A Damp Squib

It should have been an amazing weekend of sport. Final stages of the Aussie open tennis; Liverpool--ManU and QPR--Chelsea in the FA Cup, among many other football ties; latter part of an evenly balanced Pakistan--England Test in Abu Dhabi; David Gourlay on the brink of his second World Indoor Bowls title, after a gap of 16 years...(Ok, not the last one. I'm not that much of a sports fan.)

In a way, it was shaping up pretty well. Andy Murray may have gone down in five sets to Novak Djokovic, but it was definitely a case of the World #1 winning the game, rather than the World #4 losing it: Murray's performance was up there with Sampras in 1994, Ivanišević in 2001, and both Nadal and Federer in 2008. The camera spent quite a while lingering on the figure in the crowd who has given his name to this arena, but even the great Rod Laver at his peak would have had trouble keeping up with either Murray or Djokovic. Mainly, perhaps, it would have been a question of physical stature: with the 6'2" Serbian whipping forehands across the gigantic wingspan of the 6'3" Scot, it's debatable whether or not the 5'8" Australian would have been able to reach some of their shots.

Football, too, was living up to the hype. On Friday night, Tottenham were very nearly held by a spirited Watford, while Fulham and Everton played out a classic gritty English cup tie, with Everton coming from behind to scrape through. Saturday, meanwhile, was rather dominated by events on-and-yet-off the field, with London's racism derby kicking off 45 minutes before a similarly politicised clash in the Northwest. (Incidentally, I thought the FA's decision to cancel the QPR--Chelsea team handshakes -- no doubt because they suspected Anton Ferdinand would refuse to acknowledge John Terry -- while a sensible one from the point of view of not stoking the flames of fan/player conflict, was an unsatisfactory one. If I were Anton Ferdinand, having been [ALLEGEDLY] abused by an opposition player, I would want to have the chance to voice -- even if through the absence of a physical gesture -- my anger with said individual; it doesn't seem particularly fair to him to deny him that opportunity.)

It was left to the cricketers, then, to provide the only real dose of shock/embarrassment/shame/whatever of the weekend. Limited to 257 by an outstanding team display from Broad/Anderson/Swann, Pakistan were then frustrated by the resilience of the same Stuart Broad, who contributed a gutsy 58 to an England total of 70 more than Pakistan. It was then the chance of the second spinner to shine, as Monty got in on the act: 6-62, and the opposition were dismissed for a mere 214.

145 to knock off, then: easy.

Or not.

Mainly, I feel sorry for Stuart Broad and Monty Panesar. Broad had outstanding match figures (before the lost-cause last innings) of 44-13-83-5 and 58*; Monty's bowling numbers were 71.2-27-153-7; yet they end up on the wrong side of a frankly embarrassing defeat.

If you're Pakistani, I guess the sporting weekend's a pretty good one -- but I can't help dwelling on the fact that the England batting line-up appears to have had Kingston 2009 hallucinations: like 'Nam flashbacks, only marginally less serious.

The Numbers Game

I've been a bit lax updating the blog of late (an excuse that seems to get trotted out by about one in every three online writers, so apologies for the tedium), but I've been meaning for a while to write something on a subject close to my....well, not heart -- more head. It combines two of my favourite things -- sport and numbers -- although not in a particularly traditional way.

It's a question that gets asked on such a regular basis that it's become almost a non-question -- a topic that serves only to service a nation's journalists and commentators (oh the irony of spending yet more [virtual] column inches on this): why are the England football team perennial underachievers?

I have a possible answer, and it has nothing to do with Fabio Capello, the Lampard/Gerrard combination, striking partnerships, or the captaincy merry-go-round. (Though don't get me started on the many hideousnesses of John Terry...) It's the numbering of the England players' shirts.

(Stick with me.)

In club football in this country (this sample is taken for two reasons: it's what I know most about; and it's where the vast majority of the players in recent England squads ply their trade), players are assigned -- or choose -- a squad number. Wayne Rooney and Frank Lampard are #10 and #8, numbers corresponding to their positions, but the aforementioned racist thug (sorry, I'll keep quiet) is #26.

Often there are personal reasons for this. Although my gag reflex prevents me from spending any more time googling Terry, I believe the choice of #26 relates to his admiration of an ex-player with a similar number. This is also the reason for Cesc Fàbregas's #4 shirt, in honour of the great Spanish midfield maestro -- and, incidentally, management wunderkind -- Pep Guardiola. And the story of David Beckham's various shirt numbers -- #7 at Manchester United, after Best/Cantona; #23 in more recent years, in honour of Michael Jordan -- is practically a feature-film narrative in its own right.

But whatever the reasons, each individual player has his own number. He has a shirt he can call his own -- the shirt, quite literally, has his name on it.

Not so when he plays for England, however: the 11 starting players, on the day, are allocated the numbers 1 to 11. This gives rise to the following extremes:

• if a player has a less-than-regular role in the team he can never be sure of his shirt number
• a bit-part player feels immediately like a first-choice player

Not such a bad thing, you might think: why should a regular starting number matter to a player? And surely an instant feeling of belonging is good for morale?

Well, not entirely.

To suggest that the number of his shirt doesn't matter to a footballer, at least at some level of the unconscious mind, is to deny his humanity. (No jokes about Wayne Rooney and potatoes.) Human beings, at the most basic level, need to feel wanted; they need to feel they have a role; having an assigned shirt number taps into this essential need.

And while a one-off international -- I have a feeling that, after his comments about Gareth Barry, Joey Barton is likely to remain in this category -- may benefit in the short term from the instant feeling of being a part of the team, what does this mean for the recent occupant of the same shirt? How, for instance, does Frank Lampard feel about seeing 'WILSHERE' on the back of the white #8?

There are other problems. Club football is the 'day job' of the players; when they step up to international level, surely the system should do everything possible to ensure they're able to play in the same way? Instead, each match is a one-off -- a busman's holiday, granted, but still a holiday.

To take simply the most obvious example, Lampard and Gerrard, who have driven their respective clubs' midfield engine rooms for the best part of a decade, wear the same number: the attacking-midfielder-with-a-licence-to-roam-from-box-to-box's #8. What happens when they're made to play in the same team? Who -- both metaphorically, and literally -- is the team's #8? The age-old 'why can't L&G play together?' debate may have more to do with Gerrard's mental struggle to accommodate seeing another #8 on the pitch than one might think.

This is all speculative, but there may just be something in it: numbers matter. (If you remain in any doubt, count the number of #7s on display for Manchester United in this testimonial.) I reckon Fabio Capello could do worse than break out the squad numbers from now on -- maybe Darren Bent could start to replicate his consistently awesome club form of recent years if he were allowed to wear 'BENT 39' for his country...