T20 Golf – Head to Head

Imagine it. It could work.

The Open this year is at St Andrew’s, and golf has the same problems as always.  Everyone is walking in the same direction (pretty much – these are professionals, after all) and every player refuses to share their ball.  This is not head-to-head sport for those of us who like a bit of direct to-ing and fr0-ing, the pitting of one player against another.

What golf neds is the equivalent of T20 cricket, and I have the answer.

The admin people at the R & A should stand on the first tee (if I remember correctly) and look over the North  Sea to Holland.  At the same time they should squint until the past comes into view: the future can be found in the ancient Dutch game of Kolven.

The singular of Kolven is Kolf, but the Wikipedia entry for the game of Kolven bears no resemblance to a description I once read in a 1947 book called Ball, Bat and Bishop, by Robert W.Henderson.  This book was written and published before the Internet, so it’s almost certainly correct, and the information needs to be spread before it gets lost beneath the curse of the recent.

Henderson describes an outdoors golf game with sticks, but crucially, players use only one ball.  There is an attacking side and a defending side.  The attackers name a target that is at least four shots away, usually the door of a church or perhaps a distant gate across the flat Dutch lowlands.  The attacker names a par score to hit the ball to the target.  The defenders will probably laugh. 

The attackers start off with three shots in a row.  The third shot is where strategy begins, because after the third shot the defenders get their turn to hit the ball.  The defenders must stop the attackers reaching the church door in their specified number of shots. 

I imagine the defenders just whack it as far as possible.  Or they might aim at a foxhole or the middle of a dike.  Sadly, Henderson doesn’t discuss tactics, nor whether the defenders then have  an attack of their own. 

A variation on this game would give golf the direct contest and contemporary appeal it currently lacks.  Instructions for the R & A are included below, and the commitee men can tweak as they see fit, but the basics are all here.  The game uses existing courses.  It retains the benefits of open air exercise and the basic shots remain the same.  Accuracy is still at a premium, as well as an ability to read the landscape.  The added value is in the reading of another player’s mind, and the need to evaluate his skills.

The rules:

A game for two players.  It can also be played as doubles, in the Ryder cup for example.

The game is played tee to tee (as opposed to tee to green).  There will be par 3′s, par 4′s and par 5′s.  The committee can set up the course however they see fit, using whichever tees suit the purpose of the game.

Player 1 hits first.  His objective is to land the ball on the nominated target tee.  This is the tee Player 2 is defending.

Player 2 hits second.  He hits the same ball as the Player 1, with his target the tee that Player 1 has just used as his starting point.

Players alternate shots.  First to land the ball on the opposing tee is the winner. 

Normal golf rules apply – Out of Bounds etc.  A penalty shot gives two consecutive shots to the opposing player.

The Player who hits first can use a tee-peg, but no aids will be used thereafter.  This means that the first striker (the server?) has an advantage. 

First strike will either alternate or go to whoever wins the previous hole.

Hell, people, do some experimenting.  See what works.

A final rule:  The ball cannot be played backwards away from the target tee (otherwise the game could go on forever).

So now it’s over to the R & A.   All I ask is a portrait next to Old Tom Morris.

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Football is an Optical Illusion

Bad workmen blame their tools.

In South Africa there have been three major goalkeeping howlers after four days of matches.  England, Algeria and Paraguay have all seen their keepers bamboozled by what most people would think was a familiar sight to the man in goal: an approaching round object known as a ball.

Apparently the official 2010 World Cup ball, the ‘Jabulani’,  deviates unpredictably in the air.   Some have blamed the manufacture, others the effect of altitude at some of the South African stadiums.  A football is not a technologically tricksy idea.  There is only so much that can go wrong, and most people have rightly assumed that the complaining goalkeepers have other ‘issues’.  Like not being very good at keeping goal. 

Or so I thought, until I looked at this picture in today’s Guardian.  This Jabulani ball does not look round.  It is round, and our eyes adjust to make it round like a football.  But look at it closely.  The illustrative design on the ball has created the optical illusion of a shape more like an egg.

