The gravel in your sporting ice cream.
For footballers, scoring an own goal is a joyless kick in the balls. But if, like me, you’re very easily amused, joyless kicks in the balls can keep you occupid most of the afternoon.
This keeper was busy breakdancing when picking the ball up was the better option.
I’ll never get sick of seeing one of George Graham’s back four lob one in from 30 yards. With bonus dodgy keeper.
This is just art, Popovich should be proud of his excellent finish here.
Face goal. Perfect.
In this week’s podcast, our weekly podcast previews the big match between The All Blacks from New Zealand and the French from France.
Download: sportreview-podcast-vol4-251109
(1.6Mb download / 1’46” duration)
All the head to head clashes, all the big names, all the results and all the highlights.
Don’t touch that dial, you itchy-fingered control freak. Only joking with you mate! Har.
Listen to a podcast. About sport. On the sportreview.net.nz sporting podcast. Listen.
– Roddy Doyle on Kevin Sheedy’s 1990 World Cup goal vs England in My Favorite Year
In honour of some football match this weekend, that FIFA have handily scheduled for the middle of me Mum’s 60th celebrations, here’s a tribute to the best World Cup ever.
This was the All Whites’ only World Cup so far, highlights were contributing to Scotland’s comedy WC minnow performance pantheon, and lettting Zico do this.
Brazil 1982 were a bit special – check out chain smoker Socrates casually scoring from 30 yards. Pity they got mugged by the eventual champions. That Rossi was some player.
Tardelli’s goal in the final was a nice bit of work on the edge of the box, but his celebration made me want to be Italian. I put him on me 2006 bannner too.
Heroes need villains, team, and the German ‘keeper put his hand up with this clinically brutal foul on Battiston, of Platini’s wonderful French team.
Me and the family are off to Sydney for a few days next week, we’ve got the Aquarium, the Zoo and the Powerhouse Museum on the list.
But what should I be checking out sport-wise? All advice, tips, links and cycle shop tips gratefully accepted.
Sportsfreak is giving away a copy of Bowling Through India, a fantastic (by all accounts) yarn about five Cricket mad mates tripping around India. Here’s my sporting trip write-up:
In my first job in Dublin, I met a guy called Patrick, who was a keen cricketer, he played for a Dun Laoghaire pub team. I mentioned I had played a bit, and was keen for a game.
I got the call up one Friday evening – Patrick’s team was a bunch of keen sportsmen, probably Rugby or Hurling players who were more enthusiastic than skilled Cricketers. At 28, I was the youngest there by at least five years. They had a great time playing, though, and the Craic, as they say over there, was excellent.
I eventually got my couple of overs, and took a couple of wickets. My military medium out swingers were a lot faster than anyone else in the team – I was basically Malcolm Marshall at this point. Second innings, they threw me up the order, assuming I could bat, too, but I was run out on my wildly over ambitious call, after swinging far too hard at my first couple.
Still, they told me in the pub that the next weekend they were off to Wexford for the end of season tour match – did I fancy coming along? Fuck yeah I fancied it.
Next Saturday morning the weather dawned grim, but as Patrick and I took the train to Booterstown to meet our ride, I was assured it didn’t matter. We were picked up by a guy whose nickname was Elton, as he was the dead spit of Mr Reginald Dwight. He didn’t seem to mind.
We pitched up at the Rugby and Cricket club to find it was pretty wet – but we shambled out anyway, and had a few overs, as we were there. I got to bowl, but couldn’t repeat any wicket taking.
Still, from there it was into the clubrooms, for pints and speeches. No-one seemed too bothered about the game. The hospitality was fantastic and soon we were all having a great time. After three or four, I found myself on the pool table, playing the local pool shark. Someone mentioned he hadn’t been beat in a couple of years, I could see why, he soon had me pretty much fucked. Somehow, though, I managed to reach that rare, fluid state of zen concentration only experienced by very stoned playstation players, or pissed pool players, and started potting. My team mates were hugely encouraged – if we couldn’t win at Cricket, pool would do.
I could hear whispers of “Look at the Kiwi”, “G’wan” etc. Eventually, I had only one and the black left – I potted the color and sauntered down the other end with a big, premature, shit-eating grin for my shot at the black, which was hovering nicely next to a pocket. Being a cocky shit, I went for the heroic off the side shot, instead of the straight down the middle, make sure of it one – and missed. The chaps were crestfallen, and I felt like a big dick.
Next, it was back to the hotel for a steak and more pints. I’d only been in Dublin four months or so, and was still drinking Guinness exclusively. I mean, the Guinness in Ireland is very, very nice, but it doesn’t half fill you up. We all put cash into a kitty for drinks, and our Captain had sorted out a steady flow of rounds to the table – most convivial. I spent most of the meal talking, and when we got the ‘leaving in ten’ call, I turned around:
“Whose are those four untouched pints of Guinness there?”
“Yours.”
Not the answer I was looking for, to be honest.
Pints downed, it was into the taxi and straight to the nightclub. Did I mention I was the youngest one there? My team had some serious capacity for drink and staying power in a night club situation. I was pretty hammered by now, and spent the rest of the night flailing around the dance floor in what I hoped was an interesting way. The chaps bought a succession of women over to chat – touchingly,they’d made it their personal mission to find love for me with the ladies of Wexford.
One was delighted I was from New Zealand, and told me she watched NZ’s own Shortland Street, the greatest soap in the world*, everyday.
“What’s the name of that doctor, that dark haired, handsome one?”
“Johnny Marinovich?”
Her voice dropped an octave.
“Say it again“.
The Kiwi accent strikes again.
I woke up the next morning, alone, except for room mate Willie. Willie and me eventually made it to the breakfast, a fry up (surprise, surprise). Willie was an old pro at this kind of thing, and told me he would wolf this down, have a quick “Tom Kite” (I had to ask what this was; cockney rhyming slang for a Shite) and go back to bed until the Grand Prix came on. Check out times are a bit different over there.
That’s about it really. These guys were welcoming, hospitable and a real hoot. I went on to play Cricket at Rathmine’s Leinster Cricket Club the next season, but we stayed in touch and I was lucky enough to meet up with them again for a France v Ireland match at Lansdowne Road, after which I got about as drunk as I’ve ever been, full stop. Later still, I went with Willie and ‘Rasher’ to Rome to see Ireland play Italy in the Six Nations. I have now seen every Irish pub in the eternal city. It all worked out pretty well.
*Just kidding, it’s shit.
via the twitter. This year’s cup had so many jokes, eh.
Happily, in a related google search, I found the Office Pest blog.
I mean, you can get Bill and Ben to wear pretty much any shonky team‘s shirt – but now the Beige Brigade have taken telly endorsements to the next level – it’s only a fucking Wiggle:
