Serena has a(n expensive) moment

I was just about to post my entry about Melanie Oudin and ask why the small, blonde White tennis player has to be dubbed America's sweetheart when the Williams sisters fit most of the underdog profile ascribed to Oudin, except of course they are decidedly neither small, blonde nor White. So of course they won't be cast as America's anything, not when a non-negligible percentage of America is right now marching in the streets intent on showcasing themselves as the real America - you know, the part that's not brown. I was all set to talk about how the reason it's so easy to paint Oudin as a women's hero and laud her skill as unprecedented is that from the time the Williams sisters began to dominate women's tennis, many commentators didn't even see them as women's tennis heroes, because they hardly saw them as women. They dismissed a major part of their game as the natural result of mass and brawn - that thing Black athletes have naturally, rather than skill, which is what White athletes have. And many even began to tire of their domination on that basis: there go the Williams sisters again, beating all the regular people with their muscles and whatnot. It just isn't right!

(I was also interested in why any woman in sport has to be a sweetheart of any kind, and why we need to minimize women's strength and athleticism in favour of their 'more feminine attributes', as if it's ok that they run around and sweat and get all dirty, because behind it all, they're really little girls, so all is right with the universe.)

And then I saw Serena's outburst in her semi-final match against Kim Clijsters - the one that cost her the match - and I thought "well, this is not great." Because I thought that unfortunately, even though Williams has spent years in the game as an even-tempered sportswoman, gracious in defeat and downright charming in interviews, people are going to say "Well here comes the Compton now. It was only a matter of time." Am I cynical? Definitely. Am I wrong? Probably not. John McEnroe spent most of his career snarling at officials and beating his racquet to dust, and it became something of a joke: "oh that's just John!" But there's much less space for a woman to have an indecorous outburst, and a Black woman? Forget it. As we speak, I'm searching for match footage of spectators diving for cover or calling 911.

All accounts of Serena's conduct - that she threatened "I swear to God I'm [expletive] going to take this ... ball and shove it down your [expletive] throat" - suggest that she was completely out of order. If there were ever a time a player should suffer a point penalty for verbal abuse, I'd say this would be it. She lost her head, she threatened an official, and was rightly punished. It remains to be seen whether further punishment will follow, a possibility which would certainly stimulate argument over whether there's more behind the treatment of this incident than unsportswomanlike conduct, and whether the reaction would be the same if Serena happened to look different and/or didn't enjoy the status she does within the women's game. Serena herself isn't that apologetic, and seems eager to move on. I hope it's that simple, but I won't be surprised if it's not.

Of pears and potatoes

Last week, reader GenderBender slapped me with a fish (figuratively, I mean) and demanded that I write about Caster Semenya. Even though I did end up writing a few words, at the time that she asked, I hadn't planned to cover the issue(s), because so many people already had. So I invited her to channel all her outrage here as our second in a distinguished line of guest bloggers. With a flourish and small marching band, I give you GenderBender:



When the Mongoose asked me to guest blog in this space, my first reaction was “Who me?” I’m neither a recognized blogger nor do I consider myself as having anything noteworthy to say. But that instinctual modesty was immediately replaced by the fiery, indignant “And why not me?” I’m female and enraged on behalf of another female whom I’ve never even met.The case of Caster Semenya, the South African runner who obliterated her competition to win gold in the 800metres at the World Athletic Championships in Berlin, has worried me, haunted my thoughts and upset my equilibrium. The socio-political levels upon which the issue has been pathetically mishandled by the International Amateur Athletics Association pale in comparison to the emotional and psychological impact it must have and will continue to have on the 18-year old Caster for many years to come

For those of you who have not followed the World Championships, allow me to bring you up to speed. Caster Semenya grew up in relative obscurity in the tiny, bush-ringed village of Masehlong. A sporty young woman who ran, played soccer and was a member of the wrestling team at the Nthema Secondary School, Semenya is now a first-year sports science student at Pretoria University. Nothing in her life training on dirt tracks and sharing meals with her four sisters and one brother could have prepared her for the catapulting into the international media spotlight after her gender was questioned. Yes, you read right. On July 31st at the African Junior Championships, Caster shaved a phenomenal four seconds off her 800 metre time (1:56:72 from her previous personal best of 2:00:58). That, coupled with her muscular build and alleged facial hair (I’ve seen close up pictures, she’s got no more of a moustache than the rest of us who run to the salon to have ours waxed every fortnight) led the IAAF to start a series of complicated, invasive and above all embarrassing ‘gender verification tests’. In short: she’s not a 34 DD, she’s got the arms and abs of a hard-working athlete (how strange!) and she’s suddenly running faster than her peers so naturally, she must be a dude! And while the egg continues to drip off the IAAF’s face there’s more: this decision was made public virtually on the eve of Caster’s final race in Berlin.

