Look who’s back? Welcome, David Warner

South Africans couldn’t care less about ball-tampering, an offence their players have also committed. It’s Warner’s ugly Aussieness that stokes their fire.

TELFORD VICE in Cape Town

PLENTY of the first 3,359 days of David Warner’s international career were the wrong kind of eventful. There were too many on-field altercations with opponents to list, and to overlook. Off the field, he punched Joe Root in a Birmingham bar. Further afield, he inspired Martin Crowe, his polar opposite in every sense except vaguely geographically, to write that his “thuggish behaviour has gone too far” and to label him “the most juvenile cricketer I have seen”.

To the cricketminded, whatever their nationality, Warner was the embodiment of Australianess. Playing against him was singularly unpleasant. Sharing a dressingroom with him required the restraint of friends of parents of unruly children. Some who knew him even that closely speak of encountering him alone in a lift, and being utterly ignored as the floors flicked past and the small box of space froze with passive aggression.

None of that could match what started to unfold on day No. 3,360 of Warner’s career. It was March 24, 2018, during the third Test at Newlands. A ball-tampering plot utilising sandpaper, implemented by Cameron Bancroft and at best unacknowledged or at worst given the go-ahead by Steve Smith was exposed by SuperSport, who fancy themselves as South Africa’s 12th-man. Bancroft, then 25 and playing in his eighth Test, was the most junior member of Australia’s team; a gangly, buck-eared, baby-faced coffee nerd whose brewing equipment toured with him. Smith was and remains a test-tube cricketer, something like a savant who isn’t fully human before he steps onto the field, whereupon he becomes something like superhuman. These two? Ball-tampering masterminds? That’s like Tom and Jerry dealing cocaine. The devil made them do it, of course. Either him or David Andrew Warner. To many, they were one and the same.

If all Warner had been guilty of was orchestrating a flagrant breach of what cricket calls, quaintly, its laws, he would have come off the cross having spilt less blood than he did. See paragraph one above for why that didn’t happen. Add the unresolved rancour caused by Warner having been at the forefront of the Australian players’ lengthy, high-profile pay dispute with their suits that had ended six months earlier. So his own administrators weren’t lining up to treat him gently, or even fairly, after Newlands. South Africans couldn’t care less about ball-tampering: Faf du Plessis and Vernon Philander had been found guilty of the same offence three times in less than the previous five years, and their fans still loved them. That Warner was Australian, and thus fair game for unfairness in the minds of South Africa’s more boorish supporters, would have counted for something. But what had turned them and their meeker compatriots against Warner unequivocally was the video footage that emerged from his run-in with Quinton de Kock on the staircase leading to the dressingrooms during the first Test at Kingsmead. Warner looked like a roaring drunk in dire need of a bouncer — of the nightclub variety — to throw him out as he rounded on De Kock repeatedly, apparently threatening increasing levels of violence as they climbed the stairs. The backstory was that De Kock had retaliated to being verbally abused by Warner on the field for the best part of a session by making a disgraceful comment about the Australian’s wife. When the series lurched to St George’s Park for the second Test, some of the worst of South Africa’s fans wore face masks calculated, clumsily, to antagonise Warner by shaming his wife. As it happened, the only shame stuck instead like egg to the faces of the masked pathetics.

By the time the series reached the last Test at the Wanderers the Australians were husks of the men they had been when they arrived. Those who were left, that is. Warner, like Smith and Bancroft, had been dismissed in disgrace and sent back to Australia. Each offered fraught, lachrymose contrition on their return. Around them the saga had exploded far beyond what should have been its limits, a champagne supernova in a stubby holder that twitched the attention-seeking antennae of the suit-in-chief himself — the prime minister — and held a mirror up to all Australians in all sorts of ways. Surely we’re better than that, they asked themselves. Don’t be so sure, the rest of the world replied unbidden.

Thursday marked 699 days since March 24, 2018. And, suddenly, rudely, even, there he was, back at the scene of the fallout of the crime: David Warner behind the microphones at a press conference at the Wanderers. On Wednesday, Smith had fronted up. You’ve got to hand it to the Aussies — they aren’t hiding. Then again, Smith and Bancroft came to the presser that day at Newlands and tried to lie themselves off the hook.

“Echoing Steve’s words yesterday about, firstly, walking into the airport and then walking into here, the memories weren’t great,” Warner replied to the first question. “But, the last few days, every single person we’ve come across, that’s asked for a photo or come into contact with and spoken to, have nothing but great words to say. You know, welcoming us to the country and being really polite. It’s been incredible how much support we’ve had from people and the public. I’ve just been playing golf, and they went over and above to make us feel welcome. It was a great feeling.”

But Warner knew better than to expect to be greeted by the faked gentility of a golf clubhouse when he crosses the boundary at the Wanderers on Friday, when the first of three T20Is will be played: “I know what’s going to get thrown at me every time I play, wherever it is in the world. It’s nothing I haven’t heard before. I’m not concerned about it. You’ve got to have some sort of respect as well. If people want to go to the ground and carry on like that, it’s on themselves. They’ve got to look at themselves in the mirror. If they want to act like that, so be it. It doesn’t bother me, but they’re representing their country as well as spectators watching a game of cricket. I’m pretty sure we don’t want to walk away as teams criticising the way their fans are acting. That’s up to them.” South Africa’s least respectful crowd are sure to take Warner up on that challenge on Friday, so best he be prepared.

