ONE of the first television programmes I can remember seeing as a sports-mad kid was the BBC's Sports Personality of the Year award. It must have been in the late 1950s and was hosted by the splendid Peter Dimmock or was it Raymond Glendenning. It matters not.
At the time my whole life seemed to revolve around Manchester United and I was always rooting for my boyhood hero Bobby Charlton. Bobby never won Sports Personality of the Year, although he made it as a member of England's World Cup squad in 1966 and United's European Cup conquerers of 1968 in the team awards.
One of the earlier recipients of the coveted title I can remember was John Surtees, a motor bike racer who graduated to sports car racing. Cricketer Jim Laker was another, as was showjumper David Broome.
There can be few years since when I have not watched the programme and last Sunday's was probably the best staged of all of them. Gary Linneker and Sue Barker are consummate presenters, although it is rumoured that Barker is stepping down to concentrate on her first love, Cliff Richard, sorry, tennis! Step forward Gabby Logan, tailor-made for the job.
Had the admirable Ricky Hatton won in fight in LA in the early hours of Sunday morning he would have won the much-prized BBC trophy. There can be no denying, however, that fellow boxer Joe Calzaghie was a worthy winner, having gone ten years without defeat in the toughest of sports. Pity he didn't take a suit with him to LA.
His father, the mercurial Enzo, won the coach of the year award and embraced everyone within kissing range - and that was just the blokes - before accepting his trophy. How did such a squirt of a man sire a strapping big lad like Joe. But their affection for each other and pride in their respective achievements were clear for all to see. You see, real men do hug.
I voted for Paula Radcliffe because I thought her feat of winning the New York marathon in the face of such competition just ten months after giving birth to baby daughter Isla was so impressive. I remember watching it and thinking that this was some achievement.
Adding a touch of glitz to the night was cricketer Mark Ramprakash doing a few twirls with his Strictly Come Dancing partner. What would Peter Dimmock have thought of that?
And what a speech from Young Sports Personality of the year, high diver Tom Daley, 13, who sent a message of thanks from Montreal where he picked up a gold in the CAMO invitational meet. Definitely one for the future.
Eventer Sara Phillips, the Queen's granddaughter, looked like she was dressed in a purple wasps nest but resisted the temptation to describe her year as Sports Personality of 2006 as "amazing". Remember her acceptance speech last year. "Amazing" it certainly wasn't.
The Beeb gets a lot of stick for dumbing down our TV diet - but when it comes to staging big events like Sports Personality they have no peers.
Wednesday, December 12, 2007
So it's Capello for England
SO it looks like it's going to be Capello for England. As I write the former Real Madrid and AC Milan manager is, apparently, dining with FA chief Brian Barwick and his side-kick Sir Trevor Brooking. We are told that an announcement could be made as early as Friday.
It would seem that Fabio Capello is another Barwick second choice, the "Special One" having declared himself not interested.
Barwick pretended that Steve McClaren was his first choice when we went through this farce a couple of years ago, but everyone knew he wasn't and look what happened.
There can be no denying Capello's ability or qualifications for the England job. In a way, it was the easy choice. A much more brave decision by the FA would have been to appoint an English manager.
My own choice, the infectious Harry Redknapp, was ruled out the minute the Old Bill went knocking on his door. In reality, he was never a serious candidate as far as the suits in Soho Square were concerned, but there was growing support for the Portsmouth boss, especially if he was coupled with a younger man such as Stuart Pearce.
I sincerely believe that most English supporters would prefer an Englishman to be running the national side, but you can't expect Barwick and his band of bland lemmings to take any notice of the fans. After all, we are only the ones who pay their highly inflated salaries and will, ultimately, be footing the bill for the Capello contract rumoured to be a mind-boggling £6 million a year.
We hear that Capello, who doesn't speak a word of English, is a tough disciplinarian. Look how he dealt with "Golden Balls" David Beckham when his celebrity status looked like getting out of hand at Real Madrid. Becks, to his credit, had enough strength of character to fight his way back into the Real team and regain his England status. I hope fabulous Fabio does the right thing and gives Beckham the chance to win his 100th cap when England play Switzerland in February. He at least deserves that.
So baring any last-minute embarrassments, which tend to happen in FA la-la land, Capello could be sat at his new desk in London next week. I wonder what will be in the in-tray? More interestingly, the contents of the out-tray could be even more revealing.
As good, loyal England supporters, I suppose we must give the new man a chance. I read that he's bringing his own coaching team with him but I hope that some home-grown talent might be recruited as well. Not sure whether it should be Alan Shearer, however. I'd stick with Pearce who seems to be far more passionate and committed to the beautiful game than the dour Geordie.