By its own admission, the IAAF started the testing process before Berlin but because of their complex nature (legal, physical, psychological, bio-medical), it simply ‘ran out of time’ to get conclusive results before she was due to run in the final. My issue with that is two fold: if an athlete’s winning time is drastically improved over a short and allegedly infeasible period of time, would the obvious first test not be performance enhancing drugs? And if that is the case, what does it have to do with her gender? The IAAF is using pears to justify the testing of potatoes. And it just plain stinks. Second, (again by its own admission) the Athletics Federation said it began its investigations based also on a murmur of rumour about her gender that became too loud to ignore. Ok, just so we’re clear: you’re an international sporting organization whose rules have become so strict that a second false start in any race leads to automatic disqualification, yet you start an investigation of this magnitude based on locker room gossip?

Needless to say, the roar of protest and righteous indignation from every corner of South Africa has been nothing short of deafening. The country’s Amateur Athletics body, Caster’s high school friends, her siblings and her adoring parents have also been catapulted into the media spotlight by the inept and often condescending international media, trying to get a fresh angle on a story that will surely idle in neutral until the results of the gender test are returned. At which point it will be determined if she (yes we’ve seen copies of her birth certificate but the IAAF hasn’t got the memo) will be stripped of her medal because of an unnatural level of testosterone or if she will join the inglorious band of athletes in history who have "ambiguous genitalia" (like Polish American Olympic champion Stella Walsh) or Androgen Insensitivity Syndrome [AIS] (like Indian middle distance runner Santhi Soundarajan). AIS includes the existence of a 'Y' chromosome in phenotypic females (typically only associated with a male genotype) and results in an inability to respond to androgens. This unresponsiveness leads to a physiologically female-typical body without female internal sex organs. Although the body produces testosterone, it does not react to the hormone.

But enough of the bio-babble. The point is this (and there are many): when the IAAF has finished employing overpriced public relations and marketing specialists to clean up its image after this absurd bungling (which, I might add, would surely never have happened if the athlete in question was, let’s say a Russian female shot putter, weighing in at 250 lbs), Caster Semenya must return to South Africa with a distasteful finger pointed at her and a nasty smudge of bigoted bureaucracy on her glistening gold medal. When will it end?

And don’t get me started on gender roles and how the concept of gender is performed; and how the West and its media monopolies ram what they think appropriate gender representation should be down our throats. Maybe the mongoose will invite me back to talk about that another time.

Being female: the persecution of Caster Semenya

I'm late on this, and even though a reader asked that I cover it, I wasn't going to because so many people already have. But it does not sit right with me to laud the IAAF World Championship victory of Ryan Brathwaite while 800m winner Caster Semenya cannot savour hers. Shortly before the South African teenager took the gold with the event's fifth fastest time ever, IAAF officials decided that she didn't look 'female enough' to satisfy their conceptualization of the term, and asked her to undergo gender tests to confirm that she is a woman.

As Liss over at Shakesville indicates in her open thread, there is so much misogyny, transphobia, bigotry and all-round hatefulness circulating in the fact and the coverage of the matter, that it is difficult to come to terms with all that this issue brings to light about the way that we treat and consider women athletes, black women and black women athletes. (The latter is the subject of a guest post by Transgriot's Monica over at Womanist Musings.)

Caster Semenya, biologically female from birth, is a woman who dared to do better than people think women should do, and happens to look different from the way people have deemed it proper for women to look. But what if she weren't? One of the most odious ideas surfacing in this discussion is that transgender identity in itself constitutes a fraud being perpetrated on the world, that transgendered people who opt for hormone or surgical procedures are, by their mere existence, cheating us in some way. And the fact that the exhaustive, invasive gender test includes evaluation by a psychologist makes one question whether this is purely a matter of physical fitness for her level and category of competition, as the IAAF affirms, or plain, bigoted, racist intolerance.