Was he ready to see De Kock again? “We’ll cross paths playing against each other, but I don’t have his number. I speak to a few of the South African guys but I’ve never played in the same team as him so it’s a little bit different. I’m sure if we see each other on the field we’ll just treat each other how we normally would; as respectful opponents. It’s one-day and T20 cricket. You don’t really have much time to get under each other’s skin. You don’t go out there to do that.” Really? With his record for doing exactly that, he could have fooled a lot of people.

What about you, Mr De Kock? “Me and him have moved on from there,” De Kock said earlier on Thursday. “We’re looking to just play cricket. We both love to play the game really hard. I don’t think anything will happen. We won’t worry too much about it.” But he didn’t shut the door on all that: “If something ignites — maybe if a player decides to take on another player — then maybe fierceness from both of teams will reignite again. Who knows? Maybe not. Maybe we just play the game hard but not with, you know …”

We don’t know. But Warner does. Like John McEnroe needed Bjorn Borg, or Diego Maradona needed his left hand, or Lance Armstrong needed a quiet corner to shoot some human growth hormone, Warner needs conflict. Without it he is just another fine cricketer. With it he is exceptional. He’s been stone cold sober for 699 days. Hasn’t touched the stuff. Will day No. 700 be different? Or maybe No. 702 at St George’s Park? How about No. 705 at Newlands? Tick … tick … tick … 

First published by Cricbuzz.

From Maradona, maybe, to Jagger, definitely, to Mugabe, unfortunately

Some writers on sport can no longer take in a game without also taking notes. Others have forgotten the simple joy of being part of a crowd.

Times Select

TELFORD VICE in London

IS that Maradona? There! Leaning out of that balcony and thrashing his arms at the players down on the field like a crazy crackerjack. Is it him? Could be. But it’s difficult to be sure here in the cheap seats behind the goal.

Which is where I was a few years ago, at La Bombonera watching Boca Juniors play Independiente. It was hard to know whether you were less safe inside the stadium or immediately outside it, in some of Buenos Aires’ meanest streets.

To be there was impressive enough. To survive the experience was a triumph. I celebrated the fact the next afternoon by going across town to watch a quarter-final in the Argentinian polo championship, where the only clear and present danger was in failing to recognise the designer draped celebrities in the stands. At least, they behaved like celebrities. I can confirm that Maradona was not in attendance.

To go, inside a few hours, from average beer and a burger of uncertain provenance to chilled champagne and classy canapés was only part of the story of the journey. Unlike at the football, at the polo there were no flags, no flares, and no chanting, bristling, duelling sections of the crowd.

At the old Yankee Stadium in New York — they’ve since built a new one next door — I watched Derek Jeter and Mariano Rivera from high above the third base foul line. To know that Babe Ruth, Lou Gehrig and Joe diMaggio played on the same field still gives me goosebumps.  

The queue to get into Wimbledon; ah, I know it well. It takes so long that once you’re finally in you don’t care who is playing on the courts available to plebs like you. Any pair, or quartet, of racqueteers will do. 

I’ve seen bullfighting in Seville — where exponentially more sunflower seeds were chewed by spectators and their husks spat onto the floor than bulls were brutally if artfully killed — ocean yacht racing in Auckland, and hurling played by a bunch of homesick Irish in a park in London.

And that’s all apart from my improper job of writing about, and sometimes talking about, sport.

The closest I’ve come to blurring the line is when I found myself aboard an ocean racing yacht outside Cape Town harbour, trying to work out which way was up while also hanging onto my already eaten lunch and taking enough mental notes to be able to put together a half-decent feature.

That and facing Ottis Gibson, then Border’s big fast bowler, in the nets at Buffalo Park to write what my editor called a “participation piece”. I’m not sure how many times my helpless swishing at deliveries Gibson bowled at significantly less than his full pace could be termed participating.  

Watching sport and reporting it are starkly different. Some of us can no longer take in a game for the hell of it without also taking notes. Others, grown far too used to the free food, free drink, free wifi and free desk space in ever more comfortable pressboxes, have forgotten the simple joy of sitting in the stands and being part of a crowd.

For several years until a year or so ago, reporters covering Test cricket in England would have the services of a masseuse. Yes, in the pressbox. All jokes about happy endings have fallen foul of the sub-editors.

Civilians of a sport-loving inclination tend to ask us two questions: “Do you have any spare tickets?” and “Can I hide in your luggage?”. We do not have tickets: our access is strictly by accreditation. We never see a ticket. And, no, you can’t hide in my luggage: I need all the space and weight allowance I have for hats, running gear and spare notebooks and pencils.

And the presence of a masseuse isn’t the joke it might seem. At games at this year’s men’s World Cup, some of us would live blog the match, a job that stretches into many thousands of hurriedly thought and typed words on its own, write two match reports — one for print, the other for digital, both to be filed the instant the last ball was bowled — attend the press conferences and the mixed zones, write up quotes pieces from the press conferences and mixed zones, and whip up a fresh quotes piece for the morning’s online offering.

