Hieronymous the Anonymous

Fahrenheit 451

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The other night I watched Fahrenheit 451 on TV. I settled down on the couch and watched for near on two hours enjoying every minute of it. It's the classic story written by Ray Bradbury about a society where books are banned and firemen go about starting fires - burning books - rather than putting them out. It follows the familiar dystopian path, the unquestioning hero (Montag), a fireman, leading a comfortable life with his shallow wife within the system, conforming without ever stopping to wonder how it all adds up. Then that changes. Slowly Montag begins to wonder and to question. His curiosity is piqued and a kind of consciousness dawns as he begins to read the books he is charged to destroy. He finds they are not the disruptive evil the pervasive voice of society would have him believe. On the contrary he discovers that books contain knowledge, history, context, wisdom even. In his growing knowledge he realises that his life is empty, and in place of real feelings and real thoughts society has been fed a thin pap to keep it compliant and ignorant. Inevitably he rebels, and there is the story.

I imagine this story being made today and the variety of special effects that would be employed. Truffaut did not have the benefit of those in 1966, but then he was not a director interested in effect - his was a study of character. I suppose the movie is a little dated in parts now, but overall it has aged well because Truffaut kept it small. I don't know if a modern version were made if it would have the same simple power. Though it is an allegory Truffaut did not make it overtly political, and the moral of it - if that be the word - is not spelled out to us (as it doubtless would be today), but is shown for us to witness and understand.

Truffaut is helped by his two leads in this movie, which just so happen to be two of my favourite actors from this era. Oskar Werner has such a sensitive face, and was a very sensitive and accomplished actor. I watch him on screen and can't help but think the man portraying these roles was himself a gentle, intelligent man of discernment. Off screen I gather he could be fiery, and he died an alcoholic, but I don't doubt that he had lovely depths.

Julie Christie by contrast was just straight out beautiful. She was one of the movie actresses I first fell in 'love' with, particularly in Dr Zhivago. She has the most beautiful cornflower blue eyes and a beauty that can appear both refined and common. There was a period of about 10 years from the mid-sixties where she was a great star and appeared in a score of iconic movies. I could watch her all day. 

It was a good night for TV. Straight after the movie of another classic book, Slaughterhouse 5, appeared. It was a great night to be on my couch.

Why I dream

I dreamt last night that I applied for a job at some company and afterwards went to the staff cafe for a coffee. The cafe was full and very lively and I found myself standing next to Paige, who evidently worked there. Paige was talking to another woman, and though intensely aware of me beside her she chose to ignore me completely. Standing there by myself it seemed ridiculous in measures equally sad and funny, too ridiculous to abide. I stood by her side, so close that our shoulders brushed and I could smell her scent and hear the distinctive tones of her voice as if she were speaking to me. I watched her waiting for a break in the conversation, intending to say hello as reason expected, and to ask how she was. I stood feeling her scrutiny upon me even as she spoke to the other person and realised that there would not be any break in the conversation because she would not allow it, and if in fact I managed to say anything at all to her that she would ignore it altogether, as if nothing had been said and I was not there. This seemed very Paige.

It seems to me I dream of Paige more than I do of the other recent women in my life. In some part I wonder if that is because I have had a kind of dream renaissance in the last 18 months. Prior to that the dreams I recalled were few and far between. I can remember no dreams featuring Amy, though doubtless there were some, and while I definitely dreamt of Jennie they were fewer and less definitely defined. There is merit in that consideration, but what came first, the chicken or the egg? Perhaps I remember vividly and more often these days because I have more vivid subjects to dream of, and more unresolved in my unconscious.

I tend towards that view myself. The nature of broken relationships is that there is much unresolved, and much left uncertain. That is particularly the case with Paige. The other relationships ended for reasons that I can understand, though deeply regret. To this day though I have had no acceptable explanation of why Paige chose to end our friendship. I can hypothesise and have some confidence in my suppositions, but they are my explanations, not hers. She is silent. In place of that I have dreams which either address the issue or replicate it, as I did last night. Last nights dream was classic in its way, two sides of the coin, Paige pretending I don't exist whilst intimately aware of me, while I look on floundering in confusion.