The -isms abound, and while Semenya's family has already produced a birth certificate proving she is female, that is really the least of everything happening here. The world of elite sports often likes to try and hold itself above the norms of regular society and plain human decency, citing scientific and physiological reasons as if we're all so stupid that high-falutin gobbledegook is going to distract us from demanding justice. So while we offer congratulations to Caster Semenya on her win, we also need to offer solidarity by fighting this type of official, organized persecution wherever we find it.

The Bajan took it

I was out buying fish today when Ryan Brathwaite won the men's 110m hurdle at the IAAF World Championships in Athletics.

Ryan Brathwaite is a Barbadian. He is 21 years old, the youngest athlete ever to win gold in this event at the IAAF Worlds, and the only Barbadian ever to medal in this meet.

I had been sticking close to the car radio during the day, first for news of Ryan's performance in his semi-final, which he won. Then for news of what time Usain Bolt would clear in his 200m victory (19.19, shaving exactly 11 seconds off both his previous 200m and 100m times to set his second world record of this year's Championships), and then to see if Ryan would medal in the 110m final that afternoon.

Turns out I couldn't have missed it. Because as news came that he had won the event, I simultaneously heard loud whooping and hollering from a man in the opposite car park. He was running back and forth beside his car, yelling "We got it!" and assuring all within earshot that "when he come back [I] going at the airport!" Another man left his job, still in what looked like HAZMAT gear, and ran across the street to get the result from us. A woman who had pulled over to the side of the road to hear the result sped off, alternately grinning and yelling. My sister and I joined our car park friend in his cheering, and for the rest of the day, I felt really happy inside.

The news of Jamaica's dominance in the sprints has been fantastic. We from the Caribbean all feel like we share Usain Bolt, Shelly-ann Fraser and the rest of the team. But to have a Barbadian on that podium; to see the flag being raised highest and to hear the haunting strains of our national anthem; to hear the commentators speak with respect and authority of the island nation of Barbados; and to hear a foreign sportscaster's accent say with excitement "I think the Bajan took it!" - there can be no greater feeling of national pride and fellow feeling with one's countrywomen and men.





Barbados is uplifted today by the performance, the words, the commitment and passion, the existence of Ryan Brathwaite, this young man who improved phenomenally in a very short time, and kept us all focused along with him on this prize. Well done, Obadele, Andrea, Nicholas and all the athletes and coaches before and since who make that blue, yellow and back recognizable today; and well done, Ryan: thank you for giving us something over which to unite once again.

Chris Gayle wants to play a little rounders and then have a lie-down

Anyone want to remind Chris Gayle that he and the side he captains are in the middle of an England Test series tour? Because I think he forgot.

From the moment Chris Gayle descends to the lobby of his London hotel, it appears he does not want to be there. He does not want to be in chilly England, and he does not want to be up early when his preferred habit is to sleep in until 2pm. Then the list continues, and he admits that he does not want to be West Indies captain any more and that he does not particularly care for Test cricket.

Gayle, having arrived just two days prior to the start of the first Test match in which the West Indies were thoroughly trounced, has been fielding quite a bit of criticism over his perceived commitment to his sport and his side. His response? To prove the critics right.

The rest of the article is frankly painful to read, and I feel embarrassed not just for his team, but for Gayle as well, who seems to need a bit of a crash course in media relations. But once the embarrassment wears off, I mostly feel annoyed.

First, what is all this nonsense about Test cricket being phased out in favour of a strictly Twenty20 format? Stop the blasphemy. A Test match demands skills and character that are not tested in a 75-minute innings. It requires more stamina, sustained focus and a different approach to strategy on the pitch. This is why it exists alongside one-day or any other limited overs cricket. It is, in my mind, crucial to the assessment of a national/regional side, and not an old form of the game. It is the game.

It seems to me that amidst the glamour and big payoffs of the IPL, players are realizing that they can play less cricket per tournament and make more money. And in a sport that isn't historically very highly remunerated in comparison to its counterparts at similar levels of play, this is certainly an understandable position to hold. Besides, who doesn't want to play before larger crowds, fuelled by beautiful cheerleaders who - if amateurish and confused-looking - are certainly eager at least? Twenty20 has been credited with birthing new fans of the game, which - for practical (financial) as well as cultural reasons - must be a good thing. I will confess that I tend to be drawn more to matches with calm, stuck-in players in cricket whites with red-ball stains rather than to those with a flurry of colours and errant streamers from poorly-constructed pom-poms. But old farts everywhere felt the same about tennis, and now look at us: Nadal wears mustard manpris and no-one bats an eyelash.

