Material Witness

The Greatness Of Antoine Griezmann

Between the 90^th and 95^th minutes of Atlético de Madrid’s 2-1 victory over Real Sociedad in their final home game of the season, Antoine Griezmann made three critical interventions around his own penalty area.

With his side defending a narrow lead and seeking to avoid throwing away a victory from a position of total control for the second time in four days, Griezmann, the team’s best forward, led from the back.

Earlier in the match Griezmann had first given Atleti the lead with a golazo from the right hand edge of La Real’s penalty area, striking the ball through a sea of bodies into the far left corner of the net. Later he provided the assist as the excellent Nahuel Molina gave Atleti what was to prove the decisive goal. And still, deep into injury time, the team’s best attacker was also its most effective defender.

It has been thus since December 29. Griezmann, with Nahuel and others, went off to the World Cup in Qatar in November with his club in crisis. Atleti finished bottom of its Champions League group and stood fifth in La Liga having earned just one point from the previous three matches, all of which were against very modest opposition. The mood in the club was sour, and for the first time in the decade I’ve lived in Madrid, Diego Simeone’s long tenure as manager seemed under serious threat.

Griezmann came within a couple of penalties of returning from Doha with a second World Cup Winners medal, but even as runner up he enhanced his reputation as one of the world’s greatest players.  Nahuel and fellow Argentine Rodrigo de Paul went one better, starting in the team that beat France into second place.

All three came back to Madrid with confidence and form. Nahuel, nervous and hesitant before Christmas, may now be the best right back in La Liga. Griezmann, who was hardly out of form before, has been transcendent. He might be the best player in the world in the last six months.

During the 6-1 demolition of Sevilla in early March, the Guardian’s Spanish football guru Sid Lowe tweeted, “That was a glorious pass from Griezmann”. Seeing the Tweet after the game, I couldn’t figure out which pass Lowe meant. I narrowed it down to three. The slide rule through ball to Memphis for the first goal. An improvised lob over three defenders’ heads onto the right boot Alvaro Morata for the fourth. Or my personal favourite, a 40-yard, blind, swivelled volley into the path of Yannick Carrasco mid way through the second half. This one I still see in my daydreams, although I suspect Lowe was referring to the Morata assist, a sumptuous piece of creativity. For good measure, Griezmann also scored a golazo into the top right hand corner of Sevilla’s net from about 25 metres.

The Sevilla game was probably the highlight of the season, but in every single match there has been at least one moment in which he takes the breath away. It has been an incredible privilege to watch this man play this season. In my many years of watching live football, I don’t think I’ve ever enjoyed watching a player more.

It got to the point in later games in the season that I’ve watched Griezmann rather than the ball – to see how, where and when he moves, but also to try to understand how opposing teams are trying to deal with him.

The reality is that they don’t. Griezmann is constantly in motion, usually somewhere between the midfield and his forward partner, playing the pivot role between defence and attack and making sure of a steady stream of possession to Nahuel on the right wing and Carrasco on the left. The range of passing is extraordinary from deft flicks and back heels, to long range drives that land on the head of a pin. His movement and sharp reading of the game means he regularly finds space between defenders that opens up dangerous situations.

And then there is his prodigious work ethic and tracking back to help out with the grunt work, as seen in the dying minutes of the win against La Real. Griezmann, unlike the departed Joao Felix, understands how to play a full role in a Diego Simeone team and does it as well as anyone.

Underlining just what a phenomenal season he had, Griezmann finished with 31 goal contributions (15 goals and 16 assists), comfortably more than any other player despite having started the season playing only 30 minutes of each match as Atleti engaged in a bizarre contractual wrangle with Barca.

In another country he would be the face of the league, a celebrated superstar of the game. The reality in Spain though is that such privilege is restricted to the players of Real Madrid and Barcelona.

That doesn’t matter too much. He is loved and cherished at Atleti, where he has now completed his full redemption arc following his ill-fated and badly handled move to Barcelona in 2019. Since his return at the beginning of 2022 – a move not welcomed by everyone at the club – he’s fought hard to win back the affection of fans. His performances this season and obvious love for the club seem to have earned that.

At the end of that final home match Griezmann, with his three daughters, approached the Fondo Sur to salute Atleti’s ultras. Moments later, he was in the stands himself with the microphone leading the singing. It was a wonderful sight and as he walked away, the ultras sung his name for the first time since 2019. The new season cannot come soon enough.  

Mobile World Congress, West Ham Losing and Giving Up Running - These are the things I think about when running...

On Sunday I ran the Barcelona half marathon with my daughter, Tilly for whom it´s part of the training for the London marathon at the end of April. It’s always an interesting experience, and this time I recorded my wildly varying thought process as the race progressed.

The Start Line

I am in the green “cajon” or pen. This is a mistake. For some reason when I signed up for the this race last year I thought I could run the 21.1km in less than an hour and 50 minutes. No chance. The Spanish 3 Rs  - Rioja, Ribera and Ribeira Sacra - have taken their toll. As usual everyone in the pen looks a lot younger and fitter than I am. And they all have better shoes. I should be further back with the people dressed as bananas.

There’s a good buzz though as if everyone is trying to pretend this isn't all going to hurt. I love this part of the race when, you know, there’s no running going on. This is the best I’ll feel until the third glass of Ribeira Sacra.

 

 

Km 1 to 3

What a lovely day for a little run around Barcelona. The sun is coming up and everything is absolutely marvellous. It’s bloody crowded. Don’t want to trip anyone up. I should have stayed in Madrid where the roads are wider. Ooh, there’s Cristóbal Colón, up on his column facing out to sea. Why do we call him Columbus? And there’s the cruise ship terminal where Nokia used to host legendary parties during Mobile World Congress. I miss the parties, but not Mobile World Congress which was two intense days of pressure about speeches and press releases followed by four days of no sleep and very bad hangovers.  

Km 3

We are somewhere near La Rambla. It is Europe’s most disappointing high profile tourist attraction. Don’t bother.

Km 3.5

There’s the street the Airbnb is on. I have definitely left the stove on after making coffee this morning. I should go and check. Will the insurance cover burning down an entire block in Eixample?

Km 4

Is that a niggle? It feels like a little niggle in the left calf. There’s a café over there in the sun. Perhaps I shouldn’t risk any further injury. I can support Tilly just as well from over there. There’s a man wearing a West Ham shirt! If I can catch him I will say hello. But it might be a Burnley or Villa shirt.  