A counterpoint to these dreams of Paige are my thoughts of Jennie. I think of Jennie only in passing these days, but there is enough to prompt it to occur regularly. For example, it struck me whilst browsing on Facebook how Jennie is no longer in contact with any of the friends she made living here. That seemed both unusual and unfortunate. As I reflected on it I wondered if I was some cause of that. The most central relationship she had with anyone living here was with me. We formed a bond and became intimates. We were going to be friends for life, something we would occasionally discuss. When our friendship failed other relationships filled the void, though unsatisfactorily. None of them were as deep as what Jennie and I had shared. Over time they have withered away, and I wonder if Jennie and I had remained friends whether in our ongoing contact those other relationships may have better survived.

Then on Saturday I went to a ceremony renewing wedding vows. I felt somewhat isolated knowing no-one, and in the foreign surrounds of a church. My mind wandered. I wondered how Jennie was getting on, remembering that she had married earlier this year. Then I felt guilt. God knows I have done some stupid things in my life, but mostly I have been the victim of their consequences. Occasionally others suffer also, though rarely, and though I regret that I can excuse it partly knowing it was not malice but stupidity that caused it.

I have no such comforting excuse with Jennie. Sitting in that church pew I thought back to the time I wrote to her after she had announced she was returning home to England. Essentially I told her how I felt, how I wanted her to stay and what I wanted. Well that was difficult, but fair enough. What was not fair was how I continued. I called into question the validity of her relationship with Tim, her boyfriend. I made claims that it was clear he was not fully committed towards her, and that her own feelings were ambivalent towards him, driven more by duty than passion. I have little doubt all I said was true, and I dare say she knew it whether she admitted it or not, but it was not my place to be telling her that.

Others since have excused me. They thought it fair enough, just as I did at the time. Truth is it wasn't my business. I had no business telling her what she felt, nor what he felt for her. It was cruel of me to cast doubt upon the central relationship of her life. True or not it was not my part to tell her what she felt or how she should act; that was something she had to come at herself.

This is an abiding regret of mine. It was not intended maliciously, but that is what it effectively was. She was very upset, and it took me some time to apologise to her as I should. Even today I feel badly about it. I wish she could know how much I regret those cruel words of mine. She doesn't and she won't, and has moved on in any case. I've learnt from it too. It has done me good to acknowledge my wrongdoing, and to recognise the boundaries I should never have over-stepped. It cost me a dear friend.

This is the difference between Paige and Jennie, and why I dream of one and think of the other. There was no closure in my relationship with Paige. It ended abruptly and without rhyme or reason or explanation. I tried and failed with Jennie. I did the wrong thing and learned from it. There are things I regret, but in each instance the opening ends in a closure. There is nothing to dream of because it is all there in plain view.

The flight of Icarus

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It was not so long ago that I was beginning to think of myself a bit like Icarus. Icarus, if you remember, is the character from Greek mythology who flies too close to the sun despite the warnings of his father, and plunges to his death as the wax in his wings melt. It's a really good story, and very much a story with a message.

It was only 2 weeks ago that I drifted around Toorak shopping centre wondering if there was something I should be learning. Being in Toorak was significant. For many years I lived a stone's throw away, and knew the place like the back of my hand. I looked at the familiar, poked my head inside shops, browsed the newsagents wondering, where did it go wrong? Was it still right here? Where did I take the wrong turn?

I felt chastened. Icarus came naturally to mind as a like figure, not just for me but friends of mine once high flying now earthbound. Did I take it for granted? Did I expect it ever to be so? Yes, probably I did. Was I arrogant? I baulked at that. It was hard not to feel that we were paying for our collective hubris, yet I could not detail what that hubris was. Perhaps I was careless, but I was never arrogant.

Yet there I was, questioning, a little lost, like my friends the CFO's of yesterday, the FC's, wondering how this could be and what would come of it. I remember that day entering a deli and being greeted by the French couple running it. She was a vivacious, lively woman and we engaged in banter. She made me a coffee. We talked some more. It came out easily and well, almost too much so. Even as I spoke and smiled and browsed the shelves and sipped the coffee she had made me my mind was fixed on this one thing. I felt like I had lost. I had played, had won for a long time, but ultimately lost.

