Professional golf learns the lesson of ancient Rome – let barbarians in and the empire crumbles

In just a matter of days, my household has seen quite the transformation.

Younger Son, a mad-keen golfer, has been greatly tickled by my view that the Ryder Cup is the most embarrassing freak-show in professional sport.

Embarrassing because of the mountainous fall from grace that this biennial ‘handbags’ squabble has come to represent.

The Ryder Cup is now golf’s version of a week in Magaluf. People with respectable jobs put all that on hold for seven days while setting new personal bests in the kind of behaviour they wouldn’t want their grandmothers to see.

We’ve heard the visiting European team booed to high heaven at Whistling Straits; we’ve seen caddies grab their 15 minutes of fame in the mandatory ‘Ryder Cup-themed petulant spat’ and we have watched Brooks Koepka and some tuppeny journeyman called Daniel Berger swearing at rules officials and making no attempt to hide it.

All the while whooped on by the kind of spectators who now have this sport in their grip like a severe case of poison ivy. If you haven’t picked up on the growing trend of unsavoury interaction between professional golfers and their public, you haven’t been paying attention.

In years gone by, of course, we could console ourselves with the thought that all this guff stops when the cup is handed to the winning captain, and professional golf rediscovers its sanity for another two years.

I’m not sure we have that luxury any more. The Ryder Cup is no longer an aberration. It is now the norm in what is a looming perfect storm at the apex of the sport.

On one side of the ropes, you have increasingly unprepossessing young golfers with all the talent in the world and barely a personality between them. On the other side, a weekly convention of village idiots, lured in not so much by golf as by the irresistible cocktail of beer and television cameras.

(And please don’t tell me “Yes, but that’s just Americans.” To do so ignores one of the biggest cultural cliches of the last 50 years. What starts in America ends up over here. If you’re in the habit of saying “snuck”, you prove my point.)

And presiding over it all, yet another set of blinkered sporting administrators whose only criterion of a job well done is how much money they raise.

I doubt Koepka and Berger will receive so much as a stern glance for their behaviour from the game’s would-be custodians. Why should they? Those same custodians have sat back and done nothing while ball and club technology reduce even the best golf courses on the planet to an irrelevance. On their watch, what should be an even contest between man and terrain has become Tyson Fury vs Mary Berry.

Those same custodians apparently have no problem with spectators bellowing routine inanities when players tee off. “GET IN THE HOLE!!!!!” on a par five being the least ridiculous of them.

Those same custodians somehow convinced themselves that nothing screams “classy” quite like something called the Waste Management Phoenix Open. Although given the s***-show that professional golf is fast becoming, maybe they deserve some credit for foresight.

Koepka’s outburst at rules officials is the most ominous portent. No-one’s under any illusions that professional golfers converse like choirboys when things aren’t going their way but until recently, they have at least kept it down, mindful that it’s one of the niceties that their sport demands.

Don’t be surprised if that’s gone now. The brat Koepka’s entitlement trumped all last Saturday and many of his peers will take their cue from that.

Golf, though, needs to remain a cut above other sports when it comes to the way its competitors conduct themselves, even under the fiercest pressure.

It doesn’t have the immediate visual drama of football – whatever the code – with which to sell itself. Being able to watch grown men and women play it without feeling embarrassed for them the way you so often do in a football stadium; that was one of its compensations.

It could be played good and hard by its finest exponents; there might be meaningul glares aplenty and little love lost out there on the links, but they all knew there was a standard to be observed and heaven help anyone who decided it was optional.

Let other games go to hell in the proverbial handcart; there was always golf to remind you that civilisation is still out there somewhere. At the amateur level nowadays, people from all walks of life play it for that very reason.

If, in its shop window, however, golf becomes just another sport, I believe it has some hard days ahead in the marketplace.

Younger Son is 22. The target demographic. Bullish and worldly, he also likes nothing more than sending up his father’s ‘old-fashioned values’. So I was as much surprised as saddened when he announced that he, too, on reflection, has probably observed his last Ryder Cup.

“I’m actually pleased Arnold Palmer’s dead,” he told me. “The thought of him having to watch that crap…”

Do they think we were born yesterday? PR wonks putting words in mouths of Super League Six should share the contempt

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

I may be the only football lover disappointed that the European Super League is clinically dead.