But do we need to choose one or the other? Certainly not. I see no reason why we can't put together a season calendar that reasonably accommodates all forms of the game. I would argue that if we want to preserve Test cricket, we have to reaffirm its prestige. But with the West Indies captain essentially declaring it irrelevant, it doesn't look too good.

My argument with Gayle is that if you have very strong feelings about the suitability of Test cricket to your current career and purposes, as he, in hindsight, claims he does, fine. You know when is an appropriate time to air those concerns? Not the day before the start of your second Test match, after having completely lost the plot at Lords in the first. The Guardian is not your confessor. Write that sh*t in your diary, or wait until you're not taking your squad into a match with morale already low.

And this brings us to the whole mess about him no longer wanting to be captain, which is arguably a far worse statement to make than his take on the fate of Test cricket. Gayle seems sullen, uninspired, unmotivated and whingey. He complains about having to speak, having to travel, having to wake up before noon and having to win. Boy, life as a superstar cricketer sure is hard. I'm sure his wallet is also too small for his millions and his diamond shoes are too tight. It is clear that he was the West Indies' unwilling standard-bearer after Chanderpaul - an equally reluctant leader - and Sarwan relinquished the title. This is fair enough. But you took the job, so now you have to show up. The very hot-potato bouncing around of the captaincy over the last couple years is in itself saddening. It is in part the result of having a young, inexperienced side, but also, I think, of the fact that 'team captain' doesn't mean much anymore.

Gayle does say one true thing, though, of his predecessors:

"In their time they dominated Test cricket," he says. "They don't know what it is like actually to lose and how to deal with it. They don't know how to deal with losing, and then try and get a ­couple of wins under our belt."

Yes, losing is hard. And trying to pull the West Indies up by its bootstraps is not an enviable task at this moment in cricket, especially given what seems like tension between the desire of the WICB to reestablish our legacy as masters of Test cricket, and that of some players to play a quick twenty and get on with it. (There has to be some consensus from within on the preferred direction, and the matches that players are given leave to play must reflect that.) But you know what doesn't help? Moaning about it in the middle of a Test series. I'm all for honesty in interviews when you're back in Jamaica kicking back on the beach, or at the end of a tour even; or how about after an official announcement? But not now. Now it's time to pull on your big boy underoos and play some cricket.

In defense of my right to like sports and Guinness: Part 1

Happy Monday! Oxymoron, you say? Not this Monday. The sun is shining today in London, and that's always cause for celebration. And it's real sunshine too - with actual warmth. Not the kind of vague, distant glow you tend to get here, as if the sun had been on a bender the night before and is up there lying on its couch, drinking Andrews and grumbling 'What do you want from me? I'm here aren't I? This is the best I can do right now!"

So here I am, raring to go following a weekend that was actually restful instead of just an extension of the work week. After I left you on Friday, I did rewatch Nacho Libre, whose song about why Ramses is not dancing at the party is still as genius as I remember. What I hadn't remembered was the random, sex-starved fat girl who eats all day and is too hideous to get a man so she has to literally crawl on her hands and knees to cut men (and Esqueleto) off at the pass, trap them and have her way with them. Aren't people tired of writing this character? Because I sure am tired of seeing it. You know, this might just be a rumour, but I'm made to understand that fat women can actually manage to find willing partners for sex if they so desire. It's one of those ideas that's so bizarre it might just be true.

Then on Saturday I went with my favourite DJ (we'll call him DJ because we have wild imaginations) to Camden, where we ate a mountain of vegan food, walked all around the market, sampled overpriced chocolate (and in his case, also a giant, jelly Smurf), and drank Guinness over a conversation about the quietly re-emerging notion that women who say they like sports are just lying to appear cool for men. That's right, folks. Join me on a journey back to the fifth century.