That done, we would sink back into a metaphoric leather chair with an even more metaphoric whisky to hand, to essay an entirely metaphoric piece to be published by the future of serious cricket writing itself.

By which I mean one of the slew of Indian websites for whom, essentially, you explode a mustard seed of an idea into a fully fledged faith of how that aspect of the game should be played. And adored, of course.

That all added up to days that started at around 9am with the trip to ground — the toss was at 10am — and ended just in time to sink a pint or three before the pubs closed at 11pm. We could have used a massage after all that, even if only to ensure the elbows of our drinking arms hadn’t seized in typing mode.

But there are perks. Once, while covering a Test at the Bourda in Georgetown, I saw Mick Jagger looming whitely out of the deep verandah of the stand opposite. I still have an unpaid phone bill in Barbados, circa 1992, and I was thrown out of Robert Mugabe’s Zimbabwe.

So, was that Maradona at La Bombonera. Dunno. But I hope it was.

Football, the butt ugly game

Don’t tell me I know nothing about football just because I tell you it’s a useless excuse for a sport. I know too much. I wish I knew less.

Times SELECT

TELFORD VICE in Cape Town

YOU have feet? You have a ball? Congratulations, you’re a footballer. Foot + ball = football, see. It really is that simple, and it tells us why football is the world’s most popular sport: because anyone can play it.

If that sounds disparaging, that’s because it’s meant to.

The progressive socialist in me says anything that’s accessible to the masses is a good thing. The snob in me says football is sport’s lowest common denominator because it is a laughably low, cringingly common denominator.

I’ve known, in my 52 years, exactly one able-bodied person who was uncoordinated enough not to be able to play football. He could trip over his own feet while laying flat on on his back.

Everybody else, in my experience, has been able to kick a ball well enough to play football. Or to believe they can play football. It’s a crucial difference that gets ignored every time one or more are gathered in the name of a game of one-bounce.  

“The beautiful game”? Beauty is indeed in the eyes of the beholders, and in this case the beholders must be blind.

Unless your idea of beautiful involves people being paid obscene amounts of money to do a job that achieves bugger nothing for the human race; that elevates those people, completely undeservedly, way beyond the status of doctors, teachers and firefighters; that tells those people it’s OK to feign injury to get an opponent into trouble; that hogs space in the public consciousness that could be put to so much better use; that glorifies an activity that has caused wars between countries and feeds the corrupt monster that is FIFA; that prompts otherwise rational, nice people to become tribal savages.

Football, football lovers, is the butt ugly game.

Some people play this mad mess of marketing, media and money very well. They’re called Lionel Messi and Cristiano Ronaldo. The rest of the world’s professional footballers are extras in a tedious epic that becomes less watchable with every passing 90 minutes of nothing.

And that’s what almost all football matches are: 90 minutes of nothing.

A man I know has spent most of his 50 years of being alive trying to like olives. Because it feels to him like everybody else does. He’s still trying. I have a similar relationship with football.

I’ve endured so many 90 minutes of nothing trying to like football that I’m terrified to try and count them: I would absolutely want my 17 years, 10 months, 36 weeks, five days, 22 hours, 54 minutes and 41 seconds back.

In the course of all that time I’ve played too much football — right back, big left boot, vicious tackle — watched too much football — including a Boca Juniors game at La Bombenara in Buenos Aires — marvelled at the characters of particular footballers — like Ferenc Puskás, Carles Puyol and Gianluiji Buffon — and fallen sound asleep way too many times while peering at the puerile pursuit of pointy-toed pontificating.

And still, I’m trying to like football. In fact, I’m writing this in a noisy bar wearing a T-shirt featuring a photograph of Diego Maradona in a cap like Fidel Castro’s and smoking a cigar.

Thing is, I like Cuba (I’ve been there) and cigars, and the idea of somebody like Maradona punching a hole in somebody like England’s eminently punchable self-righteousness fills me with warmth.  

Football? For its own sake? Meh.

I do have a team — Barcelona. But only because they were on the right side during the Spanish civil war. Besides, as a proper football tragic told me once, “Ah, for chrissake, that doesn’t count; everybody is a bloody Barcelona supporter.”

He really is a tragic. Arsenal. Poor bastard.

Football has been part of my life since I was a small, fat kid watching my brother play — decent enough midfielder to pull a provincial jersey over his head — reading Roy of the Rovers, Hotshot Hamish and Billy’s Boots and trying to tell which team was which on black and white television.

Rodney Bush is a relation by marriage. I went to school with Wayne Williams. Don’t know who they are? Look it up. Also, google Ossie Ardiles, Tottenham Hotspur and the Falklands war. I kid you not.

Point is, don’t tell me I know nothing about football just because I tell you it’s a useless excuse for a sport. I know too much. I wish I knew less.

Football is to sport what McDonald’s is to food: tasteless, ubiquitous rubbish.

You like McDonald’s as much as you do football? Now there’s a surprise.