Not because I intended to watch a single second of it but because it could have finally lanced a boil growing in the game since 1992.

That was the year that members of the new English Premier League effectively declared that the word ‘league’ was a farce.

That’s ‘league’ as in ‘an association…formed to promote the interests of its members’, as defined by my ageing dictionary.

The escapees were already in a league, of course. The Football League, but they weren’t so keen on share and sharing alike where income was concerned. One of the characteristics you’d think was integral to any ‘league’ worthy of the name.

You know the rest. The rich got ridiculously richer; journeymen midfielders were suddenly driving Lamborghinis and corporate chancers from across the world began buzzing around the Premier League honey pot.

And, because such people are never satisfied, the dawn of an idea that the Premier League model might work on a pan-European basis was just a matter of time.

Yes, the Super League could have cost us Arsenal, Chelsea, Liverpool, Manchesters City and United and Tottenham Hotspur, had it come to fruition. But what might we have gained?

A domestic top-flight shorn of its arrogance and all-consuming greed. The Above-Average League, as it would have had to re-brand itself. Chastened, humbled yet perhaps more likeable because of it.

Reasonable salaries, reasonable ticket prices and a few steps closer at least to the old joke about the fan who phones his club to ask what time the game kicks off. “What time can you get here?” is the reply.

We’d mourn like hell what we’d lost but I believe what remained would somehow survive. We love our national game too much to watch it die altogether. It would simply have had to cut its cloth, that’s all. Hurrah for that.

Instead, the Super League is no more and we have peace in our time. Just like India and Pakistan do.

Because people’s cards are on the table now, even if the dealer’s gone home. Fourteen Premier League clubs now know exactly how the other six see the future of the game. Unless they are truly naive, they will also know that this wretched project didn’t die last Tuesday: it was merely placed in a cryonic chamber, with a view to resuscitation at a later date.

What we now have at the apex of the English game is one of those relationships where warring spouses agree to give it one more go for the sake of the kids.

On the outside, friends and family offer tentative congratulations. On the inside, everyone’s thinking, “I’ll give it 18 months.”

So an opportunity missed, then, in my humble opinion. But I can live with it. Once you wake up to the fact that there’s a big, wide, fascinating world out there beyond the realm of sport, the calamities that arise whenever greed and games coincide tend to tax you less and less.

I watched the Super League display all the longevity of a pint of milk and merely rolled my eyes. I made do with an amused smirk as I watched, yet again, corporate grandees display quite astonishing cowardice at the first hint of pushback. Bottle merchants, indeed: in his tour de force tirade, Gary Neville had them spot-on.

Not even the absence of the only proper response to this mess—“I am clearly out of touch with my customer base; I shall be selling the club forthwith”—perturbed me much.

What came in its place, however, got me steaming. Having my intelligence insulted will always do that.

Here are just five examples of the bilge with which the guilty attempted to paint over their damp patch. My thoughts in bold.

ARSENAL

“The last few days have shown us yet again the depth of feeling our supporters around the world have for this great club and the game we love. [Given that “depth”, why not consult them beforehand, instead of grovelling afterwards?]

“We needed no reminding of this [Yes you did. Last week was it.] but the response from supporters in recent days has given us time for further reflection and deep thought. 

“It was never our intention to cause such distress, however when the invitation to join the Super League came, while knowing there were no guarantees, we did not want to be left behind to ensure we protected Arsenal and its future. [Because you people are all about the protection, of course.]

“As a result of listening to you and the wider football community  over recent days [“As it’s dawned on us that unpleasant people might try to find out where we live”], we are withdrawing from the proposed Super League. We made a mistake, and we apologise for it.

LIVERPOOL

“Liverpool Football Club can confirm that our involvement in proposed plans to form a European Super League has been discontinued.

“In recent days, the club has received representations from various key stakeholders, both internally and externally [“People have been calling us a bunch of money-grabbing *****…”], and we would like to thank them for their valuable contributions.” [“…and we would like them to stop.”]

LIVERPOOL OWNER, JOHN HENRY

“I want to apologise to all the fans and supporters of Liverpool Football Club for the disruption I caused over the past 48 hours.