Km 5 – First water station

They’re giving out the water in paper cups. FFS. It is almost impossible to drink out of a paper cup while running. And now the bloody things are all over the road like wet leaves and I’m almost certainly going to slip over on one, be very badly injured and have to be air lifted back to Madrid. I should probably stop to avoid this.

Km 7

It is a West Ham shirt. “Irons”, I say, trying to sound all Canning Town and he says it back. We’re both worried about the Spurs match later, but he’s going to miss it as he’s flying back to London. Lucky bastard.

Km 8

I’ve come all the way to Barcelona and the race doesn’t even go past La Sagrada Familia. Crap.

Km 9

The 1hr50m pacing balloon goes past. I momentarily think about going with it but discover I can't be arsed. Normally I have a target in mind running these races, but not today and I’m happy just to settle into a rhythm and put one foot after the other. Today this has settled down at about 5 minutes and 20 seconds per kilometre, and a finishing time in the range of 1.55. My fastest half marathon was in October 2017 when I ran 1.39, and it seems like it's something that happened to someone else at the moment. I can’t even imagine it. I am probably 7kg heavier and am now Very Old. 

Km 10 to 12

Ugh. Dreary industrial neighbourhoods and endless massive blocks of flats. We're in Barcelona but it could be Blackburn, apart from the sun obviously.

Km 11

I hope the dogs are OK. They probably think I’ve abandoned them forever.

Km 12 to 16

I’m giving up running. There are so many better places to be on a Sunday morning than trudging through some non-descript suburb of Anytown.

Km 13

I hope Jane is OK and doesn’t think I’ve abandoned her forever.

Km 14

I hope Tilly’s OK. She had a sore foot coming into the race. That’s a lot of anxiety when you’re doing the endless training to run a marathon. It’s a massive commitment, and after running three, I’m never running another one.

Km 15

“Keep going! There’s a cold beer waiting at the end,” yells a woman with an American accent. As if everyone hasn’t been thinking about that since they ran past Colón.

Km 16

There’s the Med! In all its sparkly blue glory. How marvellous everything is! Running is the best way to see a City and it’s a massive privilege to be here. I’m going to sign up for a half in Madrid next month and it would be great do one in Bilbao, San Sebastián and Sevilla. And I’m definitely going to apply for the Valencia marathon in December. One last marathon before third retirement from marathon running.

Km 17

Will this bloody race never end?

Km 18

There’s a group of guys pushing people in wheelchairs and everyone is having a great time. They have music and are playing Flo Rida’s Good Feeling. For about 400m it is the best song I've ever heard. "Yes I can, doubt better leave, I'm running with this plan." What great people they are, to give up their Sunday mornings to do something so good for other people. Feeling good about humanity.

Km 19

There’s the Hotel Arts! It’s among the most expensive hotels I’ve ever stayed in and was responsible for the biggest expenses bollocking I ever got. 100% justified.

Km 19.5

The first smug bastards who already finished and have their medals appear by the road side, patronisingly encouraging the laggards to keep going. Fuck off. 

Km 20

The race turns away from the beach, and there’s La Sagrada Familia! What an amazing way to end the race running towards such an iconic landmark. Think about getting phone out to take selfie. Will wait until end.

Km 20.7

Race turns away from La Sagrada Familia. FFS. This is the most stupidly designed race in the entire history of races.

Km 20.8

There’s the finish line! Thank fuck for that.

The Finish Line / 21.1km

Cross finish line and try to smile for camera I know is there. Later I will be sent a link to an exciting opportunity to buy a photograph of myself grimacing as if having finger nails removed in the Lubyanka, except sweatier. All muscles instanteously seize up as one, as if they couldn’t have gone another yard. Limp to get paper cup of water, banana from Las Canarias and medal that will go in draw with all the other medals.

And that’s it, that cold beer now beckons, but first I might wonder back down the course to offer some encouragment to those still running. 

A time of 1.54, and I have finished about 10,000th out of 21,000.. A long way from my best but also from worst. It’s my 14^th organized half marathon, I think, and I don’t feel any particular sense of achievement, just immense gratitude that I’m fit and healthy enough to have run it and particularly to have been able to run it with Tilly. Although not with Tilly exactly as she’s run 1.50 despite having to stop for a couple of minutes for running repairs on treacherous feet.

She’s well on pace to run a good marathon in London in April. And I’m really looking forward to supporting her then. From the sidelines. And if you've come this far in the piece, you should support her too, she's running for Water Aid, which is a jolly good thing: Just Giving - Tilly's marathon

Living like Torres for a day, running the London Marathon

On the last day of the 2019 season 65,000 gathered at the Estadio Metropolitano to pay homage to Fernando Torres as he played his final game for Atlético de Madrid. It was an emotional occasion. Torres is the kid from Fuenlabrada, el niño, who rose through the ranks to become a club legend. He rose to a magnificent occasion, scored twice and had grown men in tears everywhere as the noise reached a crescendo and his name rang out around the stadium.

It was difficult to imagine what being Fernando Torres in those circumstances would be like until last Sunday in London when an estimated 750,000 came out on the streets to cheer on 42,000 runners. That number included 39656, a jogger from Madrid aiming to overcome a difficult experience in 2019 and run a sub four hour race for the first time.

There are people on the streets throughout the whole course, but just after mile six the course comes into Greenwich on Trafalgar Road, and it is here for the first time that the pavements are packed with people. The wall of noise that greets runners as they turn towards the Cutty Sark is extraordinary, so loud in fact that there may even have been something in my eye as I ran up King William Walk.

 

The experience is repeated six miles later as the route crosses Tower Bridge. The volume is incredible and the minute or it takes to get to the north bank is very emotional. Running under those famous towers is wonderful, and it’s no surprise that so many runners stop to take selfies. Were it not for the fear of seizing up, I might have done the same.

There are areas of the course that are much less populated, and so I am particularly grateful to the man on Hill Reach in Woolwich yelling that the top of the hill was near and that it’s all downhill from there. The small groups on the streets in the quieter parts of Rotherhithe and Deptford were also very welcome. Running can be a lonely business, a mental battle as much as a physical one and the shouts of “Come on Ben, you’ve got this”, on Poplar High Street could not have been timelier.

This is around mile 20 and the infamous marathon “wall” when energy levels are at their lowest. That’s OK though because the people of East London have “got this”. They’ve got jelly babies and all the vocal encouragement you need to break through the mental barriers and finish the race.

Over the 26.2 miles I heard my name – or possibly that of the celebrity running just behind me – several hundred times. I cannot describe the lift it provides. Every single one of those is a small Torres moment, a recognition of the blood, sweat and tears that goes into preparing for and running those 26 miles. Wherever possible I acknowledged that moment of kindness, with a nod or a raised fist, in part to say thank you, in part to encourage them to keep providing the same boost to the runners following. (One piece of advice to future marathon runners, try to have a very short, one syllable name. I’m sure it helps.)