A few weeks ago, a woman at a message board where I post made the extremely insightful declaration that women who say they like (i) sports and (ii) Guinness are not sincere, but rather involved in an elaborate deception aimed solely at hooking themselves a fella. Given that I've been watching cricket since I found eyes in my head and consider Guinness the best food on earth, I am about to shake the foundations of her very existence. But it's not just anonymous message board lady. More and more, throughout this year's Premiership season particularly, it has seemed as if greater numbers of people are choosing a team and jumping on board. Apparently, this type of activity is frowned upon, especially - or only - when the people in question are women. DJ has been noticing it too. In fact, he brought it up, telling me about a guy he knows who is peeved to within an inch of his life when women dare to interject in sports conversations, because they're only johnny-come-latelies doing it to seem cool, and have no natural propensity to understand sports, no genuine interest in it, and nothing to add.

Now what strikes me as particularly hilarious about all this is that the man in question in DJ's story is from Barbados, just as we are. And in Barbados, we play a little of everything, but the only major sport in which we have a legitimate international presence is cricket. That means that support for teams in most sports is not home-grown, based on location or other traditional markers of loyalty. So most sports fans out there fit into two categories: they started playing the sport and were naturally drawn towards its highest exemplars on the international circuit; or they just happened along one day and decided to start watching because they found it entertaining. Neither of these groups, and particularly not the latter, has any kind of monopoly on fandom. Because if the fandom of the women you criticize is artificial, then surely so is yours, since you are not from Manchester or Liverpool and have no reason other than whim or circumstance for the team with which you are aligned. Just because someone is turned onto a sport after you have been doesn't make their admiration of it any less valid. The portal has not closed. New fans are born every day.

And the sports themselves have gone through trends in popularity. When I was growing up, it seemed like none of my peers cared or talked about cricket. The cricket team couldn't pay people to come with them to away matches, get-out-of-class-early pass be damned. NBA basketball was huge, as was track and field. Now, as with several other things, people's scope of interest is growing. And sport trends are changing. Basketball will always have its fans, but football is becoming that sport: the one that everyone has a team in. This is the way, and you don't get to pout about it because some woman dares to share an interest that you think you have dibs on as a marker of your manhood.

And I'm not sure what makes these particular men, some of whom have the agility of porridge and whose most energetic exploits to date are a game or two of Snakes and Ladders, any more disposed to appreciating sports than women are. Agility, strategy, speed, raw skill, camaraderie, politics: these are all aspects of sport that women appreciate. There are three major sports that I follow closely and enjoy: cricket from about the age of 4 introduced by my dad (who incidentally learnt from his mother); tennis from about age 11 introduced as part of the school programme and aided by a good friend at the time who would become a longtime partner; and football from about 12 years ago when I started playing competitively. And to be frank, I've never been inclined to talk to most men about sports. And here's why: I'm not interested in being fodder for your masculine self-affirmation; what I'm after is a real, analytical conversation. So if you can only quote me all of Michael Ballack's defensive stats and tell me how many eggs he had for breakfast on the day of his last match with Bayern, and that is your sole 'argument', then you can move along. I can memorize stats too. That's not what my love of the game is about. And I've found that quite a few men who have come late to following a sport, but who of course are not questioned on the validity of their support, often hide behind statistics, and use them to shout others down before the others realize that in fact, the shouter only discovered what 'offside' was yesterday. Incidentally, most of the men with whom I enjoy a heated sporting debate tend to be secure, well-adjusted people who don't fancy using conversation to try and surreptitiously bully women into accepting their 'rightful place.' Funny how that happens.

Now the whole 'women in sports' dialogue is complex, and there are certain things I'm not discussing here. I am not debating whether statistically more men than women follow sports: I think there is a discussion to be had on how we might express interest differently so that women's interest is sometimes not acknowledged as such, but I feel safe in saying that the number of men I know who enjoy sports is greater than the number of women, although among my Barbadian friends, with our cricket legacy, that gap starts to close somewhat. I am not debating whether women's professional leagues are as entertaining and therefore should attract similar levels of investment as men's. I'm contemplating a follow-up post in which I might address that. And I'm not saying that there are no women who have ever said, jokingly or otherwise, that they only watch football to see men's legs, or baseball for the tight pants. This is something I also want to come to later because when I started this post the sun was high in the sky and now it's almost dinnertime. The thing is way too long. But this is about the ludicrous notion that if you meet a woman who supports a given sports team, odds are, she's lying and is just saying it to seem cool (beyond the extent to which we all use knowledge of competition as a point of social engagement with other men and women). We know you would like to believe you're that central to our lives, but the plain truth is, you really aren't.

Welcome to the Kensington Entertainment Complex & Integrated Visitor Experience

Oh and you may also find some cricket somewhere.


