Down the Nag’s Head: taking the piss about politics, ethics, morality and shandies* in sport.

On the only occasion I ever voted, I placed a cross beside the name of a man convicted of treason; as everyone knows, of course, treason replaced heresy after the mediaeval period as the highest crime one can possible commit against one’s country. Happy Birthday to the criminal, but this story is not about you; okay, only partially. It is about sporting heroes, and you’re well, not one …

Of all the preposterous comparisons to Nelson Mandela ever made, the one that stands out the most for its absurdity and, well, for the kakpraat factor, was that made by Earl, father of Tiger. Now maybe Earl knows his son better than most of us; maybe Earl knows that Tiger has a great record of fighting for social justice, self-sacrifice, a commitment to the full emancipation of his people, that he (Tiger) has the humility and vision to see the great honour in forgiving your erstwhile persecutors – and that he can dance like someone whose haemorrhoids are itching. Maybe Earl knows that Tiger’s apparent refusal to oppose sexism in golf is simply the media taking things out of proportion. So, I accept that maybe we just don’t know Jack about Tiger.

Anyhow, I remember an incident several years ago in Tuynhuys Gardens, when a photographer walked backwards – one eye in the viewfinder, the other on Mandela – then stumbled into a pond. The president ignored what he was doing at the time, leaned over and helped the photographer to his feet. Such was the president’s humility, he saw the humour in the incident and everyone had a laugh. Contrast this with Tiger’s saintly utterance: “The next time a photographer shoots a fucking picture on my backswing I’m going to break his fucking neck.” (I include the word “fucking” because we, in South Africa, are free people and we can use the word publicly without the wrath of god, the twisted morality of conservatism or religious self-righteousness descending on us – more on that in another post).

Playing with your own balls

Now I am not going to criticise Tiger Woods’ golf; I know only three things about golf. It is a sport that is traditionally played by the managerial class, or as a former fellow hack proved, you can also play golf if you have aspirations of “getting ahead” – in the corporate sense — and end up crapping on people in the newsroom (real slaves, Ronaldo, real slaves) from the lofty heights of management. It is also the sport where people, presumably clever people, hit a ball several hundred metres away, sometimes into the trees, sometimes into the water and sometimes into a patch of sand – and then they go and look for it. WTF. What do they not get about putting your hands in your pockets, holding onto your balls, and saying: There’s no need to play hide and go seek with my balls, I prefer to hold onto my balls, so let’s go down the pub.

The final thing I know about golf and can say confidently about smacking my balls is this: kleiner de bal, grotere de zak dat loopt achter het! (My own terrible attempt at a colloquial saying in Nederland)

So, instead of Woods, Son of Earl, I want to submit three names of sportspeople who I think (highly subjectively, of course) can rightfully be described as “diamond geezers” – people who have done more than put a few pennies in the plate at Sunday service, sent some samoosas to the neighbour on Eid, went to a seder because there was the possibility of free grog, or launched a war because they loved the freedom of those they would end up killing.

First prize goes to Toni Smith, a student in the United States who turned her back on that country’s flag during the singing of the national anthem. At the time it was reported that her protest wasn’t only about the United States’ aggressive foreign policy. The following is what she said:

“For some time now, the inequalities that are embedded into the American system have bothered me … As they are becoming progressively worse and it is clear that the government’s priorities are not on bettering the quality of life for all of its people, but rather on expanding its own power, I cannot, in good conscience, salute the flag.”

This is what the Guardian wrote at the time: “The response to Smith’s quiet protest was predictably bestial. Her life was threatened. She was verbally abused by opposing players. Spectators greeted her with obscenities and chants of “U-S-A” and “Leave our country”. She also faced physical intimidation – at one game a Vietnam war veteran shoved a flag in her face. Smith’s response was predictably dignified. “If you don’t stand for something, you will fall for anything,” she wrote on her team’s website.

The other goes to Steve Waugh, who has done work for a leper colony in Calcutta, India and who has generally promoted great understanding between Australian cricket players and indigenous peoples of countries where they have toured. It helps, of course, that he is a Labour supporter in Australia. And then there is my favourite of all: Xavier Zanetti of Inter Milan.

In a (European) football culture that is thriving, in which players are multi-millionaires (not slaves, Ronaldo, not slaves) where most of their wives are famous for doing, well, nothing (that’s why I like Nutter Lehman’s missus Conny — a primary school teacher as opposed to, say, Victoria Beckham who, by her own admission, has never read a book), Zanetti has shown support and solidarity for some of the poor of the world. He once donated thousands of Rand towards the Zapatista struggle for human rights and for their land in Mexico. Zanetti was quoted by the Guardian as having said: “We believe in a better, unglobalised world enriched by the cultural differences and customs of all the people.”

Special mention goes to, Bill Shankly (“The socialism I believe in is everyone working for each other”) and to Brian Clough (“For me, socialism comes from the heart”), and to Christiano Lucarelli who regularly gives a two-fisted salute to identify himself with supporters of the Communist Party. Famously, he once said, “Some players buy themselves a yacht or a Ferrari with a billion lire. I bought myself a Livorno shirt.”

Now, because “fair and balanced” seems to be the way some people “do” journalism (like some people “do” lunch, or the way Bono “does” poverty and George Bush “does” freedom), I should point out that those who like Fascism would probably elect the misunderstood Paolo di Canio for his apparent Fascist leanings. Others may actually like the owner of Sylvio Berlusconi, because he is SUCH a successful businessman, and not the “hated” person the US State Department for Foreign Affairs said he was, and because he never spoke in support of Benito Mussolini, one of the biggest Fascists of the past century.

For me, though, those who fight for the poor (Zanetti, Lucarelli), the terminally ill (Waugh), who express selflessness in the face of injustice (Smith), and those who believe in everyone working for one another (Shankly), get my vote. Just incidentally, when I did some research online for the Di Canio mention, I came across a story on Simon Kuper’s Political Football 11. So as not to be influenced, I did not read the story other than notice a picture of Diego Maradonna on the main webpage.

Okay, so now what was I talking about? Oh, Nelson Mandela … Happy Birthday Tata, and ehm, the last time we spoke person-to-person, about 10 years ago, you held my hand. I still have not washed it. I am thinking about selling it online.

*Shandies: In the language of my hometown, also known as “fly-taal”, shandies generally refers to “things”. You can say, for instance, please pass me that shandie. It also means troubles. You may say something like: Oh shit, my parents caught me masturbating, now there will be shandies.