“It goes without saying but should be said that the project put forward was never going to stand without the support of the fans. No-one ever thought differently in England. Over these 48 hours you were very clear that it would not stand. We heard you. I heard you.

“And I want to apologise to Jürgen, to Billy, to the players and to everyone who works so hard at LFC to make our fans proud. They have absolutely no responsibility for this disruption. They were the most disrupted and unfairly so. This is what hurts most [“After all the money I just kissed goodbye to, that is.”]. They love your club and work to make you proud every single day.

“I know the entire LFC team has the expertise, leadership and passion necessary to rebuild trust and help us move forward. More than a decade ago when we signed up for the challenges associated with football, we dreamed of what you dreamed of. And we’ve worked hard to improve your club. Our work isn’t done. And I hope you’ll understand that even when we make mistakes, we’re trying to work in your club’s best interests. [As defined by whom, though?] In this endeavour I’ve let you down.

“Again, I’m sorry, and I alone am responsible for the unnecessary negativity brought forward over the past couple of days. It’s something I won’t forget. And shows the power the fans have today and will rightly continue to have…” [How does a statement that includes three apologies and one “I’ve let you down”, manage to omit the word “Goodbye”?]

MANCHESTER UNITED

“Manchester United will not be participating in the European Super League.

“We have listened carefully to the reaction from our fans, the UK government and other key stakeholders. [When it was too late and the damage was done]

We remain committed to working with others across the football community to come up with sustainable solutions to the long-term challenges facing the game.” [“Such as our owners”].

TOTTENHAM HOTSPUR

“We can confirm that we have formally commenced procedures to withdraw from the group developing proposals for a European Super League (ESL).

Chairman Daniel Levy said: “We regret the anxiety and upset caused by the ESL proposal. We felt it was important that our club participated in the development of a possible new structure that sought to better ensure financial fair play and financial sustainability whilst delivering significantly increased support for the wider football pyramid. [If people like you gave a toss about financial sustainability and the Pyramid, the Premier League would still be called ‘Division One’]

“We believe that we should never stand still and that the sport should constantly review competitions and governance to ensure the game we all love continues to evolve and excite fans around the world. [“We’re not getting rid of Frankenstein’s monster as such: we’re just going to park it in this cupboard for now.”]

“We should like to thank all those supporters who presented their considered opinions.” [“My saliva-flecked lapels bear testimony to your passion.”]

All of this, of course, would have been more honestly condensed into a single statement issued on behalf of the Septic Six.

“We gave it a go. We’ll pick our moment more carefully next time.”

Candour, however, doesn’t always come easily to the rich and powerful. Nor need it, when they can pay thousands to public relations experts to roll their stools in glitter.

So we get puke-inducing platitudes as sampled above, before those same PR people, beneath a cloak of convenient anonymity, climb into their upmarket cars, drive to their upmarket homes and congratulate themselves on another good day at their upmarket office.

It’s time this spewing of rubbish without responsibility was stopped.

The Daily Mail’s Martin Samuel, reasonably enough, has called for legislation to prevent a repeat of the Super League debacle. While the statute books are open, I would request one more piece of reassuring legislation.

A law stating that any media release must henceforth not only indicate the name of the individual or organisation on whose behalf it is issued, but also display the name of the PR professional who oversaw its drafting-the person, not just an agency-and an email address where that person can receive constructive feedback on his or her efforts.

If they are to persist in trying to appease us with vacuous word salads that fool no-one, then they can at least come out of the shadows and start owning some of the fallout.

Who do you support? It’s a secondary football question now

Pic by Jon Candy

Try ‘What do you support?’ instead, next time you talk to a football fan because that is the question leaping out at me from The Athletic‘s recent report (subscription required) on the owners of Manchester United.

I haven’t grown entirely cynical, at least. That was my one reassurance as I travelled through Laurie Whitwell and Daniel Taylor’s account of how the Glazer family interpret the phrase ‘minding the shop’. I’m still old enough to be pulled up slightly when I read things like:

‘…United were exempted from having to reveal all their financial data to the market, a position they reinforced by moving company registry from Old Trafford to the Cayman Islands’

and

‘The Glazers’ ownership has cost the club £1.5 billion in interest, debt and other outgoings’

But my eyebrows weren’t elevated for too long, because we’re all used to it now, aren’t we? A game drenched in money and the plaything of foreign plutocrats. You could probably start a decent pub conversation by postulating whom Caligula would be in for were he still emperor of Rome. Lazio out of loyalty or Juventus out of ego?