This is the spirit of the London Marathon: 42,000 runners, each with their own story and their own motivation, being dragged around the course by the incredible goodwill and generosity of the people who come out onto the streets to cheer them on. If there was a way to bottle that goodwill you could solve most of the world’s problems very quickly.

It’s an incredible privilege to take part and on this occasion I was running well enough that at the 23 mile mark, just as the route passes Tower Bridge for the second time, I was able to relax and soak it all in knowing that the time I wanted was all but in the bag.

So I was able to coast through the City to Westminster along Birdcage Walk and past Buckingham Place to the finish line in a time of 3:58:47. And during that time I was able to reflect on how lucky I was to have the help of so many people to achieve this. I owe them all a lot of thanks. First to Jane for just letting me do it. Running a marathon is a selfish and disruptive business, sometimes taking whole days out of weekends for long training runs and recovery. To her and my daughters and my parents and Ben and Hector who came out onto the streets to support me. To Adam who put together the perfect training plan that made sure I arrived in London in the best condition. To Nicole and the UK Youth team for their support and encouragement. (They’re looking for runners for April). And finally to everyone who generously sponsored me and ensured I hit both my targets for the race, and in particular Tilly whose offer of meals was a particularly good source of sponsorship.

And if you’re out there reading this and wondering if the London Marathon is for you, all I can say is, give it a go. It’s a joyful, thrilling, and, yes, sometimes painful experience, and I wouldn’t have missed my Torres moment for the world.

Live sport memories: 1991 to 1992, England in Paris

Memories are curious, fragile, temperamental things. I know I attended this or that match at Twickenham in 2018 or the Ricoh in 2019, but not much of what happened. But I can remember some matches like they were played yesterday, even though nearly 30 years has passed. In part, because they made a huge impression at the time - you knew you were watching something extraordinary - and in part because they live on, in the case of these two matches, in their eternal infamy. They are regularly resurrected and dissected. Just recently, Brian Moore live tweeted his recollections of the first game. 

Matches between England and France are still known as Le Crunch. It was over the course of these two matches that they really found their bite as England first baited and then bossed the French. The context was that England, under Geoff Cooke, had been on something of a roll since the end of the 1988 Five Nations campaign, at the beginning of which France had secured their most recent victory over the red rose. In 1989 there was an 11-0 victory at Twickenham, over a French team that went on to win the Five Nations. This was followed up by a 26-7 victory at the Parc des Princes in 1990 when England fell at the final Grandslam hurdle to an inspired Scotland team.

But in 1991 England finally secured their first Grandslam since 1980. France came to Twickenham unbeaten setting up a title decider that they broke wide open early in the game with a try from under their own posts scored by Philip Saint-André, surely still the greatest try in Five/Six Nations. You can see it here. Despite being outscored three tries to one, England held their nerve and came back to win 21-19. Truly it was the roundheads and the cavaliers, with a similar outcome.

Seven months later, England were jointly hosting only the second World Cup with their Five Nations partners and  a settled side seemed to have a chance of reaching a final scheduled to take place at Twickenham. An early group defeat  against the perennial favorite and defending champion All Blacks, however, left England facing a tricky return bout against France at the Parc des Princes.

October 19th, 1991 - France 10, England 19; Parc des Princes, Paris

And out of the blue, I got a ticket. Our father´s business partner, a great stalwart of Abbey Rugby Club in Reading, had two very late cancellations in his party and offered them to my brother and I. There was no Eurostar in those days, either a trip by plane or the boat train, and the latter it was, overnight and arriving in Paris just in time for an early lunch and a pre-match snifter before heading to the ground. 

The Parc des Princes was a magnificent place to watch rugby, probably my favourite venue ever. It was an old crumbling concrete bowl, not dissimilar to the recently abandoned Estadio Vicente Calderón in Madrid, and a with a similarly febrile atmosphere. It was as packed as ever. It was well known at the time that a couple of hundred francs to the guy on the turnstile could get you in and so those without tickets sat wherever they could find space. It was a health and safety officer´s nightmare. 

But the noise. The noise was incredible as the band played, Sweet Chariot sounded and the French bayed for blood. 

The game started at a frenetic pace, and every tackle seemed to be late and hard. It exploded into life early, as England sent a garryowen deep into the French 22 and winger Nigel Heslop, head determindedly down, slammed British Rail late into the legendary  Serge Blanco. The full back didn´t take it well. Blanco swung an ineffective left hand, clipping Heslop, but got a second shot and decked the winger with a full blooded right. Eric Champ, never a model of self-restraint, managed to get three shots of his own in. But Blanco´s right had done the damage. Heslop dropped to the deck.

In 2020 the incident would have resulted in a yellow for Heslop for the late hit - only yellow, because Blanco was on his feet - but would not have returned as there´s no way he´d pass a Head Injury Assessment. Champ and Blanco likely would get reds.

As it was, nothing. The referee reversed his original penalty against England and full back Jonathan Webb, with whom I once practiced kicking on the front pitch at Taunton School, knocked over the penalty. 3-0 to England. The French were seething, and it continued to bubble over. 

Not long after it was 6-0. As England attacked the French flew out of their line with a succession of high shoulder hits, until eventually number eight Marc Cecillon - more of him later - was penalised and Webb converted. 

France kicked back with a penalty but then England scored the game´s first try. From first phase, the ball was quickly spread wide to Jeremy Guscott whose speed and guile took him through the line. As he hit the last man he off-loaded to Rory Underwood, still today England´s leading try scorer,  who touched down. 10-3.

At this point in the game the combination of beer, excitement and the steepness of the Parc bowl overcame me. I overbalanced and fell through three rows of supporters onto my back. Under normal circumstances I might have expected an All Black back row style shoeing. As it was, I was lucky in my destination. The gentleman at whose feet I had landed returned me to my feet before offering me a swig from his hip flask.

The game´s defining moment is the last one I remember with any clarity. It remains an iconic moment in English sport, even 29 years on. The second half started with England 10-6 ahead but pinned down deep in their own 22 and under a lot of pressure. While England boasted great players in their back division - Guscott and Underwood have claims to all-time-XV status, Andrew was a terrific game manager and Carling a much-underrated player - the strength was up front: Jeff Probyn was a tremendous prop heading to the end of a great career and Jason Leonard at the other end of a similarly storied journey. Between them was Brian Moore, the Pit Bull, baiter-in-chief and snarling embodiment of the team´s aggression and resilience. Wade Dooley and Paul Ackford were giants of the second row. And in the back row, a selection that seemed built for the day. Peter Winterbottom might be England´s  finest open side, and while neither Iron Mike Teague nor Mick the Munch Skinner were in that league, they were the right players for the right day. 

