance, and thus his wares were unwelcome.

The International Cricket Council (ICC), organisers of the Cricket World Cup, have apparently been studying carefully from FIFA's textbook, judging by many of the murmurs of complaint directed towards the current tournament in the West Indies.

This month's Observer Sport Monthly reports that the ICC has "attempted to colonise the Caribbean, in the way that the IOC or Fifa occupy a country during an Olympics or football World Cup, imposing their own absurdly strict rules and regulations, and prohibitively expensive ticket prices....local people were prevented from bringing food and drink into the ground, as is their tradition, as well as whistles, conches and drums."

Clearly the less than bumper attendances at most games has not been helped by the dampening of local enthusiasm with po-faced measures similar to those which scuppered my oranges in Dortmund. But where the football World Cup can afford to assume subservience to Mammon at the expense of fans' enjoyment (and indeed of the soul of the tournament) the cricket event has nowhere near the same caché in terms of history and global appeal.

As OSM suggests, the ICC might be better served following the example of the organisers of the Masters at Augusta National, the 71st running of which tees off tomorrow. Originally intended to attract members to the new club whose course had been co-designed by the legendary Bobby Jones, tournament organiser (and chairman of the club until his death in 1977) Clifford Roberts insisted on the tournament's now famous hospitality for spectators.

Ticket prices were (and still are) kept at competitive prices, as were food concessions, Roberts reasoning that any spectator who had made the effort to get to Augusta National should be able to refuel at a reasonable cost. Members are required to wear their green jackets throughout the week in order to be visible to provide information to spectators, and litter is cleared meticulously.

Pointedly, according to OSM, "there are no advertising banners or billboards pasted with corporate logos. The US television broadcast includes just four minutes of subdued commercials per hour, from sponsors approved by the club."

Clearly the Masters' fabled image - sporting history amidst azalea and lush perfection - is something treasured by the organisers, whose club owes its success to the tournament's unique standing.

Of course - putting down the CND banner and washing out the dreadlocks for a moment - sport needs financial backing, and the good folk in the boardrooms invest much that benefits the mythical 'grassroots', but Augusta is a reminder to FIFA and the ICC that the value of some things is incalculable.

Real Life Sad Ending To a Happy Story

As you've probably figured by now, this sport business has a slight tendency toward the dramatic. In fact, I've long thought of sport as soap opera for men. Improbable storylines, pantomime villains, joy, heartache and then Gary Lineker presents the omnibus so you can catch up on what you've missed.

Of course, the problem with soap operas is that sometimes people mistake them for real life, accosting Dirty Den at the petrol station or sending love letters to that Maria off Corrie. This phenomenon is also replicated in sport, especially on a weekend like the one just passed, where the potboiling plotlines whisk us off to a land of makebelieve, and perspective and reality disappear from view.

Saturday's incredible events put sport onto the front pages, which only exacerbates the confusion, placing games alongside real life so that they blend in seamlessly. Then something happens to make everyone snap out of it. Like the grey-haired figure who had just watched the team he coached fall on the wrong side of one of the biggest shocks in sporting history dies only hours later.

A guy who had just been an unfortunate stooge in a particularly outlandish sporting cock and bull story, the poor sap on the wrong end of a ripping yarn, had just, well, actually died.

Oh. Shit.

I knew little of Bob Woolmer before Saturday. Like many others who don't follow cricket closely his earlier career as a test batsman who had joined up with the Kerry Packer's World Series Cricket and later taken part in the rebel tour to South Africa was unknown to me, as was his later standing as one of the most respected and innovative coaches in the game.

He was a close personal friend of Dickie Bird, the former test umpire, however. Bird had been unearthed by Sky News to provide some good old-fashioned bluster on the news that 'Freddie' Flintoff, English cricket's erstwhile Boy's Own hero, had been stripped of the vice-captaincy of the World Cup squad. Flintoff's boozy carousing in the aftermath of England's loss to New Zealand on Friday had necessitated his being rescued from an imperilled pedalo in the early hours of Saturday morning.

The news of Woolmer's death broke while the interview was in progress. Just when the wrathful brows of the British public were gathered most fiercely in the direction of the naughty Flintoff, real life impinged, like a school bell harshly bringing play-time to an end.

