Share

It’s easily my favourite Aussie sport’s word, barrack, and barracking. I’ll save you the explanation.

OK, in short, “Barrack” could refer to military housing; in these parts, it’s a verb, meaning to support or cheer for a sports team. In Melbourne—a generalisation—but pretty much everyone ‘barrack’s for someone. I barrack for Richmond (Tigers).

With Richmond languishing low on the ladder, the question is: if you barrack for a team in Melbourne, or further afield, but live in Geelong, should you be barracking for the Cats in Saturday’s Grand Final? I’m saying yes, even if the crew from Kardinia Park can be a tad polarising—really, I’m not sure why. They win and continue trying to win, unlike many clubs in the AFL competition. If permitted, I would consider jumping ship, but it’s just not done. That said, my daughter switched teams—Bombers to the Tigers!

SpeakingCricket is made possible by your subscriptions. If you’re still a free subscriber, please consider upgrading to a paid subscription. Your support truly makes a difference.

Subscribe now

The same could be said for the many Victorians who have fled the Mexican state for Queensland, seeking warmer winters and cheaper flip-flops. Should they be barracking for the Brisbane Lions if they’re not a Catter? Again, I say yes. I was going to mention the Collingwood fans, but that would be too challenging. They would barrack for neither, and probably refuse to watch the game—they lost to Brisbane in last week’s semi-final.

For many Australian families, Grand Final Day transcends sport—it becomes an annual pilgrimage, steeped in traditions passed down through generations. Early starts are the norm, and local bakeries are kept busy. Backyards are prepared in advance, BBQs dusted down, and eskies stocked with ice and refreshments. And then there is the Pub—this will be my choice of venue. Norm Smith Medal (MVP) sweeps are run, as well as first goal scorer and a variety of other side bets. The Elephant & Castle—my Pub of choice in Geelong—will do a great job.

It’s a day for geographical loyalties to blur, when expat Victorians dust off their old guernseys (shirts), and when even the most casual observers find themselves emotionally invested in the game, deliberating whether the Cats can claim another flag or if the Lions can go back-to-back. The beauty lies not just in the spectacle, but in the shared moments that bind people together, one tradition at a time.

Share

The Rules Aren’t Really the Problem

There’s an uncanny irony in the name “Australian Rules Football” that rarely fails to amuse those who’ve grown up with the game. Foreign friends will invariably ask, “So what are the rules?”—as if expecting some mystical code that unlocks the secrets of this unique sport. The truth is, the rules are surprisingly straightforward: get the ball between the big sticks for six points, the smaller ones for one, and don’t get caught holding it too long without bouncing or handballing (a form of throwing) it away. You can catch it, kick it, punch it, but not throw it. Simple enough? I think so, but to see the game umpired, you might form a contrary opinion.

What confuses most isn’t really the rulebook—it’s the manic chaos that unfolds when 36 athletes are set loose on an oval the size of a small suburb, with play flowing in any direction at breakneck speeds. It’s a rugby code meets Gaelic football meets rollerball, with a dash of ballet thrown in when a player takes a spectacular mark (catch). The real skill lies not in understanding the rules, but in reading the game’s rhythm, anticipating where the next contest will emerge, and appreciating the split-second decisions that separate winners and losers.

So, finally, we circle back to the coaches: Chris Scott and Chris Fagan, the conductors.

Chris Scott won a premiership in his first year coaching Geelong. Chris Fagan won the premiership in 2024 and returns for a shot at the quinella. Chris Scott was a player—a tough, uncompromising individual. Chris Fagan didn’t play in the AFL. He chose the classroom, where I imagine he would have been a considerate teacher.

Back to Scott and 2011. I wrote about it here in 2022.

Yet, when Chris Scott delivered this coaching rarity in his first season at Geelong football club in 2011, there was chastisement, not adulation. It was as if he had stolen the town’s crown jewels. It somehow didn’t belong to him, similar to an unexpected inheritance from a distant aunt, something subconsciously you feel you should give back, but of course, don’t.

And…

Geelong, as a region, can be regarded as a heavy lifter. The city has been, and is, a critical transportation hub — by port, rail and road, servicing the agricultural needs of the Western District. Labour intensive industry prevails. The Ford factory, now closed, has been intrinsically linked to the football club for years — the partnership will reach its centenary in 2025. No doubt it was full of bloody tough, no-nonsense, individuals, who endured lengthy work weeks, and even longer weekends.

Education, in the main, is delivered through elite, esteemed private schools, where some students still board! Parents seem more willing to transpose themselves in Geelong, working their professional jobs remotely, and then the younger single professional tribe seems content with its nightlife and broadband speeds. And, of course, their Melbourne fix is met by taking the ‘rattler’ to town — which no longer rattles. All that has a paradoxical feel to it when you delve into the real underbelly of Geelong.

So, you have these two contradictory classes that co-exist. The old are reluctant to relinquish a custodial hold on what they believe to be theirs. Football, through these eyes, is still very much a weekend pursuit for both them as spectators and what they expect from ‘their’ players. Yes, ‘their’ players — smothering, helicopter-style parenting is in play here. This tribe separates players from coaches with a clear leaning toward the player.

This from September, 2022. And it’s likely Scott’s record has improved.

To date: Chris Scott, the coach, has 199 wins from 285 starts, giving him an 80% win rate. In his 12 seasons as head coach, Geelong has only missed the finals once (2015) — a supporter cannot ask for much more — those are the distilled facts. His win-loss percentage ranks alongside the world’s finest coaches. And, still, I can hear the bigoted tribe banging their drums — ‘his finals record is deplorable in comparison to his regular-season record’. Hello, surely, your players have to take some responsibility here!

And, ‘Father Fagan’

This from September, 2023. You can read the full post here.

Why I like Chris Fagan…

Being a sports fan and living in Melbourne, one is naturally persuaded by the allure of AFL Grand Final week. There’s a ritzy best-and-fairest event, player parades through the city, an event where notables try to kick a footy across the River Yarra, and just about everything else you can imagine.

Football likens itself to taxes and the unmentionable; there is simply no escape. It is truly suffocating during any typical week through the regular season; this week, though, is next level.

Hey, that said, I’d take this week over taxes and that other stuff any day! Wouldn’t you?

Unfortunately, with all this comes the inevitable hype and noise from football’s circling circus.

It’s true, football is no ‘cottage industry; instead, it feeds an army of hangers-on: multi-dimensional media, the coterie industry, social media, families, fans, supporters, and barrackers, all pouring over every utterance, fact or fiction.

But then there is a beacon: somebody, or those that stand out from the crowd.

Chris Fagan stands out as a bastion of distinctiveness in the staid waters of AFL coaching, his unpredictable aura defined by an exceptional fusion of sagacity, unassuming humility, and an unwavering, soul-deep ardour for the game of football.

In stark contrast to the superfluity of coaches who lean heavily into strategic facility, Fagan’s hallmark lies in his engaging talent for forging profound, personal connections with his players. Be sure, these are not superficial relationships. Fagan moulds brotherhoods, tribes, and fraternities.

Born in Queenstown, Tasmania. Fagan played 263 games in the Tasmanian Australian National Football League (TANFL) and Tasmanian Football League (TFL), with Hobart, Sandy Bay, and Devonport kicking 430 goals.

What does all that mean? Not much, really, other than it qualifies one of Fagan’s core principles: longevity.

Fagan’s stripes were not handed to him; on the contrary, he earned them as they should. And he asks the same of his players.

“Chris Fagan galvanises attentive listening through actually believing his every word.”

There’s not one skerrick of BS in Fages. Or Chris Scott. They are both consummate professionals.

I hope you enjoy the game wherever you are. I’m barracking for a tie!

I was already digging the hole of self-pity, ready to jump in and drown in my own contradictions.

"They're just commercial spin-ups that have lost their true meaning"—that's what I tell my family about Mother's Day, Valentine's Day, Father's Day, and the rest. Perhaps it's easier to be cynical when your family is as disparate as mine, sprinkled across continents: my daughter on the Gold Coast, trying to stay warm, her brother building a career in Boston after college, me in Geelong, and their mother in Melbourne.

So, there I was, on the couch, feeling sorry for myself—again.

My son in Boston operates on a different calendar—Father's Day in the U.S. falls on the third Sunday in June, coinciding with the U.S. Open (Golf), which acts as an easy reminder. My siblings in Manchester share that timeline. Nothing to expect there; any contact would be a welcome surprise, though not expected. Leaving the burden, unfairly, on my daughter—the youngest and, as she reminds me, the wisest of the bunch. Could she rescue her father from a day of sulking?

Then, by chance—I rarely look at email on Sunday's—I found an extraordinary piece by Gideon Haigh on his Cricketetal Substack. It was titled, "The Father Who Didn't."

Before I go on, I should say that Gideon and I have known each other off and on for the past 20 years, or since I moved to Australia. Obviously, we share a common interest, cricket. He is an avid player, still with South Yarra CC, and an extraordinary writer, who doesn't just muse on cricket, but pretty much anything he puts his mind to. Whereas I am an ex-player trying to leave cricket alone, and an accidental commentator on the game—I'm not able to use writer in the same paragraph.

Perhaps I could offer that the gap between Gideon's writing and mine is similar to the difference in our cricketing abilities? I hope that's not too vain on my part—it’s more to substantiate the gap in our writing!

Share

I am certainly not going to offer an opinion on the article, and I urge any or all of you to take the time to read the post here. It's a reminder of both the power of honest writing and the actual weight of paternal absence.

The only comment I will offer is to marvel at the prose and composure that Gideon displayed. I can't imagine writing a piece like that and not becoming emotional. The balance he held between fact and feelings was, to my mind, remarkable.

I was fortunate to meet Gideon's mother when he asked me to act as an interlocutor—I had to go to the dictionary—at a Geelong book launch—I think it was "On the Ashes"

I opened with a question on his cricketing education, while referencing Geelong Grammar as his school. Fortunately, Gideon didn't allow me to go much further before correcting his place of education to Geelong College. At the evening's conclusion, Ms. Haigh, after a brief congratulatory sentence, reiterated the need for proper and comprehensive research before taking on such roles. It remains the most polite telling-off I have received.

So, my petty complaints about time zones, geography, and lack of appreciation suddenly felt appropriately small. And, of course, the next time I looked at my phone, there was a "Father's Day" message from dear Ella. She was in Hobart for the weekend, throwing snowballs. We're just hopeless wanderers!

Just in case you missed it, here’s the link:

Cricket Et Al

The Father Who Didn't

At the Melbourne Writers’ Festival earlier this year, I was part of an event entitled Better Off Said, furnishing ‘eulogies for the living and the dead.’ I composed something for someone who is a bit of both - my father, still alive, but whom I have not seen in a quarter of a century, and will not again. I know it’s not exactly on message with Fathers…

Read more

8 months ago · 85 likes · 31 comments · Gideon Haigh

The past week has been quiet. For me, jet lag is unavoidable when travelling back from the U.S. Waking when the rest are sleeping gives ample opportunity for contemplation—no outside noise, just dead calm. So, I landed on this question:

What would it be if you could only leave Augusta's hallowed grounds with one thought? For me, it would be: "Never lose faith."

SpeakingCricket is made possible by your subscriptions. If you're still a free subscriber, please consider upgrading to a paid subscription. Your support truly makes a difference.

Subscribe now

Many say golf is challenging, even for the most gifted of players, and winning the Masters wasn't meant to be easy. But, finally, Rory McIlroy, a generational talent, prevailed through a rollercoaster ride for the ages.

"I didn't make it easy today," McIlroy said. "I certainly didn't make it easy. I was nervous.” Yes, Rory, we can attest to that!

With his first green jacket, McIlroy also completed the career Grand Slam. His playoff companion, Justin Rose, said, "We saw a part of history today. Someone won a career Grand Slam. It's a momentous day in the game of golf."

Is Justin Rose the best 44-year-old golfer on the planet? On Sunday's viewing, he would have to be close: Adam Scott and Sergio Garcia are also 44 and would have legit claims to the mantle. That said, Englishman Rose was all class Masters Sunday, pushing his Ryder Cup teammate to the absolute brink of despair.