And from the back of the scrum, three metres out, with the match poised on a knife edge and England under the cosh, Skinner delivered. Cecillon picked from his own feet and charged at Skinner who lifted him up and drove him (and Champ) five metres back. The ball went forward and the pressure was relieved. It was an incredible moment. There were no replays in stadia in those days and so it was only through a recording days later could I confirm exactly what I´d seen. There´s a great video here. 

The rest is a bit of a blur. France scored a tried through Jean-Baptiste Lafond to draw level before Webb kicked a goal with five minutes to go to edge England into aa 13-10 point lead. England, in the end, controlled a tense finale and in the game´s dying moments, Carling wrestled the ball out of the hands of Lafond in the in-goal area and touched down to give the scoreline some padding.

England fell one game short of winning a first World Cup two weeks later at Twickenham, and as a result the quarter final will always likely be their most celebrated game of the tournament: a fierce, emotional, violent and passionate encounter. 

February 1st, 1992 - France 13, England 31; Parc des Princes, Paris

And then just a few short months later, an encounter that, if anything, was even more fierce, emotional, violent and passionate. And I was there again.

I appreciate this blog makes it seem like I was back and forth to Paris for rugby on a regular basis. This was an entirely opportunistic visit, given the opportunity to crash on the floor of my cousin Caleb and get a cheap flight from Bristol. I didn´t go back until 1999 (for a terrible match at the soulless Stade de France) and not since.

Memories of this match are very very hazy. We bought tickets from touts. We drank quite a bit. There was a match. Brian Moore wound up the French prior to the game and they absolutely lost the plot. Two front row forwards - Gregoire Lascube and Vincent Moscato - were sent off. England thrashed France and went on to win consecutive Grandslams. All I can truthfully say about all of that was that I was there. 

After that there was a bar. There was Guinness. There were two lovely Irish girls, at least one of whom finished the evening with Guinness all over her very lovely white Arran sweater (see what I mean about the things you remember?).  There was a grand building with steps we sat on in the cold. And there may have been the briefest of romances, but what goes in Paris stays in Paris. And the following morning there was a hungover walking tour of the City and absolutely first class falafel. For those more interested in the match, there´s a video. 

And that was that. France didn´t beat England again until 1996, and England don´t feature in these memoires again until 2002/3. The early 90s were a golden era that matches even the 2003 RWC winners. 

 

 

Live sport memories: 1991, West Ham at Villa Park

The lifeblood of live sport is drama - whether it´s controversy, tension or a turnaround in fortunes, it is the capacity for the unexpected and the heightening of emotions that really gives an event its edge. 

If I didn´t know that by 1990, I learned it quickly during the climax of that season´s Five Nations championship and a few months later during Italia ´90, still the benchmark event for World Cup excitement. 

I didn´t attend any of those events in person, but in the year or so that followed, I got my own taste at three truly memorable occasions, the first of which took place on a sunny day in the  Midlands. 

April 14th, 1991 - Nottingham Forest 4, West Ham United 0; Villa Park, Birmingham

It is entirely in keeping with my 40+ year experience of supporting West Ham that the most memorable match I attended was a crushing defeat. 

The 1990/91 season was the first of five I was a season ticket holder at Upton Park. It was, by West Ham standards at least, a good season. As spring 1991 arrived, West Ham were live in two tournaments: battling Oldham Athletic for the Second Division title, and going strong in the FA Cup. If West Ham had lost the semi final 1-0 then the quarter-final win over Everton in a Monday night game might have made the cut here. It was a typically raucous night under the Upton Park lights as West Ham upset a good Everton team with a pair of brilliant goals from Stuart Slater and Colin Foster. 

West Ham faced another good First Division team in Nottingham Forest in the semi final, with Brian Clough engaged in his seemingly eternal quest to land the major trophy that eluded him. Forest had Stuart Pearce, Des Walker, a young fresh-faced Roy Keane and Nigel Clough. West Ham were short of star power. They were captained by the maverick midfielder Ian Bishop, one of the best passers of the ball I´ve seen, and were anchored by Czech goalkeeper Ludek Miklosko, to whose dominance West Ham owed their league position. Slater was the star of the show, enjoying what would prove to be his best season as he later fell short of his immense promise. 

But as we rode north in a train full of boisterous West Ham fans - I spent most of the journey embarrassed for the elderly lady who sat opposite us who had to put up with a lot of very colourful language - we had no idea that it wasn´t a player who would dominate proceedings. 

But 23 minutes into the game, Keith Hackett became the first referee to send a player off with a straight red card for denying a player a clear goal scoring opportunity.

The incident involved a tussle between Gary Crosby and Tony Gale, West Ham´s ´Beckenbaueresque´ centre half. As the ball is played through to Crosby, the two players grapple for a moment and Crosby went down. Even now, with the goal-scoring-opportunity law long established, I´m not sure it would be a sending off offence. (It would almost certainly be an eight minute VAR hiatus).

"I´m not so sure that there won´t be controversy about decision," said John Motson on the BBC´s commentary. "Bobby Charlton is shaking his head." Motson did not reveal why Bobby Charlton was shaking his head.

We had the perfect view of the incident, and from our position in the Holte End, about 85 yards away from the foul, it was very clear that this was an outrageously bad decision. And we howled, all 19,000 of us in claret and blue, and the language would surely have made the old lady on the train blush. 

But Gale was gone and West Ham had to hold out against a better team with 10 men for 67 minutes. 

They made it to half time. And then you can´t help hearing that little optimistic voice that says, "maybe we can do this".

The voice was snuffed out early in the second half when Crosby scored. When Keane made it 2-0 the game was up, although watching the "highlights" now I can see that West Ham were still competing and even creating chances. A Pearce goal finally out the whole thing to bed before Gary Charles added a humiliating fourth. 

But really, none of that is why to this day, I still have such vivid memories of this match, and why I still get goose bumps thinking about it. 

Sometime between the second and third goals, the West Ham fans took over. A chant of "Billy Bonds´ Claret and Blue Army" rang out across the ground and didn´t stop until well after the final whistle. Fueled by the burning sense of injustice and the need to be heard, to do something, it just went on and on and on. 

