McIllroy’s emotional baggage

For the second time in as many weeks, Rory McIllroy has snatched capitulation from the jaws of victory.

The young Irishman, you will recall if you were anywhere near a newspaper, web site or TV set recently, led the Masters by four strokes entering the final round only to come up  short. A succession of missed putts and wayward drives and a round of 80 handed the green jacket to South African Charl Schwartzel.

Soon after leaving behind the azaleas of the Augusta National, McIllroy ventured to Malaysia to begin the rehab.

Already laden down with emotional baggage, he arrives in Kuala Lumpur minus his golf clubs.

Cue the Evening Standard to run a front page picture story under the headline: ‘What’s Rory lost this time?’

The full story featured on page three under the title ‘Things go from bag to worse as McIllroy loses golf clubs after Masters meltdown’.

It went on … ‘First he lost his nerve in front of a global audience of millions, squandering the chance of a US Masters title’ the story ran. ‘Today life got even worse for McIllroy as he stepped off the long-haul flight only to be told his prized golf clubs had been lost in transit’.

The clubs eventually turned up and enabled McIllroy set about establishing a four-shot lead as the final round unfolded. McIlroy was still in contention after three birdies in four holes from the eighth, but his progress was halted when he three-putted for a double bogey at the 12th.

However, he responded with three further birdies to keep alive hopes of forcing a play-off with Matteo Manassero, only for a bogey at the 18th to end his victory prospects.

McIllroy’s exploits prompted headlines containing the phrases ‘more misery’, ‘another late collapse’, ‘putting betrays McIllroy again’ and ‘McIllroy let another chance slip’.

The truth is McIllroy will have to live with those headlines and those comparisons to Augusta for quite a while yet. Until he exorcises the demons with a major title one suspects.

The Irishman’s unraveling has inevitably drawn comparisons with Greg Norman’s deck chair moment at the Masters in 1996.

In one of the worst meltdowns in majors history, Norman carried a six-stroke cushion into the final round and lost the tournament to Nick Faldo by five strokes, shooting a Sunday 78 to Faldo’s 67.

The story goes that Norman’s daughter Morgan-Leigh, 13 at the time, passed by a  graveyard on the way to Augusta on the final morning. She held her breath, closed her eyes and prayed. When your dad is Greg Norman sometimes divine intervention is on the menu on Sundays. Her prayers went unanswered.

The final word on the matter goes to McIllroy himself. “The Masters was a little speed bump but no more than that. I will have lots of other chances to win majors.” At just 21 years of age, he may well be right.

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Ecclestone: Telling it like it is

You’ve got to hand it to Bernie Ecclestone when it comes to straight talking his way round diplomatic trip wires.

In the past few days there has been a steady flow of reports suggesting that the opening race of the Formula One season in Bahrain next month could fall prey to civil unrest. Doubtless the scare stories are seeded in events on the streets of Cairo recently.

Race organisers have done their best to dampen down concerns that the grand prix might have to be cancelled with reassurances that they are monitoring the unrest in the country – the latest Arab state to face public dissent. The deaths of two protesters has done little to ease the situation.

Of immediate concern is the F1 test planned at the Sakhir circuit on March 3 – eight days ahead of the race weekend – a potentially easier target for agitators.

Nabeel Rajab, a representative of the Bahrain Center for Human Rights, warned:  “For sure F1 is not going to be peaceful this time. There’ll be lots of journalists, a lot of people looking and [the police] will react in a stupid manner as they did today and yesterday.

“And that will be bloody, but will be more publicised. This will not stop, especially now when people have died. I don’t think it’s going to stop easily.”

Never one to exercise diplomatic restraint where a jackhammer will do, Ecclestone the diminutive F1 ringmaster, did little to allay fears when quizzed on the situation this week.

“The danger is obvious isn’t it,” he ventured. “If these people wanted to make a fuss and get worldwide recognition it would be bloody easy, wouldn’t it?

“You start making a problem on the start grid in Bahrain and it would get worldwide coverage.

“It’s hard to establish exactly what is going on. I’m speaking with the Crown Prince later on. We’re watching events closely. We’ll rely on what they think the right thing to do is. He is a very realistic person. I have never had any problems in Bahrain in the past and I’m happy to walk around town there. But we don’t know now. The world is changing.”

Indeed it is Bernie – and so has the F1 footprint in the past few years, at your behest, to include a number of races in politically combustible destinations.

Ecclestone’s renowned powers of persuasion face a stern test in the coming days.

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Time to muzzle the Pit Bull?

Brian Moore, the BBC rugby pundit, has a lengthy charge sheet when it comes to xenophobia and bigotry.

His most recent instalment came last Friday during commentary of the England v Wales Six Nations tournament opener.