Share

Sitting on a United flight from Boston to San Francisco at the same time as the Sunday coverage commenced was nothing short of lunacy!

There I was, though, in situ and with only one course of action: buy the wifi and hope it worked. It did—and I had a golfing companion in the seat across the aisle. His telephone provider extended their data coverage to the skies, making him less likely to experience downtime during the telecast.

We watched Rory lose the Masters on hole one—a double bogey to Bryson DeChambeau's birdie. It was hard to tell if my new buddy was a patriot or not—or maybe he didn't like Bryson. Hole 13 probably gave the game away as there was a visible wince from him as Rory laid up and then proceeded to dunk his third into Rae’s Creek.

Hole 14 didn't improve our mood—another bogey. Then, some hope. At hole 15, after a miraculous second shot, we saw Rory winning again until he lost it again with a tentative eagle putt that slid under the hole. At the time, I thought there was no way in the world that Tiger would have missed the eagle. But then, Rory isn't Tiger, and Tiger isn't Rory.

It was at this point that I realised I was missing a beer. An attendant delivered a cold IPA at a reasonable cost with the obligatory pretzels, which I handballed to my new buddy.

At 16, Rory won again after a feathered eight-iron to a difficult back-right pin. Then, he handed it back with another indecisive run at birdie. This was getting increasingly more difficult to watch. Hole 17, and he was winning again after a precise approach gave him birdie and what seemed like a comfortable buffer. Only for McIlroy to give it all back with a timid six-foot putt for par at 18—the bogey saw him in a playoff with Rose, who confidently drained his birdie putt on 18.

I still don't know the guy's name in 32C; by this time, we had moved the conversation to this year's Ryder Cup, where he had tickets and what sounded like an outstanding itinerary, including some golf on eastern Long Island's famed courses. We had all but given up on Rory winning; he looked punch-drunk down the stretch, and Rose looked the exact opposite.

You don't need me telling you what happened next. Instead, it's best to reflect on the emotions that overwhelmed Rory after he drained the four-footer that dispelled all the inner and external demons.

"It was all relief," McIlroy said. "There wasn't much joy in that reaction. It was all relief. And then the joy came pretty soon after that." Perhaps he doesn't understand why he won it Sunday—really, though, who cares?

Part of McIlroy's appeal is his public vulnerability. Without exception, he addresses his failings on the course, and has always been candid and retrospective when pressed on them.

My friend and I stayed on the coverage long enough to watch the flurry of congratulators that lined Rory's passage back to the clubhouse. It was extraordinary viewing; I didn't know a half of them, but the feelings of joy and relief were palpable for all to see.

Of course, McIlroy's great mate, Shane Lowry, was there at the end of the queue. Their hug and embrace differed from the rest; both men have remained loyal to one another through the "thick" and the "thin."

One more time because there is always time for another pint!

"Never lose faith in yourself." “And always trust the wifi!”

On the women's side, home state allegiance swayed my pick. Most folk around me barracked for UCONN—the University of Connecticut, a public land-grant research university with its main campus in Storrs, CT. As is the want in these parts, they go by a mascot name—The Huskies. You can read more about that here.

The boys, who look like grown Navy seals—the combat type— came down to four #1 picks from their respective brackets.

SpeakingCricket is made possible by your subscriptions. If you're still a free subscriber, please consider upgrading to a paid subscription. Your support truly makes a difference.

Subscribe now

Duke (Blue Devils), Auburn (Tigers), University of Houston (Cougars), and the eventual winners, the Florida Gators. I ended up barracking for Florida, mainly due to their elongated Aussie, Alex Condon, who endured a classless verbal spray in the semi-final with Auburn. He didn't have his best game but bounced back strong in the championship game. Collingwood will have to wait a while longer!

For The Huskies, it was their 12th national title, all under the guidance of legendary coach Geno Auriemma.

Auriemma arrived in Storrs before the 1985-86 season and took a program with just one winning season to its current state, including 12 NCAA Championships, 24 Final Fours, six perfect seasons and 59 odd conference championships. Most importantly, Auriemma has his hair cut by a guy named John, who I know by association.

By comparison, the Gators have won 3 NCAA Championships in 2006, 2007, and 2025. Coach Todd Golden completed his third season and still looks like he could play college ball. Florida has made six Final Four appearances in program history.

Anyway, that's what's been distracting me. So, as promised, a copy of the conversation I had with Pat.

Oh, and here's some background reading for those unfamiliar with 'Slim' Pat Donnelly. Or, you can dive right in.

Share

Expletives and all:

Me: So, what do you think about March Madness this year? I've been thinking about how it reveals something about American values.

Slim Pat: (sets down his tall Coors and shoots me a sceptical look) Listen, kid, don't gettin' all philosophical about some college tournament! Ya know what March Madness really is? Last damn place in America where kids still play with some friggin' heart! Been watchin' hoops since Russell was slingin' shots at the Garden. These college kids still dive for loose balls while them NBA prima donnas take "rest days." I mean, Fackin' rest days!

Pat that doesn't answer the question, though. I didn't say that!

Me: Well, look at the tournament structure—this perfect blend of meritocratic ideals where small schools can triumph through teamwork and determination. But then there's this commercial excess with billions in TV rights and corporate sponsorships.

Slim Pat: (snorts loudly) Ya think, kid? Look at ya, with all them big words! Merito-whatever. Tournament's got more corporate logos than Chelsea's got problems! But lemme tell ya somethin'—when some no-name Jesuit school knocks off Duke or Kentucky, that's America right there. David and Goliath, just like when our 'Tics knock the Lakers down a peg. Just like in '69 with Russell! [pounds table] That's the stuff that matters, not all these insurance commercials with their damn lizards!

Ironically, I am in Hartford, CT, once the world's insurance capital.

Me: Exactly! But I'm concerned about something else, too. Is the NCAA starting to look more like a rookie NBA tournament?

Slim Pat: Pisser question, kid. NCAA's been a farm system since Bird was at Indiana State! Only difference now is they don't hide the money no more. These one-and-dones are just stoppin' by campus to grab a slice before headin' to the show. [leans in] Back when Havlicek played at Ohio State, guys stayed put, got degrees. These kids today use these schools like T stations - just passin' through to someplace else. By the way, Kid, this fackin' T we have in Beantown is dead-set rooted.

I wasn't able to resist some Australiania there!

Me: And that's what makes me nervous. The NBA regular season often lacks the intensity that makes March Madness special. You know what I mean?

Slim Pat: (cackling while wiping beer foam from his moustache) Do I know? Kid, I watched the Celtics-Lakers when they hated each other! McHale clothes-lining Rambis wasn't no accident! These NBA pansies today won't even take an offensive charge! Fackin' "Load management"— what kinda horseshit is that? Try tellin' that to my foreman when I was workin' the docks! March Madness still got kids playin' like there's somethin' at stake. Like they're at Shirley with a stretch to do, ya know what I mean? (roars with laughter at his prison joke)

I have never asked Pat if he is familiar with Shirley. Some stuff is best left alone!

Me: Right? And that's not what March Madness is about! College ball gives us full-court defensive pressure, genuine emotional investment, and that irreplaceable urgency of single-elimination games.

Slim Pat: Now you're talkin' sense for once! One-and-done, kid. No best-of-seven where ya can sleepwalk through half the series. These kids know their basketball might end on any play. [mimics a defensive stance—I wonder if Pat could ball] That's why they D-up like their mothers' reputations depend on it! The bands, the cheerleaders, the coaches, the whole damn thing! Not like these NBA arenas that all look the same with their fancy light shows. College ball's got personality, like neighbourhoods used to before they all went soft! Don't get me started on Southie, where parents negotiate with their kids. Serious!

Me: So the big question becomes: how does the NCAA preserve what makes March Madness unique without becoming too much like the NBA?

Slim Pat: [leans in, suddenly serious] Look here, kid, every cuffin' question sounds the same—cut the crap with the "big questions." It ain't complicated. Marcus Smart could figure this one out(hahaha), and he ain't exactly Einstein! Make 'em stay in school at least two years. Keep the tourney at 64 teams - this First Four garbage is just money-grabbin'. And for the love of Tommy Heinsohn, teach these kids some fundamentals! (pantomimes a bank shot—still unsure if he could play!) Half these freshmen couldn't hit a bank shot if they were standin' in the teller line!

Me: Pat, what is a bank shot?

Slim Pat: Get to the fackin' bar, ya nerdy wrench!

Me: That's the million-dollar question. The NCAA must modernise and respect player rights—these athletes deserve fair compensation. But we'll lose something special if the tournament becomes another professional showcase.

Slim Pat: Million dollars? We're talkin' billions, kid! You ever heard of TV? (shakes head vigorously) Listen, the country's going soft. Everybody wants somethin' for nothin'—these college presidents got no backbone, like that crowd up at Chelsea(don't know why he's so pissed with Chelsea!). They need to stand up to the NBA, make their own rules. Tell these Nike fellas and TV suits to pound sand if they don't like it. [takes a long swig] March Madness is too important to hand over to the suits. Gotta play both courts - half and full - like our 'Tics!

Me: And that will determine whether future generations still experience March's particular brand of madness or just witness another professional tournament.

Slim Pat: [raises his beer can in a toast] Ya know, kid, sometimes ya surprise me. I worry my grandkids won't ever know what real basketball feels like—the heart, the hustle (suddenly nostalgic). March used to be special, ya know? Before all the NIL bullshit and transfer portals. Tell ya what though, I got a sawbuck says Florida will be hard to hold out this year. Now I gotta hit the head, then we're rollin' back to Southie. Sullivan's ain't what it used to be. Too many tourists like you askin' too many questions! [winks and staggers toward the bathroom]

And that was that. Pat was right on the Gators, though!

One of my gravest regrets happened in Beverly. Cabot Street is one of two main thoroughfares; on it stands a popular theatre, wait for it, The Cabot. I'm unsure of the year, but Michael McDonald played a Saturday night and I missed it; not sure why, but what an unforgivable mistake.

Why Beverly? I visited last weekend; my son lives and works there after graduating from a local college, Endicott, in 2019—my first visit was in 2015. I see it now as a town in transition, or metamorphosing from a resilient working-class shell to a more liberal, children-focused town. The two seem at odds with each other, but co-habitation morphs naturally, as is often the case in these partnerships. Rustic taverns serving filling fayre sit quietly alongside coffee shops where parents now engage in discussions with their children. Like all things, though, Beverly is still a work in progress, but the fucking roads and pavements, please, come on, Medley!

SpeakingCricket is made possible by your subscriptions. If you're still a free subscriber, please consider upgrading to a paid subscription. Your support truly makes a difference.

Subscribe now

It reads like a tall tale, but it's not. It might have been April 2016 when I was visiting to watch the end of the lacrosse season and, hopefully, some NCAA finals action. It was a pleasant afternoon; I had spent the morning and early afternoon in Boston, a 35-minute train ride from Beverly. After getting off the train and somewhat jaded from the city walking, I figured it was time to stock the fridge back at HQ. Bottle shop—off licence—package store—whatever your preference, they sell beer, wine, and spirits. It was called "One-Stop"; it looked like it would have everything I needed—beer and peanuts.

Having made it to the counter, three males of South Asian persuasion welcomed me. We entered into some meaningless back and forth until I mentioned cricket—why I did, who knows, but I did. That was it. They guessed I was Australian—which went through to the keeper—therefore, I must be an expert. The line behind me was growing. Somehow, we moved on to Wasim Akram, so they were likely Pakistani, not Indian. I held tight on the Lancashire connection, hoping the check-out line would end the conversation—I still hadn't paid. Two of the three moved to an adjacent till, leaving the boss and myself. He asked why I was in Beverly. I went through the son at Endicott, who was recruited from Australia to play lacrosse. The boss man was quiet, and then he grinned. "Sir, we have an excellent client; he is also from Australia and looks like you!" I could see where this was going! "He comes in most Saturday evenings and leaves with a trolley full of beer, and he is such a good client we give him big discounts on his selection." "Do you know Kenny?"