The energy and the emotion in that crowd was absolutely extraordinary and it felt like being a part of something very special, well beyond a mere football match. The Forest fans celebrated their victory, and we celebrated being West Ham. It was quite incredible.

Of course it didn´t alter anything. Forest proceeded to the Wembley final a month later, another match remembered for something other than the score, in that case an over-excited Paul Gascoigne blowing up his own knee with an insane tackle on Gary Charles. Forest still lost and Clough never did get his FA Cup. 

Researching this piece has told me that I´m far from being the only West Ham fan for whom this is a memorable moment. And also that the controversy lingers. In 2015  you-are-the-ref.com brought Hackett and Gale together to discuss the incident, a video that can be found on Youtube. Gale, 20+ years on, still couldn´t bring himself to shake Hackett´s hand, but did remember the amazing response of the West Ham fans. 

Hackett, who was subject to disgraceful death threats afterwards and is still remembered in West Ham chants, came across as thoughtful and smart. At that time he was still angry with the FA for putting him in a position where he felt he had no choice but to make a decision he didn´t agree with.  

And West Ham, well, the bubbles till blow but the dreams always fade and die. 

 

  

Live sport: decades of great memories. Part One: 1985 to 1986, Reading and Taunton

A recent Twitter post I saw provoked me into thinking about the most memorable live sporting events I have attended. 

Live sport has been a huge part of my life since childhood, when our family were season ticket holders at Elm Park, the old home of Reading Football Club, not very far from where I grew up. Subsequently I became a junior member at Somerset during school days in Taunton: a season ticket holder at West Ham during my early London days when I also swapped Somerset for Surrey (attendance not loyalty) and took membership at The Oval; then at Wasps rugby first at Loftus Road then in Wycombe thanks to the connections of my late great friend Matthew Compton.  

When we moved to Spain I adopted Atletico de Madrid as my team, and enjoyed some great visits to the Estadio Vincente Calderon, before taking an 'abonado' (season ticket) at the new Wanda Metropolitano. 

And then for an extraordinary 18 months between April 2003 and October 2004 I was the Sports Correspondent for the Financial Times and was paid to travel the world indulging my passion. this is somewhat handy because it means that all of these events are already chronicled and in my giant red cuttings books.  

Initially I planned to narrow this list down to the ' top 10' but once I started thinking about it, it became impossible, so I'm going to indulge myself and write about whatever I want. So here we go...

December 21st, 1985 - Reading 4, Plymouth 3; Elm Park, Reading

We watched a lot of matches at the Old Elm Park in the late 1970s and 1980s. Like Dad, my brother and I were born in Reading, and while we also supported Division One teams, we watched our football in Reading. There were, I am sorry so say, few memorable games. Reading drifted around Divisions 3 and 4, winning little and testing the patience of supporters. In the early days I went, the heroes were Richie Bowman, Pat Earles, the goalkeeper Steve Death and central defenders Martin Hicks and Steve Hetzke.  They were not, it has to be said, very good. 

And then came the 1985/86 team, anchored by terrier midfielder Kevin Bremner and with goal-scoring machine Trevor Senior up front. Reading stormed the Third Division right from the beginning of the season, winning 13 games on the bounce. The Club and the town had never seen anything like it. 

This was my first term away at boarding school, and so the first game I attended was during my half term in late October. It was the 14th game of the season, and the first Reading didn't win, drawing 2-2 at home with Wolves. I felt like I'd missed the best party ever. 

My eventual reward for the years of drudgery came during the Christmas holidays. Shortly after half time, however,  it looked like I was Reading's unlucky charm. In my second visit to Elm Park of the season, Reading were 3-0 down. I wasn't going to be allowed back. I didn't want to go back.

But the tide turned and there is nothing like a come-from-behind win. Reading forced themselves back into the match on 65 minutes when Bremner earned a penalty that Dean Horrix scored. Given this match took place 35 years ago, it's fair to say I don't recall a lot about it. But I remember the feeling, as Reading roared back into the match and a crowd that wasn't much given to noise and emotion got right into it. Trevor Senior scored two in two minutes around the 70' mark and then Reading threw the kitchen sink at Plymouth. 

Bremner, one of those players you only liked when they were on your side, was thrown up front, and with about five minutes to go he turned in the winner from a long throw in. 4-3. And that is how it stayed. 

Reading couldn't sustain their first half of the season pace, in which they won 19 of 23 games, winning only 10 in the second half of the season. And the Plymouth game turned out to be critical, as the Royals won the Division Three by just seven points from Argyle. Senior, a very unlikely looking athlete who went on to become the Club's all time leading scorer,  hit the net an incredible 27 times.

The Club's account of the match can be found here, and in 2013 Daniel Harris of the Guardian wrote a great piece, remembering what is still the Football League's record start to a season. 

May 11th, 1986 - Somerset versus Middlesex, John Player League; The County Ground, Taunton

Junior membership of Somerset Country Cricket Club cost me £10 for unlimited access to County Championship and the Sunday John Player league 40 over games. The membership card was a little cardboard book, that at the time I am sure I thought was embossed leather, but almost certainly wasn't. If I recall correctly, the 1986 book was blue. It was my most treasured possession. I couldn't believe the magic of a tiny little book that could allow me access to see live cricket. 

For a Taunton schoolboy, the glamour of Somerset cricket at the time was everything. The team contained the homegrown Ian Botham as well as the incredible West Indian duo of Viv Richards and Joel Garner. They had won one day trophies previously, and if the Championship side under-performed, well what of it?

The County Ground was a about a 20 minute walk from school (a little less if you flouted the rules and took the Chip Lane shortcut) which made getting to games after school pretty straightforward. 

But the best day was Sunday, a long yawning bore of a day for many boarders most of the year, until the cricket season came along. 

So in mid May I trooped down to the ground with a small handful of friends for the 40 over match with Middlesex, a County Cricket powerhouse at that time featuring England stars like Mike Gatting, John Emburey and Paul Downton and a fearsome bowling attack including Wayne Daniel, Norman Cowans and a young Angus Fraser. 

Middlesex batted first, and anchored by the veteran Clive Radley and England 'keeper Downton, they made 196 in their 40 overs. 

I remember precisely none of that. Nor do I remember a great deal of Somerset's reply, in which Peter Roebuck and Julian Wyatt put on 122 for the first wicket. The first memory was of Viv smacking one in the general direction of St James's churchyard on his way to a breezy 19 before holing out, prompting one of our teachers sitting nearby to curse him for his irresponsibility. Surely though this was why people watched Viv bat? Roebuck could nudge the singles. We wanted FIRE from Viv. 