This is a sensational discovery.  Eggs don’t have a centre, as a ball does.  If kicked, an egg would wobble. 

When a goalkeeper is aiming to get his body behind the ball his eyes and instinct search for the centre of the ball as his target.  The ‘centre’ of the Jabulani may be unclear because of an optical illusion caused by the branded decoration on the ball itself.  This means that goalkeepers, especially under pressure, are more likely to misjudge the flight of the Jabulani and make mistakes.

This is the answer.  Someone should be told.

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Richard Beardy Beard, Sportsman

'there are no winners'

'there are no winners'

As a sportsman, I am a member of the ‘ -y’ family.  I’m related to Straussy and Backy.  In our small sub-species, Homo Olympiens, there are three primary families.  We are joined by the ‘-o’ family (Wilko, Johnno) and the ‘-ers’ family (Aggers, Athers).

We get along famously, because these sporting nicknames are names stripped down.  They are names in the dressing room in their jockstraps.  They’re no respecters of names.   On the team-sheet nobody escapes – the system is automatic and egalitarian, and amid the mud and studs everyone is quickly allocated to one of the families.

The same does not happen in individual sports.  One of the horrors of golf coverage on the TV is the smarmy use of first names – ‘Tiger’, ‘Lee’ – as if everyone was on first name terms.  You’re not fooling anybody.

I’m thinking about this because I was surprised to be referred to on the net as  Beardy.  Over on his excellent blog designed for auto-didact, spliffy, anti-establishment ranting polymaths (who like trains), Ian Marchant reminded me (and all those in his wide constituency) that I’d offered to take the Physical Education Classes at the Free University of Radnorshire.

(This will be free like the National Gallery and not like Westminster Abbey, which is free except if you don’t pay you can’t go in.  At the National Gallery there’s no bullying, and you’d have to have a heart of socialist stone not to bung a few coins in the tin or pay a couple of quid for some overpriced postcards).

But Ian is right.  I have put myself forward as the Professor of PE at FUR.   He was therefore correct to give me my active sporting name, and you know what,  Marchers?  That’s going to be the first class we take, before preparing for the more philosophical  Race With No Finish Line (practical). 

What are team nicknames all about?  They announce an intimacy.  They also infantilise, which makes them true.  Those of us who like games and rolling about on grass are in touch with our inner child.  A baby name is the best we deserve, and there is no room for airs and graces.

I was reminded of this once in the letter pages of the Times.  A show-off Dad proudly wrote in to say that his eight-month old son was a keen fan of BBC’s Test Match Special.  Not only did he like to listen to every ball of a Test match, at the age of eight months, but only the day before he’d uttered his first words:  ‘Aggers.’

The next day another reader replied that his son, too, was eight months old and listened to every ball of the Test match.  His first words were ‘Christoper Martin-Jenkins.’

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Done in by a Chiltern

Cyclists  Beware

Cyclists Beware

I’m trying to find out about the new place I’ve come to live.  One way is to walk about.  I’ve done a bit of that.  There’s also jogging.  I’m now a familiar sight along the Thames, tripping over mooring lines and dodging courting couples.  Courting doesn’t involve much talking these days, it seems, and you can do most of it with your eyes shut.  The Thames on a summer evening is the longest Lover’s Lane in England, with boys and girls in their late teenage taking another last chance to grow older without regrets.

For the broader view, I’ve also taken to my bike, and yesterday I rode from Slough to Oxford.  Somewhere outside Henley I took a detour into the Chilterns, and learnt an important lesson: stone-age English folk knew what they were talking about when they named their villages.

Last October, with Virtual Tom, I cycled up a Tour de France Category 1 climb in the Vosges, the Ballon d’Alsace.  It was so much fun we did it twice in a day, and Tom’s typically concise account can be found here.  Riding a bicycle up a proper mountain is a very relaxing experience.  There’s no rush.  You physically can’t go any faster than you’re going.  And you can’t go any slower because at 8 kph the bicyle topples over and you fall off.  Nothing else for it but to settle in, and enjoy the views for the next ten upward kilometres.