But the transition from the ersatz emotion of pompous indignation to genuine human grief was uneasy. The news anchor blasted out at Bird the details of Woolmer's death in that usual Sky News red-top tone. Bird's shock was immediately obvious, his lip trembling after the anchor asked him to provide his thoughts on his close friend's death just seconds after he had heard the shocking news.

Those of us who'd cheered the Irish team home to their improbable victory the previous night even felt the chill wind of reality cool our own jovial glow. The giddy glee of such a win is for the most part derived from patriotic pride, but also from the natural element of schadenfreude in the humbling of a giant. So when the man whose team have been humbled dies at the height of our joy, the intrusion of reality can't help but dampen the jubilation.

Ireland's cricketers' win, and the thrilling failure of the rugby team were great, rip-roaring stories that remind us why we devote so much of our spare time to watching people play games. Just like the latest tidings from the Rovers Return, however, it's not for real, and thank God for that. There's enough real around already.

Will Ireland Remember the Summer of '69?

The Irish cricket team depart today for the Caribbean in advance of the World Cup, which begins officially a week on Sunday. Presuming that they survive the pre-tournament training camp more successfully than their footballing cousins,their opening group game will be in two weeks time, against Zimbabwe in Jamaica, although their first warm-up match is against South Africa on Monday next.

Group D, in which we find our heroes, is a tough one, being one of the two groups containing three test-playing nations and only one minnow, that being Ireland in this case. Pakistan follow on St.Patrick's Day, then the home team, the West Indies, should be Ireland's last opponents on 23rd March.

It is unlikely that an open-top bus reception will be necessary on their return, but the prospect of qualification from their group is not outwith the bounds of possibility. Coach Adrian Birrell believes "the key to the whole tournament is the match against Zimbabwe...If we can start well and get a win in that match it sets us up quite nicely for the tournament. We would then then have two chances to cause an upset and get us through the group stages."

If Ireland do dispatch the Zimbos, and presuming that Pakistan will be a little too strong, then they can draw on inspiration from both the distant and recent past before taking on the Windies for a place in the Super 8 (the second stage,when the tournament begins in earnest).

Let's take a trip back in time to July 1969. The Rolling Stones were topping thecharts with their Honky Tonk Woman, Teddy Kennedy was having an automobile mishap in Chappaquiddick, a 10-year old Bryan Adams claims to have been playing an old six-string till his fingers bled and, on July 20th, the world watches in awe as Neil Armstrong becomes the first man to walk on the moon. A worthy achievement indeed, but dwarfed on the scale of human endeavour by Ireland's triumph over the West Indies in Sion Mills, Co.Tyrone 18 days earlier.

The touring Windies had come straight from a drawn match in Lords, without the injured Gary Sobers and wicket keeper Michael Hendrick, but still boasting six of the previous day's test line-up, including future captain Clive Lloyd.

Famously, the Irish bowled out their vaunted opponents for 25 runs, with Dougie Goodwin and Alex O'Riordan taking 5 for 6 and 4 for 18 respectively, on the way to a nine wicket victory.This being Ireland, the story went that the hosts had gotten their visitors tanked up on stout the night before the game (those crafty Irish!). This angle is probably apocryphal, Goodwin later remembering that the West Indies had arrived so late after their flight from London that the home team were the more likely to have been excessively oiled.

Even more hearteningly, the Windies were again humbled as recently as June 2004, when Brian Lara captained the losing side in Belfast. This time the tourists even set a challenging total, Dwayne Bravo knocking a ton to set Ireland a target of 292. However a first wicket partnership by Jason Molins and Jeremy Bray of 111, and wicketkeeper Niall O'Brien's 58 helped Ireland to a six wicket win.

Of course, both those famous triumphs came in the rather moist environment of Erin, as opposed to the dusty track that awaits in Kingston town, so Ireland remain firm underdogs this time. Still, maybe the spirit of 1969 can be re-created, either through a blistering bowling attack, or perhaps by luring the Pakistan team into celebrating St.Patrick's Day in the traditional manner.

"Ah Jaysus Inzamam, sure we've no chance against yiz, have a pint! Here put this silly hat on as well! And the ginger beard. Now punch your best mate. Go on, it's Paddy's Day...!"