We didn't get much from him that day, but we got it from Both instead. Despite all their wickets in hand and the great platform set by the openers, Somerset stumbled on their way to the total.

It was all very tense and it really did feel like we'd blown it, with Somerset 185-4, needing 12 runs to win, with three balls remaining. Crucially, Botham was on strike. 

With Daniel bowling the fourth ball of the final  was blasted out of the ground for six. I don't remember in which direction. Now the odds were shortening. One more of those... 

Botham swiped at and missed the fifth ball.

Six from one. Daniel with the ball. Botham with the bat. 

For reasons I am sure he may struggle to understand, Daniel bounced Botham.  I do remember where this ball went because it sailed over our heads at deep leg square leg at the Priory Bridge Road end of the ground. Somerset won by 4 wickets. 

We floated back to school after the game, where the kids playing outside on The Front told us they had heard the roar from the ground and wanted to know what had happened.

What had happened was pure Botham. Pure cricketing magic.

I've watched a lot of Somerset cricket since then, including Lords finals and T20 finals but nothing sticks out like that incredible game. 

It all went to hell afterwards. A week later Botham admitted to smoking pot and the ECB banned him for two months. At the end of the season the most almighty Civil War broke out at the Club when it decided to dispense with the services of Richards and Garner to hire the late Martin Crowe (still one of my very favourite players). 

There was not a lot of success in the years that followed. But there was always a seat in the sun - for 10 quid a season, a pint of cider and some banter with schoolmates. The happiest of days.  

The brilliant Somerset blog The Incider wrote a detailed review of the game in 2017. 

 

 

 

 

 

London 2012: Let the Games begin!

Over my 40 years I have been feverish with excitement about any number of sporting events. The ones I recall best now - in chronological order - are: West Ham's 1980 FA Cup Final appearance; my first five-for and 50 for my school on the same day at King's College, Taunton just four days before I left after a largely undistinguised cricketing career.

There was my first visit to Foxborough to see the New England Patriots in 1989; England's 1990 World Cup semi-final against Germany; England's 2003 Rugby World Cup Final in Sydney (after which I danced on the press desk I had at the Telstra Stadium - to the horror of my more professional colleague Huw Richards; Wasps' first Heineken Cup triumph in 2004; the first day of the Oval Ashes test in 2005; My maiden century in 2008 at Thy Gumley Top.

But I have never been more excited about a sporting event as I am now about tonight's opening ceremony for the London 2012 Olympic Games - and I have never before watched any opening ceremony for any event, anywere, ever. But this is different.

For most people the Games journey began in July 2005, when London was awarded the Games.

For me, it started two years earlier at the Hilton Hotel in Prague where as the Financial Times' new Sports Correspondent (even now that job seems surreal) I was covering the International Olympic Committee's voting process for the 2010 Winter Olympic Games, as well as catching up on London's nascent bid for 2012.

The general consensus among experienced Olympic watchers in the UK media that week - who were amassed in Prague to meet new bid chief Barbara Cassani - was that London had no chance. For a great many reasons: we were late to the party; our program was incomplete and uninspiring; the IOC is a political organization where we had too little influence. Paris, the favourite, was sure to win.

But then the day after I met Cassani at a short media roundtable (and the Korean prime minister - a bizarre story for another time) the most extraordinary thing happened: the IOC came within six votes of awarding the winter games (with, you know, skiing) to a city that its own experts had warned against on account of it not having alpine facilities (i.e. ski slopes).

In the end sense prevailed although the IOC did send its ski-fest to a city that turned out not to have any snow: Vancouver.

But this IOC bidding process was clearly an unpredictably business. If a city without a mountain could come so close to winning the skiing, surely a city without a reliable trasnport system could win the running?

A year later I was in Lausanne when London was short-listed alongisde New York, Moscow, Madrid and Paris (still the favourite) for 2012. The media attitude had changed somewhat. Yes, London was still behind, its bid was far from convincing, but the noises from "sources" in the IOC, was that London was gaining momentum.

My one regret about relatively short 18-month holiday career as a sports writer was that by the time London was awarded the games in Singapore I was back on the tech and telco beat. But I do remember exactly where I was when London was awared the games: standing outside a bank in Queen Street in the City watching a live news feed through the window. I shed a few tears. (And the following day, 7/7; these two events will always be inter-linked in my memory: the terribly short journey from joy to despair).

I will shed a few more tonight, I daresay, because this is genuinely special. A home Olympic Games (for which I have tickets) and which I believe will be a fortnight of tremendous drama and fun, and those who love sport will surely embrace it.

The build-up has been great. We had the Olympic flame here in the village (although I was in Munich and missed it).  But I have been in and out of Heathrow the last couple of weeks ad have seen athletes from Peru, Ukraine, Chile, Russia, Argentina and Guatemala arriving. They all looked delighted to have arrived in London for an event that for most will be the highlight of their sporting careers.

And my kids - and their friends - are beyond excited, talking of little else in recent days.

There is no cynicism from them. They are simply delighted to be able to watch, visit and enjoy a festival of sport.

I understand why there is cynicism out there. That people are fed up with some of the restrictions, the Olympic lanes, the security shambles, the flag screw-up, the naked commercialism of some aspects ofthe Games.

I get all that, but I don't care. Perhaps I should, but to be honest, for me, it's all about the sport and the people watching it. Athletes who have trained for years to reach this sporting pinnacle, and people who will remember their achievements for the rest of their lives.

I remember Allan Wells in 1980, the hockey boys in 1988, Sally Gunnell in 1992 and staying up all night to watch Roger Black finish second to Michael Johnson in 1996. I remember Jason Queally in 2000, starting the cycling revolution. Kelly Holmes (twice!) in 2004.And I remember the Searles, and Redgrave and Holmes, Redgrave and Pinsent; Redgrave and Pinsent and Foster and Cracknell. And Leslie Law, and Ben Ainslie and Denise Lewis, Bradley Wiggins, Shirley Robertson. And Derek Redmond being carried over the line by his father in Barcelona (this one the IOC showed in the Prague Hilton in 2003 exemplifying the Olympic spirit - as it did).

And then there was 2008, which seemed like a miracle at the time. Nicole Cook cycling to road race victory on the first day and setting off an unlikely avalanche of gold medals: Victoria Pendleton, Rebecca Romero, Chris Hoy (thrice!!), Christine Ohurougu, Tim Brabants, James DeGale and a seemingly endless parade of cyclists, sailors and rowers.

I cheered them all hoarse and enjoyed every last medal.

