Twitteretter

Firstly, note the indefinite article, ‘a’. The question is not whether I am romantic, but whether I am a romantic. I miss, with regretful nostalgia, the carefree performances of Paul Morphy, the XIX century American chess master, Pedro Delgado, the 1980s Spanish cycling maverick or JPR Williams, the beer guzzling, smoking, fearless and vertiginously sideburned Welsh rugby great. They all practiced their discipline not as a discipline, but as an art. They chose the unexpected, surprising and uncertain, all out attack, over the safety first calculated prowess of those who follow them. I do of course appreciate metronomic precision and the work and preparation that engenders it, but I long for the times when a romantic approach to your sport could win the day, when you were afraid to stop watching, for a single instant, as you may miss the unmissable, fail to witness art painted on the blank canvas of the chequered board, the snaking Alpine roads or the green grass of the Welsh pitches Le...

  This post is written in the aftermath of Wales’ rugby team’s comprehensive defeat by France at a November test match. The mechanisms to cope with disappointment our brain employs are fascinating. Victory needs no analysis, just an elated ‘We were great’, and unfettered wallowing in the rerunning of events, over an over, for a further endorphin kick. But defeat… Defeat ferries us on the turbulent waters of the Stages of Bereavement, which I have written about previously. To arrive at the last stop, Acceptance, and after the initial, unabated Grief, we must control our Anger and analyse, dissect, in search of a justification which makes the disappointment bearable. Victory turns sport into joy, whilst defeat turns it into analytical endeavour. Where victory brings leisure, defeat brings hard labour. Does regular defeat form character in a way that victory does not? This is so far an unchallenged, fresh thought, but should employers be asking, without fail, what team do you support?...

The last couple of weeks I’ve been watching, and enjoying, the Tour de France, a truly unique sporting event, epic in its dimension and in the demands it makes of its competitors. Le Tour is beautiful. Aesthetically, because of the opportunity to see the many breathtaking landscapes it crosses and because of the undulating, graceful movements of the multicolour snake the riders form. Sportingly, because of the incredible strength, sacrifice and courage the cyclists display, day on day. But the extremely professional, controlled set up of the race makes me long for the olden days, when the riders, without support teams, power meters or in-race radios pitted not only their bodies, but also their wits, against each other and the course. When every day, every climb and every bend could spell awe or catastrophe, in a way not possible today, with all the support, the in-race aids and the meticulous planning and preparation. I admire the modern Tour, but I miss the less predictable Tour of ol...

Rugby is one of my passions, and I miss it at the moment. I take both an escapist and analytical interest in it, as the coach of a fairly successful school team and a keen veteran player. So, at times, I feel a bit of void. No rugby to watch, analyse or play. This is alleviated by my visits to the supermarket, which are peppered with examples of exquisite rugby technique. Old ladies showing deft sidesteps (off either foot!) when you intercept their line of travel or come within tackling distance. They would make any first class backline proud. Determined shoppers who hold their line and plough through, scattering others all over the shop (sic), fiery aggression in their eyes. Any forward pack with designs on domination would not hesitate to throw them onto the field. And the playmakers, the most interesting of all, as is the case on the real pitch, surveying the whole shop for space, before choosing their line. When will it be on TV, so that I can watch from the comfort of my own home?...