always face forward

It was one of the greatest sporting finals ever. I was rooting for the eventual loser but that doesn’t cloud my judgement that it was one of the finest tennis matches of all time. The thing was, however, that I found it extremely difficult to enjoy – The stakes were so high for both players and I got so caught up in the remarkable come back that Roger Federer pulled off before finally succumbing to the power of Rafael Nadal that I stopped enjoying it someway through the fifth set. I think I may also have stopped breathing around that point.

Two days later I’m breathing again and the pain of disappointment has gone for me. I have no idea if it’s just me but that seems to be the way it often goes. I build my hopes up and the anticipation intoxicates me – then it all goes wrong and the pain is unbearable.

For a couple of days anyway – after that I get over it and look forward to the next time.

This is a fortunate thing indeed, for I feel disappointment often. Disappointment that my football team haven’t won anything in my lifetime; that my, once all conquering, rugby team have been mediocre for years; that my hockey team have forgotten how to spell ‘the play-offs’ never mind ‘the stanley cup.’ Yup, disappointment is a frequent guest at chez Mr C.

It works both ways. There is a soccer team I despise with a passion. I hate Manchester United more than I love Newcastle United – and that’s a lot. There is one major problem with hating Man Utd. They win everything. Therefore on an annual basis I have months of hoping that someone, anyone, will knock them off their perch only for them to win through again. It hurts. It hurts even more that, in Northern Ireland, I am surrounded by Man Utd fans who love nothing more than gloating and that I, in my little black and white soccer shirt, am an ideal target for gloatation. How they love to remind me that my team has a trophy shelf covered in dust while theirs has a trophy room filled with glittering bits of metal.

Luckily a few days after the season ends life has moved on and we are all looking forward to the next season when I will be hoping and praying that Arsenal, Chelsea, Liverpool, Stoke City – anybody – will win the lot and clear out that trophy room at Old Trafford.

The past is over rated – we all know it even if we don’t accept it consciously. I know there will be people snorting as they read this but deep down they know I’m right. Brush aside all the old adages about being destined to repeat our mistakes, how we can’t know where we’re going if we don’t know from whence we came, and you will see I speak the truth.

That is surely a comfort to Mr Obama. He may have just spent the last few months cat fighting with Ms Clinton but now he can forget all about it and wipe the slate clean for a whole new battle. He is nowhere near as damaged as the right-wing press love to suggest. If anything he can learn from the fight. Duck and dodge Barack, duck and dodge.

It may well be important to know about the past but in the league table of import nothing that has come before can compete with the immediateness of the present nor the anticipation of the future. Why waste time worrying about what happened yesterday when you could be putting all of that emotional energy into worry about what is going to happen tomorrow.

Take me for example. I could be concerned that I didn’t perform as well as I could have in last year’s production. Instead I’ve decided to worry that, for various reasons, I have missed all but two rehearsals for a play I will be performing in a couple of weeks.

What am I doing typing this!!!

wimbledon 2008

I am so happy. Wimbledon starts today. I love Wimbledon. I love tennis. As a child I would spend literally hours batting a ball against the wall of our boiler house. I lost so many tennis balls on the flat roof that my brother invented a ball retrieval system to help me out – true brotherly love.

I wasn’t bad at tennis when I was a kid. In fact I like to believe that if I’d kept it up I could have been pretty good. But I didn’t – and I’m not. I’m not bad at putting the ball where I want it to go – it’s the running to the other side of the court to reach the return that I haven’t quite figured out.

At my last school I was working with my boss one day. I can’t remember what we were talking about as we worked but I do remember saying that I sometimes wished I was Roger Federer. “Sometimes I wish you were too.” She replied. Obviously she hadn’t thought it through – if I was the best tennis player in the world I would hardly have been spending my Tuesday afternoon computerising her pupil action plans. Then what would she have done? – huh? huh?

Wimbledon fortnight is one of my favourite times of the year. Along with the milk cup it is one of the very few things that my father and I bond over. During this fortnight we can often be seen slumped in armchairs in the small hours watching highlights of some obscure mixed doubles match. I remember the joint sense of lose we felt when Gabriella Sabatini announced her retirement. A tragic day in the Campbell household indeed.