But most of all, there was Rebecca Adlington and her twin gold medals. A girl from Mansfield who lifted us all and seemed genuinely bemused by where she found herself. Adlington is about as far away from sporting cynicism as I can imagine. And those golden moments are what I really remember about those games and captured the spirit perfectly.

So tonight we'll all be parked in front of a TV that suddenly doesn't seem big enough, enjoying the show and anticipating the sport to come. Next Friday night we'll be in the Olympic stadium to cheer on Jessica Ennis and all the other athletes irrespective of their nationality.

And I can't wait.

 

Marcus Trescothick opens up

I once had the somewhat dubious pleasure of interviewing Marcus Trescothick. The meeting took place in the Media Centre at Lord's, in July 2004. I probably spent 30 or 40 minutes talking to him, much of it discussing his fluctuating form with the bat and the forthcoming prospect of facing a new generation of West Indian pace bowlers. The result was published in the Financial Times,  and can be found here. 

By the time I met Trescothick, I had been writing about sport and sportsmen for the FT for about 15 months and had interviewed many sportsmen - and even ghosted a column for England flanker Richard Hill that appeared in the FT during the 2003 Rugby World Cup.

And what I had learned in those 15 months was not to expect too much of interest from the mouths of sportsmen and women. Many considered talking to the media a chore and behaved accordingly. Others were suspicious and therefore guarded and subsequently dull. Few had any genuine insight to offer into their sport or their own performances and most had also been drilled by media minders to toe a particular corporate line. 

I had no particular problem with any of this. What right had I to expect Churchillian oratory or Socratic insight from men who hit balls for a living or women who pushed stones down a runway of ice? None. And I fully understood that it was not in their interests to court controversy. So you learned simply to make the best of it. Get what you could and try and make something of it. You can judge whether I acheived that in the case of Trescothick.

The England batsman, as I had suspected he would, fell more into the guarded and slightly suspicious category. He was courteous but not particularly friendly (and why should he have been?) He was perhaps slightly more open about his own patchy form with the bat than I might have expected, but did not have anything particularly interesting to say.

Only once during the conversation did I feel I connected with him in any way and that was when I asked him about Mark Lathwell, his former Somerset colleague. Lathwell was one of the most gifted batsmen I have ever seen play. He was unorthodox and possessed a wonderful array of stokes, particularly an exquisite back foot drive that I can still see now in my mind's eye.

To many Somerset fans the names of Trescothick and Lathwell will forever be linked. They opened the batting together when Trescothick (four years younger) was beginning his career and between them held the promise of an exciting future for fans who had endured another lean period since the departures of Ian Botham and Viv Richards in 1986. As a Somerset fan and member I had followed their careers very closely although I had seen a lot more of Lathwell and only seen them together on the odd occasion.

I mentioned this to Trescothick and the "genius" of Lathwell in that he played shots that nobody else did. For just a second his eyes lit up and he agreed, before we discussed the fact that Lathwell had fallen out of cricket, injured and apparently disinterested, a few years before.

Lathwell played two test matches for England (to Trescothick's 76) and later reports suggested that he found the whole experience stressful and uncomfortable and was far happier in the more familiar environment of the Somerset dressing room.

And four years on from our meeting, that is where Trescothick found himself. Just a few months after Trescothick played a major role in guiding England to a first Ashes success in two decades, he was struck down by chronic depression that left him unable to tour with England and at times, according to his autobiography, Coming Back to Me, threatened his life. At the beginning of the 2008 season after several attempts to overcome the travel anxiety that often seemed to trigger the severe episodes he retired from international cricket and resumed his career as a full-time Somerset player. 

In September, Trescothick's  autobiography was published and in December it won the Whitbread Sports Book of the Year and last week became the first sports biography I have read in about five years - having stopped when I realised just how dull and dismal most of these memoirs are.

Despite the fact that I have always had a huge soft spot for Trescothick, as a Somerset boy, I couldn't quite bring myself even to read his book. It seemed highly unlikely that the player I interviewed could produce 300 pages worthy of £16.99.

So my resistance lasted our months, and what I found was a Marcus Trescothick who still had relatively little of interest to say about cricket, but who has written one of the most honest and open biographies I can recall reading. Trescothick strips himself completely bare and gives a blow-by-distressing-blow account of the disintegration of his mental well-being and at the same time probably does as much to expose the perils of the world inhabited by top class sportspeople.

The popular view of this world is one in which the toughest problems facing its inhabitants are choosing between Krug and Cristal or Ferrari and Maserati.

But Trescothick offers an entirely different view. In the cricket world at least it is one where either injury or a loss of form can whip your career out from under your feet in an instant. Where month after month is spent on the road living in hotel rooms and out of suitcases. Where every move you make, every shot you take is viewed through the microscopic lens of the reporter and the telephoto lens of the photographer.

What is striking about Trescothick is that his love of cricket, of scoring runs allowed  him to overcome all anxieties and misgivings. In one chapter, in which he makes his England debut, almost every line is completed by the phrase: "Isn't his great?" Going into the dressing room for the first time? Great. Walking out to bat in England colours on debut? Great. Biffing your first boundary? Great. All of it great. The one cricketing insight Trescothick really communicates is his pure and unalloyed joy at playing cricket, and playing for England is the realisation of a dream he had held since he could stand.

But even this great cricketing enthusiast is worn down by the relentless hamster-on-a-treadmill world of international cricket. And even before his breakdown he is becoming disillusioned with the game, his love of it no longer unable to overcome homsickness, missing his wife and child and the tiredness and boredom of long-term travel.

And then his illness strikes with devastating consequences and the dream is over.

I very much doubt that Coming Back to Me was the best sports book of 2008, but I doubt there was another written that was quite so compelling. Trescothick comes across as a decent man struggling to deal with a problem far more challenging than any fast bowler, and confronting that challenge with an honesty that is disarming.

Ten days after I interviewed him at Lord's Trescothick went to Edgbaston and scored a century in each innings for England. I sat in the press box, thrilled to be there to see it and suppressing the excited fan in me so that I could retain the appearance of professionalism.

I miss him in and England shirt, and for me a lot of the pleasure and interest of watching England cricket retired with him. England miss him even more and are no nearer to finding a long term replacement than they were 30 months ago when he last played.

But I am delighted he has found his peace and I look forward to a 2009 full of runs for Somerset. And in my mind's eye, on a cold Janaury day I imagine a hot day in Taunton in an altogether simpler time, with St James's church in the background, and Mark Lathwell and Marcus Trescothick in the middle, the former bashing the ball of the back foot through cover and Trescothick slog sweeping to deep mid wicket. Happy days.

