How the All Blacks devoured the Lions

Truly, I deserve a Nobel Prize for Physics. Of all the Herculean achievements that have distinguished my glittering career to date, managing to haul my haggard, weary, bleary bag of bones out of bed in time to catch the Lions’ evisceration on the other side of the world must rank as my most amazing, gravity-defying feat yet. I’d learned a few lessons from the trauma of Japan/Korea 2002 - for instance, it genuinely helps to not stay up half the previous night boozing - but there’s still no way any amount of prior preparation can inoculate you against the shock. Anyone else who made it has my warmest congratulations.
Was it worth the colossal effort, the emotional investment made by so many? Nope. On the field, utter carnage predictably broke out within the first minute of the first Test, with Brian O’Driscoll forcibly separated from his shoulder by a Kiwi pincer movement of shocking ferocity, reminiscent of the nastier scenes from Once Were Warriors. Long before the second coffee was even poured, the Test was effectively over, a horrendous gulf in athleticism, ambition, skill, pace and power having been manifest from the off. If the first encounter was grisly, the second was an out-and-out mutilation, as a Kiwi crew emboldened by the dawning realisation they could do no wrong proceeded to run rings, squares, figure-eights and loop-the-loops around a Lions vintage so old, infirm and Anglo-dominated that their best player on the night was (England's) Steve Thompson, breaking free from the pack every now and then to briefly waddle towards glory in a manner reminiscent of a granny failing to catch a bus.
There was a predictable lack of Kiwi magnanimity in the immediate aftermath of the massacre. Pausing for a moment to clap himself on the back, their coach Graham Henry trumpeted “Down here, rugby is an athletic sport.” Withering references to the touring “pussycats” were rife in the local press. Joy at Sir Clive Woodward’s discomfort was unconfined. Overnight, the all-conquering hero of the 2003 World Cup had fully metamorphosed into the Greatest British Loser since Eddie the Eagle, a development not unwelcome in several rug-bug saloons across the Celtic nations, where Sir Clive has often been perceived as the living, breathing embodiment of smug Sassenach public-school arrogance. The charge is unfair and unfounded, as anyone who’s ever listened to Woodward at any length or read his stirring autobiography, the modestly-entitled Winning!, will appreciate. Though clearly quite in awe of himself, he’s a gentleman in an environment where phonies and bullshitters rarely flourish. Still, those souls inclined to question the man’s sanity will find much to ponder in his next career move.
Woodward now shuffles off to the post of Technical Director at Southampton Football Club, a freshly-relegated entity who, in the manner of Coventry City and Sheffield Wednesday, look doomed to pay for an over-extended spell in the top flight with years of grey purgatory in the badlands. Ridiculous as it may sound, they will find footballing life even tougher down there, with twice-weekly battles against unholy alliances of eager young tyros and hardened old pros willing to kick the hell out of anything that moves. The Premiership vultures are swooping over Saints’ giraffe-like frontman Peter Crouch, their Plan A, B and C during a season of chronic attacking impotence. More troublingly, their boss, chirpy Cockney geezer Harry Redknapp, walked out of Portsmouth last year in protest at their hiring of a Director of Football, a post effectively identical to that which Woodward now assumes. Nor do the pair seem like natural room-mates. This does not look like a prospectus for peace and harmony. There will be trouble ahead.
Venus Williams and Lindsay Davenport conspired to deliver us the best Wimbledon ladies’ final in at least a decade, an emotional rollercoaster which made up for any lack of finesse and delicacy with ferocious levels of courage and endeavour. As a jubilant Venus dedicated the victory to her undoubtedly close friend ‘Jehovah’, it was impossible not to feel massive sympathy for the Davenport, the formidable baseline slugger once known to her fellow pros as the ‘Dump Truck’, so choked-up with tears that she wasn’t fit to divest herself of the traditional runner’s-up speech. The gripping contest underwent innumerable see-saws and subtle twists of fortune, a development sadly not reciprocated the following day when a hopelessly outclassed Andy Roddick dutifully fell to his knees before the unbelievable Roger Federer, whose reign has caused the sportswriters’ well to run dry of superlatives. Struck by the futility of comparing him to Borg and Sampras, hacks are now seriously mentioning the man in the same breath as Picasso, Mozart, Michelangelo and (yes) Einstein. Such ridiculousness is probably forgivable, in that Federer comes as close to perfection as any sportsman in my living memory ever has. He also seems at least a shade more clean-living than Picasso or Einstein. It may all collapse around his ears one day in an avalanche of ‘ROGER’S DRUG-CRAZED BESTIALITY HELL’ headlines, but I wouldn’t advise anyone to hold their breath.
Finally, I noted that the streets of Dublin were not quite as abuzz with carnival fever, excitement and anticipation as they should have been, on the occasion of Hibernian FC's triumphant return to the land of their great-grandads for majestic friendly victories against St. Pat’s (5-0) and Shamrock Rovers last week, a prelude to this season’s unstoppable assault on the UEFA Cup (although they lost to Cork City). By the time said trophy is bedecked in green-and-white ribbons next May, I expect at least several thousands of you to have belatedly clambered aboard the bandwagon. I will see you all at the ticker-tape parade. Enjoy the ride.