Early in the contest a camera panned the Twickenham bleachers and found Alastair Cook, freshly returned from a prodigious Ashes tour.

Moore and co-caller Eddie Butler were moved to comment. Butler said: “What a  magnificent series he had Down Under. Didn’t he do well.”

Moore added: “Couldn’t happen to a nicer race”. A reference to the heavy defeat inflicted on the hosts. He went on … “I’ll probably get into trouble for that.”

The fact is he didn’t get into trouble but the insult should have at least merited a quiet word from the BBC taste police. He should have had his collar felt for this verbal offence – and a string of others.

You see the Pit Bull has previous. Plenty of it.

He once posted a Gary Glitter joke on Twitter which went thus … “Apparently Gary Glitter is the new Aston Villa manager … He heard the strikers are Young, Bent and possibly Keane, boom boom.”

The post drew criticism. The Justin Campaign, which works against homophobia in football, asked Moore to publicly apologise for what they described as “a vile homophobic joke”.

Moore refused, saying: “I will not apologise for your misinterpretation and disgusting insinuation”.

In 2009, on BBC radio, he was forced to apologise for mocking Thalidomide victims on air prior to an England v Argentina match.

He recalled a previous encounter against Argentina when his England team-mate Mike Teague did “a full-on impression of a Thalidomide” by failing to pick up a ball.

One listener reacted: “For someone who achieved so much in sport to get a kick out of mocking people disabled through no fault of their own is appalling.”

The shame is that Moore can be an insightful colour man particularly on his specialist subjects – scrummaging and referees.

He pulls no punches when saying that an official has got a decision wrong and he should be applauded for it. Why then does he choose to let himself down so often?

Last year, Moore, who won 64 caps for England and is a practising solicitor, released an autobiography under the title Beware Of The Dog.

The pages contain detailed accounts of childhood abuse.

The revelations gave rise to apologists pleading clemency for Moore’s acerbic on-air rantings. They cited the book’s contents as an excuse for his incessant spiting of the Scots, Irish, Welsh, French, Australians – in fact anything non-English.

One forum contributor wrote: “Some of Moore’s comments about Scots recently have been verging on racist as well but when taken with his recent revelations about his early life I suspect that the truth is that he remains a troubled and confused character who should be given the benefit of the doubt.”

No one doubts Moore’s childhood was deeply unpleasant and he has our sympathy for that.

But we are all “troubled and confused” at some stage of the week. Most weeks.

The fact is we don’t have a global platform such as a BBC commentary role as a release valve for that trouble and confusion. Nor should we use it if we did.

Some years ago, I encountered Moore for the first time in a central London bar on the eve of a rugby writers’ awards dinner we were both attending.

The greeting was convivial enough at first. Upon hearing my accent he turned decidedly vitriolic. I put that down to him being troubled and confused by half a dozen whiskeys.

Last month Sky Sports two lead soccer commentators lost their 15-year jobs following derogatory remarks captured while the pair – Richard Keys and Andy Gray – were unaware the microphones were on.

They were dispatched because their sexist comments – calling into
question the credentials of a female linesperson and suggestive comments by Gray to a female colleague – were deemed by Sky to unacceptable.

Moore was absent for the England v Italy match this Saturday – a fixture in which you would expect him to be riding shotgun with Welshman Butler.

Perhaps the BBC were fearful of what he might utter at the Italians’ expense.

He returned yesterday alongside Butler for Ireland v France and was a model of diplomacy.

But in the light of the BBC’s pledge to clean up its act following a spate of phone quiz irregularities, editorial misjudgments, and the departure of chat show host Jonathan Ross in the wake of questionable on-air remarks, Moore is surely one tasteless remark from a red card.

In these times of forensic scrutiny of the BBC licence fee and the ongoing eradication of dinosaurs with microphones across the media spectrum, Moore is an endangered species.

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Difficult times, desperate measures

A first Ashes defeat on home soil since 1987 has left national pride badly disfigured. Navel gazing and scapegoat searching have become popular pastimes in the great southern land. From the Murray’s green basin to the dusty outback – there is little waltzing of Matilda right now.

Former Australian Test players have been queuing up to heap scorn on the captain Ricky Ponting. The sanity and credentials of national selectors and administrators has been repeatedly called into question.

Numerous newspaper columns carry those same armchair experts’ bylines.  No shelter from the storm of protestations. Admirably Richie Benaud is the lone beacon of reason amid a hail of media sniper fire. Though even the doyen himself has landed the odd glancing blow.

Throughout the current contest, the contribution of Australia’s top six has been paltry at best. Their ineptitude against England bowling in swing-conducive conditions reached its nadir on Boxing Day in Melbourne when they mustered just 98 in their first innings. As each Australian batsman made the long, lonely return journey to the Members’ Pavilion, so too did any hope of recapturing the little urn.