La Dolce Vita according to Donna Leon; Audio shorts; Russell Brand

"Because they were in a hurry, they decided not to have pasta and settled for a single dish of shrimp with vegetables and coriander. They shared a bottle of Gottardi pinot noir, turned down dessert, and finished with coffee."

Who could this be other than Guido Brunetti and Lorenzo Vianello? In the midst of what might be a murder investigation, and "in a hurry", there is time for lunch. Not a full lunch, granted, no pasta after all, but a decent-sounding lunch with a bottle of wine. How happy we would all be to make do with the Italian equivalent of the sandwich at the desk!

This is part of what makes Donna Leon's books so special: the very Mediterranean pace of life, and the appreciation of the finer things in life, and the well-adjusted likable detectives.

The Child of his Dreams, the new Brunetti novel, is wonderful. Review soon.

Audio shorts

Last week I praised the joys of the audio book, and this week, with quite a bit of travel behind me, went through a couple more.

Generally speaking I like my audio books unabridged, even if this means that the listening to them can go on for quite a while as many books run to more than a dozen hours and it's not always easy to find that kind of time.

So thanks to Chloe Healy at Macmillan for introducing me to the pleasures of the audio short: books abridged down to two or three hours. This week I tried H is for Homicide, by Sue Grafton, and Minette Walters' The Breaker.

The beauty of these is that they can be digested in a couple of car sittings, a round trip to Heathrow, for example, and give the listener a full story in a condensed time.

Sue Grafton's novels, generally pretty short anyway, are perfect for this sort of treatment. I got my first introduction to the Alphabet series via audio, an unabridged reading of J is for Judgment by Lorelei King. And so her's is the voice I hear in my head when I read Kinsey Milhone, and it was nice to hear her again reading H, with her sing-song upbeat voice that capture's Kinsey's sassy charm. H is one of the more distinctive books - Kinsey goes undercover in pursuit of insurance scammers - and it didn't seem to suffer much in the truncation.

Minette Walters I have never read for some reason, although I know plenty of people who have and who like her books, and so the CD book, read beautifully by Kevin Whateley of Lewis fame. It's a fascinating story, sordid sex and jjealous amongst the Dorset sailing set, which begins when the naked body of a young mother is washed up on an isoldated shoreline.

Walters' characters are rounded, real people, including her policemen and in particular the salt-of-the-earth PC Nick Ingram. And it is somewhat shocking in its exposure of what goes on ín seemingly normal households behind closed doors. I thoroughly enjoyed it and will look out for more of her work.

Russell Brand brightens up the sporting morning

There is so much sports' writing out there in the newspapers each morning that there is very little scope for originality any more. That is why I paricularly enjoy Russell Brand's idiosyncratic view of the sporting life each Saturday morning in the Guardian. He is surprisingly insightful, utterly original and always funny. But this morning, during an exposition on how football managers' lives are so difficult and the circumstance impacting their job security to fickle he surpassed himself.

Writing about how self-styled special one Jose Mourinho made Chelsea "palatable", even to West Ham fans like Brand, he came up with the following analogy:

"Figuratively the scenario is reminiscent of a girl I once dated who had an atrocious personality (cruel, racist, joyless) but a really nice arse. She was like her own arse's irritating best mate - I had to tolerate her to get to the arse. The arse in its spellbinding beauty made her many flaws tolerable - she later revealed she'd only gone out with me because she liked my cat so don't feel too sorry for her."

Strange but brilliant.

REVIEW: Playing for Pizza by John Grisham

One of the by-products of the greatness of John Grisham as a writer is that you can often speed through his tales without time to reflect on what a great writer he really is.

I think I've read the entire Grisham fictional oeuvre now from A Time to Kill through The Firm and  The Brethren and on to the latest, Playing for Pizza. I even read (and really enjoyed) Skipping Christmas. Some are better than others, obviously, but they are uniformly good.

Grisham writes so beautifully, so simply, with such touch, control and command of language that he allows aspirant thriller writers to be fooled into believing that this writing malarkey is easy. Anyone can do it. The legal thrillers, in particular, are effortless reads:  fantastic, sophisticated plots crammed full of believable, engaging characters; corkscrews of twists and turns; crackling dialogue and brooding atmosphere; and often they can be clever, thought-provoking morality plays to boot, full of simple, but often crushing observations on the nature of officialdom (and human nature), whether it be corrupt or virtuous, cowardly or valiant.

And more often than not, I simply don't notice. So good and pacy are the stories they kidnap you for the duration of the read and the rest of it slides by, assumed as a given, taken on trust.

And so it requires a step back to notice the brilliance of all this. For me that moment arrives when Grisham glides off piste. Most recently this occurred with The Innocent Man, the extraordinary true story of a desperately depressing miscarriage of justice.

And again this week with Playing for Pizza, a thoroughly charming tale of a washed-up American football player who is cast off the by the NFL after the 11 most pathetic minutes ever played by any quarterback anywhere and finds himself playing for a small stipend and a tiny Fiat for the might Parma Panthers in Italy.

Grisham has football previous. His terrific 2003 novel Bleachers found a group of former high school players reunited following the death of their legendary coach, and playing out the soundtracks of their youth while agonising over the missteps that followed.

Like Bleachers, Playing for Pizza is a story of broken dreams, but only to a limited extent. It is more a voyage of discovery, of new dreams and new lives.

Rick Dockery, the quarterback in question, is hounded out of Cleveland after his heroically inept final 11 minutes in the NFL - as a third string QB - costs the Browns their best ever chance of a first Superbowl. His beleaguered agent is laughed off the phone by alternative employers until a chance presents itself for Rick to become the new QB of the Parma Panthers.

Fleeing a mooted paternity suit from a Browns cheerleader, Rick reluctantly takes flight for Parma, where he is instantly welcomed as the messiah by his new team of enthusiastic amateurs; the real NFL QB who can take them to the promised land of a first Italian Superbowl.

Rick cautiously fumbles his way into La Dolce Vita. First through food, and the extraordinary hospitality of his hosts. He then has his head turned by the considerable charms of Italian womanhood, and ultimately even by opera.

This tale of the American abroad is beautifully handled by Grisham, whose admiration for Italians, their culture and their way of life shines through every page. For those who like their football, there is plenty of it, also lovingly described. For those who don't care for the pigskin, it really doesn't matter, there's too much life and laughter in this book to worry about the odd page turned over to quick slants, third downs and field goals.

And right there in the middle are Grisham's startling and deceptively simple observations on human nature.

It's a little gem, bursting with beauty, optimism and sunshine, that rattles along to a dramatic conclusion. I commend it to all.