I have told this story a million times, and Kenny is OK with it, but this is the first time in print. He was 21, unlike his classmates. School lasted longer in Australia; then, it was a post-grad year at a prep school in New Hampshire before going to Endicott in 2015. He was legit 21—no fake licenses. I laughed and laughed. Also, I'm pretty sure the boss man gifted me the beer and peanuts; needless to say, I became a regular, just not on Saturday evenings!

Share

500 words, and I haven't got to March Madness yet! In short, it's a basketball tournament.

Last weekend, 64 teams entered the 2025 Men's NCAA Tournament; now, only 16 remain.

It seems March Madness represents college basketball at its most dramatic—a single-elimination tournament where one loss ends a team's season. It begins with Selection Sunday, which quickly transforms into a nationwide bracket-filling frenzy, with millions predicting outcomes of games that span three frantic weekends. I nearly fell off my chair when someone we know explained her bracket in such detail that would have put Stephen A. Smith to shame. I mean, everyone gets into this stuff!

The structure is brilliantly simple: four regional brackets feed into the Final Four, where the last teams standing battle for a national championship. Historically, unknown programs can topple traditional powerhouses, and unpredictability permeates, capturing even the most casual sports fans.

It has always intrigued me how the sporting calendar serves as a cultural timekeeper, with certain months indelibly linked to specific seasons or tournaments. April belongs to the Masters, October claims baseball's World Series, and January delivers the college football championship and NFL playoffs, building toward February's Super Bowl spectacle. But March—March belongs entirely to college basketball's chaotic tournament, so much so that the month itself has become synonymous with the madness it hosts.

What does the collective obsession with March Madness reveal about American values? I ask vaguely.

The tournament embodies meritocratic ideals—where small schools can triumph through teamwork, determination, and a pinch of good fortune—and commercial excess, with billions generated through television rights and corporate sponsorships. This duality mirrors broader tensions in American society between grassroots authenticity and corporate influence. Does the celebration of college athletes, who until recently received no direct compensation while generating massive revenues, reflect the complicated relationship with capitalism?

March Madness offers a rare unifying spectacle that transcends divisions in today's political polarisation and global instability climate. The brackets become a shared national language. Yet the competition also reflects our uncertain times—upsets remind us that established orders can collapse, predictions often fail, and underdogs sometimes prevail against overwhelming odds.

Perhaps there's wisdom in embracing the tournament's central lesson: preparation matters, but adaptability decides who ultimately cuts down the nets and lifts the championship.

I didn't intend this to be a monologue, so I apologise if it came across that way. I will share a transcript of a conversation with an old mate, Pat Donnelly, on the subject over the weekend.

Happy watching, wherever you are. For the record, I do not have a bracket, but I favour Florida to prevail.

I was out walking, later than usual, it’s been so bloody hot here lately; the Presidential debate—if you could call it that—was 15 minutes from starting; it was time to pick up the pace, power-walk it had to be—I despise power-walking—I settled five minutes in and lasted another half-hour.

A week later, I'm driving West from Hartford, Connecticut, through New York, then into Pennsylvania and on and on, almost to Lake Erie. The final destination is Meadville, PA, founded in 1788 (it's not really charged forward), the birthplace of Sharon Stone! It's a July 4th wedding.

SpeakingNick is supported by your subscriptions. I thank you sincerely and if you are still a free subscriber, please, if you can, consider subscribing. Thank you.

Subscribe now

En route, between pleasant conversations, I realise we are about to drive through (or past) Scranton, PA, the hometown of Joe Biden. It's an unremarkable half-urban, half-rural settlement in a sprawling valley, a place you would think twice about stopping. As with Sharon Stone—everybody is from somewhere.

For Biden, the debate was a disaster. Or, it might have been precisely what ordinary thinking folk expected. Perhaps it was just what the Republican party wanted: an early opportunity to sub a failing frontman out. Or is this giving them too much credit?

The president stumbled repeatedly, and the former president, Donald Trump, as you would expect, made false claims repeatedly. Or, as Mr Biden kept telling us, "You're lying." Never once did Biden share the context of Trump's repeated false claims—an abject failure on his part.

Share

In the overpopulated world of Podcasts, I rate "The Rest is Politics" as a leading commentator on geopolitics, which clearly, is not a straightforward subject.

Co-hosts Alastair Campbell and Rory Stewart offer listeners a balanced and often candid view of British politics and beyond, drawing on their extensive experience in government and contrasting political backgrounds.

It was Campbell who offered that the Republicans had a machiavellian at work by putting the President up for debate this far out from the election, knowing Joe Biden would stumble with only scripted responses to fall back on. Biden did give an upbeat State of the Union address in March. However, it failed to ease any critical concerns around his cognitive state. I read, "A scripted speech differs greatly from an open debate." I wonder who the Machiavellian is!

A deepening sense of compassion has replaced my initial feelings toward Joe Biden. It was terrible; you could not help feeling for him; it was just unfair; it was akin to Bill Gates getting in the ring with a 21-year-old, Mike Tyson. Take Donald Trump out of it; either the Democrats hung Biden out to dry, or they've made a grave miscalculation in listening to and believing Biden's wife, Jill. The First Lady encouraged her husband to continue in his role and convinced the party to back him in. Now, America and the rest of the world hope neither Biden nor Trump wins the 2024 election.

Undoubtedly, the Biden family has endured a lot, yet many argue they haven't helped themselves either. To an interloper, it feels like there is an undeniable sense of entitlement, in small part due to their losses that played out in the public eye. But more, to me anyway, that a lifetime in public service grants the President and those around him common-sense immunity. The fact that a week after a debate trashing still they stall such an obvious action points to the skewed realities surrounding Biden and his family. His wife needs to take a leave of absence. Not from him, just the office.

Share

If the current commentary is actual, a decision is imminent. Kamala Harris waits in the wings. Yesterday, she finally scored some points as speculation grew further about the President's future after it was believed Biden had discussed stepping out with a close confidant. And there are other capable candidates to defeat Trump.

I mean, really, to the uneducated, it's so farking obvious, surely? But then, the obvious can easily get lost in the sleazy world of spin.

So, with that said, it's a wedding that will occupy my thoughts on the Fourth of July. I wish the bride and groom the best of luck and goodwill.

Defensively, I opted for a tort reply, "Enough." Knowing full well that my enough is not enough.

"You look tired; I can see it in your eyes," or, in this case, I can't see your eyes.

"Yep, it was a long day, hot and windy." I knew what was next, "Did you wear sunglasses?" They would be the expensive ones. Truth be known, misplacing them would be emotionally and financially disastrous! Sheepishly, I replied, "Yes, of course I did."

SpeakingNick is a reader-supported venture. Free and paid versions are available. The best way to support me is by taking out a paid subscription.

Subscribe now

Now, first, establish some context. Water consumption back in the day was something you did after Mrs O'Rourke had filled a cavity: sip, swirl, rinse, then repeat. The sooner you could exit the dentist's chair, the better; this might be the root of my long-held distrust of water intake.

Fast forward to 2024, and let's be honest: if you're not seen constantly sipping from a 600mL water bottle, who are you, where have you been, and how do you expect to remain relevant in the face of such personal negligence?

Science suggests bad stuff arrives in threes. Sunday just gone, I picked up a wellness magazine that a crafty shop assistant had stashed in my recent Chemist Warehouse order; a random page open took me to an article spruiking the benefits of summer hydration—clearly, the author wasn't a resident of Geelong! Later in the day, I had a sudden aversion to lounging. I jumped into my email to reduce my unread inbox by at least a thousand, only to be re-directed by a New York Times article titled ", "How much water should I be drinking? And finally, there was the morning lecture, summarised above. Bang, bang, bang.

The question begs, "What to do?"

I immediately left the house searching for a retail location that stocked the Frank Green Ceramic Reusable Bottle in either 595mL or 1000mL size. I preferred green; I was sure this was their trendiest look. I didn't factor in Sundays in Geelong, the day after a "Beer Festival." It was a ghost town, and earlier, evidently there had been a run on FG water bottles!

That's BS; I just sat on the couch and waited for fresh inspiration to get me through a slow Sunday.

That sought inspiration hastily evaporated into an afternoon nap; it was here that I experienced the most bizarre happenings.

Snoozing contently, the trials of water consumption and vessels to hold them could not have been further from my mind. I found myself drifting between the short par three third and the dog leg right thirteenth at Keney Park, in Hartford, Connecticut—if you find yourself in the once Insurance capital of the world, you must play Keney Park, just don't stop to ask anyone for directions!

All was well, then suddenly, a tap on the shoulder. "Who could it be?" I was startled to see the shop assistant who planted the wellness magazine, which then led to the summer hydration article!

"Hello again," the voice said. "I hear you've been looking for a Frank Green?" "I have one." she smiled as she reached into her tote bag and produced the 1000mL version in a delightful shade of green. Now, initially, I need clarification. Did I play with Frank Green at Keney; was he a member of the Cognomen—a disparate golfing group I played with? No, this was the ceramic water bottle brand preferred by the millennials.

How did she know all this? Was she, too, a secret member of the 'wellness tribe.'

Inexplicably, it seems her daughter had gifted the Frank Green to her, and now, because it was the wrong size, she wanted me to have it. "It's yours if you like," she said, smiling again! You usually wish for dreams to continue, not here.

Enough of this wellness mumbo jumbo; return me to Keney Park and its Cognomen.

Share

Next minute I was awake, unable to morph myself back to the 'Old Girl'—that's Keney Park's moniker—leaving only the persuasive presence of an empty Frank Green drink bottle to connect the last 20 minutes with the day's earlier madness.

I had an inkling this was one of those gentle nudges from mother universe. Holy crap, I'm losing my mind!

I mentioned bad stuff comes in threes. That may not be 100% true.

The day before Sunday—Saturday—I was working (loosely, more like watching cricket) when an injured player, now acting as a coach, commented on the inadequacies of the water supply in Geelong, compared to Hobart (Tasmania), where he recently lived. The player on the other side of the conversation is a non-drinker (alcohol) who knows his water quality. Being a Geelong local, Callum rightly defended its credibility. Enter me: I suggested to Eamonn that he invest in a water filter, purely on the premise that I have one, courtesy of the above water-police. Saturday's game was at Casey Fields, where, for the first time I can remember, there were water machines in the away team's rooms (locker room)—this, another omen in the case of, "Drink more water, please."

Give a gift subscription

Whether you're drinking from a ceramic tumbler or your Grandma's glassware, I remain convinced there is no "one-size-fits-all" answer to the convoluted question of 'how much water is enough'.

Research says that, on average, most adult men should consume around 3.7 litres of water daily; for women, it's about 2.7 litres.

My contrite position on this is backed up by Dr. Siddharth P. Shah, a nephrologist at the University of Pennsylvania Hospital specialising in hydration and electrolyte balance. He says, "Most people, even if they stay below that recommendation, will be just fine," Thank you, doctor!

A final question on the subject, where we have just scratched the surface. What happened to the term "Thirsty?" Or, "Being Thirsty."

More from Dr Siddharth P. Shah: he suggests as people get older, they lose the ability to realise when they are thirsty, leading to an inability to manage hydration competently.

In summary—while the wellness brigades champion drinking fixed volumes of water daily, I conclude that proper hydration is a far more intuitive process. Rather than obsess over numerical targets, listen to your body's signals and drink satisfactorily. Now, I know where you're heading here; this isn't about validating an excessive alcohol habit; it's merely trying to highlight the need for a common sense approach and one that is less visible than the Frank Green fan club.

Dry mouths are a simple cue to replenishment. And if strange dreams of roaming golf courses and unexpected shop assistants persist, it's best to seek balance in all things rather than falling down an anxiety-inducing rabbit hole of do's and don'ts.

Like much in life, hydration is best enjoyed in moderation with flexibility, mindfulness and good humour. If you'll excuse me, I'm off to the clubhouse for a restorative glass of something a little more appealing than Frank H2O! Cheers to your health.

