The Imaginary Speech Series #2 : Roger Federer

As we gear up for Wimbledon in a mere 10 days time, it’s a good time to cast our minds back to last year when Federer passed Sampras as winner of the most number of titles on the hallowed grass. Yes, it was his eighth(!) time being champion there, as the t-shirt tells you in a very not-so-subtle fashion. 

And just in case you thought winning that many times might have made him a little bored or slightly humble, you can perish that thought because of course he was neither. (in case you haven’t guessed already, I’m in the Rafa camp. And while we’re at it, I think Jordan in his pomp was better than LeBron, I rate Messi just a little bit higher than Ronaldo, and I’ll put my hand up (ha ha) and say that Maradona was the best ever. Yes, controversial, I know, especially that last one. I like stirring things up.) 

Anyway, back to the Fed. Don’t get me wrong, he’s a great champion, and watching him play turns many a hardened journalist into teenage William Wordsworth for good reason, but as I was listening to him at the post-match press conference, his face shining brighter than the trophy itself, all I could hear was somewhat along the lines of this: 

I am King Federer. You people are fortunate to just be breathing the same air as me. Everyone else wearing Nike is trying to just do it. I’m the only one who just did it. And I didn’t even sweat and still smell amazing. 

Some people say i’m a bit smug, but humility is for people with tiny accomplishments. I’ve earned my arrogance. 

Some people also say its a bit presumptuous to print a shirt with a clever pun weeks before a tournament has even started. I call it planning. I even had a version printed at the last minute for Cilic. It said ‘L0ser’. The 0 obviously signifies the number of times he’s won Wimbledon. 

Man, i love this shirt almost as much as I love myself. 

You might think i’m contractually obliged to wear this, but in fact I came up with the concept myself. My first choice was actually “I’m the Gr-8-est of all time”, or ‘GO8T’ but even Nike thought that might be a bit much and also it didn’t read that well. 

It’s true though; no point denying it. I’m the GOAT and everyone here at Wimbledon are just sheep. They all agree that I’m the King. Prince William even told me that himself. 

So get in line, kiss the ring, and touch the hem. Do it while you can, for I will soon be ascending into the upper echelons of my own sense of self-importance. 

PS: This press release is available in six other languages. I wrote them all myself.

Flight of the Concorde

Over the past few weeks, with the days gradually getting colder and shorter, it has been proving more difficult than usual to haul my creaking body outdoors to keep up with my running. Despite constant reminders of the ultimate goal, the prospect of stepping out first thing on a wet morning has been enough to test even my strongest resolve. 

It was while I was in the midst of this autumnal languor, sliding dangerously down the slope towards complete decrepitude, that I first saw it. I had been always been aware of its presence, and even caught fleeting glimpses of it from out of the car window while driving to the airport, but I had never really seen it, or stopped for long enough to fully take it in. So, when I finally saw it (or is it her?) properly the other day, I was filled with a sense of awe and admiration. There it was, seemingly glowing in what was left of the late afternoon sun- a Concorde. 

Most people know the story of Concorde; the world's first aircraft to transport passengers at supersonic speeds. Only 20 of these planes were manufactured, and for 27 years they flew proudly across the skies before being retired from service in 2003. My own memories of Concorde stretch back to when I was about three years old, when I mainly scurried into the house in a somewhat panic-stricken fashion every time one of these magnificent machines flew by on its way to touch-down in Heathrow. The classic, unmistakeable curves and the full-blooded roar of the engines are still lodged somewhere in the cracks and crevices of the mind. 

As I looked at it now, silent but still just as majestic, I was reminded of what is possible when ambition and hard work intersect. This was a plane that many thought would never get off the ground, yet today it stands proud as testament to human endeavour; a reminder that greatness is always within reach if you strive hard enough to get there. 

Most other days, I might have just cast an admiring glance at it and kept going; but that day, for the first time it became a symbol of something much bigger. With winter just around the corner, I'll take all the inspiration I can get.

