Monday 5th December
I was never a fan of televised sport, having always considered it a man’s thing, and as we had no men at Putney it was just never an issue. Grandma, I remember did like to see the county cricket scores, and would watch with some intensity as if the runs of Colin Cowdrey had some real significance for her, and what she did with this information I have no idea.
It was living with Edward that I got my first real taste of TV sport, he simply loved it, and would happily spend the whole of Saturday afternoon watching Grandstand, this at least allowed me to get on with some cooking (or reading). Rugby was his favourite, he had played ‘Rugger’, as he always called it, at school and occasionally had turned out for a friendly game in Richmond Park, but that was years before I met him. I have never understood the game; I can just about watch a game of football if I have to, but the arcane rules of Rugby, and why there should sometimes be a line-out, and sometimes a scrum leave me baffled. There is also the added complication of whether they are playing ‘Union’ or ‘League’, and the awful sense of betrayal when a leading player switches regimes, but I really don’t see why not, the games are so similar that the same skills, or I suspect, muscles, must be employed.
Sometimes I would come into our sitting room to find Edward fast asleep and the TV a sea of green baize, as the snooker would be on; and then when I switched the set off he would wake and exclaim, “But I was watching that.” One time I simply sat down, and rather than switch off and wake him, I watched. And you know what, I was hooked. Oh, not instantly, but slowly the strange beauty of the game started to weave its’ magic on me, or was it just the restful colours and the slow glide of the mostly red balls across the green table. Also the camera angle hardly changed, and the soft, almost murmur of the commentators’ voices (whispering Ted Lowe), the hushed audience, and the immaculately dressed players seemed miles away from the push and shove and mud and sweat of Rugby or Football.
This was a new world to me, a sport where men could behave like gentlemen, almost a hang-back to an Edwardian age of elegance; and they were gentlemen, happy to shake hands if they lost or applaud a good shot, or even to argue that they had indeed fouled when the referee thought they hadn’t. What a wonderful change from the ‘Winning is everything, Losing is nothing’ philosophy of so many sportsmen. I’ll never forget some American athlete at the Atlanta Olympics declaring that not only had he won the race and run it perfectly, (a bit of humility wouldn’t go amiss) but that he had annihilated the other runners, “I slaughtered them, I just murdered the field man, I left them for dead.” Really? I thought this was sport young man, not war. And this attitude is creeping into everything, coming second, or even getting to the finals is seen as failure, winning is all that matters. But I was always brought up to believe that taking part was everything, doing your best, playing the game, not winning at all costs, and celebrating the goal when you know the ball hasn’t really crossed the line, or trying to put off your opponent when they are serving at tennis, and cheering a double fault. I suppose that they are motivated by the money and the prestige, but I wonder if they ever question themselves.
No, give me snooker any day, with the handshake and the wry smile of the loser, and Willie Thorne and John Virgo in the commentary box as the mercurial Ronnie takes us on another emotional roller coaster ride. Come on Ronnie.