Australia’s cause has not been helped by a baffling selection policy. Spinner Xavier Doherty and Michael Beer have been plucked from obscurity at the expense of regular twirler Nathan Hauritz. Mitchell Johnson, or Myth Johnson if you are an acerbic English cricket correspondent, is dropped after one Test only to return and blow the opposition batsmen away in the next.

That performance owed as much to leaden skies and prevailing winds as it did to guile. Frustratingly, Johnson seems destined to be an enigma unfulfilled.

Steve Smith, a leg-spinning all-rounder, we are told, is the best No.6 batsman in the country. Phil Hughes, a belligerent opener of questionable technique continues at the top of the order despite a spate of rash strokes and low scores.

Reports of disaffection in the home dressing room abound. Stand-in captain in Sydney, Michael Clarke, he of the flash cars and flashier girlfriends, is at the heart of that alleged unrest.

By contrast, there is unity among this England team despite the presence of a Zimbabwean head coach (Andy Flower), an Australian fast bowling coach (David Saker), a Pakistani spin bowling coach (Mushtaq Ahmed) and four South Africans (Andrew Strauss, Jonathan Trott, Kevin Pietersen and Mathew Prior) among their ranks. Shades of Unified Team (circa Olympic Games 1992).

In truth this Australian Test team has been confronted by an opposing XI consistently at the top of their game – a temporary aberration in Perth notwithstanding. They grind out big scores, hold their catches and uproot stumps with relentless intent. Sound familiar?

How telling it was then that into the rubble of the current Ashes debacle stepped a 24-year-old batsman of Muslim faith.

A diminutive left-hander by the name of Usman Khawaja, whose strokeplay has more than a passing resemblance to the former West Indian lefty Alvin Kallicharan, wore the Baggy Green cap of Australia at the Sydney Cricket Ground.

Occupying the No.3 spot vacated by the injured skipper, there were fleeting glimpses of a precocious talent before a top edge off a mistimed sweep brought his dismissal for 37.

From a position of 111/2 the hosts subsided as they have done many times this series to be 134/4 at the end of a rain-interrupted first day.

While not quite the apparition some pundits would have us believe, Khawaja did at least provide bright patches on an otherwise dank day for Australia. The kid himself was none too fazed by it all. “Being the first Pakistani-born player to play for Australia is probably a bit more significant than my religious beliefs because they’re quite personal to me,” he said.

“I was probably most emotional when I got my baggy green in the morning. As soon as I got out there it felt like the best thing ever. I was out there playing for Australia, the crowd was right behind me, it was awesome.”

Khawaja’s inclusion may yet serve as a watershed in Australian cricket. Like Australian Rules football, both rugby codes, soccer, athletics and tennis too, it may just trigger interest from the ethnic minorities of a multicultural society watching from afar.

Countless men and women have graced the sporting fields of Australia from diverse backgrounds. What makes Khawaja stand out is that he happens to be from Randwick-Petersham via Islamabad.

Right now Australian cricket can do with an infusion of new blood – whatever the ethnicity or creed.

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When hope springs a leak

A natural disaster every bit as debilitating as an Icelandic ash cloud is about to envelope England. It happens every four years and it goes by the name of World Cup failure fallout.

It begins with the onset of national fervour fuelled by wanton jingoism. It is triggered by column inches of coruscating hope.

As the condition takes hold, the tell-tale symptoms include a rash of flags of St George on every white van, family sedan, rooftop, shop front and crisp packet across the land. At its height, normally just a few days into the tournament, it infests all it touches – home and abroad. Dashed promise has turned to abject despair and there is no cure.

And yet, it could all be so different if only for a dose of reality and a spoonful of common sense.

If only there was an acceptance that England has no divine right to win a World Cup. A recognition that Rooney, Gerrard, Lampard and Co should not be mentioned in the same breath as Ronaldinho, Messi and Ronaldo.

And, most of all, an acknowledgement that 1966, home ground advantage, lucky breaks and optically-challenged Russian linesmen, should be consigned to sepia. For good.

If only there was a realization that Rooney is a red card waiting to happen, Lampard is an overpaid braggadocio with seriously limited footballing ability and Gerrard, an alleged motivator of men, cannot string two syllables together let alone a sequence of passes.

If only England could embrace the idea that its national soccer team is likely to fall short on a world stage – again – the tournament would be infinitely more enjoyable for the rest of us.

In the UK, hospital emergency wards would see a drop-off in cases of clinical depression and incidences of public house and domestic violence would shrink. Bar owners and random passers-by on the streets of Bloemfontein would be spared criminal damage and aggravated assault.

The roots of England’s misplaced optimism stem from that vainglorious day in 1966 when Bobby Moore lifted the Jules Rimet Trophy at Wembley.