Last cricket-related post for foreseeable future (promise)

And so, to celebrate the end of a series that started with the euphoria of Lords, plunged the depths at the Oval, and ended in anti-climactic defeat at Edgbaston, let's remind ourselves of an event that went by largely unnoticed at the time. 

It was the day before the start of the final shambolic test and we found ourselves in a shooting-range. Although official reports suggest it was just Mahendra 'No-singles-please-we-are-Indians' Dhoni who went to get some target practice, the imagined scenario that most of the team had accompanied him there was too tempting to dismiss. 

And so below is a report filed at the time, and released now in the wider public interest. 

9:20 am 
Dhoni is already a few rounds in. He started with trying to aim for a single target, but then, in keeping with his no-singles policy, quickly moved to the double-trap. A few minutes later, Gautam Gambhir walks in. He has no idea where he is, why everyone is holding guns, and why he is wearing a Team India shirt. He simply assumes it is a re-hash of the recurring nightmare he has been having for a few years now which he now affectionately calls, 'The end of my career'. 

9:27 am 
Cheteshwar Pujara arrives, studies the gun for a couple of hours, reads the manual, researches the correct posture, and stares at the target for about 30 minutes. He then pulls out his photo of Rahul Dravid that he always carries for good luck and kisses it a few times. [As of 12:30 pm he had yet to fire a shot.]  

9:35 am
There is frenzy as a young kid in a sports car drives up. Of course, it is Virat Kohli. He steps out like from the pages of a fashion magazine and picks up the nearest rifle. He fires off ten shots in succession, and hits the target about nine times. It is then that he spots a certain Bollywood actress watching in the stands. Suddenly, he doesn't know what range he's at, what to aim for, or indeed where the gun is. He starts to cry. 

After all this intensity, in walks Ajinkya Rahane, who seems like he's floating on a lotus leaf in the middle of a very still lake. He hits the target five times in five attempts and then walks over to the target to apologise to it. Next up is Bhuvaneshwar Kumar. All his shots appear to be on target before inexplicably swerving away to the left at the last moment.

Mohammed Shami and Ishant Sharma are all using special rifles with extra long handles and get some on target here and there (Ishant has to stop every once in a while to get his hair out of the way) before Sir Ravindra Jadeja arrives. He grabs the nearest rifle, blows the place apart, and stands in the middle of the range - eyes glinting with just the faintest hint of insanity - singing 'Ooooh, Aaaah, Ravi Jadejaaa' at the top of his voice. 

And just like that, it is 4 pm. It is time to leave.

Maria Sharapova and the National Anthem

Before we begin, let's remind ourselves of an incident that took place a few weeks ago. It was the second week of Wimbledon, and Maria Sharapova, in response to a journalist's question, was on record saying she had no idea who Sachin Tendulkar was. 

Cue outrage. 

Within hours, #whoismariasharapova was trending (allegedly) worldwide, while her Facebook wall was splattered with abuse from Indians who saw her statement as an inexcusable affront to a national icon and therefore, by extension, an insult to all of India. 

It is difficult to try and deconstruct what was going on, but given that Sharapova is a Russian tennis star who grew up in Florida, she may not have watched cricket matches growing up or – dare I say it – even at all. Expecting her to know who Sachin is is like asking an Indian whether they know who Wayne Gretzky is. I'm happy to be proven wrong, but I'd say about 9 in 10, assuming they've never lived in Canada, wouldn't have a clue. (The only reason I've heard of the ice-hockey legend is because I had a Canadian friend at university who basically thought Gretzky was a re-incarnation of Jesus. True story.) 

In berating Sharapova for her lack of knowledge about Sachin, we were in fact displaying our own ignorance of her and the global market for tennis as a sport (as compared to cricket). I believe this is called Irony. However, this was conveniently set aside in the orgy of nationalistic sentiment that played out for days after the event. 

A few days prior to this, in the middle of another major sporting event, the FIFA World Cup, I remember having a discussion with a friend about how one particular team resolutely refrained from singing their national anthem before the game. Not a single one of them sang it, pretty much without exception. On the other hand, their opponents appeared to be loudly singing theirs; the tears flowed as they meekly surrendered to the emotion of the moment. 

