Not since Anita Ekberg cavorted in the Trevi fountain for Fellini’s cameras nearly half a century ago has the Eternal City seen a display of sensual aquatic superstardom quite like it. Federica Pellegrini was the undoubted galactica of the World Swimming Championships, bringing the capital, and the country, to a halt when she hit the pool. She won two golds and broke two world records, to add to the eight she holds already, and she has only just turned 21. What a gal: and not only that, but she lives her life on the front pages, is blessed with movie-star looks, has modelled nude for Vanity Fair (natch), and been involved in what we tabloid journos would call a poolside love triangle, having acquired her current boyfriend, an Italian swimmer, from his previous lover, a French swimmer. Whoever said swimming was boring?
(Mark you, this controversy over swimming’s ‘go-faster’ supersuits seems batty. If the French can devise a perfectly sensible by-law so that when using a municipal pool you must wear a pair of trunks — swimming in your shorts is strictly interdit — then presumably it’s not beyond the wit of man to come up with a set of guidelines for what a competition swimsuit should be like).
It’s been a great time for women’s sport. I particularly loved Catriona Matthew, who is old enough to be Pellegrini’s mum, winning the British Open just a few weeks after giving birth to her second child. The Scot is only the fourth British woman to win a major, and in 14 years as a professional has often wondered whether it was worth carrying on. When asked in a radio interview how much she had won, she was genuinely astonished. ‘I haven’t got a clue,’ she said. ‘I’ll have to look it up in the papers.’ For the record Catriona, it’s a few quid shy of two hundred grand. Nice work.
I’ll tell you who else there’s nice work for: ex-sportsmen. We had a great day at Edgbaston last Friday, and wherever you looked there was a top former player riffing through a stand-up routine that could have slotted straight into the Edinburgh festival. At lunch we were entertained by Aussie veterans Rodney Hogg and Dean Jones. Hoggy gave us the inside story of the Headingley test of 1981 and who really had a fiver on England at 500-1; Jones shared some great tales about Viv Richards (‘If I was a sheila, I’d jump him’) and Kim Hughes, but sadly didn’t reveal what Allan Border said to him when the Aussie captain refused to let him leave the field after scoring a double century and collapsing from dehydration in India. Elsewhere there was Darren Gough, Jason Gillespie and Gladstone Small.
Friday was a relatively quiet day for the blasted Barmy Army, so we were spared anything like the quite shocking booing of Ricky Ponting when he walked to the crease on Sunday. What are these people on? Ponting is without doubt one of the best batsman they or any of us will ever see in the flesh, as well as one of the most sporting.
I was taken to task in last week’s Speccie by James Roberts for implying that Andrew Strauss was a ‘cheat’. I am so sorry: I meant nothing of the sort. Like most cricket lovers, I have nothing but admiration for Strauss as a captain, a player and a thoroughly good egg. My point was that he could have told the umpires he wasn’t certain about the catch that dismissed Phillip Hughes in the second innings at Lord’s. This would have led to a referral. Which would have shown it was a bump ball. And since Mr Roberts asked, I have been trying to catch cricket balls for more than 50 years now. And it doesn’t get any easier.
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