It’s just a shame that the Brits are producing so few world class players. It seems we can only manage one a generation at the moment. Of course it’s nice that the whole country unites behind Andy Murray (well, except me – I still think he’s a whingeing teenager) but it would be even better if the country was split by a world class rivalry. What life would be like if we had our very own british version of Connors-McEnroe.

Dreams, only Dreams. In fact it doesn’t look like improving much any time soon. At the moment Tim Henman is ranked as the 6th best player in Britain. Our 6th best player is a retired player who claims to have picked up a racket only a handful of times this year! Hardly a glowing assessment of men’s tennis in the UK. There is some talk that things are better in the women’s game, that there are large numbers of talented players moving up through the ranks – I hope so, I really do. In the meantime my ex-boss and I will have to watch the extraordinary Mr Federer do his thing.

HE SHOOTS... he wakes up

I have a reoccurring dream - In it I am the world's greatest sportsman. Whatever sport I try i am the greatest. It usually becomes complicated when my various teams start complaining that I'm not playing enough for them - but when I'm playing hockey for Toronto Maple Leafs at 7pm on a Friday, football for Newcastle United at 3pm on a Saturday, winning the Wimbledon Final on Sunday and back to the states to play Basketball for the Raptors it all starts to weigh on a person. Still its only a dream.

I admire sports people greatly, despite, or maybe because I lack even an ounce of skill or fitness myself. I used to be quite a good goal keeper when I was playing football (aged12) and a brief love of ice hockey rekindled my fortunes between the posts. But I know I will never be the next Jacques Plante.

We live in a special moment of history - not because of politics and wars on terror - we live in a special time because, for a short time, we can watch true sporting greats. Tiger Woods, the greatest ever golfer; Roger Federer, soon to be the greatest tennis player the world has ever seen; Michael Schumacher, a true champion, if a little unloved at times. Yesterday I saw three of them in person, well, on TV (next best thing.) Schumacher was announcing his retirement after storming to victory in yet another Italian Grand Prix; Woods was hugging his wife and cheering on Roger Federer as he won yet another US Open at Flushing Meadows. This is the third time he's won the US open. He's is the only person to have done that along with winning three Wimbledons. He's won a grand total of nine grand slams... and he's only twenty five! It seems a safe assumption that Pete Sampras' record total of 14 grand slams will soon be under threat. Britain's great hope, Andy Murray, must be so glad he's come along at a time when Federer is not only dominant but could continue this dominance for a decade.

Yep, I love that dream, its the one place I can meet Tiger Woods, Roger Federer, Michael Schumacher, Michael Jordan, Wayne Gretzky, George Best, Lance Armstrong... and beat them all. I wonder does Murray have a similar dream.

what a difference a name makes.

I was having one of those days today. Too many things on my mind. I was still mourning the lose of the great Roger Federer to the great whingeing bar of soap that is Andy Murray in the Cincinnati Masters last week and trying to think of something to type up for my blog when I stumbled across an online article abusing 'Roger' for a shoddy performance that made the author feel 'physically sick.'

"A bit rough" I thought, "A bad performance maybe, an offday undoubtedly, but it'll all be forgotten in a month or so. He's still the greatest tennis player to ever walk on a court." I got more and more wound up until I was at the point where I had to do something. I looked up the article again to try and find an email address or something that I could use to provide constructive criticism. As I read through it again I realised my mistake.

The article wasn't berating Roger Federer - it was tearing apart a certain young man by the name of Kevin Federline. Easy mistake to make - if you can't read. Federer is a tennis genius, born in the same city as Karl Barth (just for you Dave) who is famous for speaking three languages fluently, oh and being the world number one tennis player. Federline is a dancer who is famous for marrying Britney Spears. Federer is the founder of a foundation that helps disadvantaged kids in South Africa. Federline ran off with Ms Spears while his ex was about to give birth to his child. About five months ago Federer was appointed a Goodwill Ambassador for UNICEF, Federline wants to be an ambassador for Coke:

"You know I've been f---ing publicizing their f---ing asses for f---ing years
now. I think it's time for them to f---ing give me some loot," he says. "It
could be great too, 'cause [Britney] was repping Pepsi, and I could be repping
Coke."

Yep, you could say these two guys don't have a great deal in common. And yet in all honesty I can't really judge either one of them. I don't know them. I know what the papers and web say about each - and I know who wins the PR battle - but who knows, maybe KF is a real sweety at heart. I sort of hope he is.