There seemed to be two (and only two) explanations for this: 

1. The first lot did not know the words. 
2. They knew the words but were choosing not to sing. 

As someone who grew up singing the Indian national anthem (in school, college, even the occasional movie theatre) I found myself thinking this was a bit strange. How do you not know your own national anthem? And even more inexplicably, how could you know it and choose NOT to proudly sing it, on a global stage, at what was surely the pinnacle of your professional career? 

Upon reflection, I realised I was making a somewhat simplistic connection between singing the anthem and possessing a sense of patriotism/affection for your country. There were, in fact, many other possible reasons why those footballers were choosing not to sing – perhaps they were singing loudly in their heads (it's been known to happen), perhaps they were trying to keep their focus on the game, or perhaps they just couldn't sing (which is why they decided to be footballers instead). Whatever the reason, it was their choice, and I was wrong to judge them. 

It struck me that both these incidents (and the discussions that followed) really both boil down to the same thing – that complex, ineffable beast – Identity. 

In the first case, some of my fellow Indians appeared to think their ‘Indian-ness’ was being trampled on by an apparently clueless tennis player. In the second, I was questioning a football team's patriotism for not singing their anthem aloud. 

Both reactions are, of course, absurd. I might know the national anthem, but to claim it makes me more Indian than someone who doesn't is inane. If knowing facts or 'things' about your country is the criteria, what's the minimum number of answers required to pass, and who decides what questions to ask? How many princely states did India have? Who are the Chief Ministers? Governors? How about all the past Prime Ministers? (extra points for the right sequence). Anyone? 

 As someone who was born in one part of India, grew up in another, went to college in a third part, and has now a spent a third of his life entirely outside it, identity is something I have always grappled with, in some form or another. When I was younger, I felt like the constant movement had left me rootless; adrift in international waters, with no sense of home to clutch onto and no familiar shore to swim towards. Today, I know I am all the places I have ever been in, and all the people I have had the privilege to meet and know. And for the most part, I am incredibly grateful. 

I also know that I am by no means alone in feeling this way. Modern travel and technology have enabled people to move without limits, constantly evolving and re-inventing themselves in a manner that would have been considered witchcraft just two generations ago. More people are living and working outside of their home country than at any other point in history. 'Global village' and 'Citizen of the world' are the new mantras, and most people tend not to think of identity merely through the prisms of nationality, language, or even race. 

This doesn't mean the search within each individual does not continue, and that feelings don't manifest every once in a while in myriad, unexpected ways. The 'Who Am I?' question is probably as old as humanity itself. All I can hope for is that the next time I have a conversation about it, I can have it with a bit more understanding, and a great deal more grace. Without those, I'm as bad as the #whoismariasharapova brigade.

Greetings, people. For the benefit of all you fellow runners out there, I thought I'd take a few minutes out of my World Cup-watching schedule to share some things I learned from my first 10k run last month. If you are signed up to do a run in the next few months, I hope you will take a few minutes out of your World Cup-watching schedule to read them. 

While these aren't intended to be 'pro tips', and are therefore unlikely to have any significant impact on your overall performance, the hope is that they will help make your first run a more enjoyable experience. I am also hoping that by putting these in writing a month before my next run, I will be more likely to bear them in mind myself. If you are someone who has never tried running before, maybe this will even encourage you to give it a try. 

For more practical advice, you are strongly urged to read articles and blogs by people who actually know what they are talking about. Also, always consult your race pack. 

So, here they are, in no particular order: 

You may struggle to get to sleep the night before your first run, but force yourself to do so. All the preparation that's gone beforehand will come to nothing if you're not well rested. 

At the start line, with just a few minutes to go before the run begins, most people find themselves being swept up by a strange sense of euphoria and sudden feelings of meaning and purpose. As a result, many are happy to have a chat or at least wish you good luck for the challenge you are about to collectively undertake. Some, however, will be staring very intently either at their shoes or far into the distance. These people are either trying to get themselves into their 'zone' by mapping out every inch of the track as part of their latest assault on their Personal Best, or they are wondering what they did with their house keys. Either way, it's best not to talk to them. 