Ps. Geelong won that game of cricket on Saturday, and the non-drinker, Callum, is having a fantastic season.

As always, thank you for being here.

For those of you who are unfamiliar with the traditions of national holidays on the stated continent, most of Australia will be closed this week. There will be little mention of the upcoming Australian Indigenous Voice referendum; even the indefatigable premier of Victoria, Daniel Andrews, chose to stop! Permanently!

Yes, us sceptics see through the mendacious Andrews playing the media to the very end, clumsily timing HIS announcement during Melbourne’s busiest week. Shame on you, Mr. Andrews; a proud Victorian, he says! Anyhow, happy retirement, sir.

If you didn’t know, Andrews plays golf at a swanky Sandbelt club. I often ponder how easy it is for him getting on the timesheet. Thankfully, I play at a different swanky club!

Two swinging hypocrites, you might say!

Back to football.

SpeakingNick is a reader-supported venture. Free and paid versions are available. The best way to support me is by taking out a paid subscription.

Subscribe now

Why I like Chris Fagan…

Being a sports fan and living in Melbourne, one is naturally persuaded by the allure of AFL Grand Final week. There’s a ritzy best-and-fairest event, player parades through the city, an event where notables try to kick a footy across the River Yarra, and just about everything else you can imagine.

Football likens itself to taxes and the unmentionable; there is simply no escape. It is truly suffocating during any typical week through the regular season; this week, though, is next level.

Hey, that said, I’d take this week over taxes and that other stuff any day! Wouldn’t you?

Unfortunately, with all this comes the inevitable hype and noise from football’s circling circus.

It’s true, football is no ‘cottage industry; instead, it feeds an army of hangers-on: multi-dimensional media, the coterie industry, social media, families, fans, supporters, and barrackers, all pouring over every utterance, fact or fiction. For the most part, the majority is regurgitated nonsense.

But then there is a beacon: somebody, or those that stand out from the crowd—or, to use football parlance, are one-out (please don’t ask me to explain).

That might be Chris Fagan and Craig McRae.

Two tribes remain, and these two coaches have their hearts set on football’s (Australian Rules Football) ultimate prize.

Brisbane's Chris Fagan and Collingwood's Craig McRae have journeyed along divergent paths to arrive at this moment in time, yet both will be consumed by an insatiable need to lift the AFL Premiership trophy late Saturday afternoon.

Share

So what is there not to like about Chris Fagan?

Chris Fagan stands out as a bastion of distinctiveness in the staid waters of AFL coaching, his unpredictable aura defined by an exceptional fusion of sagacity, unassuming humility, and an unwavering, soul-deep ardour for the game of football.

In stark contrast to the superfluity of coaches who lean heavily into strategic facility, Fagan's hallmark lies in his engaging talent for forging profound, personal connections with his players. Be sure, these are not superficial relationships. Fagan moulds brotherhoods, tribes, and fraternities.

And Craig McRae?

Like Fagan, McRae’s coaching is born out of a teaching background. With limited evidence on hand, it seems McRae is unwavering in his focus on nurturing and cajoling individuals within the team framework. Simply maximise individual potential, which feeds into collective strength—he is an ardent believer in the ‘goldfish memory theory’.

Tactically, McRae projects himself as a casual larrikin, preferring to play down his depth of football knowledge. This part of his persona is at odds with Fagan. I believe McRae aims to camouflage his obsession with the X’s and O’s—he’s proven to be an in-game responder, always willing to change course if the game is not being played on his terms—Collingwood’s terms. He has come a long way in a short period of time and has managed to realign a once blinkered Collingwood.

Refer a friend

Back to Fages…

We forgive his parents for elongating his first name to Christian; they would have known he would eventually be Chris Fagan. Ask yourself this: How many people match their name with their looks? Chris Fagan is Chris Fagan. No doubt.

Born in Queenstown, Tasmania. Fagan played 263 games in the Tasmanian Australian National Football League (TANFL) and Tasmanian Football League (TFL), with Hobart, Sandy Bay, and Devonport kicking 430 goals.

What does all that mean? Not much, really, other than it qualifies one of Fagan’s core principles: longevity.

Fagan’s stripes were not handed to him; on the contrary, he earned them as they should. And he asks the same of his players.

Given the opportunity, Fagan will be an outstanding grandparent; he naturally mentors and exhibits a ‘father figure’ approach to his decision-making. Responsibility is given to players to make choices both on and off the field. This ‘trust approach’ has not only led to on-field success for Brisbane but has also earned him and his club the respect of the football community.

Please join me in hailing ‘Father Fagan’.

You know, I might finish with this observation—please let me know your thoughts in the comments below.

“Chris Fagan galvanises attentive listening through actually believing his every word.”

There’s not one skerrick of BS in Fages.

Feeling generous? Great. Why not gift a SpeakingNick subscription to someone who might enjoy the content.

Give a gift subscription

And who might win…

Craig McRae and Justin Leppitsch, triple premiership teammates for the Brisbane Lions, will face their alma mater as Collingwood coach and strategy head.

Brisbane, the underdogs, arrive in Melbourne confident after a stunning prelim final comeback over Carlton at the Gabba. Forget the perceived MCG scepticism; Chris Fagan will have his team ready to go. And Father Fagan will make history as the oldest grand final coach if his charges prevail.

In short, Brisbane will put points on the board; if Collingwood is stifled in this space, then there’s your upset and a silent Collingwood army.

English cricket—and some would say society— is going through a similar transformation. Its code name is ‘Bazball’.

America was once defined by a dominant middle class—middle class suburbia, in middle America. Now, it is a flagship for inequality and disempowerment.

Much of the middle classes have slipped down the social ladder, widening the gap between the affluent and the disadvantaged, while some seem to have created a false sense of prosperity by living beyond their means.

In my view, this is the most perilous group of all.

Gone are the strong unions; churches remain, just not their congregations.

Sports maintain their popularity, however, consumption has evolved, and fans now engage through many mediums, fragmenting the audience.

Political viewpoints have become polarised and appear poised to challenge the very fabric of American family life—unity.

Subscribe now

I raise this in relation to the paradoxical vacuum enveloping the cricket world currently.

A one-sided debate between the virtues of sportsmanship and gamesmanship. The ensuing tensions have been around as long as Father Time.

English cricket seeks to reinvent itself as the saviour of cricket’s most iconic format, Test cricket, while battling its perennial rival, Australia. Both sides are vying for possession of cricket’s oldest prize—The Ashes.

England has too much on its plate!

And Australia, if you believe the English, is not playing within the ‘spirit of the game,’ which is, of course, an ambiguous phrase and a ridiculous position to take given its hypocrisy.

Tensions have escalated to the point that the British Prime Minister, Rishi Sunak, has intervened, echoing the populist view that Australia is not playing within ‘the spirit of the game.’ Absolute bollocks Mr. Sunak. Please look after your own back yard first.

It's time to bring President Biden into the debate—he and Mr. Sunak would share a similar cricket IQ.

In a short statement to the nation after being briefed on the ‘not unlawful’ dismissal of England’s Jonny Bairstow. President Biden said this:

"Launch the fackin’ Nukes; they swindled us with that dodgy out at First base! Those Aussie sons of'" Goddam, Pat Cummins. You woke conspirator.

Remembering when President Biden referred to the then Prime Minister of Australia, Scott Morrison, as "That Fella Down Under"

The current Prime Minister, Anthony Norman (Albo) Albanese, responds swiftly and with clarity, as you would expect from a born-to-lead individual.

"It’s just Australian; it’s what we do, we just win and keep winning."

‘Albo’, you might need to offer more than that. Or he could give up woke captain’ Pat Cummins as a political prisoner—I’ve also lost my mind! Sorry.

Biden took ‘Albo’s’ call, which was surprising as it came up as a no-name number. The two chatted cricket, and a truce was found. A nuclear catastrophe was averted. Sunak wasn’t available to join the call; he was busy counting his money.

Share

So, ‘Bazball’ is stalling and in need of minor (or major) readjustments. I will also offer that it needs to take into account the skills and resilience of its opponent before hitting the default button and hoping for the best. Baz, Stokesy, and the Bazites have some work ahead of them when the third Ashes Test starts later today. And do not send Paul Collingwood to the press conference.

President Biden and Albo must keep bumbling along; there is no rest for the wicked. Leadership is an exhaustive pastime. Effective leaders continually make decisions, manage people and resources, and navigate through complex situations. Balancing the demands of their position with their own self-care is imperative to longevity—Biden is well placed here, while Albo will always be looking over his shoulder.

America, oh America. Where to now, our dear friend?

This ongoing American revolution embodies a renewed manifestation of the guilt-ridden and self-obsessed fanatic spirit, driven by a simultaneous aspiration to establish a ‘perfect America’. While still American, it challenges the social and cultural norms of the previous three centuries. Fanaticism is a revolutionary and totalitarian movement whose beliefs are sacral and uncompromising. America will have to choose between its founders and the wilder versions of what they brought to bear.

And those ‘Bloody Australians’. What to do with them.

Just let them be.

“We are friggin’ winners mate, win at all costs. Stuff this ‘spirit of cricket’ crap—”we’re all about the gamesmanship.” ‘Bloke wants to go walkabout, he’s fair game as far as I’m concerned.” “Fair dinkum Bluey, stay behind the line cobber, till we tell ya it’s OK to wander.” “As far as the bombs go, there’s no way they’d make it down here, no fackin’ way, Bides.” “Have a go ya mug.”

Well said ‘True Blue’.

Give a gift subscription

OK, I am better for getting that off the keyboard.

I sincerely hope our North American readers are not offended in any way. I feel some tri-lateral solidarity between the contributing parties here. I hope so!

It’s on like donkey kong tonight. Sunak’s Pom’s take on Albo’s Aussies, it promises to be another ripper, with Stokesy and Pat ready to spin the coin at 10.30am local time.

By the way, I expect to see Prime Minister Sunak at the game; a little known fact is that his constituency is Richmond, North Yorkshire.

PS. I had a Twitter thread running for the Lord’s Test, planning the same for Headingley. Follow me from the button below. I promise to be less serious than the above!

Follow on Twitter

Yes, agreed, that’s not breaking news. But the fact remains: the PGA Tour and LIV Golf spat continue to roll along, with both sides slinging mud, some sticking, and most missing their mark. Leadership from either side is nonexistent—isn’t the first and only rule of leadership being visible? And player disharmony, see below.

18 LIV contracted golfers competed at this year’s Masters. View the full list here.

Past Masters winners included: Phil Mickelson, Sergio Garcia, Dustin Johnson, Patrick Reed, Charl Schwartzel, and Bubba Watson. And other major champions: Cameron Smith, Brooks Koepka, Bryson DeChambeau, and Louis Oosthuizen.

You can dress it up however you like, the fact remains that this is an extremely capable group of golfers who should not be on the periphery of the sport. And do you think the two opposing tribes are playing nicely? Try this for where the players spat has gone too:

Brooks Koepka (T2) on Rory McIlroy missing the cut at The Masters,

“The only chance he (McIlroy) has of going to the Championship dinner is if he is the waiter.”

It should be noted that Koepka is also on the championship dinner waitlist! Is this where golf is? No doubt, Koepka, will have been taken out of context or his Twitter account hacked.

Mischievously, I have images of Manuel, the waiter from Fawlty Towers, running around the dinner table spilling soup in Fred Ridley’s lap!

SpeakingNick is a reader-supported venture. Free and paid versions are available. The best way to support me is by taking out a paid subscription.

Subscribe now

So, with that being said, it's been a couple of weeks of TV golf at HQ.

Confined to the couch for extended periods, golf can be the perfect medicinal fix. Limited concentration required; monotoned commentary lulls you into a state of inertia, and there’s the dreaming part: I too can hit that shot or miss those three-footers!

Unsurprisingly, the Masters did its usual thing: promising plenty, delivering in the main, and then dropping you off like a high school date come Sunday evening.

Jon Rahm emerged as a deserving winner. Rahm had to manage early-late tee times, contending with the worst weather. His ten under 36 hole total was extraordinary given the conditions.

