Wednesday, 10 November 2010

An Unforgettable Summer To Forget

As Durham thawed and the population of the library soared there was a sense of anticipation about the summer that was enough to deliver us through the month long hibernation we call exams. On the other side was a comprehensive schedule of sporting events that could not fail to capture the attention of the nation and restore some patriotic pride. At least the former statement was to prove true.

After the customary comprehensive media build up the result seemed conclusive: we were going to win the first World Cup to be held in Africa, though where our confidence came from was mysterious. Our talisman, John Terry was hunted down in a case of not so friendly fire by the tabloids and our second choice, Rio Ferdinand joined David at the biennial English summer injury convention. Add that to a manager who uses the English language about as gracefully as a Teletubby and we are still kicking ourselves that we were foolish enough to believe the hype.

Back in London the sun shone, relentlessly… disappointingly. The Wimbledon roof is quickly becoming the largest waste of money since the Millennium Dome.

Perhaps feeling sorry for the match schedulers’ boredom, John Isner and Nicolas Mahut conspired to delay proceedings all by themselves in an epic dual that saw the deciding set won by Isner 70-68. As hours turned into days and tennis closer resembled cricket, I am surprised the umpire didn’t announce that most British of sentences: “let’s just shake hands and call it a draw.”

For British fans it was a familiar story. I only need to utter the words “semi-final” and that cocktail of emotions consisting of hope, expectancy and ultimately disappointment will be as potent to you as that taste of Quaddy-Vody stuck at the back of your throat…after regurgitating it. And so Rafael Nadal dispatched of Thomas Berdych in three simple sets and sunk his lion teeth into the trophy for the second time. Good luck to anyone trying to wrestle that from him for the next ten years or so.

Like the tennis, the cricket proved to be predictable, though for all the wrong reasons. The score became irrelevant, whether cricket can recover is yet to be seen. After the farce of the Test matches the last thing anyone wanted was to endure seven more matches in the cold and misery of September. Every time a Pakistani player twitched the betting odds would go up and down like the Stock Exchange.

And as the “summer” rolled on into October, it must be assumed that the organisers of the Ryder Cup had never even Googled Wales before awarding them an outdoor event that takes place in fields. Regardless, the passion and perseverance of the British fans was never in doubt. I’m sure the Welsh will be proud of being responsible for the first Ryder Cup to spill over into a fourth day, which will be a comfort to them as I doubt it will be returning any time soon.

I was fortunate enough to be a part of a lot of it this summer, albeit from behind a bar (- somewhat compromising my view, but I would suggest not my experience). Never-the-less, sneaking in to watch Murray-Nadal after work, witnessing Swann tweak one to delicately dislodge a Pakistani bail during my lunch break and even just listening to the roars and chanting of the European fans at Celtic Manor are memories I will cherish for a long time.

However, slipping over in the temporary tributary to the River Usk down the 18th fairway, constantly questioning every move made by a man in green and the humiliation of being an England football fan are memories I fear may haunt me for longer. Never mind, ever the optimist, there is still the Commonwealth Games to look forward to. Oh, wait…

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