Along the route, you may notice paramedic/ first-aid staff with their arms outstretched and with some sort of white substance on their palm. You may think it is some sort of refreshing gel, but it is in fact paraffin to prevent chafing. If you would like to amuse yourself buy attempting to grab some of this while running past, by all means do so. Be aware, though, that rubbing this all over your arms and body will make you resemble an otter in the middle of an oil slick. On the plus side, you may not need to use any sort of cream on your body for weeks after the race. Seriously, you can moisturise rhinoceroses with that stuff. 

Do not, under any circumstances, give in to the temptation to spit while running. 

Smile and wave at, or at the very least acknowledge with a nod of the head, people who cheer specifically for you. The only time you are exempt from doing this if you are in the leading pack of runners and on track for a new world record, and even then it's a little bit rude. 

When you start to show the first visible signs of fatigue (involuntarily clutching at your sides, shoulders dropping, knees buckling) fellow runners may come up from behind and yell something motivational at you. This is normal. Try not to panic. 

Constantly try to envision the finish line as being just 20-30 metres away. This way, the crushing disappointment you feel when you realise that it is not in fact 20-30 metres away will hopefully be countered by the fact that you are now 20-30 metres closer to the actual finish. Repeat this throughout the run. Your brain will hate you for mercilessly messing with it, but your body will be grateful in the end. 

Pouring water down your head is good. Drinking some of it before pouring it down your head is even better. 

Finally, for the last tip (this may be the most obvious, but might be the most important): Whether you are running for charity or just for fun, enjoy every step of the run. It is likely that while you are running, all manner of thoughts will waft in and out of your mind. Reflect on them; allow the miracle of your existence to wash over you like the cool breeze blowing across your face. Relish the feeling of euphoria when you catch your first glimpse of the finish line, bearing in mind that while the line signals the end of the race, it is also the point at which real life resumes. That is where you must resolve to re-focus your energy, so that in the final reckoning you can say, like the Apostle Paul, 'I have fought the good fight, I have finished the race, I have kept the faith. Now there is in store for me the crown of righteousness, which the Lord, the righteous Judge, will award to me on that day—and not only to me, but also to all who have longed for his appearing.' 

That, regardless of the size of your finisher's medal, is the greatest prize of all.

Godspeed.

10 (yikes!) days to go...

Why, hello there. It's been a while, hasn't it? I'd like to explain the silence by saying I've been training like a beast, completely cut off from all technology and other distractions of modern life, all in preparation for this most physically demanding challenge of my adult life. But, of course this would be mostly (ok, fine, completely) untrue. 

In reality, I have been so busy recovering from a flu whilst simultaneously tweeting about the Indian elections that I haven't even noticed that we are already half-way through May. (yikes!)  And so, for a quick update: 

The offical London 10k race-pack has now arrived in the post, just as my six-pack has disappeared. (All that post-Lent meat has not helped; it swiftly took up residence around my waist- seemingly on a long-term contract.) 

Just when I thought things couldn't worse, the situation took an ominous turn when I came across this line in aforementioned race-pack: 

'Please remember that is very foolish to run if you have had any sort of virus or fever in the past four weeks...' 

So now I must weigh up my desire to complete this epic run against my equally strong desire to keep living. (I realise this is slightly dramatic on my part- but this side of me should come as no surprise to anyone who has read more than one post on this blog) 

Having taken the wise counsel of my family on board, we have now decided that I will do a trial run in the next day or two, and if I have not started frothing at the mouth after a few minutes, I will gradually build it up towards 10k until raceday- 25th May. (yikes!) 

In the meantime, if you haven't yet donated to one of the two very worthy causes I will be representing, please would you take a few minutes to do so now. Come on now, we're talking life-and-death stuff here. And not just my own. Link to donate is here.

Thank you so much if you already have donated. See you all on the other side.

The strange case of Shanthakumaran Sreesanth: Part 2

A friend of mine recently asked me what I thought would be a good caption for the photo below. 