There’s no such philosophy to save the unwary bike rider in the Chilterns.  It’s the Chilterns, I kept thinking, I can go faster than this.  I’m heading for a place called Pishill, I told myself, which is a pissy little hill outside Henley. 

Only it isn’t.  It keeps on going, and going, not steep, but by now I’m completely cooked from failing to notice that I’ve been going uphill for some considerable distance.  While I thought I was pushing on, the Chiltern hills have gradually been stealing away my soul.

I should have learnt my lesson years ago, at a place called High Ham near Glastonbury.  That High isn’t there for fun, and especially not on a bicycle.

Towards the end of the trip, I saw two small boys waving from the entrance to a Garden Centre.  I pulled across the road to ask them if they needed any help.

‘No,’ they said. ‘We’re playing a game.  We wave at cars.  If the passenger waves back we get a point.  If the driver waves back we get two points.’

I’m the competitive sort.  We entered into an interesting discussion, and eventually decided that a cyclist pulling over and stopping was worth ten whole points.  It was the bomb that decided the game.

It was only as I was riding away that I realised this game can only be fun to play in a part of the country that is essentially unfriendly.   Who wouldn’t wave back?  Then I remembered.  I’m in the Home Counties, or near enough.

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Sport at Pembroke College Cambridge since 1945: From Pembroke in our Time 2007

Choke Chain

pembroke

In the absence of James Campbell’s formidable memory, a view of College sport over the last sixty years becomes dependent on the club pages of the Pembroke Gazette. Fortunately, at least in its sports section, the little blue book can be made to yield to statistical analysis.

Since 1945 in all sports except rowing, as recorded in the Gazette, Pembroke has managed outright Championship or Cuppers wins on thirty occasions. I include the unbeaten cricket season of 1947, even though that year’s cricket team professed themselves ‘free from the anxieties of competitions.’ Nevertheless.

Over a sixty year period the maths couldn’t be easier: we have a habit of being the best in at least one University sport about every two years. A closer study of the Gazette, however, reveals a much more alarming fact. Pembroke has been runner-up, either second in the League or beaten finalist in Cuppers, an astonishing 54 times. I’m sorry to have to be the one to break this news, but when the pressure comes on, when the kitchen heats up, when the tough get going, we the sportier members of Pembroke College have a collective tendency to choke.

What well-rounded people we must be. Not for us the one-eyed focus on victory, but the peripheral vision that takes in doubt and self-destruction (and just in case boaties think they’re immune from this, in the Lents and Mays Pembroke has finished second-placed on the river 19 times since 1945, Head only 8). Sometimes, our casual attitude to conquest can defy belief, as at the end of the 1970 squash season: ‘We lost the Cuppers final to Selwyn by a walkover – surely the first time ever – after an unfortunate series of misunderstandings.’

Personally, I find our habit of coming second rather endearing, like Orwell’s model Englishman prepared to step off the pavement for any stranger to whom the pavement matters more. I particularly like the involved, complicated philosophy of the second XI football team of 1988, who ‘took great pleasure in beating teams who placed too great an emphasis on winning.’ Discuss.

Was there ever a Golden Age? From 1976 until 1978, Pembroke was dominant on the river, had a champion rugby team, was a top-flight contender in squash and an irresistible force both in the pool and on the croquet lawn. Again between 1983 and1986, coinciding with more success for the oarsmen, the rugby team won the league title twice, the hockey was strong and the cricket and tennis teams both contested Cuppers finals. Two separate Golden Ages, though both short-lived.