Ever since, deluded England supporters take it as read (those that can), that they will rule the soccer world every four years. Tabloids implore the nation’s bricklayers and plasterers to ‘support the lads’, swill strong lager and urinate on all things un-English in the name of patriotism.

The English media ensnares it prey in a web of zealotry in the interests of an audience spike only to poleaxe the coaching staff and players from their pedestals at the first whiff of futility. And all the while the strap lines tell of a miscarriage of sporting justice at the hands of Johnny Foreigner.

For over 40 years, it has been a familiar pattern. Reckless hope leading to humiliation and despondency.

When England depart the current World Cup in South Africa, probably at the quarter-final stage, players who incur the wrath of officialdom (Wayne Rooney please note), will have their effigies torched on fickle English High Streets – Mumbai-style.

Referees will receive death threats and ‘fans’ will revert to their tribal hatred for the very same players from opposing club teams who wore the three lions of their country in Joburg, Durban et al.

The much-lauded Fabio Capello, will have questions raised in the Commons about his £6million annual salary and White Van Man will pour bile on Don Fabio’s foreignness, his commitment to the cause and the ‘lads’.

His failure to transform a bunch of talentless, gormless egos into a crack unit of world-beating sportsmen, will be the subject of rainforests of post mortem.

Drunken, balding, tattooed, obese adult males will be reduced to weeping babes, wives will be beaten, law enforcement officers will be targeted for retribution, and a prolonged period of mourning will ensue.

The Daily Mail’s Des Kelly, one of the few pundits to swim against the tsunami of optimism, summed it up best in borrowing the John Cleese quote from the film Clockwise.

‘It’s not the despair – I can take despair,’ said Cleese. ‘It’s the hope I can’t stand.’

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Borerain: Wake me when it’s all over

One thing is for certain on the evidence of the opening race of the Formula One season in Bahrain – Bernie Ecclestone will have no trouble attracting the sponsorship dollars of L’Oreal any time soon.

Despite the pre-season hype, which suggested that the racing would make the hairs on the back of Cheryl Cole’s neck stand on end, the 49 laps were limp, dull, lifeless.

The portents were thunderously promising. Four world champions including the seven-time title-winner Michael Schumacher sliding his angular jaw into the cockpit of a Mercedes. For the romantics there were the names of Lotus and Senna, two Brits banging wheels at McLaren, and rapid peddlers at Ferrari and Red Bull.

As it turned out the first race of the 19-event calendar was as scintillating as a waterlogged Guy Fawkes’ night.

Speaking of combustion, hands up anyone who thought that a dodgy spark plug (four for £16.99 at Halfords while stocks last) would deliver the one moment of drama during the race?

The fact is had Sebastien Vettel’s Red Bull not lost power with 15 laps to go, allowing Fernando Alonso and Felipe Massa to claim a Ferrari one-two with Lewis Hamilton, similarly benefitting from Vettel’s misfortune, inheriting fourth, Borerain was nothing more than a very expensive procession.

As it was the only legitimate overtaking of note at the sharp end was Alonso’s pass on Massa as the lights went out.

Starting from third on the grid, behind Vettel and Massa, the Spaniard got by his team-mate between turns one and two on the opening lap and was in position to seize on the pole man’s misfiring Red Bull as the flag loomed.

Hamilton and Button both moved up places, but only during the brave new pit stops, which inflame the passions much as rugby league scrums do.

Ah yes, the refuelling ban.

What has it proven so far? For starters, it has made race strategy largely redundant. Qualification is all important – a bit like the final line-up for the Olympic 800 metres title being decided by a 100 metre dash in the semis.

So settle back and prepare for 19 Monacos – i.e. you finish where you qualify.

Button’s take on Bahrain went thus: “It was pretty much what we expected. All the cars stop at the same time and don’t overtake each other.”

Schumacher concurred. “Overtaking was basically impossible unless somebody made a mistake,” he said. Or had a mechanical failure, Vettel might have added.

“That is the action we are going to have with this kind of environment of race strategy. With no refuelling, it will be difficult to see any overtaking, so after the first lap the positions will be set.”

Lewis Hamilton weighed in with: “You start with fuel, you do one stop and it’s pretty much a train all the way.”

At least on this occasion most of the ambulance chasing is coming from within. McLaren’s Martin Whitmarsh calling for mandatory two stops and “edgier” tyres led the rumblings.

When was the last time the Formula One Paddock was so introspective? The last time the lavish lifestyles of those who pack a suitcase every two weeks was threatened one suspects.

Before the season, the teams, worried that the refuelling ban would lead to processions, discussed introducing a rule that would force drivers to make two stops.

Whitmarsh drove the proposal and was the first to call for “immediate rules tweaks” after the Bahrain snoozefest.