I thought of a few, but narrowed it down to two: 
It's all about me. 
It went to my head. 

I'm not sure whether either really works as a caption, but that's beside the point. Thinking about the captions made me think about the cricketer, hence this piece. 

The intention is not to pretend to know the mind of someone I've never met, or even to kick a man when he's down. Indeed, some might say we should all just leave him in peace and let him enjoy a relatively normal, (newly-married) life away from the spotlight. 

The reason I’m writing this anyway, is not just because it makes for an interesting character study of a complex personality. The story of Sreesanth is a cautionary tale; a parable for this topsy-turvy modern world we live in. 

Shantakumaran Sreesanth was born on February 6th 1983, which makes him (at the time of writing) 31 years and 91 days old. After a rapid rise through the domestic circuit, he made his senior team debut in October 2005, a few months shy of his 23rd birthday. With a boyhood dream fulfilled while still barely out his teens, Sreesanth appeared poised at the start of a long, glittering career ahead. 

What followed was a more like a train wreck in slow motion, interspersed with the all-too-rare moment of brilliance (including that ball to Jacques Kallis). The wickets still came, but so did the drama, the sledging, dancing, taunting, snarling, crying and swearing. Slowly but surely, Sreesanth was turning into a caricature of himself; he was going from occasional joker to perpetual clown. 

Injuries didn't help his cause, but his temperament always seemed the bigger concern. Eventually, after somehow managing to find the wrong side of nearly all his team-mates, selectors, and even, most memorably, 'Captain Cool' Dhoni, he found himself at the very edge of relevance, from where you felt there was nowhere left to go. 

But this is Sree we are talking about. Just as he could find a 'wonder ball' from nowhere, you could be sure he would find a way to fall even further. And so, on a night in May almost exactly one year ago, he was arrested on charges of 'spot-fixing', a charge he allegedly confessed to during the course of the police investigation. Hooded, hand-cuffed and paraded through the streets like a convicted criminal; he would have felt his world fade to black. A career that had once promised so much had finally reached its nadir. 

It is important to note here that Sreesanth has not been found guilty in a court of law; rumours of vendettas and set-ups are still dutifully doing the rounds, and the man himself has continued to maintain his innocence. 

Incidentally, over the course of his short but tumultuous career, each time he was either dropped or 'rested', he would return claiming things had changed; assuring the fans they would see a 'different' Sreesanth. In reality, however, it seemed like another mask and it would be only a matter of time before it slipped again. So, it should come as no surprise to him that most people are a little sceptical about his denials of any wrong-doing. It’s also somewhat ironic that someone who so often broke his promises to everyone around him eventually went down for keeping his promises to a bookie. 

His arrest sent shockwaves through a cricketing establishment already fairly indifferent to shocks. This was, after all, a double World Cup-winning player, with ability beyond doubt. Why, then, should he have been anywhere near being tainted even by association? In the aftermath of the event, it was a question repeated often; borne out of both puzzlement and profound disappointment at seeing such an opportunity spurned. 

In a sport with cricket’s popularity, in a country of India’s size, it doesn't take a maths whiz to work out that the chances of making it to the very top are exceedingly small. We are literally talking lottery odds. Millions of boys either dream the dream themselves or have it dreamt for them by parents. School teams, private coaching, cricket camps, junior tournaments, State, Zone, Under-19s, 21s,... the road is as long as the list of those who fall by the wayside. 

Talent alone is almost never enough; often a healthy dose of good, old-fashioned luck is required to go alongside hard work and dedication in a far-from-meritocratic system. Oh, and some connections won’t do you any harm. To make it through all this and walk on to a cricket field as one of 11 men representing Team India is to complete a journey of epic proportions. 

I’d have thought that what most people would do next (once they have fully come to terms with the position they find themselves in) is make sure they make the most of it. It is a wonderful thing to be paid (a lot of) money to do the one thing you would gladly do just for the fun of it. Add up the fringe benefits (travel, film-star status, endorsements, etc...) and it beggars belief that anyone would actively seek to jeopardise this. 