Otherwise, there isn’t one club that hasn’t been up and down through the divisions, nor any sport too often robbed of glory. Rivalries shift and change, but Pembroke teams most often suffer and fall at the hands of the ‘eventual winners’. The ‘eventual winners’ are always beating us at an unreasonably early stage of Cuppers, except in weaker seasons when we lose to the ‘eventual finalists’. In 1968, an otherwise promising year for hockey, our hopes were brought to an end by ‘last year’s winners’, as close to glory as that particular team could claim to come. It should be said that on the whole we take defeat well, often losing to the better team. There are, however, anguished exceptions, as with the Rugby Cuppers Final in 1974, when ‘the final score (27-13) was a tragic lie.’

If a specifically Pembroke set of characteristics reveals itself across all sports, it’s how defeat or limited success can always be redeemed by ‘spirit’ and ‘keenness’. There’s a noble tradition of self-sacrifice in times of difficulty, no more so than by poor overworked Reg Carnell in 1965, ‘who for much of the season was the only goalkeeper in College, and so had to play several games a week.’

The sports in the Gazette change with the times. There’s a core group of boats, rugby, soccer, hockey, cricket, tennis and squash, while other sports come and go depending on fashion and whether Pembroke can raise a plausible team. In the late 1940’s, for example, the Gazette has space for the highly successful Cruising Club, yachting champions in both 1945 and 1946 (and more in College character, runners-up in 1947). By 2006 there’s pool and volleyball and ultimate frisbee. In between times there are sporadic appearances for golf and fives, athletics, badminton, water polo, table tennis, chess, and some mostly solemn entries on croquet. 1977: ‘Croquet is now taken seriously in Pembroke and many other Colleges. Pembroke entered 12 teams for the Cuppers and were most successful.’

Whatever the sport, Pembroke teams encounter the same perennial problems. ‘The weather was not generally good’, there are injuries, the scientists have too many practicals. The College admissions policy is always a target for clubs in trouble, such as the 1980 soccer team who’ve ‘done their best to halt the decline of Pembroke’s football prowess, a decline caused by factors beyond the control of junior members of College.’ In 2002 there’s more dark talk about ‘the diminishing intake of athletes’, but those of us with a torch for Pembroke sport should keep a sense of perspective. Our passion can sometimes create unreasonable expectations, possibly betrayed by the hockey team of 1967 – ‘things looked promising with an encouraging number of freshmen, but it was an intake of defensive players and our requirement was for forwards.’ Admissions tutors! Whatever were you thinking?

Having said that, the fair-play Pembroke teams are consistently opposed to ‘imports’, something those redoubtable opponents the ‘eventual winners’ always seem to have.

Other recurring problems include players seduced from the games-field by ‘rival attractions’, which I always hope is a euphemism for requited passion, and therefore beyond reproach. In cricket, even in 1970, ‘the main problem is still to persuade people that eight hours cricket in a week is better for the constitution than eight hours revision.’ And then there’s the University, avid for Pembroke talent. Any current or former College sports captain will understand the 1960 soccer skipper’s sigh of relief when ‘the stronger players, such as D.Perkin and B.Butler, fail their freshman trials.’

Over the last sixty years Pembroke has been more than generous in loaning out athletes of ability. In 1951 the College provided a third of the Blues rugby team and half of the pack. In 1969 we had a third of the basketball team and in 1972 three of the Modern Pentathletes. In 1974 we made up half the Boat Race crew and in 1979 University water polo would have been three men short if it wasn’t for Pembroke. Every year someone at Pembroke excels at Blues level in sports as diverse as (to offer some random examples) Ice-Hockey (D.G.Hobart 1959), Golf (W.G.Morrison 1964), Caneoing (P.S.Humm 1979), Karate ( J.J.Purcell 1989), Weight-Lifting (S.W.Garland 1993) and Orienteering (M.W.Collis 1999).

As if this wasn’t enough, we also supply sports stars to the nation, most famously the England cricket captain P.B.H.May. His appointment in 1955 was gratifying though hardly surprising, as he was in fact the fifth Pembroke man to captain England in the preceding 33 years (after F.T.Mann, A.E.R.Gilligan, A.P.F Chapman and F.G.Mann). This strong College showing was dryly exploited by Vernon Pennell, a Pembroke Fellow since 1914, in his Gazette appreciation of May’s achievement:

‘Probably no English captain since the days of the late Hon F.S.Jackson – not of Pembroke – has so captured the imagination of the English people.’