I was not bitter. I could laugh after all with the French lady. And I knew no matter how bleak things appeared it was not the end of it: the sun would rise again on the morrow, I would get another chance to play. Yet I wondered if it would be for the same stakes as before. In a sense that seemed a very true metaphor. I had spent most of my recent life playing at the big table; now I had lost my stake and had too little to buy in. Now I could only watch.

There is little sense in dwelling upon the bleak reality; just as there is little sense in avoiding it. Pragmatic but positive is the way to be, and thankfully that is my default setting - with a dash of the intense. I wondered if I would ever reclaim my place. I wanted to, if only to prove that I could. And in all honesty I hate being a supplicant, and I passionately dislike not having control over my life.

There was a larger question I asked of myself though. It is characteristic of my personality and my outlook that I pondered if there was a deeper meaning to all this. My friends in similar positions shrugged their shoulders; I had to know. I had got past the earlier reflex questions, but at the same time I wondered if in the sequence of events there was not a message for me. Most particularly I wondered if I should change my ways - strive less, expect less, lower my ambitions, live smaller. Had I, like Icarus, overestimated my own ability? Need I fly lower, be safer?

You have no idea how difficult these questions are for me to deal with. It goes against the grain to conform to some standard: that's not who I want to be. And while I admit to being ambitious and aggressive and yes, ruthless occasionally, I have always sought to be decent and honest. I believe I am a kind and compassionate man and I am happy to be that. I would be gentler if I could be, but I think I am gentler than most. So...

Where I outreached myself was in how I began to 'value' what was good and not so good in my life. I strayed from the values inside me to more conventional and materialistic values without. I have never been one to judge myself on what I have done, more how I have done it. I lost some sight of that, much as I described a few weeks back. Well, that was settled, perhaps, but what of the larger question?

A man can't be happy unless he is true to himself. It's a simple axiom but very true - and often overlooked. It's not the secret to happiness - happiness comes in many guises - but it's certain that happiness cannot exist unless one accepts that self inside.

I'm a gambler, that's my personality. I play poker and I'm a bluffer. I've spent a career defying my credentials to climb to heights I don't belong. I always go for the high risk/return option with my investments. I prefer movement to stability. I like change, mostly, and enjoy challenging the status quo. I want to push and to agitate and to apply my might, I want to be used, filled, want to be involved because to be involved is to feel alive. I want to challenge the boundaries and go by them. This is who I am. For fucks sake, I'm Icarus, and if my destiny is to go down in flames then so be it. The only way you'll discover what is possible is by testing it. That's who I am, that's who I want to be - and I guess I get to fly.

What I'm saying is being safe and conservative is not who I am, and not who I'm meant to be. I'm not crazy, I'm not about to fly into the sun to prove a point. I'm a smart man. I'll measure, I'll calculate, I'll assess, and then I'll opt for the choice which seems most fun - invariable the edgier option. So be it. I'm too old to change now, and too grumpy to try it.

That's where I am. I'm sure, for what it's worth, that I will get all the way back, and beyond. I've lost a lot, but there's no value in thinking on that - better to focus on what can be won. I believe in karma, in everything evening out within the space of a few lifetimes, I believe the wheel turns eternally and that if you're tough enough to hang in there it'll turn for you.

Too soon to say, and many years and mysteries before me, but in the last few weeks it has begun to turn. True to my spirit I went hard, double or nothing, and I look like doubling, touch wood. And from having no choices I now seem to have a plenitude of them. The trick now is to respect them, and not take them for granted. Still a long journey ahead.

Preponing

Fong has been in India on holiday. I'm sitting on my couch before watching 30 Rock when my phone beeps at me. It's Fong. I've been preponed she tells me. Preponed? What's that? Well apparently preponed is the opposite of postponed, which sort of makes sense except as a concept I didn't know it existed. Which it doesn't really, except in India, where it happens regularly.

So Fong explains, she was due to be coming home and she got told she had to come to the airport early to catch her flight. Isn't that just an earlier flight? No, it's not. She's been preponed.

I mean really, this is silly. And it would piss you off. You're having a long breakfast when you get the call. Or maybe you have a day planned at the Taj Mahal. Or perhaps you've already paid for your accommodation for another night. Then bang, shazam, you've been preponed.

I can't approve of this. Fong, who is a prickly type, seemed pretty cool with it, but that could be just India. Don't quote me, but India is one of those places that wears you out. It's an assault on every sense, and very little is comfortable or easy. Leave early? Yeah alright.