So, why do it? It is impossible to try and understand the motivations that drive these decisions without being inside the head of the one making them, but I would venture that at very least, it is a cocktail of pride, selfishness and greed; each chasing the other's tail, each of them a side of a (metaphorical) three-sided coin. It's all about me. It went to my head. 

Jose Mourinho, the master footballing tactician, is known to always outline his belief to new teams that in a collective endeavour, each individual has to subsume his personal ambition to the team mission. This requires sacrifice; a lowering of 'self' to help the team as a whole reach greater heights. It is a simple principle at the heart of every great team's success, sporting or otherwise. And yet, in an increasingly ruthless, get-rich-quick, celebrity-driven culture, it is often the hardest thing for a professional sportsman to do. Sreesanth wasn't the first, and is unlikely to be the last. 

To watch Sreesanth in full flow was to watch a thing of beauty. Classical side-on action, perfect seam position, movement in the air, and healthy pace. Each delivery was like a little symphony, a coming together of science and art; a blend of god-given talent and tireless pursuit of perfection. To hear the sound of timber at the end of it only made it that much sweeter. For a brief moment in time, he was in the top five quick bowlers in the world. But it seemed it wasn’t enough. 

As a fellow Malayali, Sreesanth's rise from a relatively small cricketing state was a source of pride too. A new generation of youngsters in Kerala grew up chasing both his speed and fame. 'Nammude Sree', in the World Cup team. Everything was possible, for him and for us. 

And yet, here we are now; resigned, like him, to watching YouTube clips of the rippers that got Sarwan and Lara in successive overs in Antigua. This is how a dream ends. Not with a bang but a whimper. 

Years from now, regardless of the outcome of legal proceedings, Sreesanth will most likely be a mere footnote in the story of Indian cricket. The tragedy is that he could have been so much more. The reality is that whatever our field, whatever our game, it could have been any one of us.

Run FatBoy Run

A couple of weeks ago, in a fit of uncharacteristic spontaneity, I signed up for not one but two competitive runs. Since then, I have spent a considerable amount of time thinking about exactly what it was I was thinking when I did this. 

One possible explanation is the running gene that supposedly runs (ha!) through my family. I have been reliably informed by my grandmother that my father started running almost as soon as he could stand unaided, and usually took off like a shot the moment he had the tiniest inkling it was bath time. The aversion to baths may have reduced as he got older, but the running continued all the way to the Kerala state record books for the 800 metres. 

My own short running career, while far less stellar, did have a few significant moments; notably the half-marathon at age 23 when I was all set for a silver medal until I took a wrong turn a couple of hundred metres from the end and was duly disqualified (there's a metaphor for my life in there somewhere, but we will save it for another day) 

Since then, both age and apathy have taken its toll and the only running I have been doing of late is running off with my imagination, running away from responsibility, and running after a train or bus when I am late (which is all the time). None of which actually counts as any sort of preparation for an actual run. So, come May and then July this year, I fear that any remnants of my youth will most likely lie scattered amongst the rubbish along the route in central London, waiting to be sucked up by a slow-moving motorised street-cleaner, which itself may overtake me around the half-way mark. 

The first run, on the 25th of May, is the BUPA London 10K, an event which has been won by reigning Olympic champion Mo Farah for the last five years. To be honest, there's a good chance I will be so Farah from him that he will probably be getting ready to start the Rome 10k just as I am completing London. 

All of which suggests that the outlook is decidedly bleak. Still, the most important thing in all of this is that it is all for a good cause. In the larger scheme of things, my personal and near-certain humiliation is a small price to pay in the pursuit of the greater good. I will be in touch shortly with links where you can donate to the very worthy causes I will be running for. Please give what you can. Both charities, and my bruised and battered ego, will be extremely grateful. Thank you and good night.

Just to prove that this blog is as committed to meaningful journalism as it is to the finer details of toilet bowls (see previous post), I would like to mention that I ran into the Indian shooting team on their way home from the shooting World Cup in Spain. They were extremely friendly, and happy to stop and chat, even though it seemed like they were on the most roundabout route back to India imaginable. They were also excited that one of their team had won a silver medal.