Come Sunday night Rahm had prevailed over an unlikely duo. Brooks Koepka made the early and middle running—he enjoyed the favourable side of the draw before eventually fading—in part due to the horrendous pace of play in front of him (Patrick Cantlay and Sam Bennett).

The other pursuer, Phil Mickelson, made a vintage Sunday run, carding a 65 with a 31-shot back nine. Nobody could have seen this coming except, of course, Phil the Thrill himself. A Mickelson victory? Who knows how that would have looked?

Enjoying the read? If you feel like it, I’d love if you’d share this post with your friends! Or, if you received it from a friend, please forward to another.

Share

The week before The Masters, Austin, Texas, hosted the World Golf Championship (WGC) Dell Technologies Match Play. Austin Country Club was the venue, an excellent course that straddles the Colorado River—yes, that’s the Colorado River, Texas!

So where does Tim May, the ex-Australian cricketer, fit in?

May calls Austin home now and has done so for some time. Happily retired with his wife and four children, May depicts Austin as "a wonderful city to live in," a sister city of Adelaide, where he grew up.

He talks of playing "a truckload of golf" and has an impressive 0.8 handicap. Austin Country Club is one of his regular haunts; it would be interesting to know where May sits on the PGA vs. LIV issues.

Outside of his impressive cricket CV—Shane Warne named May as his favourite spinner-in-arms—his legacy sits as the prominent Australian Cricketers Association boss who helped Australia’s elite players first command millionaire salaries.

My path crossed with May's in July 1993. Australia had just won the fourth Test of the Ashes series at Headingley, and much to their chagrin, they were summoned to Old Trafford to play a county game two days later.

Indirectly, May had helped to fill the pockets of some battling Lancashire youngsters that week, not to the same degree as Australia’s elite, but enough for me to think fondly of him now.

It’s fair to say the game would never have gotten to where it did if Australia had been fair dinkum. Tour games gave the tourists an opportunity for match practice; and a chance for fringe players to get some game time.

Batting first, Australia closed their first innings on 3–282, knowing they wanted to bat a second time. Lancashire replied with 7–250 declared, allowing Australia to bat again and set a last-innings chase of 220 odd.

Shane Warne doubled May’s overs in Lancashire’s first innings. 32 to 15.

In the fourth innings run-chase, the two spinners shared the workload, sending down 50 of the 60 overs bowled—a pretty generous declaration from the captain, Mark Taylor.

I say May helped Lancashire’s youngsters that week because he did.

During the run-chase, I watched continually—from the non-striker's end—May bowl over after over wide of John ‘Creepy’ Crawley’s off stump with a 5/4 off-side field. Clearly, May had not seen Creepy bat previously.

Creepy was a violent sweeper, with the spin or not, and was an excellent all-around player of spin. He feasted on the open leg side, and all May kept saying was "f*cking cowboy", choosing to keep his field the same. My job was easy; get off strike and smile lamely when his menacing glare came into view.

It felt like a ‘Jerry Maguire’ moment with Rod Tidwell: "Show me the money, baby."

We got the runs. Creepy made a hundred. And we were in the money, thanks in part to Tim May.

A brewery had put up a pot of money for the counties to play for in their games against the 1993 Australians. To that point, I’m pretty sure the Aussies had not lost a game on tour; the pot was to be shared by any team that beat them. Lancashire scooped the bloody pot. Divided by 12, it turned into the best payday of my modest career! Here’s the scorecard.

Of course, that cash is long gone. However, I do think fondly of Tim May whenever I hear his name mentioned. And I’m somewhat jealous of his golfing environs.

Have a great weekend, and as always, thank you for being here.

Clearly written without the comforts of hindsight. And then I take a glance at the morning news to see that Richmond and Carlton played a bloody tie—my multi is stuffed!—that's a form of wagering, apologies.

The tie is really ironic when one of the calling cards of Australian Rules Football (Aussie Rules) is that there are no boring draws like there are in Association Football (Soccer).

My god, have I not had that shovelled down my neck the past 25 years? I normally reply stubbornly, "If Aussie Rules is that good, how come nobody else in the world plays it?" And the predictable response is, “because nobody else is tough enough to play our game!—without pads!” And there it ends!

Also interesting to note is that the Melbourne sports radio station, SEN 1116, had an ex-AFL coach strategising the first round of matches yesterday morning. Brenton Sanderson said, with a healthy dose of conviction, "you can count on two certainties to come out of round one: there will be nine winners and nine losers." Don’t think so—wrong on both counts, Mr. Sanderson! That’s why he’s an ex-AFL coach. Ouch.

SpeakingNick is a reader-supported venture. Free and paid versions are available. The best way to support me is by taking out a paid subscription.

Subscribe now

Where to now? Well, I might try to connect three football codes: Australian rules football (AFL), Soccer (EPL), and American Football (NFL)—with the help of a reader who resides in a liberal-leaning suburb of Boston, MA.

Here goes. 

Credit for the analysis goes to Mr. Chris Saunders, from Arlington, Massachusetts.

Why is football (soccer) such a beautiful game?

This is the question Chris Saunders, asked himself, and a bunch of his old college friends. “The overall intention was to just provoke a few of my friends.” Chris said.

And the email communication I received from Chris, and below his note to his college buddies, with plenty of supporting evidence!

Nick, here is an email I sent to my college mates to provoke a reaction. It compares the NFL with the English Premier League for the 2018 seasons. We thought that was a fair comparison since the World Cup has a skewed population. I also did an analysis of the 2018 World Cup for both men and women.

Enjoying the read? If you feel like it, I’d love if you’d share this post with your friends! Or, if you received it from a friend, please forward to another.

Share

The National Football League (NFL) vs The English Premier League (EPL) – 2018/19

I looked at all of the games for the 2018 seasons of the EPL and the NFL. What I found confirmed a lot of what we already know—that soccer is boring and sad—but did offer an insight or two of why people might watch the dreary mess.

We all know that there isn’t much scoring in soccer, and the TV highlights consist of one or two goals and then a montage of all the times they didn’t score (how those images are different for all the other times they didn’t score, I can’t tell). It must be that soccer fans really like foreplay...

Anyways, you can see that the average football (NFL) game has 2.4 times more scoring than a soccer match (EPL) (for football, 7pts points equal 1 "score"). It is even worse (3.5x) when you look at the total number of scoring plays (this includes field goals, safeties, and the really rare 'return of extra points').

Surprisingly, there are not as many ties (draws) in soccer as it seems. Less than 20% of games in the EPL end in a tie (draw), and only 6% of games end in the dreaded nil-nil tie (draw).

But things get worse when you look at the 'wins'. Over half of the wins in the EPL are shutouts. Over all of the games, less than 40% of games have a winner where both teams score.

Looking at it a different way, only in half of the games do both teams score in the EPL, compared to 93% of NFL games.

Are soccer games even competitive?

It gets worse. While the difference in the number of games where the first team to score wins between the two is small (only 10 % pts), the number of comeback wins in the EPL is pathetically small. When watching NFL games, out of every 10 games you watch, four will have a team comeback from a deficit and win the game. In soccer, it's 1 out of 10.

So, once a team scores in soccer, you can switch over to a real football game and watch some action, since the best you could hope for in the soccer match is that the other team might tie it up (11% of the time you would be wrong – not worth the effort).

Not only that, you will be waiting over four times as long to see a goal in the EPL. On average, you will have to watch them kick the ball around the midfield for half an hour before someone breaks away and slips in a goal. Then the player runs around like they won the world cup, which they didn’t—they just scored against Burnley... in January!

But I did say in the beginning that I would offer a reason why these seemingly normal people (and the British are, if anything, normal) would watch such farce. With the overall lack of scoring and it taking so long to score in the first place, your team, or any team, is usually just ‘one score away’ from tying it up.

I believe what holds the soccer fans attention is the potential to score (regardless if they ever do). In over 80% of a game, both teams are ‘in it'. Only 11% of games are blowouts (>3 goals). In the NFL, in 27% of games, the winning team finishes with greater than two scores (>14 pts).

So, like their sad little life, where they aren’t very successful and they can’t expect anyone to be able to produce or change anything, soccer offers more of the same. The goal of a soccer game, the reason why people play it in the first place, is to score goals. It just doesn’t happen that often, just like in life. In fact, it doesn’t seem to bother them all that much.

"Oh, my team didn’t score; oh well. Much better to play for the tie, or don’t lose by too much."—I believe this is quote from Chris.

And again, “I wonder why they bother at all. It's all about the possibility.”

"If we can score one goal. Just one goal. With one goal, we can take the lead, tie it up, or put it out of reach! That is why I spend my days on the couch, glued to the set. If my team can score just one Goal!"

“So, I’m not like that. I don’t want to watch a bunch of guys in the EPL kick around a ball in the vain hope that they might score. I have enough failures and disappointments in my own life; I don’t need my sport to mirror that.”

“Foreplay is great, but finishing is the best.”