Or might he fancy a boardroom coup at one of the Birmingham clubs instead? A fellow passenger on a train journey through the Second City 30 years ago assured me that Solihull in the 1960s was “the world centre of adultery”. Maybe the randy Roman would like his chances of waking more than one sleeping giant while he was over here.

See? We just shrug it off now with a joke. Boardroom shenanigans on a grotesque scale are old news. Which is why the Glazers had less and less of my attention as The Athletic‘s report unwound. Coming ever more sharply into focus instead were their customers.

While it’s United fans in this instance, my question could be aimed at any set of supporters whose club (‘club’? Oh how quaint…) is now a global entity, its marketplace the world and its strings pulled by puppeteers in far-flung tax havens.

When you roll up at that stadium every other weekend or activate your subscription channel; what is it that you’re supporting? We know its name, but what is the concept, the notion, in which you invest so much of your life.

I ask because the once-obvious answer has been flung to the roadside like sandwich wrappers from a passing car. What’s the thing that always crops up whenever Celtic’s 1967 European Cup triumph is discussed? That Europe’s champion team was made up of men all born within 30 miles of Glasgow. Allegiance to people from your neck of the woods was the logical driver of football support in the first half of the 20th century but such parochialism was always going to be vulnerable as social mobility increased.

Nowadays that mobility is worldwide. Depending on your team’s clout, you can be rooting for a group of peripatetic mercenaries from every corner of the planet. Here this season, gone the next.

You can argue that that’s just a natural progression of a transfer system that began as long ago as 1885. What I think is the real game-changer is when team owners, too, began flying in from overseas. Gone was the decades-old model of local-boy-done-good who decides to buy the town’s football club and spends every season thereafter ruefully joking about how it costs him far more than it ever makes him.

Even if the cast of characters doing his bidding every Saturday afternoon might change from one season to the next, there was still that local enterprise, local hero feel to a club, even if the abuse from the terraces often made a mockery of the latter label.

That geographical link is well and truly severed now. Maybe it’s just as well that many supporters only see the money when their club is bought by people who work out of Abu Dhabi, Shanghai or Boston, Massachusetts. Were they to dwell for too long on the union of overseas business interests and globetrotting footballers that now dominates the Premier League’s upper echelons they might begin to understand where my question comes from.

If local pride is gone, what is left to support?

Are we into more abstract territory now? Is it just residuary tribalism for example? Or is it nostalgia? Your dad took you there for years and when you go there with your kids, not only do you feel close to him but the pattern is reassuring. When you imagine them taking their kids one day, this transitory life suddenly has a comforting, if illusory permanence about it.

Is it failure? Life has disappointed you almost across the board. Your job crushes you, you and your spouse underwhelm each other in equal measure and those cruel What We Did This Year letters tucked inside several cards remind you each Christmas that your friends have all done so much better. Those cathartic ninety minutes, whether they call for ecstasy or rage, represent the one time each week when you feel truly alive.

Maybe it’s the need to vent. You’re not seeing some hapless midfielder when you decry his commitment levels at full volume. You’re seeing a boss who’s never satisfied with you or the amoeba who keyed your car last night while you slept. What you’re supporting is your right, your need, to let that clueless number 10 have it with both barrels, for the good of you and everyone coming into contact with you in the next 24 hours.

I don’t sneer at any of these suggestions, incidentally. As the writer Henry Thoreau said of fishing, many men go fishing all their lives without realising it wasn’t fish they were after.

All I know is that I did the unthinkable some years ago now. I walked away from my own top-flight team because I realised they didn’t need supporters like me any more. They needed hedge fund managers.

For my part, I could no longer see what it was that I needed from them. Over time, an umbilical cord had worn away to the point where I realised I could love the game without loving a particular team and without the sky falling in.

Those of you with greater staying power, I’m all ears as to what prompts it, but before you start throwing around glib protestations of ‘passion’ in the Comments section, I must remind you (although you probably know it) that the chances are your team’s billionaire owners and millionaire players don’t give a stuff about you.

Which frames a simple question. Passion for what, exactly?