One encouraging prospect is that Capello, we are told, will have no truck with the prima donas and will not flinch from dropping Frank Lampard or Steven Gerrard if they are unable to play together. Both of them could get the chop. There's a thought.
If Capello turns English football around and delivers a trophy for the first time for 40 years he will get God status on the sceptered isle. If he doesn't he will be yet another FA flawed appointment.
Let's give him the benefit of the doubt, eh?
It would seem that Fabio Capello is another Barwick second choice, the "Special One" having declared himself not interested.
Barwick pretended that Steve McClaren was his first choice when we went through this farce a couple of years ago, but everyone knew he wasn't and look what happened.
There can be no denying Capello's ability or qualifications for the England job. In a way, it was the easy choice. A much more brave decision by the FA would have been to appoint an English manager.
My own choice, the infectious Harry Redknapp, was ruled out the minute the Old Bill went knocking on his door. In reality, he was never a serious candidate as far as the suits in Soho Square were concerned, but there was growing support for the Portsmouth boss, especially if he was coupled with a younger man such as Stuart Pearce.
I sincerely believe that most English supporters would prefer an Englishman to be running the national side, but you can't expect Barwick and his band of bland lemmings to take any notice of the fans. After all, we are only the ones who pay their highly inflated salaries and will, ultimately, be footing the bill for the Capello contract rumoured to be a mind-boggling £6 million a year.
We hear that Capello, who doesn't speak a word of English, is a tough disciplinarian. Look how he dealt with "Golden Balls" David Beckham when his celebrity status looked like getting out of hand at Real Madrid. Becks, to his credit, had enough strength of character to fight his way back into the Real team and regain his England status. I hope fabulous Fabio does the right thing and gives Beckham the chance to win his 100th cap when England play Switzerland in February. He at least deserves that.
So baring any last-minute embarrassments, which tend to happen in FA la-la land, Capello could be sat at his new desk in London next week. I wonder what will be in the in-tray? More interestingly, the contents of the out-tray could be even more revealing.
As good, loyal England supporters, I suppose we must give the new man a chance. I read that he's bringing his own coaching team with him but I hope that some home-grown talent might be recruited as well. Not sure whether it should be Alan Shearer, however. I'd stick with Pearce who seems to be far more passionate and committed to the beautiful game than the dour Geordie.
One encouraging prospect is that Capello, we are told, will have no truck with the prima donas and will not flinch from dropping Frank Lampard or Steven Gerrard if they are unable to play together. Both of them could get the chop. There's a thought.
If Capello turns English football around and delivers a trophy for the first time for 40 years he will get God status on the sceptered isle. If he doesn't he will be yet another FA flawed appointment.
Let's give him the benefit of the doubt, eh?
Sunday, December 2, 2007
'arry for England?
I SIT firmly in the camp that says if you have to be born in England to play for the national team you should be born in England to manage it.
I'm the first to admit that the influx of foreign players has made the Premier League more exciting and the likes of Wenger, Benitez and Mourinho are brilliant tacticians.
But with the proliferation of foreign owners also, don't you feel that our national game is being wrestled from us?
I was dead against the appointment of Sven Gorin Eriksson as the England coach on such a ludicrously obscene salary, although I concede he's a great club manager and is doing a brilliant job at Manchester City.
OK, so the FA appointed an English manager in Steve McClaren but I always thought he was a good No 2 and the ultimate job was beyond him. So it proved.
For weeks I've been promoting the attributes of Harry Redknapp as the next England boss. Seriously. I've always been a big admirer of 'appy Harry ever since I was the publisher of the West Ham club newspaper "Hammers News" in the early 1990s and was always impressed by his passion for the game.
Harry's one of the best home-grown managers we have; he's a good man manager, knows foreign football as well as anyone in the game today, can spot a talent with one kick of the ball and, most importantly, he's got passion in bucketfuls. And a sense of humour.
Put him in charge of the national set-up with the help of Tony Adams, his assistant at Portsmouth, the England Under 21 manager Stuart Pearce and his son Jamie, who knows the current crop of prima donnas well, and I think you have an unbeatable management team.
Then came along last week's events when Harry's luxury pad at Sandbanks was raided by police at 6 am, scaring the wits out of his wife, as part of their on-going investigation into the corruption of football.
Harry wasn't even at home, having been watching a game in Germany the night before. Good timing boys. He was arrested later, as was Pompey chief Executive Peter Storrie and a few others. No charges have been made and I doubt whether there will be.