“We do need to look at mandating stops, we do need to look at the tyres and make them more fragile, and we do need to work on making the cars capable of racing close together and easier to overtake,” he concluded.

The refuelling ban has also meant that the monocoque on the 2010 cars had to be lengthened to accommodate the increase in fuel load with cars on full tanks from the off.

The result is that the most advanced racing machine on the planet resembles a hearse. The Sauber, bereft of any trace of sponsors logos, is particularly grotesque with that air box stretching back to the rear wing like most of its rivals. Shark fins indeed. Great White in the case of Sauber.

It seems that even some with a vested interest in proceedings found themselves unmoved. Hamilton’s mum was quoted in the Daily Mail as saying the race “so boring”.

The car-to-pit dialogue, never riveting to be sure, now centres on tyre management and fuel consumption. Wake me when it’s all over.

So, this weekend, will Melbourne deliver the spectacle Bahrain failed so dismally to do? F1 had better hope so.

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Tiger’s PR shank

The questionable PR management of an innocuous automobile accident has thrust Tiger Woods into the one place he had fought so hard to avoid – the tabloid spotlight.

If ever there was an object lesson in media and public relations bungling, then this was it. When his reputation landed in the rough last week, he was found wanting.

Throughout his career, Woods’ alienation of stakeholders has become legendary. Broadcasters were told to dance to his tune, promoters were required to fork out large chunks of appearance money, police escorts ring-fenced him on the links of St Andrews.

And, all the while, Joe Public was regularly snarled at and instructed to respect his privacy.

Well now we know why.

Now we know that Tiger had turned cheater. And when the lurid allegations began to fly, the tabloids gorged themselves, figuring that it was payback time.

By turning away the Florida State Troopers on three occasions and fobbing off the public, Woods and his handlers created an information vacuum into which wild speculation flowed.

Theories abounded that his wife had pursued his car armed with a three-iron, taking out several windows of his Cadillac Escalade as he attempted to make good his escape only to collide first with a fire hydrant before his inglorious progress was halted by a tree.

In the hours and days that followed, the disdain with which the media was treated by his spin surgeons and legal counsel, served only to ignite the desire to dig a little deeper.

Willing accomplices were unearthed. A society glamour puss here, a cocktail waitress there. Taking succour from tabloid cheque books, they emerged by the day. The count is now nine and rising.

Buying off one or two of the consorts in question was never a smart tactic by Woods’s people. Not when those negotiations put his lawyers head-to-head with tabloid editors.

As one tacky tale followed another, Woods, acting on poor advice and misguided logic, cowered behind bland statements on his own web site, rather than confront the imbroglio head on.

“I am dismayed to realize the full extent of what tabloid scrutiny really means,” he wrote.

“But no matter how intense curiosity about public figures can be, there is an important and deep principle at stake which is the right to some simple, human measure of privacy.

“For me, the virtue of privacy is one that must be protected in matters that are intimate and within one’s own family. Personal sins should not require press releases and problems within a family shouldn’t have to mean public confessions.”

Fair enough Tiger but the moment you chose a little extra-curricular night putting over your family, it was no longer a private matter. It was a media matter and by extension a very public matter.

Woods is a richly talented golfer, with 14 majors in his locker. In 2008 he earned over US$100 million from winnings and endorsements. He is the world’s foremost individual sports brand with personal worth of US$1 billion. He is icon and role model. It is on this last point that the world feels let down.

Woods is not a crisis communications pro, nor is his attorney. That is evidenced by them breaking all of the fundamental rules of crisis communications in the build-up to and aftermath of that 2am accident.

On three main counts they failed. 1. Have a plan for when crisis strikes; 2. Tell your side of the story – quickly, honestly and accurately; 3. Establish and control messaging.

The warning signs were there at least a week before it all started to unravel. The tabloids had linked Woods to New York nightclub host Rachel Uchitel, who was reported to be in the same Melbourne hotel as Woods while he was competing in the Australian Masters.

Woods had time to ponder the impact of the two issues – first that the media sharks were circling over claims of a dalliance, and second the confrontation with a fire hydrant and a tree near his Orlando home.

Woods ignored at least three opportunities to talk with police investigators about the incident. He delayed, losing opportunities to take control of the messaging. The delay aroused suspicion and media speculation grew.

To compound the situation, Woods’s statement about a car crash hinted at wider issues, possibly even alleged personal indiscretions. The sharks scented blood.

“This situation is my fault, and it’s obviously embarrassing to my family and me. I’m human and I’m not perfect. I will certainly make sure this doesn’t happen again.

“This is a private matter and I want to keep it that way. Although I understand there is curiosity, the many false, unfounded and malicious rumours that are currently circulating about my family and me are irresponsible.”

Light the blue touch paper.