After chatting for a few minutes, they headed off to catch their flight while I stood and watched these unsung journeymen in their blue 'India Shooting' shirts, far away from the glare of the media, with only their dreams and rifles for company.

Arthur Ashe, the first African-American to win Wimbledon, tragically contracted AIDS from a blood transfusion during a heart operation. As his health deteriorated, he was once asked by a reporter how he felt. Had he ever asked himself ‘Why me?'

This was his response: “If you start asking that,” Ashe said, “when do you stop? If I asked why I had a bad heart, or why I got AIDS do I also have to ask why I won Wimbledon? Or why I’ve had this kind of life? When something bad happens, people have this way of forgetting their blessings. I don’t. I’ve had a wonderful life.”
He died on this day, 20 years ago, aged 49.

You can read more here:

In my opinion, this is one of the best basketball ads Nike has ever made. It is only 30 seconds long, and contains no shots of Jordan flying through the air or slam-dunking the life out of some basketball. It doesn't even have a basketball. All it has is a man, talking about how he's just a man.



On a related note, maybe Sachin Tendulkar should do a similar ad.It could go something like this:

28 times I've been dismissed in the 90s.
37 times I've made a century in a losing cause.
I have dropped 112 catches, some of them sitters.
I have failed over and over again in my life...and that is why...
I'm in the Rajya Sabha.

I'm joking, obviously. I love Sachin. And as Sachin ads go, this is one of my favourites. It also shows that Sachin can never be just a man. Too many people need him to be so much more. 

Mince Pies

are the reason
I thought of you tonight.
soft shortcrust,
sugar-dust,
secrets inside.
And only around for a season.

It's been done before by the BBC but, in my opinion, none are as good as this one. The video was made as a promo for the finals of Wimbledon in 2008. Watch as arguably the two greatest players of the modern era read Rudyard Kipling's great poem before playing arguably the greatest tennis match in recent memory. It's practically oozing with greatness. Arguably.

It also presents a facinating insight into the two men- one, the polished, confident finished article. The other, the wide-eyed, rough-around-the-edges pretender. Enjoy.

Life's this game of inches...

Scores highly on the cheese factor but this clip from Any Given Sunday is one of my favourite Al Pacino scenes. He's definitely cornered the market on the whole conflicted, battle-weary, cynical-and-still-so-cool thing. Oh, and the shouting. Does anyone else make shouting loudly look so good? Enjoy.

Lessons in Humility: Fabrice Santoro and Roger Federer

A lot of the sporting action over the last few weeks has been taking place Down Under. The cricket may have grabbed the headlines what with the 'Monkeygate' scandal and other absurd antics, but the hard courts of Melbourne had their own share of stories. First up was Fabrice Santoro, who had this to say after being thrashed 6-1, 6-2, 6-0 by Federer:

"Everything looks easy to him, he has always time to play. He's never in a rush or anything. When he's coming to the net, there is no space to pass him."

And, soon after that, the clincher:
"I'd love to play him once again. Because it's so beautiful, what he's doing."

The lack of ego was what was so refreshing. Here was a 35-year-old man who'd just been given one of the most comprehensive beatings of his career and yet there was none of the "wasn't on my best form today" or "her squeaking shoes distracted me" (Daniela Hantuchova earnestly explaining why she had lost to Ana Ivanovic). No, this was just simple acknowledgment that he had been beaten fair and square by a player whose abilities he could never hope to match and that was that. Good night everybody and let's get on with our lives now, shall we?

Federer was equally gracious, both in victory and then, subsequently, in defeat. After scraping through in his match with Janko Tipsarevic, the defending champion had this to say:
"What a great battle. Fair play, he's a nice guy- pity somebody has to win, wish we could have draws sometimes."

And then, after losing to Serb wunderkid Djokovic:
"I've won, many, many times when I didn't expect myself to win. So tonight's one of those nights where you're a little bit disappointed."

And finally, just like Santoro, the clincher:
"I've created a monster, so I know I need to always win every tournament, but semis is still, you know, pretty good."

Ah, terrible burden, this genius thing.