“As for the World Cup, once every four years, with national pride and the whole world involved, just like the Olympics, sign me up!”

~~~

Thank you Chris, I’m sure he received the replies he was phishing for!

As you might have guessed if you made it this far, Chris likes the NFL, and his friends like EPL soccer. One thing they all have in common, though, is having too much time on their hands. I will find out where they all went to college!

Happy TGIF.

And, Happy St. Patricks Day. Enjoy a Guinness or two!

PS. Chris kindly provided the supporting data here, and here

I came across this article earlier in the week and thought it perfectly outlined the complexities around retirements in sports. Remember, too, that not every athlete gets to make their own decision.

It was written by Kevin Van Valkenburg for the No Laying Up (NLU) crew, those of golf media disruption fame. Kevin now works with NLU after working as a senior writer at ESPN for the last 11 years, where he covered the NFL.

His superbly written article covers Tom Brady’s recent retirement, cross references to Tiger Woods, and he opens with an anecdote from Big Randy, a member of the NLU team.

SpeakingNick is a reader-supported venture. Free and paid versions are available. The best way to support me is by taking out a paid subscription.

Subscribe now

Here you go:

KVV on Brady's Sad Goodbye

One of my favourite Randy bits is the one where he believes that Tiger, when faced with a tap-in bogey to win the Masters in 2019, should have done something irrational and beautiful and borderline insane. Instead of making the putt, he should have scooped it, tucked the ball in his pocket, then walked into mist, a family member under each arm, never to be seen again. The idea behind it is simple: Tiger didn't need to win a 5th green jacket to prove he is the greatest golfer of all time. We should have awarded him that crown already. Instead, all he needed was to prove to himself he could have won more, and that in and of itself would be validation.

The fantasy has a mystical quality to it, but I also love to imagine the panic it would inspire. Think about Jim Nantz trying to convey to the audience what had just unfolded, or the writers tasked with chasing him on his way to the parking lot, shouting their questions in confusion. Grown men would be weeping, begging him to return. It would feel like the end of a novel, the kind of book that infuriates some readers, mesmerises others, and is debated for years. He would have left us wanting more, not less.

There is a reason why Tin Cup is arguably the best sports movie ever made. There is a hint of sadness there, and it leaves you a little unsettled, trying to unpack what you just watched. But there is also an honesty to it. The most interesting endings aren't warm and comforting.

I was reminded of Randy's fantasy this week when I watched Tom Brady give his retirement announcement from an undisclosed beach location, in a t-shirt, with condos in the background. There was no 1-day contract with the Patriots, no ceremonial press conference or happy send off with confetti in the air. His speech, if you can call it that, lasted less than a minute. In the end, the greatest quarterback of this generation — and likely of all time — said goodbye all alone, at the end of a season with little to no fanfare. He looked like he hadn't slept in weeks. He said goodbye with a selfie.

The great ones rarely care about narratives. Most don't ride into the sunset, they limp in the general direction of the sunset, frequently pausing and turning around several times, uncertain if they're truly ready to let go. We often want the best athletes to go out on top because it provides a beautiful coda to everything we've invested in them emotionally. But it's hard for them to wrap their brains around such silliness.

To us, Tom Brady's career is a story, something with a natural arc, but to Tom Brady, it's his life, his passion, and football is his addiction. He wanted to suck every last bit of marrow from the bone. When people debate his legacy one day, no one will spend more than a few seconds mulling the ups and downs of his final year in Tampa, when he seemed adrift, frequently angry and unhappy, demanding perfection from those around him but unable to meet the same standard with his own play.

There is part of me that wishes Tiger and Phil would have walked away at their apex, in a moment of triumph. But Brady's ending feels like a more honest blueprint of how it may play out someday. We're already seeing some of it with the final chapter of their careers. Part of being great at a sport means you never want to quit, and then one day you find yourself alone on a beach, choking back tears, not giving a damn how any of this looks or if you missed your moment, because you're still furious that it all went by so fast.

Thank you Kevin.

You can read the original here—with American spelling!

Enjoying the read? If you feel like it, I’d love if you’d share this post with your friends! Or, if you received it from a friend, please forward to another.

Share

There is a strong narrative around retirement in the cricket world currently.

Some might say David Warner dodged a bullet by making a peerless double century in the Boxing Day Test against South Africa recently. Warner still faces a challenging away series against India and then to England, where he has not played well previously. The retirement spotlight is sure to centre on him in the coming months.

Dan Christian, the cricketer, or ex-cricketer, played his final game last night. He called time, and there was no ambiguity; it was his decision to make. You can read my piece on his decision to retire here, along with some words on an amazing career.

And how can you leave out the rechargeable Jimmy Anderson? It’s anyone’s guess when he might find a deserted beach!

If you like golf, the NLU guys are great you can follow them on all the socials. And Kevin Van Valkenburg will pushing out plenty of quality content.

Have a great weekend.

SpeakingNick is a reader-supported venture. Free and paid versions are available. The best way to support me is by taking out a paid subscription.

Subscribe now

Part Two …

The ‘sliding door’ was literally that, and not dissimilar to a prison cell entrance. HMP Durham, which shared the same street address as The Dun Cow, was familiar with such arrangements.

On entry, there was a tricky downhill ramp to negotiate; this gave way to the main room, well, the only room! The bar was to the left, and three tables were huddled together under the gaze of the bay window to the right. I was sure I heard a television broadcast when I was in the passage; it could have been the confusing chatter that billowed from two of the three tables, but I hope not.

Where was the damn television? A question asked earlier! Hopefully a better outcome this time?

The spare table called me over, naively, I almost ran to its comforts, inexcusably forgetting to order a drink. The television issue was clouding my thinking. One positive was the favourable view from my new vantage point. The gathering to my left were in fine spirits. Eight or so males, most similar in age to me, seemed to be closer to the end of the day than the start. Folks roll like this in Durham!

The bar was wide enough to have four stools standing to attention. None of them were occupied, however, the condition of their upholstery suggested they had seen plenty of posteriors in their time. Sitting here would afford you an intimate position with the bar person.

The said bar person happened to be my future babysitter, Jennifer Whitfield!

Clearly, I didn't know this at the time. What a stroke of luck, though. Jen was an absolute treasure, and she was the pub's landlady. I didn't make it to mass this particular Sunday morning; if I had, though, I would have prayed for a babysitter named Jennifer! Some things come to those who are lucky."

It’s fair to assume that where there’s a landlady, there should be a landlord.

Alan Whitfield will enter the story a little later. For now, though, it should be noted that this relationship didn’t follow the conventional hierarchical rules of the Catholic Church. Jen ruled the roost, and Alan was happy to lay the eggs!

I can hear Alan saying, “Why yurrr a F’ing wankor.”

My opening conversation with Jennifer went something like this:

“What will you have, like?” A leading question I thought. I replied nervously, “Mmmm, I’m not sure, what would you recommend?” 

“Why, the Castle Eden, like.” I was thrown by all the “likes” - but, hey, stay with the flow. “Great, that sounds good, I’ll try a pint of the Castle Eden.” And, right there, started, some would say, an unhealthy association with Castle Eden ale. 

The Castle Eden Brewery has been a constant part of North East brewing since it was founded by John Nimmo in 1826, and located in the village of Seaham, the signature brew, Castle Eden ale, had a mere 15 miles to travel to the Dun Cow. Always ensuring a fresh pint, that’s if Jen was pulling!

I do grow to like Alan Whitfield!

Enjoying the read? If you feel like it, I’d love if you’d share this post with your friends! Or, if you received it from a friend, please forward to another. Word of mouth remains the best form of marketing.

Share

The pint was delivered to perfection, a creamy head covered the smooth-looking ale, not warm, nor cold, just right. “Thank you.” I mumbled, and retreated to my designated corner. By this time, thankfully, the television had come into view, but the only problem was that it was showing a BBC gardening show. In February, really?

Back to the bar I went, this time with a little more certainty, I asked Jen if the channel could possibly be switched to show the football.

“Who’s playing, like?” “Mmmm, Manchester City I think?” I knew full well who was playing, just was lacking some nuts if truth be told.

“Why aye man, he wants the bloody football on?” Jen yelled out to the bar. Remember, the bar consisted only of the eight or so guys gathered around the other tables.

“Who’s playing, like?” This came from Mr. Whitfield. A bearded man of some fifty odd years, impeccably turned out, and someone who looked fairly senior in the scheme of things.

“Bloody City” Jen said, Alan replied “Why aye man, should be a canny game, they're not playing the toon are they?” “Nee man, you’d have to be bloody mortal to watch that crap.” Jen replied. Mortal had me confused, I would later learn it was local for pissed, drunk — something that seemed to engulf The Dun Cow a good bit.

Alan Whitfield became a great friend while I was in Durham. He was the landlord, and I may have painted him as a flimsy person, but this is not the case. He universally went by the nickname Ticket, and everyone in Durham seemed to know him as Ticket, or variations of: “Bloody Ticket” being a popular derivative.

This begs the obvious question: why Ticket?

Well, the short story is that he worked on the railways before taking residence at The Dun Cow. Work might be construed as an over-stated term. He was a conductor, the guy with the funny hat that yells, “Tickets please.” He had little appetite for protocols, apparently — with the Durham-to-York line becoming one of the most well-travelled routes in Northern England. Mainly due to his disappearance on the return journey!

So, back to the football. City was playing OK, I was slowly getting acquainted with my pint, and the crew to my left was starting to find their voice. It became apparent quickly that none of my soon-to-be friends liked travelling to the bar. Pints, and more pints, were being delivered with little sign of a transaction. Later, as I became more intimate with Ticket, it was clear that this was an anomaly to the norm. It must have been the Sabbath at play. Or perhaps Sunderland had won the previous day.

With one eye on the game, and both ears now on the conversation, I started to pick up on the narrative that was being dissected. As well as putting some names to faces.

Ticket was holding court, acting as the pseudo-chairman of sorts. His offsider appeared to be called Bill, or Billy, or even just Sanders, which I presumed was his surname. Bill was younger than Ticket, his face was well-set, a smile seemed difficult for him to muster, honestly I thought he had a couple of gobstoppers squatting in his mouth. I grew to love Billy like a brother. He was, and is, an absolute gentleman.

And, that might be a good place to pause, with the scene set and more good stuff to come from The DunCow. The concluding post will be out this Friday

As always, thank you for being here.

SpeakingNick is a reader-supported venture. Free and paid versions are available. The best way to support me is by taking out a paid subscription.

Subscribe now

1997 was a mostly unspectacular year, the exception being the untimely death of Princess Diana, which as we all know now, was far from inconspicuous.

Why Durham? Well, it just happened to be the meeting of two opposites.

David Boon, of Australian fame, had decided to finish his decorated career with a three-year stint in county cricket, correct – with Durham CCC. Remarkable really. The opposite was yours untruly; who, at the conclusion of the 1996 season, had been politely shown the door by Lancashire CCC. I found myself hoping to continue a serviceable career in county cricket, with, you guessed it, Durham CCC.

The two opposites morphed into equals away from cricket. Mr. Boon and I became Durham City neighbours, purely by chance.

Claypath is a beautiful part of Durham City, perched high in the North-Western quarter. Every walk into the picturesque centre was downhill, until you had to walk back! There were views across the valley to Crossgate Moor, and beyond to the hospital – where my daughter, Ella, was eventually born.

How I stumbled on that house in Douglas Villas – I’m really not sure. It felt like I had traversed the entire county of Durham looking for suitable accommodation. I knew every village and hamlet; from Shincliffe to Lanchester. Maybe it was the city person in me that brought me back to Durham — that’s Durham City. One thing is for certain, though, in hindsight, I am profoundly grateful that I did. Some credit must also go to teammate, Michael Roseberry, a Durham native. Thank you Rosey!

Returning to the aforementioned Sunday morning. What was there to do?

The removal crew had made a hasty retreat to Manchester, for reasons that will become apparent later. This was despite furniture being strewn randomly across 44 Douglas Villas, and most importantly, essentials being hidden away in unmarked boxes. The real essential was, of course, the television.

With no television, and a Sky subscription that was still attributed to a house in Manchester, I was in serious trouble. Factor in the weather, unfamiliarity with the surroundings, and a language issue – they speak a dialect I’m not familiar with – all this spelled disaster. It was the first time I felt aggrieved by the decision handed down by the suits at Lancashire CCC. How dare they!

Manchester City (MCFC, City, The Blues) were playing the early Sunday game, kicking off at one o'clock. Simple, just wander down into town, coat and tissues at the ready, and find a suitable hostelry to watch the game. A couple of pints, some food, and if my pub selection was true, a deal of good company to get me through the afternoon. The removal crew, and they should have been, the move-in crew, were, you guessed it, all Manchester City fans.

Nothing, but nothing, gets in the way of football.

Enjoying the read? If you feel like it, I’d love if you’d share this post with your friends! Or, if you received it from a friend, please forward to another. Word of mouth remains the best form of marketing.