Woods’ evasiveness and stonewalling rendered his personal web site a shooting gallery.

One comment read … “The longer you procrastinate, the more spin – negative or otherwise – there is out there. If you need to tweak the truth, so be it. But you should fire your PR advisors now. They’re doing a horrible job, and if you don’t have any, I suggest you pick a good one up from here on out. Step up – take control – move on.”

The duck-and-cover ploy didn’t work this time. It only contributed to the widening sentiment that Woods had been hiding facts, not to mention avoiding the authorities.

Woods employs an armada of advisers – charitable foundation communicators, personal spokesman, IMG luminaries. Either they didn’t offer the reputation management he needed or he didn’t listen.

Sometimes no news is bad news.

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A lesson for WAGs

So footballers’ wives do have some dignity after all.

Take Teresa Enke, the widow of German international goalkeeper Robert who confronted the media to explain the suicide of her husband earlier this week.

Teresa’s performance was brave and heart-rending. She spoke with solemnity about how her husband had been battling depression brought on by family tragedy. 

Enke took his life after fearing that his adopted daughter would be taken from the couple by authorities if his illness became known. He had also struggled to cope with the death of their biological daughter Lara, who died at the age of two in 2006 of a rare heart condition.

Enke, 32, walked into the path of a train near his home in Hannover having left a suicide letter in which he apologised for hiding the condition of his mental state.

Teresa, dressed all in black and fighting her emotions, said: “I tried to be there for him, said that football is not everything. There are many beautiful things in life. It is not hopeless. We had Lara, we have Leila.

“I always wanted to help him to get through it. He didn’t want it to come out because of fear. He was scared of losing Leila. It is the fear of what people will think when you have a child and the father suffers from depression. I always said to him that that is not a problem.”

She continued: “When he was acutely depressed, then that was a tough time. That is clear because he thought there was no hope of a recovery on the horizon for him.

“After Lara’s death everything drew us closer together, we thought that we would achieve everything. I tried to tell him that there is always a solution. I drove to training with him. I wanted to help him to get through it.”

Enke was hit by a train travelling at 100mph as it passed through a level crossing on its route between Hamburg and Bremen.

He could be proud of the manner in which his wife brought distinction to his memory.

English WAGs please note.

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Crashgate: Questions

Buried deep in the sordid details of Formula One’s ‘Crashgate’ is a raft of questions left unanswered.

First, why would Nelson Piquet Junior, a fledgling driver, throw away any chance of a future in the sport by willingly crashing his car in an act that was illegal, highly dangerous, bound to draw widespread condemnation – and shred his employment prospects in the process?

Maybe the answer lies in the questionable ethics of his father, Nelson Snr, no saint to be sure. Maybe it was an acute case of pushy parent syndrome. Maybe it was spoilt brat disorder. Whatever the cause, NPJ believed that by telling all to the FIA, he would emerge unscathed from the affair.

The reward for his gullibility is the stamp of damaged goods for life. A career in Brazilian stock car racing may be as good as it gets from here on.

Second, why would an otherwise decent and honourable man, an out-an-out racer, Pat Symonds, stoop to the fraudulent demands of Flavio Briatore and orchestrate the crash that reduced NPJ’s car to a pile of carbon fibre shards at the exit to Turn 17 on the streets of Singapore?

And why would Renault agree to support Briatore’s libel action against NPJ and his father? Admittedly company bosses backtracked and eventually threw Briatore and Symonds to the wolves by ‘releasing’ them from their contracts, but at what cost to the Renault brand longer term?

It is widely known that NPJ’s seat in the sister car alongside Fernando Alonso was under threat as Briatore grew increasingly disenchanted with the young Brazilian’s performances.

NPJ, the son of a three-time world champion, was a desperate and disillusioned young man struggling with Formula One’s competitive and commercial pressures.

As a result of his crash, Alonso benefited from the safety car period precipitated by NPJ’s actions and sprayed champagne from the top step.

But did NPJ not think to consider the consequences of being party to the plot and then turning whistleblower in return for immunity? Whatever his motivations and we will probably never know, he emerges with little credit.

He claims his father was not aware of the dirty deed until after the fact. That probably explains Snr’s hostile reaction once the soiled linen was aired. No doubt Jnr was sworn to secrecy by Briatore.

The involvement of Symonds is the most astonishing aspect of the saga. What led Renault’s director of engineering to commit one of the worst acts of race-fixing in professional sport? An act that cost him his career and hitherto solid reputation.

A mechanic by trade, Symonds had made his way through the ranks of junior categories to one of the most pivotal team positions in Formula One.

He joined Toleman in the early 80s before the team morphed into Benetton and finally Renault. In the mid-90s he was Michael Schumacher’s race engineer while doubling as head of research and development. He succeeded Ross Brawn as Technical Director in 1997 and has been in the position of Executive Director of Engineering since 2001.