Preponed. Strange. Sounds very Indian.

Pearl Jam in Melbourne

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I went and saw Pearl Jam play at Etihad Stadium on Friday night. In a week of 30+ degree days I had a heavy head cold that would have seen me opt out of any other engagement but this. I hooped on the tram at about 5 and sat while the tram became progessively more full as we approached the city. It was like a footy crowd in a lot of ways, lively and expectant, though without the warring tribes. Most would have been over 30-35 I guess having grown up with Pearl Jam in the early days and followed them all the way through. The expectation was of a great show, and there was a lot of banter about that going to and fro - do you reckon they'll play A/B/C? etc - but there was also a sentimental take on it. This was taking time out from the usual humdrum to follow a memory.

I did my reflecting as the tram chugged in, remembering things in my own muddled and chronologically incorrect way. Funnily enough the memory that pushed it's way to the front was not of Pearl Jam, but rather Nirvana. They came to prominence roughly at the same time and both from the north west of the US; both leaders in the new grunge movement. Coming out of the eighties it was a movement gratefully accepted by the likes of me, sick of drum machines, teased hair and shallow music. Grunge was well named - it wasn't pretty but it was real; it was authentic music by people passionate about it.

And so as grunge took off there was an occasion sitting on a tram on the way back from work one day in 1992 - can it really be 17 years ago? It is a warm day, the old tram crowded with people after a long day at work. I am listening to a radio through some headphones and peering out the window listlessly as the tram ambles up the middle of Dandenong Road. We are passing the cemetery when Smells Like Teen Spirit comes on. It is not the first time I have heard it, but this is the time I truly believe it to be something great - and to believe that music was changing. I listen, energised, enlivened, stirred by the music and by the thought that once more music might mean something.

It is around this time that Pearl Jam are also kicking big goals with Ten, a great album. Alive is on the radio, and Jeremy, Black, Even Flow, and albums after that and by bands following their lead even as Kurt Cobain self destructs. Music changed back then, was made real again and 17 years later in Melbourne on of the bands that did that was appearing in Melbourne. That's what I was thinking.

I went with a couple of mates, Cheeseboy and Ant. We had a beer art Murmur and then a steak nearby. By the time we reached the stadium it was near full - crowd figure later was 48,000. We took our places and waited.

My memories of the concert are in two separate threads. The first one being that I was disappointed in the sound quality. It was clear enough, but it seemed to stop before us. We listened, we sang along, we applauded, but we did not seem part of the music as you should be. It was like going to the beach and stopping short of where the water surged.

The other memory is more positive. It was a great show. I thought that watching, then had to ask myself what made it great. I'm one of those typical fans who prefer the earlier stuff, some of which is seminal. I can appreciate some of their more recent work, but for me it does not have the power or melodic invention of the earlier work of the nineties. For that reason I preferred the second half of the show to the first, but I was impressed throughout regardless.

You expect a very authentic performance from a band like Pearl Jam. I can't ever imagine Eddie Vedder giving it away. He's one of those guys who'll do it forever because music and all it means is his life. He's not a performer. He's a man plying the trade that he loves. There's no flash in him. When he speaks it's Eddie the guy you might have a beer with at the local pub. What you see is what you get, which is exactly as it should be. The show is basic and without pyrotechnics. The stage is flanked by a couple of tall screens showing black and white close-ups of the action on stage, but that's it.

In character with all this is the sheer musicianship on display. They're a band of great musicians who know and love their stuff. Playing together they produced repeated and prolonged passages of powerful music, more so than any other band I can remember playing live. To be there and listening was a thrill, and sometimes much more than that. There is something almost hypnotic to be witness to the wall of swirling, industrial guitar all in concert. Bottom line, they're a great, old fashioned rock band.

Out front Eddie has never sounded better. Early days he was an adequate singer, but he's improved out of sight. Between songs he has a kind of charismatic and authentic integrity that few can match. I listened to his simple stories between songs as he engaged with the crowd, how he even brought up the just retired Matthew Richardson (though he called him Mark initially - which he later apologised for) in his banter. He reminded me of someone who I finally realised was Bruce Springsteen. Both have a simple honesty about them, Springsteen is an elder statesman, and Vedder is becoming one.