Before Peter May, A.P.Henderson had played rugby for England while an undergraduate in 1947. In 1953 J.P.K.Asquith kept wicket for Cambridge against the Australians, and a year later against Pakistan. Pembroke’s other internationals, while still at College, include N.M Forster and P.G.Clark, who in 1951 played hockey for England and Wales respectively, and G.H.Waddell, who captained Scotland against England at Twickenham in 1959.

As anyone who keeps in touch with Pembroke will know, they don’t make sporting heroes like they used to. When the College admitted women in 1984 there were grave fears for Pembroke’s sporting heritage. Only the Boat Club dared openly express their doubts, noting that ‘in the last year in which the PCBC has an all-male membership, it demonstrated its manly vigour and enthusiasm with significant successes.’ Boat Club nerves are still in evidence a year later, with the patronizing observation that ‘all Ladies’ crews gained places on the river, and places in the admiring hearts of many towpath supporters’.

Evidence of a less sickly attitude comes from the hockey field, with the Gazette’s first sporting reference to a female student by name. ‘Next year sees a break with tradition as Miss S.M.Butler has been appointed Second XI Captain for the 1985-86 season.’ Even the oldest former Pembroke sports-people will remember that captain of the second team is the most important position in any club, the player who holds everything together without fear or favour, or indeed much in the way of reward at all. The Squash Club, clearly a happy and welcoming ship throughout the eighties, is also quick to set up a Ladies team, led by Katrin Latta who ‘easily outclassed her opponents at this level.’ Julia Jowett, sometimes Julia and sometimes J.M., as the writers struggle with etiquette and instinct, becomes in 1986 Pembroke’s first University representative, in badminton.

The new teams quickly adapt, and already by 1988 the women’s cricket team is demonstrating its full assimilation to Pembroke sporting values by reaching the final of Cuppers. And losing.

The Boat Club, too, is soon put to rights. In 1994 the men’s eights are punished when not one boat makes a bump in the Mays. This is desperate, but the women’s eight moves up three places that year and by 1996 Erin Rose is PCBC’s first female captain and Catherine Bishop is rowing for Britain at the Atlanta Olympics. The women are Head of the River in 1997, again in 1998 and most recently in 2006. The patronizing reports have disappeared.

Other changes witnessed by the Gazette include the commercial sponsorship of College kit, first mentioned in 1991 when the footballers were supported by Russell Hume, the College ‘butcher’. The inverted commas are left unexplained. From then on, in nearly all sports, sponsors are routinely thanked, to the point where in 2001 the hockey team wins the league and their first expression of gratitude is to the sponsoring bank.

Over the years, the cricket club have been most consistently courteous in thanking the groundsman, as they should be because their tea depends upon it. In 1954 the cricketers make sure to credit Mr and Mrs Cousins, ‘again, for innumerable services’, and Stan Chown for his fine lunches. The Cousins were succeeded by Roger and Les Pearl, and it was in 1974 that the notion first surfaced of a Pembroke cricket wicket that was ‘better than Fenners.’ This reputation has been maintained by Pembroke’s current groundsman, Trevor Munns, the ‘miracle worker’. Whereas Mrs Cousins and Mrs Pearl provided teas, Mr Munns goes further and has represented the College on his own pitch, no doubt to the great relief of an undermanned captain.

These days the familiar figure of James Campbell no longer stalks the touchlines, as he did so faithfully over most of the last sixty years. It is now Michael Kuczynski who has taken on the often lonely task of providing crowd atmosphere, while the men and women of the College continue to battle against dubious referees and stronger opponents, giving everything for no greater reward than a team photo and some of the funniest times of their lives. As the light fades, and the weary blue shirts traipse once more from the field, everyone’s an eventual winner.

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