I haven't been to Kensington for a little while, but watching the 4th Test online, I realize that there is now a man-made beach at the Oval? Man-made beach. In Barbados. Not just in Barbados - if they had put it in St. George or St. Thomas one might be able to understand - but does someone want to cast a glance just north of the Oval? Because if you do, you'll realize that Brandon's beach is right there! You can probably sit in the stands and with a good wind, throw a fishcake right into the water at Brandon's. What is going on? What kind of attention-deficit issues require that you combine the beach experience with First Class cricket?

Yes, cricket in the West Indies is a party experience, with our rum and conch shell-blowing and music in the stands. But those are reasonable accompaniments to the game. Now we have a beach and volleyball court and a swimming pool on the fine-leg boundary. I hate the word 'purist': I like to think that I'm adaptable and down with the future and all that. But since when is cricket not enough? I realize that we're trying to get all fancy with our tourism product and over-stimulate the poor tourists so that they keep spending money in a haze of confusion. And that we're also trying to attract young people to the game. But there's a way that we do cricket in the Caribbean that is unique to us and would presumably be what people want when they go to watch cricket in the Caribbean.

And how long have we been providing EPL football updates over the PA system? As readers of this blog will know, I love me some football, but when you get to Kensington, it's time for cricket. If people want football updates, let them check their iPhones. Grumpy, aren't I? All I need right now is a stick to shake and some young people to yell at to get off my lawn.

Maybe I'm just jealous. Barbados was already the best place in the world to watch cricket, and now you people have a pool and beach and all I have in the way of atmosphere outside my window is a "bird sanctuary" that looks suspiciously like a plain old swamp. I should be less plaintive and more proactive, like this guy. I haven't experienced this new Kensington first-hand, so I'm reserving final judgment until then. But I don't like the looks of it, I tell you.

Am I just being ornery? Cricket fans: opine here.

Painting by Nigel Pierre.

To RD, with no love, and a big, stinking pile of cow-itch

This post is dedicated to my former good friend RD, who has the unfettered audacity to take his narrow behind on over to Kensington Oval to witness the fourth Test between the West Indies and England, while I languish here in London, cricketless. Well not entirely cricketless, I get to watch it on my computer, with about a four-minute delay and spotty audio. I don't like it when I can barely hear the dulcet tones of Michael Holding's deadpan commentary: it makes for a very huffy mongoose. The only thing better than Holding (and Boycott - come back, Geoff!) on commentary is getting to watch the actual cricket in the actual sunshine. But I'm not mad. Do I look mad?

So today, the West Indies will be looking to continue its performance and momentum after thrashing England in the first Test at Sabina Park and managing a hard-fought draw in the third at the Antigua Recreation Ground (ARG). After that dark, moody, crypt of a pitch at the ARG, it's time for some real cricket at Kensington, where we know how to prepare a cricket ground. Yes, that was a dig at Antigua. I'm still not over it. The track at the Oval has lost a little of the old pace and probably favours the batsman a bit more than it used to, but Taylor and Edwards, if they remain consistent, should be able to get something out of the fine pace and bounce that are still the wicket at Kensington. (I don't know what's happening with Daren Powell. But I'm a little soft on him so I'm hoping he delivers.) And have I mentioned how heartened I am to see the commitment of the squad and selectors to keeping a real (left-arm) spinner in the person of Sulieman Benn? Could this mean that we're finally ready to dedicate to developing good specialist spin bowlers again instead of losing our nerve and dropping them after a couple Test matches? One dwells in hope.

So I'm anxious to watch some cricket. RD has already set out and has promised to bring me live updates from the Oval, but I don't believe him. So I aim to get in as much writing as I can right now, then get my cricket on.

And for my readers who have no earthly idea what I'm talking about because "what the hell is cricket?", I thought of helping you out with some links, then I realized I would have to link every other word. So I had to abandon that idea. But, you know, there's wikipedia.

Look alive, Antigua!

We've only been playing cricket in the Caribbean for a gazillion years. You'd think we would have figured out by now how to maintain the outfield of cricket grounds and prepare run-ups. Yet, the second test against England in Antigua had to be abandoned after only ten balls because of safety concerns related to the fitness of the ground.