The possibility of Harry Redknapp, despite his barrow-boy image, becoming the next England manager was starting to gather momentum.
I doubt whether Harry would have ever got the call from those grey men in suites at Soho Square. It's not the first time his name has been linked to the bung culture that surrounds football of today, resulting in him refusing to speak to the BBC since the Panorama programme besmirched his reputation.
Rod Liddell, my favourite columnist, floated the idea in the Sunday Times that the dawn visitation by the Old Bill could not have come at a better time for the FA who will now have a good excuse not to talk to Harry when an increasing number of people were jumping on the Redknapp for England bandwagon.
And who tipped off the Sun photographer that the 6 am raid on Harry's house was taking place? Did another brown envelop change hands?
In typical Redknapp fashion, Harry called a press conference, showing anger, humility and humour in equal measures.
One thing is for sure. Any hopes that Harry had that his career would finally be recognised with the top job are out the window. What a pity.
England needs a down-to-earth English manager who would be proud to do the job.
You can keep your Cappelos and your Scolaris.
'appy Harry was the man for the job - until the Old Bill barged into Redknapp Towers.
When his name is finally cleared - which I believe will happen - it will be too late.
Brian Barwick and his team of depressingly spineless side-kicks will have dished out another multi-million contract which will almost certainly end in tears and another whopping compensation cheque.
No wonder I find myself increasingly drawn to the oval ball game. Me and a million others.
National sport? National laughing stock, more like.
I'm the first to admit that the influx of foreign players has made the Premier League more exciting and the likes of Wenger, Benitez and Mourinho are brilliant tacticians.
But with the proliferation of foreign owners also, don't you feel that our national game is being wrestled from us?
I was dead against the appointment of Sven Gorin Eriksson as the England coach on such a ludicrously obscene salary, although I concede he's a great club manager and is doing a brilliant job at Manchester City.
OK, so the FA appointed an English manager in Steve McClaren but I always thought he was a good No 2 and the ultimate job was beyond him. So it proved.
For weeks I've been promoting the attributes of Harry Redknapp as the next England boss. Seriously. I've always been a big admirer of 'appy Harry ever since I was the publisher of the West Ham club newspaper "Hammers News" in the early 1990s and was always impressed by his passion for the game.
Harry's one of the best home-grown managers we have; he's a good man manager, knows foreign football as well as anyone in the game today, can spot a talent with one kick of the ball and, most importantly, he's got passion in bucketfuls. And a sense of humour.
Put him in charge of the national set-up with the help of Tony Adams, his assistant at Portsmouth, the England Under 21 manager Stuart Pearce and his son Jamie, who knows the current crop of prima donnas well, and I think you have an unbeatable management team.
Then came along last week's events when Harry's luxury pad at Sandbanks was raided by police at 6 am, scaring the wits out of his wife, as part of their on-going investigation into the corruption of football.
Harry wasn't even at home, having been watching a game in Germany the night before. Good timing boys. He was arrested later, as was Pompey chief Executive Peter Storrie and a few others. No charges have been made and I doubt whether there will be.
The possibility of Harry Redknapp, despite his barrow-boy image, becoming the next England manager was starting to gather momentum.
I doubt whether Harry would have ever got the call from those grey men in suites at Soho Square. It's not the first time his name has been linked to the bung culture that surrounds football of today, resulting in him refusing to speak to the BBC since the Panorama programme besmirched his reputation.
Rod Liddell, my favourite columnist, floated the idea in the Sunday Times that the dawn visitation by the Old Bill could not have come at a better time for the FA who will now have a good excuse not to talk to Harry when an increasing number of people were jumping on the Redknapp for England bandwagon.
And who tipped off the Sun photographer that the 6 am raid on Harry's house was taking place? Did another brown envelop change hands?
In typical Redknapp fashion, Harry called a press conference, showing anger, humility and humour in equal measures.
One thing is for sure. Any hopes that Harry had that his career would finally be recognised with the top job are out the window. What a pity.
England needs a down-to-earth English manager who would be proud to do the job.
You can keep your Cappelos and your Scolaris.
'appy Harry was the man for the job - until the Old Bill barged into Redknapp Towers.
When his name is finally cleared - which I believe will happen - it will be too late.
Brian Barwick and his team of depressingly spineless side-kicks will have dished out another multi-million contract which will almost certainly end in tears and another whopping compensation cheque.
No wonder I find myself increasingly drawn to the oval ball game. Me and a million others.
National sport? National laughing stock, more like.
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