So, what were my highlights? Early on Oceans, Present Tense and Jeremy. I thought Indifference with Ben Harper was mesmerising in the musicianship, and Porch was fantastically rocking. Then there was Black and Alive, both great classics from Ten.

If nothing else it was great value - 2 1/2 hours of classic music from a classic band. At the end of the night we shuffled our way out with the rest of the crowd all talking about it and battled our way through to the station. It was just like a night at the footy and the crowd full of it.

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Where have all the bank robbers gone?

Cover of Fun with Dick and Jane

I got home last night and flicked on the TV and watched the end of an odd movie before the next one came on. The next movie was Fun With Dick and Jane, the seventies version with George Segal and Jane Fonda. For those who don't know it's about a high flying executive and his young aspiring family, big house in the 'burbs, in-ground pool being dug, when he gets laid-off. He tries for benefits and to get another job before, in desperation, he starts to hold up stores with his wife.

It's pretty well a comedy, though perhaps with a bit of a satirical edge. It's fun and well made and very seventies in a way; and last night watching it resonated with me pretty strongly. What is crime after all but free enterprise taken to an extreme?

Anyway I was watching it when I realised that while the news will feature the odd convenience store hold up, they're pretty infrequent these days, and very rarely does a bank get robbed. When I was growing up banks were robbed all the time - not now. Is it the increased security and technology that have made it too risky? Or is simply that there is a different class of crim these days?

Whatever, I went to bed thinking worse comes to worse a ram raid on an ATM may not be the worst option - though not with the Audi.

Too much is too much

My life is getting ridiculous. I'm getting way too old to be keeping so busy, and I really don't want to be. Sigh.

Last week I had a little rant about my lifestyle and ever since, despite my best efforts (ok, mediocre efforts) have been pretty well non-stop.

Last Friday went into the city for a drink. It was a warm, sunny day so had a few beers sitting besides the river at Riverland. From there went for a quick drink at Comme before making our way to the excellent Von Haus for a bottle of wine and some supper.

Saturday night went out for a bottle of bubbles and everything that goes with it.

Sunday I caught up with JV and his new girlfriend at the new pub opened up in Church Street, Royal Saxon. We compared Audi's (he's just a new one too) and then adjourned into the stylish interior of the pub for a long lunch. Very well done place, well fitted out, similar to their last effort at the Public Bar, but on a bigger scale, and well managed.

Monday? Mmm. Stayed home I think.

Tuesday it was Whisky's birthday and he organised an impromptu dinner at Ablas, in Carlton. Good venue this, and once more we had the banquet, which is great value. Everyone goes on about the chicken rice, which is good, but it is the chicken wings in garlic and thyme that are sublime. I must have had about 4 chooks worth, and I'm not normally a fan of chicken wings.

Afterwards we adjourned back to an apartment in East Melbourne. I started to head off at about 1.30 when I was waylaid by one of the other guests, an American girl. I'd met her once before about 18 months ago, and had a positive impression of her which was contradicted earlier in the night by her loud and raucous behaviour. I'm nothing but polite though, and so I sat down to talk to her. Her opening gambit was to comment on the usual party trick I'd played earlier in the night, what would you rather be, a vampire or a werewolf? Most people say vampire, which seems a bit boring and, on reflection, maybe unwise. In any case this girl now had now changed her mind to werewolf, swayed by my argument, and wanted to discuss it. It may have been the few drinks we'd had, but there was a definite sexual undertone to the conversation, highlighted by our pleasured agreement that a werewolf was sexier - much more primal and raw, and besides being on all fours can't be all bad.

The conversation was surprisingly interesting and wide ranging after that, and with the same undertones. I enjoyed it, though I felt a bit suspicious - I almost felt she was trying to seduce me, and obviously so, with her provocative conversation, her pronounced fascination with me, her body language - both open and assertive, and how she would run her hand through her hair as she spoke to me, as if she was in a shampoo commercial. Notwithstanding my earlier disapproval it's hard to turn from that when you're a red blooded male and she is an attractive woman with excellent breasts. I didn't get to bed until 3.30.

Last night I caught up with Becky. We met at Riverland again, an excellent summer venue (though overpriced), where we had a couple of beers, a pizza, and a bottle of albarino. Next we sought out a proper meal. We went to a restaurant in Fed Square, Feddish (thumbs down), average food and terrible service. Still, we ate and had another bottle of wine. By now Becky was well and truly fired up and so we wandered up to the city square for dessert and a nightcap. Then home.

