Two crowd-related moments this week. One was
heart-melting. One was concerning.
On Sunday morning, Wigan Athletic Football Club defeated
Manchester City to win the English FA Cup in one of the biggest upsets in
recent memory. Wigan’s team was assembled for about £30 million while Manchester
City’s team cost around £300 million. So this was very much a case of an actual
team beating a team of superstars. Never
mind that Wigan, barring a miracle, will probably be relegated from the Premier
League this week. In this final they played well and deserved their win.
The scene that tugged at my heart-strings involved an
older gentleman. He might’ve been 70; he might’ve been 80. But his age, his
Wigan shirt, and indeed his presence at a Cup Final attested to the fact that
he is likely a long-term Wigan fan. At the final whistle the camera focused on
him. He hugged someone who was presumably a friend then threw his head back,
thrust his hands skyward, and let forth with a cry that said ‘I’ve waited my
whole life for this. Yeeeeesssssssss’. The viewer could only join the fan in
his joy and feel happiness that what was probably a life-long dream for him had
been fulfilled.
Contrasting that were my feelings on leaving the Warriors
game at Wellington’s Westpac Stadium on Saturday night.
My eight year-old son and I attended the game, at his
request. We arrived at Wellington’s stadium at around 5pm, and thoroughly
enjoyed the Warriors under-20 vs. Bulldogs under-20 game (those are some
gigantic teenagers, in both teams, by the way) in front of a crowd that seemed
pretty similar in size to an average Hurricanes crowd this season.
By the time the main spectacle kicked off, a fantastic
crowd of over 30,000 had descended upon the stadium. The noise. The Mexican
waves (remember those, Hurricanes fans?).
The exuberance. The tries. The
cheerleaders. The excitement. Stan Walker belting out a song while wearing his
($220!!) Warriors stadium jacket.
Sounds wonderful, doesn’t it? It wasn’t.
The drunks. The fools. The teens (some drunk, some not)
who obviously thought this was the second leg of the Wellington Sevens. They were
more concerned with throwing projectiles, yelling obscenities and consuming a
lot of alcohol than watching what was a thoroughly entertaining game.
My son is a sports nut. He’s a very promising rugby
player and hugged his Warriors replica ball like a teddy bear when he went to
sleep on Saturday night as he loves that team. He loved being at the game and
was astounded, as was I, by the size of Sam Kasiano and his enormous Bulldoggy
mates.
But at halftime he asked if we could leave as he felt
unsafe and intimidated. With 25 minutes remaining I relented and we commenced
the long walk down the stadium concourse. He wasn’t unsafe, but that’s how he
felt. As if to back up his view, as we left the stadium a young man pushed past
us. He was too drunk to stand or speak and was being dragged along the ground
by his mates as the Police closed in. Interestingly I noticed that perhaps 100
or so fellow spectators were accompanying us at our time of departure.
The Warriors/Bulldogs ‘fans’ that I encountered didn’t
watch much of the game and probably didn’t care who won. The contrast between
these young drunken fools and the older Wigan fan couldn’t have been more
pronounced. The Octogenarian from Northern England would have died a happy man
yesterday (I sincerely hope he didn’t). All I know is that the likelihood of my
boy and I attending a Wigan Athletic home game (unlikely to say the least) is
far greater than our ever attending another Warriors game (nil).
The Greatest?
As I’ve said before, I am a devout Liverpool fan. By
default, I am therefore pre-programmed to not be particularly inclined to
praise Manchester United. But I’m a person who is more than happy to
acknowledge greatness, even if it is Liverpool’s arch-nemesis.
‘Great’ is a term that is over-used frequently. I heard a
host on a local sports radio show recently describe Dean Kenny as a ‘former All
Black halfback great’. Don’t know about that...
But Sir Alex Ferguson is a great - pure and simple. His
run hasn’t been smooth. If his team had been knocked out of the FA Cup by
Crystal Palace in 1990, rumour has it he would have been fired. But a late, late
equaliser in that game saw him carry on in the role and the rest, as they say,
is history.
He has ruled the roost since 1986. In that time Liverpool
has had seven managers while Chelsea has been through 15. He hasn’t always had
the biggest chequebook in the league behind him, but 38 trophies in that time
is testament to his abilities. 27 years in charge and 38 trophies is a record
that is unlikely to ever be approached, let alone beaten, by another manager.
So I say hats off to Sir Alex. And may his retirement spell the end of Man
Utd’s dominance!
Don’t Blame It On The Boogie
Ever watched a replay of an international rugby test from
the 1960’s? Those sheep-shearing, tanalised timber post-carrying hard buggers
of yesteryear would crash over in the corner, spit out a couple of teeth,
casually toss the ball to the kicker and jog back to the halfway line looking
like their grandmother had just died. If they smiled, they’d be cautioned by
the ref. A hug, nay even a smile, would result in a sending-off and an extra
six jug sculls at the after-match.
Nothing at all changed in the 70’s, or the 80’s. No
emotion or empathy was acceptable. Even Buck Shelford, having had a testicle
skilfully removed by the boot of a Frenchman, was keenly encouraged to ‘get up
and run it off’.
With the arrival of the enlightened 1990’s came the
advent of the ‘smile’. It took a while to catch on, but a few players began to
seem somewhat less than downright miserable when they dotted down. No longer did rugby players automatically
question the sexuality of all football goalscorers’ celebrations (although some
of these are fairly bizarre it must be said). A hearty pat on the back upon
winning a World Cup, or a firm handshake upon winning the National Provincial
Championship was now acceptable, if not encouraged. No team cuddles while lying
on the ground, but it was a start.
Former All Black great Jeff Wilson got the ball rolling
in the mid 1990’s. Of his 44 test tries, at least 75% were celebrated with a
classical combination of knees and
elbows bent to 90 degrees, fists pumping and face pointed skywards while the
mouth exclaimed ‘yeeeeeeeaaaaahhhh’ or similar exuberant demonstration of joy.
Some of the old-school AB’s weren’t overly accepting of this new-fangled
‘emotion’ nonsense, but nonetheless it soon caught on.
Now, in the event of a five-pointer, rugby has the full
gamut of players pointing at the TV cameras, an array of weird and wonderful
high fives and more hugs than a Greek wedding.
But my favourites are the dancers. The movers and the
groovers. This week, after ploughing through some weak tackles and dotting down
in the corner for the Chiefs, Lelia Masaga wouldn’t have looked out of place
starring in Saturday Night Fever, Staying Alive or, for you younger readers,
High School Musical or Glee. He got down, and he got funky. Julian Savea is
another with all the moves, as are numerous other players in Super Rugby and
the ITM Cup. There’s no serious point to this; I just like it. I hope players continue to show that they
enjoy the game; unlike those ‘supporters’ at Westpac Stadium on Saturday night.
Till next time,
SG
No comments:
Post a Comment