Share

As I set off down Claypath, I can conservatively report sightings of at least half-a-dozen pubs, the first one being The Woodman – it presented like the Ugly Duckling; and I judged on face value, which was latterly rescinded by its warm hospitality – a recurring theme in this part of the world.

Onward I marched. It was still early, 45 minutes or so to kick-off, although the cold and dew drops were starting to make inroads. The market square gave me some perspective, with the cathedral and castle now peaking down. The fork in the road – upwards toward the cathedral, or down across Elvet bridge were my options. I wanted to see if the river was frozen, but it wasn't, just my nose!

Now, there was one obstacle between me and my eventual destination – The Swan & Three Cygnets. Flashbacks arrived. I had been to Durham before, as a Lancashire player, and before that for a U19 tournament. The steps leading up to the pub seemed significant. Flashbacks came and passed. And then I got it. This was the scene of an inglorious evening on that U19 trip. Although I was merely a bit player, it held too many demons. Move on young man!

As a side-note: I believe a SpeakingNick reader might have intimate knowledge of that evening. Maybe they can elaborate in the comments below!

I’m now walking East on Old Elvet and feared I had missed my calling. Signs for the Courthouse and HM Prison kept me interested. In addition, at the end of Old Elvet was the Racecourse ground where Durham CCC had previously played and was the home of Durham University cricket. Forge on Churchill said it was 15 minutes to kick-off.

And then, finally, it appeared: The Dun Cow – 37 Old Elvet, Durham DH1 3HN, UK.

It was the most indistinguishable of all the pubs I had seen, yet it was the one that ignited complete curiosity. As far as I could see there was no front door. Instead, there was a stained glass bay window and a hole in the wall that looked like an entrance to a passage. After crossing the street and standing at the entrance to the passage, the infamous sliding door was in full view.

Male and female voices drifted through the well-ventilated sliding door, I could hear a television playing in the background – I wasn’t able to decipher the channel – there seemed a snugness about the surroundings, and an aroma of beer was immediately apparent. No turning back now.

This was it. Ten minutes to kick-off. I’m a Mancunian, football is in my DNA. Wait a minute, I’m also one of Durham’s key signings for the upcoming season – time will tell how insignificant this was. Walk tall Nicholas. Stride in there with purpose; paranoia circled me. Anyway, it was too cold to walk back. Howay Man, you better get in there.

So I did, and the rest is history.

I propose we pause here, and come back to the rest of the story next Friday. 

I think it’s priceless! I hope you do too. Part two next week.

SpeakingNick is a reader-supported venture. Free and paid versions are available. The best way to support me is by taking out a paid subscription.

Subscribe now

Nevertheless, the jet lag is dissipating, and today will be a wandering day. It’s also the morning after the night before. England’s football team, the Three Lions, swept past Wales to book a place in the last 16 of the 2022 FIFA World Cup. I dare say many fragile heads are rolling around town today. Mancunians rarely miss an opportunity to indulge.

No doubt, the star of the show last night was Marcus Rashford - you guessed it, Rashford is from Manchester. He plays for Manchester United, that’s acceptable, although my preference would be for him to wear a blue shirt. Nevertheless, he brought a listless England to life last night.

Rashford’s pinpoint free-kick had eyes only for the top right corner. It snaked over the Wales wall eluding the grasping dive of goalkeeper Danny Ward. 1-0, the seal was broken. A frustrating first half had given way to a careering second. England added two more goals courtesy of Phil Foden (Manchester City) and, that man again, Rashford. A Manchester trifecta.

The Fletcher Moss in Didsbury was rocking.

England’s reward is a last‑16 tie against Senegal on Sunday. Instantaneously there is compounding optimism wherever you look or listen. Of course, my Manchester City friends attribute everything to the introduction of Phil Foden to the starting lineup. And the other side of Manchester is rightly lauding Marcus Rashford. Both sides can be content with their respective contributions.

Surely they can’t ‘bring it home’!

Doha is situated southeast of Manchester, approximately 5415 km. It’s not my first choice to visit. Instead, I’m happy to watch the TV coverage. Most public houses in Manchester have TVs - and beer, Smith’s crisps, salted peanuts, and possibly, pickled onions. You can keep Doha.

Switching gears - Bazball is back! Cricket the Ben Stokes and Brendon McCullum way!

Tomorrow’s first Test in Rawalpindi between Pakistan and England will be the first time England has played in Pakistan since 2005-06. How times have changed, bizarrely the Test might be delayed 24 hours due to illness in the England camp. Back in the day, this would have been all part of the grand plan for Pakistan.

If history repeats itself, this could be a dull series. England has toured Pakistan eight times previously. Three series ended 0-0, with four resulting in a 1-0 scoreline. Will Bazball hold up?

Enjoyed the read? If you feel like it, I’d love if you’d share this post with your friends! Or, if you received it from a friend, please forward on to another.

Share

What will be of interest is if England’s sporting public can balance both codes simultaneously. Bazball might have to take a back seat for the moment. All might change Sunday night.

As is the want of new England, captain Ben Stokes named his starting XI two days out. Ironically, had the bug arrived on the morning of the match, England would have found themselves unable to field a team. It seems, no measure of self-assurance and positivity can defeat the marauding Pindi bug.

Of course, precautionary measures were undertaken by the England and Wales Cricket Board. Nothing gets past that mob! They had employed their very own chef, Omar Meziane. Meziane had previously worked with the England football team and was overseeing food preparation at the team hotel in Islamabad. Unfortunately for him and the players, Meziane didn't escape illness.

So, we will keep a close eye on proceedings in Rawalpindi. It shapes as a fascinating series, irrespective of what past results suggest.

I look forward to watching Jimmy Anderson negotiate the notoriously unresponsive Pakistan wickets. Jimmy always finds a way. Sidenote: his soulmate, Stuart Broad, misses the series due to paternity leave. Yes, that is true, your honour.

The next stop is the Republic of Western Australia (WA). Just a short hop across the Indian Ocean. Perth hosts the first Test of the three-Test series between Australia and the West Indies.

Marnus Labuschagne (154* from 270 balls) should be a name that demands attention. After all, it’s more than a handful when it comes to correct pronunciation. Instead, Labuschagne, slips noisily under the radar, preferring to live in the shadow of his batting brother - Steve Smith (59* from 107 balls). The two play well together, as all brothers should. So far, the partnership has accumulated 142 unchallenged runs. How many they add will depend on them, more than the West Indies.

Both could double their overnight scores. Their progress seems inevitable. The only interruption might come from Mark McGowan, Premier of Western Australia. After all, Cameron Green is one of his own, and McGowan will be keen on Green entering the fray sooner rather than later. Remember, McGowan has form when it comes to writing his own rules. Watch this space.

Steve Smith’s technique change is well documented. I believe age caught up with Smith. He wasn’t able to recall the 14 different trigger movements he had in place. If he did, he muddled up the order. It just got too hard. The result - go back to basics - watch and react.

Australia start day two on 2/293 - that’s a long way back for the men of the West Indies.

As always, thank you for being here.

Flight QF8019 landed at Manchester Airport yesterday evening, on time, and in good spirits, for the main. What happened next was so quintessentially British, or in terms of Manchester speak, so Manc!

For the record, I am a Mancunian, more by birth than by residence these days. However, Manchester still holds a special place in my heart, and most probably, always will.

It would be a difficult question, but if asked to encapsulate what Manchester has provided to the world, my considered answer would most likely be Football and Music. The basis of my opinion would be formed before a career in cricket took hold.

No doubt this represents a narrow view. In my defence I would say most boys with a modicum of athletic ability dreamed of playing for either Manchester City or Manchester United. If this seemed a bridge too far, then emulating the Gallaghers would have to do. Either way, most of my friends followed these principles.

The industrial revolution is certainly deserving of recognition, and remains a significant part of Manchester's past. Also, Alan Turing ranks high on the list of successful Mancunians - his codebreaking endeavours in World War II being legendary.

It’s just hard see past Manchester City and Oasis!

I should include this as I am in the game, or at least have my toes in the water. Manchester is a city with brains. Did I say that? My dear mother always wished for me to attend university, preferably Manchester University. The university is home to no fewer than 25 Nobel Prize laureates. Cricket might have been the best option!

SpeakingNick is a reader-supported venture. Free and paid versions are available. The best way to support me is by taking out a paid subscription.

Subscribe now

OK, back to row 85 ... that's on the plane, that landed in Manchester, yesterday evening.

Why do people get up as soon as a plane stops moving? Is it a desire, or a need, to extricate oneself from the intimate confines of international plane travel? I'm not sure, Maybe it's ignorance, It seems only those in the window seats know the drill. Saying that, they have little or no chance of moving, instead they remain shoe-horned into seats once coveted as a desirable option.

My preference is an aisle seat. I also understand the dynamics of being positioned at the arse-end of the plane, you can stand, but you're not going anywhere soon. Simple really. Is there a silver lining, most certainly, you can find yourself in the perfect vantage point to observe and listen to stereotypical British tourists.

On this occasion it was a mother of four young children, and a couple of likely Manchester lads, it seemed, all returning from a winter break in Dubai. I'm certain the two groups were independent of each other. For the sake of the dispatch we will fictitiously cast the mother as Jenny, and the likely lads will be just that. Manchester likely lads.

Jenny had done an amazing job with her crew, the youngest being a boy of no more than two. He made Harry Houdini look inept when it came to the art of escape. And, like all boys of that age, he sought the company of others, over the caring hand of his mother. Not me, but you probably guessed it, the likely lads.

The other three siblings, all girls, conducted themselves with more measure than the rest of the cabin combined. And, they didn't stand when the plane stopped moving. Bravo Jenny.

Share

And the two likely lads. I would suggest they rest their heads in Manchester's inner North. It's likely they undermine their respective bosses, and are vilified by work colleagues for doing so. Their alcohol consumption would be confined to any day ending with Y - or until the fortnightly pay-check runs dry. One was a gym junkie, the other looked like Stan Laurel. And, of course, both wore a Peaky Blinders hair cut.

I'm told a compelling story is all about the set up. Slow and steady. The punch line should not be rushed, no matter how ridiculous or strong it may be.

It had been a cordial conversation between Jenny and the lads, never risky, but focused mainly on the young escape artist. They fostered him intermittently, while Jenny watched the Elvis movie - my seat allowed a perfect second screen view. Voyeurism on a plane seems unavoidable - I felt no remorse.

So to the punch line ... fingers crossed.

The plane had stopped, most passengers were out of their seats. Our two protagonists had cordially reacquainted, with both teams thanking each other for their respective contributions. And then Jenny asks, "What time do you have?" Their reply was, "It's not 7pm yet." Jenny delivers the line of the night, "Great, the chippy might still be open." The chippy - the fish & chip shop - the cornerstone of Northern English cuisine. Forget the culinary excellence of Dubai, we're talking fish & chips!

I hope Jenny made it before closing, then I don't, her children will thank her in the long run.

The likely lads - they were unanimous in championing Jenny's patriotism to the English fish and chip, to the point of condemning what they had eaten for the previous week in Dubai. Their evening eating destination was to be Nando's - no doubt they were Manchester United fans, and infatuated with Cristiano Ronaldo, and Portuguese chicken.

As always, thank you for being here.

SpeakingNick is a reader-supported venture. Free and paid versions are available. The best way to support me is by taking out a paid subscription.

Subscribe now

And, to cricket — The ICC T20 World Cup. It seems the IPL and India are finished as we knew them; hysteria rains down after England lowered their collective masts in a lob-sided semi-final. Jos Buttler and Alex Hales combined brilliantly to chase down the 167 needed for victory. Yes, not a wicket lost, and in just 16 overs.

So pleasing to see Jos Buttler lead his side to victory in such an important game. His quiet, unassuming captaincy has been a revelation, and now just Pakistan stands between him and the ultimate reward.

Ironically, Neil Fairbrother manages Buttler, and Fairbrother was a member of the 1992 England World cup team that lost to Pakistan in the final — at the MCG. Both, Fairbrother and Buttler, will be hoping for a different result Sunday.

And, to golf — yes, that’s right, golf. It is Friday, after all, and license to go wherever I like.

Golf feels lost in the woods, what a mess; it really is hard to watch; my interest has waned to a place of non-attendance. I’m almost thinking of handing over the remote on the weekend — not that there’s anyone to take over! Thanks — Phil.

But there is hope, my consumption has moved for the better. Welcome — No Laying Up — a bunch of normal golfers doing an idiosyncratic job of delivering content to their burgeoning army of followers. Their latest offering chronicles a recent Scandinavian golf trip — it really is a must-watch. Give them a try.

Enjoyed the read? If you feel like it, I’d love if you’d share this post with your friends! Or, if you received it from a friend, please forward on to another.

Share

So, back to Dusty — I still think I’m writing about a Country & Western artist — Dusty Baker wins it ALL, how good!

It’s just plain easy to write one sentence, yes?  I could just leave it there, and wish you all a happy ‘Thank God it’s Friday’

Write one sentence and then another and yet another – soon we have story, a book, a movie. I hope someone decides to make a movie — “The Dusty Baker Street”

A few sentences it will be.