I feel like I ask this question every other month, but what in lime-green tarnation is the West Indies Cricket Board busying itself with? This is Test cricket, people, not Blue House versus Red House at Luther Thorne Memorial. The situation is too embarrassing for words, although Sir Vivian Richards - for whom the unfit stadium is named - had a few:

"It's like an arrow through the heart," said an exasperated Richards.

I feel you, Sir Viv. I feel you.

Partial to Marshall

I'm watching the first test between the West Indies and England. Chris Gayle and Ramnaresh Sarwan are not so much charging as they are chipping towards a century each, and Sarwan has just marked 5000 test runs. With all the discussion going into this test about the fitness of the England bowlers, I got to thinking about the West Indies bowling legacy, and a question I was recently asked: "Who is your pick for the best West Indian bowler of all time?"

Now, the phrase " of all time" is a tricky one. And I'm not sure it's a fair question to ask, unless you're talking to a cricket historian. For example, when the great "Whispering Death" Michael Holding played what was described as "the greatest over in Test history", which he bowled in 1981 in Barbados to English batsman Geoff Boycott, I was 2 years old. When I did see a recording of it, I marvelled like everyone else at the pace of the over, and that final ball that saw Boycott clean bowled. But I wouldn't call that my time, and my time is all I can really speak of. I would put Holding on top based on the evidence I've seen of his greatness. And when it comes to my time, I loved to watch Curtly Ambrose, but I am overwhelmingly partial to Malcolm Marshall, who, though he was around at the same time as Holding, played his last one-day and test around five years later.

I think what impressed me about Marshall were his pace and accuracy at 5'9". We're used to fast bowlers well over 6 ft. But Marshall used to tear down the pitch in such a tight little ball, you almost didn't see when he released.

I know the sports posts bring the lurkers out of the woodwork, so if you have a pick for best West Indies bowler, do share.

The Rourke is back. He may look funny, but he’s better than ever

HALT! Spoilers inside. Proceed at your own risk.

I need to beg your indulgence for what I’m about to declare: Mickey Rourke is hot in Darren Aronofsky’s The Wrestler. I know: “But look at him! Ew!” Ew indeed. I thought that as well, initially. But don’t allow your own delicate sensibilities to keep you from experiencing the comeback of Mickey Rourke. Hot is the least of what he is in this role. (Alright, perhaps I’m seeing through the fog of admiration for his work.) His acting is thoughtful and sincere, and what you’ve heard is not just hype. Sound the alarm, folks: the critics are right.

We can gather the gist: journey towards the last big hurrah of a washed-up wrestler. Not too original a concept, but the telling is fresh and interesting. The single, defining feature of the film is the pursuing camera. When we meet Randy “The Ram” Robinson, it is just after we have been introduced - through a collage of newspaper clippings - to his former glory days. The camera sneaks up on him, building the anticipation of what a former celebrity wrestler might look like. When we are finally allowed to see his face, there is no unveiling or ceremony; this is the point. We are simply and unceremoniously brought around to the front: this is what he looks like; this is all there is.

Throughout the film, Aronofsky often returns to this camera perspective. The camera might be a fan seeking an autograph, so that the rear camera shot casts Robinson as the superstar he ought to be (but isn’t) as we watch from behind the long, bleached-blonde hair and the impressive back and shoulders. But we also get the sense that the perspective of the camera is that of Robinson too: shy but dogged in the practice of his craft. Robinson isn’t looking for status; he is simply looking to continue doing what he has always loved, and what is now all he knows.

There is also little history of the protagonist. We are being told a story of ‘ending up’, and are being given a clinical, matter-of-fact look at the here and now of a failed life. All we know is that Randy was born Robin Ramzinski, a name he finds odious and refuses to be associated with, for reasons not made explicit but about which we can speculate. We must also speculate about the details of his fractured relationship with his daughter. The lesson is that there is no reliving of the past: where we are is where we are, and that is the reality we must live.

Mickey Rourke is this movie. Marisa Tomei is a bit of her overwrought, “My Cousin Vinny” character and little more. But she does the job adequately as the woman that Randy yearns to be with. Not because she is someone particularly special, but because she is someone, and he is desperately lonely. His daughter Stephanie, played by Evan Rachel Wood, is another someone to whom the wrestler turns in a final attempt to discover a life beyond wrestling. Wood gives a creditable performance as his angry and abandoned but charitable daughter who is willing to give him another chance, until he becomes sidetracked and ruins his one last opportunity.