Tonight I'm going to the Pearl Jam concert. Tomorrow night I'm off to a party. Sunday I'm shopping for BBQ's with the yoga teacher. Monday Becky has invited me to a formal industry and networking lunch. Tuesday night I'm going to a wine tasting and dinner with Donna. Wednesday is another lunch with old work colleagues. And so on.

Too much. I'm getting old, and this rate will be getting fat too.

The smell of damp earth

I was in a taxi coming home last night at about 10 when we stopped at some lights. It was a warm evening after a hot day and the window by my side was open. Sitting there waiting for the lights to change from red to green I could smell something both familiar and good. I turned my head wondering what it was. We were stopped in Wellington Parade right next to Treasury Gardens. I glanced at the gardens and the trees and realised what I was smelling was damp earth. That's an unlikely fact in parched Melbourne, but then I guessed they have their own water supply and had as the sun set watered the gardens, and that was what I could smell.

The strange thing is that the smell reminded me of my grandfather. That was the immediate association, and it was welcome. As we drove off I reflected on that. I pondered the strange way our mind affixes certain sounds and smells and other sensory attributes to particular memories. Whenever I hear a tinkling bell I recall a milk bar I used to go to as a child for example, and how the bell would tinkle every time the door was opened or closed. That's forever locked in my mind as, it seems, is the smell of damp earth associated with my grandfather. It is an apt association. He was a great gardener, and the front garden of his home in Strathmore was full of beautifully grafted rose bushes which he would water every night as it grew dark. He taught me how a garden should be watered to a certain depth, and somewhere in there the smell of the resultant wet earth became something to recall him by.

I am forever surprised by the intricacies of the human mind, and grateful that it is so. Life becomes deeper and more interesting with these complex connections we unwittingly make and carry forward every day.

Eye of the tiger

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I've just got home in time to see Tiger Woods win the Australian Masters. There was some controversy a few months back when it was announced that Tiger would be paid 3.3 million in appearance money to come downunder for the event. Aside from the standard wowsers there's no-one complaining today. His trip has been an unmitigated success. We've seen four days of sunshine and huge crowds following Tiger around at one of the best golf courses in the world, Kingston Heath. It's been a great fillip to the sport, great publicity for the course, and an economic boon for the city.

Tiger is a popular champion, but I was hoping one of the Aussies might get up. That they didn't is no great disappointment. Tiger Woods is a champion in the true sense of the world. No-one could begrudge his success because he is a man who truly deserves it.

History may will likely record him as being the best golf player of all time. He has great natural talent, but I doubt that is the secret to his success. He's a good man. Though he has every excuse to be, he is far from the arrogant champion. He is approachable, human, friendly, a good bloke in the Aussie vernacular. His ability, his unsurpassed success, gives him a kind of aura that is belied by his down to earth humility. He is a grounded man, blessed with great ability, and a temperament that comes from a good upbringing. For me this is what is most impressive about him. I think he has great natural ability, but so too many others. What he has that sets him apart is a steely resolve that demands nothing less than a superlative level of performance. It's all very well to set that standard, but to achieve and then to maintain it takes a lot of hard work, determination and great mental strength. Not for a moment does Tiger take it easy. Not for a moment does he take it for granted. His success is the product of that hard work and the confidence it creates, and the knowledge that if it can be done then he will do it.

That is what it takes to be a champion: a certain amount of ability, hard work, self belief, and a single minded focus on the goal ahead. Listen to Tiger speak through a tournament. He's affable, friendly, but - and no pun intended - he has the eye of the tiger. Anything else but a W against his name is extraneous to his aim.

I'm surprised at how positive this week has been. This afternoon in an interview with Tiger post match a child was quoted that seeing him in the flesh was a bit like seeing an action hero come to life. That explains in large part the crowds that have flocked to Kingston Heath this week: this was the chance to see the best of all time in the flesh.

Another sporting idol of a few years back has been in the news lately. Andre Agassi is releasing his autobiography and it's clear it's warts and all. He has been roundly pilloried in the last few weeks after admitting he took drugs once during his playing career, and lied about it. He's been candid about tanking matches and, more amusingly, about wearing a toupe early days. It sounds like a good read.