Inevitably Baker knew his time had come. It was captured in mind and words by his bench coach, Joe Espada, who said, “It was as if he knew the time had finally come — as if, perhaps, he had known it all along. Because as the final outs of the Astros’ 4-1 win over the Philadelphia Phillies in Game 6 of the World Series ticked away, Baker was quiet.

At 73 years of age, there are bound to be people in your life, friends and family, who have passed. Baker was acutely aware of this as he wished for help from an old fireballer, J.R. Richard, in the ninth inning. Ryan Pressly was on the mound, and Baker asked for pitching help from his old friend. Richard delivered.

Baker was quiet because he knew this was it — he would be the oldest manager to win a World Series.

One fan down the right field line held a sign that read “a date with Dust-iny,” and perhaps, that was exactly what it was.

I have read that baseball does not reward perfection, it rewards resilience. Apparently, it unearths the truth. And, it seems the truth about Baker is that few people in the game are as universally respected. I have a thing for Dusty Baker — so be it.

Final words, for now, from the man himself:

“It’s not relief,” Baker said. “It’s just sheer joy and thankfulness.”

Jos Buttler had an enviable job replacing Eoin Morgan as England’s white-ball captain. Morgan’s tenure ended abruptly, nothing sinister, just before time. Many thought it would take time to fill his shoes, and I saw Buttler as a hesitant leader.

Buttler has confounded many doubters, myself included.

His predecessor described England’s semi-final performance as, “mind-blowingly good.”

Buttler’s contribution (80* from 49 balls) was bookended with absolute class. Three boundaries in the first over set the tone for the innings, and then to finish with a perfectly struck straight six capped a perfect night for him, Alex Hales and the England team.

Let’s hope for the English readers that it is destiny for Buttler and England.

An added bonus for UK based readers is the final will be shown live on free-to-air TV on Sunday after Sky agreed to share rights to the game with Channel 4. Oh, the days of watching Channel 4!

Buttler said, “It’s fantastic for the game in our country.” “As many eyes as we can get on that final would be great. It’s brilliant. It’s important that we always look to grow our game and showcase cricket, to the next generation especially. We really welcome that.”

I’ll go out on a limb and say there’s a job at 10 Downing Street when Buttler is done with cricket — not that he would want it.

All eyes on the Melbourne weather now! As always, thank you for being here.

POTENTIAL V PERFORMANCE, A DELICATE BALANCING ACT .. or not .. SpeakingNick, November, 2013

You can read the original post here …

As the AFL season comes to the pointy end, the debate around potential or performance leans heavily one-way. Performance.

Last night, Brisbane ended Richmond’s season with a thrilling two-point win. The game had everything: match-ending injuries, extraordinary goal-kicking and opportunism; momentum changes, and a twist in the tale at the buzzer. Today’s reviews will be focused solely on performance: coaches, players, and teams all being scrutinised. The word potential is firmly in the rear-view mirror.

So, where is the place for potential?

The world of business asks managers the same question as coaches. Performance or potential.

A manager is tasked to staff a high-impact, high-risk project that needs to be delivered “yesterday.” Will they pick a high-performer or a high-potential candidate? They will likely choose the high-performer, the safe bet, often though the decision is not based on the definition of success, his first thought is speed, the shortest time to complete his task, and delivery. There is little thought given to what defines success.

In the coaching world, I believe, the two variables are intrinsically connected.

Potential generally refers to the ability the athlete is yet to realise. As soon as the coach and athlete unlock this potential, you have performance.

This week’s Thank God it’s Friday goes back to November 2013. The two tags weigh differently for individuals. Glenn Maxwell is at one end of the spectrum, and, at the other end, I looked at Alex Keath. That is Keath, the cricketer, now turned footballer.

We can say Maxwell has shed the ‘potential’ tag—there are many reasons for this, just too many for this column. And Keath, it would be easy to argue that the ‘cricket potential’ tag was unlocked, however now on the football field, he is acutely aware of how being judged on performance feels.

SpeakingNick is a reader-supported publication. Both free and paid versions are available. The best way to support me and my work is by taking out a paid subscription now:

Subscribe now

POTENTIAL V PERFORMANCE, A DELICATE BALANCING ACT - SpeakingNick, November, 2013

Which is more important in player development – potential or performance? And how does a team’s leadership decide when player development overtakes the importance of delivering results?

Selectors and coaches are continually faced with these questions.

Pilloried, their decisions are dissected at every level by fans impatient for success, often unaware of the untapped potential at their clubs.

For every project player that hits the pool swimming, there are many who flap and kick, only to be saved from a watery grave by those more senior in mind and performance.

Young players are repeatedly selected on the premise of potential – as ‘project players’. Initially darlings of the crowd and the coaches that promote them, they are presented to the masses as ‘the next big thing’. Great sides can hide project players, while fragile teams expose them like rabbits in headlights.

For each individual the tag weighs differently. For some it is a cross to bear, for others validation of their own self-belief. For me, it would only promote feelings of inadequacy and ineptitude.

Glenn Maxwell is one extreme. Recently ridiculed in India by the host team he was labelled the million-dollar baby in reference to his IPL contract and the perceived potential that has not yet been realised. Indians think little of his self-promotion, preferring to present Maxwell as a modern example of all talk, with little walk.

In Maxwell’s case, though, he remains afloat even if the floaties are still attached to his arms. Whether he lives up to his self-proclaimed nickname – the Big Show – remains to be seen. What does bear consideration though is asking where would he be without the floaties, and the exposure that the short form game has provided to him.

Enjoying this post? I would love it if you shared it with your friends who should also be enjoying coffee on a Saturday morning!

Share

At the opposite end of the spectrum is Alex Keath. Keath came to the attention of the Melbourne media three years ago when he stated his preference for cricket over Australian football. His decision to stay in Melbourne was suitably rewarded by Cricket Victoria with a contract and early playing opportunities.

These early hit-outs were spasmodic, with his role neither one nor the other – bat or ball. Batting and bowling in junior cricket is the domain of the talented, and Keath had talent in abundance. However, now with the big boys the results he returned were more modest.

As his batting coach at Melbourne CC, I saw a player with undoubted ability but someone finding the road from potential to performance a demanding one to negotiate. He is still on that road, and the journey has certainly tested his abundantly strong character.

Maxwell has returned to domestic red-ball cricket with a view towards an improbable return to the baggy green. Then he has T20 and the chance to improve his share price. As for Alex Keath and co, it is an entirely different story.

List A cricket has gone, put to bed in three short weeks, this before anyone had chance to notice. Three Sheffield Shield games will have been contested before the first Test, meaning state fringe players will sit on the sidelines, as Test aspirants and returning white ball players fill up XIs. Then, we have two months of T20 cricket, signaling the arrival of international players, in addition to the confusing interstate movement of our domestic talent.

The futures league lives on in a format that makes little sense to many, except those that hide behind the assumption that cricketers between the age of 19 and 23 still need their Weet-Bix served while sitting in a high chair.

Sitting at the bottom of the food chain is grade cricket. Grade cricket feels and looks like a medium that is no longer trusted. Still, it is this environment where you will need to look to locate the peripheral players that strive to get the breakthrough, or return to, the first class arena. Quite why there is such distrust is puzzling, the pasts of so many Australian greats emanate from this environment.

So the question of potential over performance will remain with far-reaching repercussions. A significant dip in the volume of domestic professional cricket will cause a ripple that will be felt all the way through to grade cricket.

Not only will national and state selectors be challenged with decisions over potential or performance, club cricket selectors will also have the task of balancing their books with the state contracted players being available for much of the summer.

Have a great weekend, and as always, thank you for being here.

Been forwarded this email? Please consider subscribing here … there are paid and free subscriptions available.

Rob Cameron and Nick Speak - Pulse 94.7 - Monday, 22nd August, 2022. We would be rapt if you can share this public post with your friends. English/US readers - (rapt = happy)

Share

This week—as mentioned—no Boris Johnson. Unfortunately, a member of Mr Johnson’s PR office, made contact late last week, instructing us to refrain from shining the spotlight on the current/former PM of the UK, for at least this episode, or until the current furore relents!  Ms Davies was exceptionally polite in her request, and did say that her boss might be looking for some work in September!

So, it was, for the most part, a Geelong-based discussion. Which is timely given the Geelong Cats stroll to the AFL minor premiership. Rob, a dyed in the navy and white wool, Geelong barracker, tried to deflect their favouritism, alluding to the difficulties of a first final with the reincarnated Collingwood. Timid talk for such a forthright practitioner!

Leave a comment

Cricket was covered via last week’s Thank God it’s Friday column - featuring Patrick Patterson (I urge you to read an article on Patrick Patterson from this link)—Steve Waugh, and Dean Jones. Also, there was discussion on the Geelong cricket club, the upcoming season, and some of their players who have spent the last three months playing ‘winter cricket’ in Darwin. Rob never fails to give Tom O’Connell a plug - this time captaincy!

And that’s about it—a wrap. Please put in the pods, and try to enjoy 30 minutes of engaging discussion with Geelong radio host Rob Cameron (The Pulse 94.7) - recorded Monday 22nd August 2022.

SpeakingNick is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, please consider becoming a subscriber.

Subscribe now

Rest of the week …

~ Patrick Dangerfield, Geelong Cats, features in the Scott’s Cats 2022 column. I take a look at his 300-game milestone, and his off-field pursuits, including an imminent move to the AFL media circus. And, there is discussion around how immediate success seems more attractive than longevity.

~ Thank God it’s Friday seems to come around as quick as an Ashes series. Johnnie B. "Dusty" Baker Jr. (Dusty Baker) features this week. Baker is the manager of the Houston Astros in Major League Baseball and previously played in the MLB for 19 seasons, most notably with the Los Angeles Dodgers. This column was written while being marooned in the U.S. last year (thank you Mr. Morrison and Mr. Andrews!)—ironically the Boston Red Sox were playing their version of ‘BazBall’—clearing the bleachers with an all-out offense, sadly that form has deserted them. Oh, and there’s an early reference to Beaumaris!

*Thank you to The Pulse 94.7 for giving me the opportunity to speak with Rob on a weekly basis*

Been forwarded this post? Sign up to receive it free, or better still, consider taking out a paid subscription to support my work. There are annual, monthly, and founding member options.

Subscribe now

As always, thank you, the reader (listener), for being here. I really appreciate it.

Credit: Rahul Kaklotar - Flaticon

Anyway, please put in the pods, and try to enjoy 30 minutes of varied discussion with Geelong radio host Rob Cameron (The Pulse 94.7) - recorded Monday 15th August, 2022.

Enjoyed the listen? It would be great if you shared it with your friends.

Share

Dean Jones - (1961-2020)

Rob and I discussed the conundrum that ‘tall poppy syndrome’ presents.

Popular definition points to: a perceived tendency to discredit or disparage those who have achieved notable wealth or prominence in public life. In the case of sport, achievements replace wealth. And, when you narrow the definition down to Australia, and Australians, you find: tall poppy syndrome refers to a tendency for Australians to downplay achievement to the extent of being disdainful of such people, and so to cut them down to size.

We established, or Rob did, that here in Australia “we love our heroes,” but there are a set of “unwritten rules” on how heroes should behave. Allan Border (AO) was the quintessential hero, always giving his best, rarely complaining, constantly putting his teams gain before his own. Although, it should be noted, grumpiness did come easily to Border.

Then, on the other side of the coin, we discussed the late, great, Dean Jones.

Jones was every bit the opposite of Border, I believe, mostly due to his personality. Jones was energetic to the point of manic nervousness. In my view, he was an ambivert, contrary to the widely perceived belief that he was an extrovert. Like many players who played in this era, Jones said what others merely thought. Unlike now, though, he was an outlier in his era. Coaches and management were not versed in the modern practices of embracing all personalities, and allowing individuals to push forward a teams compass. Consequently, Jones, was hung out to dry. In the main, he was loved by his teammates, and loathed by the gate-keepers. I, and I’m sure many others, would give anything to watch Dean Jones play today.

SpeakingNick is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, please consider becoming a subscriber.

Subscribe now

Quoting ESPN Cricinfo “Dean Jones wrote the book on one-day cricket - literally.” Also, “He played a new game in which he walked down the pitch to fast bowlers, ran frenetically between wickets and turned out-fielding into an attacking occupation.”

I love the line ‘turning out fielding into an attacking occupation’. Statistically, in white-ball cricket, more run-outs come from the out-field, than the in-field. He was before his time.

And his numbers: 3631 Test runs at an average of 46.55, with 11 hundreds from only 52 Tests. 6068 One-day international (ODI) runs at an average of 44.61, with seven hundreds and 46 half-centuries. Interestingly, his strike-rate (SR) in ODI cricket was 72.56, maybe not as high as you might think. In modern-day currency you could estimate this would be in the nineties range.

Dean Jones is sorely missed in many quarters. I plan to re-verse a story I wrote in 2013, for this weeks “Thank god it’s Friday” post. Dean Jones is in the thick of it.

*Thank you to The Pulse 94.7 for giving me the opportunity to speak with Rob and Loretta on a weekly basis*

Been forwarded this post? Sign up to receive it free.

As always, thank you, the reader (listener), for being here.