But Mickey Rourke is all that matters in this film. The unlikely, impeccable manners from this washed-up monster of a man; the unreserved vulnerability as he reaches out to find love or – failing that – just company; the single-mindedness with which he pursues his sport, even though both he and it (at least on the scale on which he practices) seem marginal and irrelevant: these are what make him an endearing and heartbreaking figure. And it is this figure that carries the film right through to its inevitable, tragic conclusion.

Perhaps the success of the film rests in the fact that it feels like the story of Mickey Rourke himself. The actor has had a tempestuous affair with both Hollywood and the sport of boxing. When Randy, rejected by his love interest and his daughter, returns to what would be his final, fatal turn in the ring, he declares – defeated – that wrestling is the only thing that treats him with kindness. Despite the torn bicep, bypass surgery and ruined back, wrestling is the thing that has caused him the least injury. We know that Rourke, too, has been pulled in two directions: acting and boxing. He is, in fact, a boxer who studied acting, breaking through to play an arsonist in the 1981 uncomfortable erotic thriller Body Heat, and then the following year as the self-conscious, slow-moving Boogie in Diner. His petulant, sensitive bad-boy affectations earned him lots of attention, and he went on to play similar characters in several films including the bizarre and disturbing Nine 1/2 Weeks. After his appearance in the 1991 Harley Davidson and The Marlboro Man, Rourke quit acting and resumed his professional boxing career, reportedly injured by the fact that, like The Wrestler’s Randy in his relationships, he had not been given a fair chance to prove himself on the strength of his deeds (his work in Hollywood). And like Randy, he chooses the physical punishment over the emotional: he suffered broken cheekbones, nose, toes and ribs, which prompted the number of surgeries responsible for his monstrous aspect today. But the punishment was not over for Rourke, as he returned to acting in 1995. And while, as the tabloids showed, he took a few more psychological beatings for Hollywood’s failure to appreciate his nuanced (rather than Brad Pitt-like, obvious) approach to acting, we have at last been brought to this point, and to a simple, well-executed title role in a well-told story, which is what we imagine Mickey Rourke was after all along.

Gunners or death

Some obnoxious nudging from my good friend B’more has forced me to acknowledge that my beloved Arsenal are now fifth in the league tables, while B’more’s boys Liverpool are managing to hold on to the top spot. It is insult added quite literally to injury after Fabregas was maimed and forced out of action by Liverpool’s Alonso in December. And while it was reassuring at least to see Arsenal’s win over Bolton on Saturday, that 2005 FA Cup trophy is getting smaller and smaller in the distance as we get further away from their last major title win, which was against Manchester United nearly four years ago.

Still, I have faith in the Gunners. It isn’t blind faith. I do believe they’re coming back to form. But it started me thinking about how we assign our loyalties - especially in sport - and why.

I remember when I started my love affair with Arsenal. It was 1997, I had just started university, and I had the temerity to join up with a women’s squad to play inter-faculty football. It was, after all, a time for new beginnings, new interests, and as it turned out, new ways to feel stupid and inadequate. Women’s football on the campus at that level was hilarious. Most of us knew nothing. And the few who did were right snots about it. We found a coach with a sense of humour, and started in earnest with early morning, late evening and weekend practice sessions.

Our first match was demoralizing. Picture twenty (the goal-keeps at least had the good sense to stay put) petrified but aggressive women all charging after one ball, getting to it, and then each having no idea how to deal with these other nineteen women before them. It was greater comedy than the theater department could ever have produced. I hate not being good at things. When I encounter things I am not good at, I promptly stop doing them. Of course, this is a ridiculous habit, since it means that unless you have some inherent genius in this area that rushes to the surface, you’d never learn anything or discover any latent talent. What kept me with the team was the determination of the women and my newfound interest in the game. This interest prompted me to start watching the league matches that year.

So I turned on the television one day and encountered a dejected Arsenal leaving the field after a 3-1 trouncing by Blackburn. It had been, I was told, the latest in a series of defeats that season. But I liked the look of them. I thought they moved magically as a team; I was drawn to watch Bergkamp, Vieira and Petit; and I decided at that point to root for the underdogs. I think I was the good luck charm. That year saw a legendary resurgence. An embattled Arsenal took the Premiership trophy and went on to their second league and FA Cup double. I went on playing football. When campus play ended, I joined a community team, developed a decent left foot, and settled into my position in the middle. And I became an Arsenal fan for life.

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