In Singapore, here was a brilliant tactician, a respected team leader, prepared to dispense with all trace of moral fibre to appease decision-makers above him, namely Briatore.

His dubious masterstroke, some say, is evidence of the corrupt depths to which Formula One has plumbed in pursuit of success.

Surely a man with Symonds’ technical nous realized that telemetry traces would confirm any doubt as to the authenticity of the crash. And surely a street-wise veteran would recognize that the incident would be shrouded in suspicion given the eventual outcome of the race. As it proved.

As for Briatore, not only is he staring at a life ban from F1, but there is every prospect that his tenure as part owner of Queen’s Park Rangers (co-owner Bernard Charles Ecclestone), will come to an end.

Briatore presided over two world championships for Michael Schumacher at Benetton in the mid-1990s, and two more at Renault for Fernando Alonso in 2005-06.

There will be few Kleenex boxes wasted on Briatore’s demise in the Formula One paddock. He was brash, irrational, manipulative and ruthless. As team principle and, conflictingly, a driver manager, and a prime mover in the Formula One Teams Association (FOTA), he had influence. Too much for many tastes.

His repeated denials and despicable attack on NPJ’s personal life at the height of the fallout to ‘Crashgate’ was the last straw for many in the sport.

No doubt he was under enormous pressure from Renault to deliver results at a time when certain board members were questioning the extravagance of Formula One budgets amid plunging global road car sales.

It could be argued that Briatore was the author of his own downfall. By sacking NPJ in July this year, he must have feared that the driver, at the urging of his father, may reveal all.

The fact is that Briatore and Symonds set NPJ and the team on a course of wanton deception where lives would be put at risk for the benefit of a tarnished victory.

Renault, the parent, has some hard decisions to make. Irrespective of the outcome of the hearing into ‘Crashgate’ at the World Motor Sport Council in Paris this coming Monday, can Renault afford to remain in a sport while pots shots are taken at its reputation long after the findings are delivered?

Is the Renault team willing to face the very real prospect of civil action from the likes of Felipe Massa, who could justifiably claim that the actions of Briatore, Symonds and NPJ cost him a world title and a lot more besides? And what of the Singapore Grand Prix organisers, spectators, rival teams and sponsors? The rumblings have started.

Among the many victims of this sorry episode are the 400+ employees of the Renault team, particularly the hard-working souls on the shop floor at Endstone, Oxfordsire. These people had no knowledge of the conspiracy hatched by those at the helm, yet they may pay with their jobs.

The potentially lethal consequences of the actions of Briatore, Symonds and NPJ, were beyond control. Their crime was not only to cheat but also to endanger the lives of drivers, marshalls and spectators.

The last, hollow, word goes to the Renault team’s press officers, as evidence of one valedictory piece of manipulation from Briatore. The press release at the end of the Singapore race read thus …”The ING Renault F1 took its first victory of the season today as Fernando Alonso produced a brilliant tactical drive to win the Singapore Grand Prix.”

In the same press release, Briatore added: “This is an amazing victory for Renault. Today the car was extremely quick and although we had some luck when the safety car came out, we deserved this victory. It’s a very important result for Renault after two difficult seasons and that helps us to prepare for 2009 in the best way possible.”

Therein lies the motivation for one of the most brazen acts of skulduggery in sport.

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Schumacher: Let It Be

Comebacks. Who needs them? Not Michael Schumacher. Thankfully.

Yes, the return of the seven-time world champion would have put extra traseros on seats in Valencia at this weekend’s European Grand Prix. In fact ticket sales rose by 10,000 when news broke of his impeding substitution for Ferrari regular Felipe Massa.

And yes, it would have been fleetingly interesting to see him mixing it with the Hamiltons, Alonsos, Vettels and the rejuvenated Buttons and Webbers.

But what of KERS, slicks, 2009 aerodynamic packages? Not to mention a prancing horse which is a lot more temperamental than the one he saddled in 2006.

What did he really have to gain? Was there anything left to prove? To us, to himself?

When the comeback was first mooted, Schumacher’s manager Willi Webber said it best. “When Michael was racing he would get as close to perfection as possible,” he observed. “In this case [the comeback], it would not be perfection – it would be a gamble – and that’s not Michael’s style.” Indeed it’s not.

Schumacher’s preparation was meticulous. So conditioning himself physically, mentally and technically for a return to the 2009 grid in the space of a few weeks, was way out of his comfort level.

And while his willingness to help out an old friend was noble, there wasn’t a realistic chance of him being competitive. And that’s not Michael’s style either.

In announcing his final decision, Schumacher said: “I am disappointed to the core. I really tried everything to make that temporary comeback possible, however, much to my regret, it did not work out.”