Agassi retired from tennis as a much loved statesman of the game. For myself I see no reason why that should change now. I admire his honesty, and don't really anything less. Former and current players are getting in a lather over the drug admission, but I think it pretty innocent. I may be naive, but I suspect the opposite. We live in an age where drugs are freely available, especially when you have ready cash. I expect most people of Agassi's generation have tried something - why should he be any different? I guess the argument is that he's a professional sportsman and is sworn by extension against drugs. He's also a human being, with the same flaws as the rest of us.

I take more seriously the admission of tanking matches, but find it easy to let it go after all this time. Sure he's a public figure, but I don't see why he should be more lily-white than the rest of us. I'm prepared to give him a break. He gave a lot more to the game than he took from it, and if we find he had feet of clay then so what? No great harm done.

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Hurting to win

Image by David Jackmanson via Flickr

Two significant sporting contests for Australian teams last night.

In Muscat the Socceroos played Oman in a crucial Asian Cup qualifying match. I haven't seen any of the match, but they had what sounds like a pretty good win. Down to 10 men just 15 minutes into the game, the Australians kicked the winner with 8 minutes to go, after being a goal down early. Job done.

The other contest was the Four Nations Rugby League final between Australia and England in England. I'm a much bigger soccer fan than rugby league, but I'll watch anything Australia is competing in, and the truth is that at the top level it can be a pretty entertaining game.

Australia won, as most pundits would have tipped, but not before they were behind early in the second half. That was the end of the contest though. In the last 25 minutes of the game Australia scored 6 tries to nil, winning ultimately 46-16. A shellacking in other words.

I watched a replay of it this morning. It was hard not to be impressed by the Kangaroos, as the English commentators were. At their best the Australians play league like the Harlem Globetrotters play basketball. They're inventive, athletic and often spectacular. For a game that can seem agricultural at times they exhibit fantastic skill and vision. When it's this good it's fun to watch whether it's your game or not.

As the points mounted in the second half one of the English commentators bemoaned how England didn't deserve the scoreline. It happens sometimes that the final score is out of balance with the on-field action, but it's a rare thing. I disagreed with the commentator. Australia might have been great, but England were pathetic. They deserved every point against them.

If they had swapped jumpers and Australia been on the receiving end of a belting like that I'd be sick to my stomach right no. I can handle losing, I can accept that we won't always be the best team. I can even cop the odd thrashing when the effort has been there. That's what lacked today. Watching it from afar it seemed to me that once Australia started getting on top the English side virtually conceded. Game over.

It's a tough game on every level, and clearly the English were getting tired, but then that's what the contest is all about. It's rising to those challenges and overcoming them - or at least meeting them head-on. I mean, isn't that why we applaud great Olympians and sportsmen? It's not easy after all, you ache, you doubt, you ponder taking the easy way out - but while some will the champions won't. They raise another effort. They ignore their screaming muscles and gasping lungs, they defy the odds against them and just do it. Win or lose they keep going. And when they win it's a great thing to behold - the beauty of sport.

That's what England failed to even consider today. It was poor. It was my team playing them, but I was embarassed for the English supporters. And it seemed to me that the commentators attitude summed up much of the problem. Near enough is good enough - they didn't deserve this. Well, they did, and it's all they'll get until they realise that. To be the best you've got to be prepared to hurt. It's something Australian teams have long been aware of - and something they have relished - and England have yet to learn.

There were telling comments by the commentators. They were clearly in awe of the Australian team. One commenting what a privilege is was to watch as a neutral the sheer ability and class of the Kangaroos in top flight. His counterpart bitterly replied that he was sick of it. He'd had years of it and just when he hoped they might have a team to compete this happens. Another spoke of how dangerous it was to lead the green and gold because you always know they'll come back hard at you.

Why can't English teams fight back as hard? Why be in awe? Respect your opponent sure, be ready to blunt his weapons, but go hard for the win. I'm proud that Australian teams are famous for these qualities, but we don't have a monopoly on them. There is no reason why when the chips are down why our English opponents can't dig as deeply. Except, but rarely, do they.

Victory goes to the most persevering Napoleon once said. Let me add to that. Victory goes to the team more willing to hurt.

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