There are some of us who are relieved to the core that a stiff neck, the legacy of a motorbike accident earlier in the year, forced an about-turn.

What’s better? A champion bowing out in his pomp or a pale shadow poodling around with the tail-end charlies? It might be acceptable in touring cars, rally raids or celebrity karting but not in modern F1.

Boxers, particularly heavyweights, climb back through the ropes in the name of mounting debt dressed up as sporting desire. Most of those contests end in pity and despair.

And there are those who came back once too often having long since succumbed to the onset of Parkinson’s Disease. Just ask Muhammad Ali – if you still can.

Having quit after regaining his world title from Leon Spinks in 1978, Ali re-laced his gloves three years later at the age of 39 and was badly beaten by Larry Holmes.

He once floated like a butterfly. His care workers are now left propping up a trembling wreck of a human being. The sting has long gone.

And what of Joe Louis? Considered by many to be the greatest heavyweight of all time, he held the crown from 1937 to 1949. Massive tax debt led him into battle long after his shelf life.

In 1950, a year after his retirement and two years since his last fight, he lost to Ezzard Charles. A large purse was offered to fight champion Rocky Marciano the following year.

It was a contest Marciano didn’t want. Conscious of Louis’ financial plight, he accepted. Louis ate canvas in the eighth round and retired for good.

George Foreman re-entered the ring in 1994 at the age of 45. He knocked out Michael Moorer to reclaim his world title after a 20-year gap. He finally called it a day when he lost to Shannon Briggs in 1997. But, even then, he threatened comebacks in 1999 and, at the age of 55.

Sugar Ray Leonard was another man with a heavy addiction to comebacks. He made four between 1976 and 1997. His dubious reward today is the ability to count his brain cells on one hand.

Elsewhere, sport is littered with failed second comings. Sportsmen who returned as spent replicas.

Men like Bjorn Borg. The Swede retired aged 26 with 11 grand slam titles in his locker. He founded a fashion company, flirted with hard drugs and soft-in-in-the-head relationships, before attempting a toe-curling comeback in 1991. He arrived armed with his wooden Donnay racket. Wood v graphite? Go figure.  

He never won another match in 10 tournaments.

Then there’s Mark Spitz. The American made history with seven Olympic gold medals in the pool at the Munich in 1972, a record only eclipsed by Michael Phelps in Beijing last year. Spitz tried out for the US national team in 1991, aged 41. He was two seconds outside the qualifying time for Barcelona 92.

Even Pele, after taking Brazil to three World Cups, was coaxed out of retirement to play saar-kur for the New York Cosmos.

East German figure skater Katarina Witt collected two Olympic golds, four world titles and six European crowns. She quit in 1988 at 23 but returned six years later for the 1994 Games at Lillehammer. She finished seventh.

Martina Hingis took an early bath at 23. In 2006, the former world No1 was back and played two seasons winning three tournaments and the Australian Open mixed crown. Her homecoming was brought to a premature by a positive test for cocaine during Wimbledon in 2007.

Of course there will always be exceptions. Some glorious.

In Schumacher’s world there is Niki Lauda. The Austrian survived a fiery, near-fatal shunt at the 1976 German Grand Prix to win the world title the following year. The Austrian then retired, flew planes, got bored, oversaw the destruction of his business empire, and returned to land a third title in1984.

Michael Jordan, came back to basketball after two seasons of playing baseball badly to inspire the Chicago Bulls to three consecutive NBA titles. Lester Piggott cajoled a string of winners after a five-year break at Her Majesty’s behest on tax charges.

And of course there is Lance Armstrong. Diagnosed with testicular cancer in 1996, he won the Tour de France three years later and added six more before retiring in 2005. This year, aged 37, he came back again, and finished third.

In Schumacher’s case, I prefer to remember him as he was in 2006, signing off at the Brazilian Grand Prix with one last flourish of his awesome talent at the controls of a Formula One car.

His qualifying was compromised by a fuel-pressure failure, and, in the race, a puncture after nine laps dropped him drop to 19th. His response was to drive the sidepods off his Ferrari to finish fourth.

It was a fitting finale. An encapsulation of the determination that had defined his career.

“You know the song ‘My Way’? I’d say that fits the way I feel,” he said afterwards.

His way was not always to take the moral high road. He mixed utter brilliance with outbreaks of questionable sportsmanship. The archetypal flawed genius, his entries in the record books will always carry an asterisk of controversy.

Variations on the “Schumacher Returns to F1” story will continue to be written. For there is something of the obsessive about sports men and women.

The same ferocious drive that got them to the top in the first place, lures them back when they are clearly past their best. As does the succor of adulation.

Sporting greats contemplating a career reboot will do well to heed the advice of The Beatles, who disbanded in 1970 and never reformed.

Let it be.

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