When Formula 1 driver Robert Kubica entered the braking area at the hairpin on lap 27 of the Canadian Grand prix in 2007 he was sitting comfortable and secure in his BMW and traveling at 300km/h.
Before he reached the apex of the hairpin he was still sitting in his BMW but little was left of the car, it having hit the retaining walls and turned over subjecting Kubica to a peak ‘G’ force of 75G.
He suffered a slight concussion and as a precaution, unwillingly, missed the next race.
When Fernando Alonso crashed at the Australian Grand Prix in 2016, experiencing a peak G-force of 46G, he crawled from under his upside down car and with the merest of backward glances, then walked away to face his media commitments.
When Brendon Hartley’s car was slammed into the wall by an out of control Williams driven by Lance Stroll at the recent Canadian Grand Prix, coming to rest against the car of Stroll in the barriers, he studied his wrecked Toro Ross for a moment, then walked away.
Rarely does a rugby game go by without head clashes and running blood but the players just get up and get on with it and just occasionally they may have a strong word, short but strong, with an opposition player.
It is conceivable that a particular word may also be accompanied by a friendly pat, applied with the knuckles to the chin area, to re-emphasise that word.
Shortly after they all shake hands.
In Basketball players bump and jostle, then play on, superstars and minions alike and in netball extreme physicality appears to be almost compulsory these days but no big deal, fall over, get up and get on with it.
In field hockey the players, all of whom are equipped with weapons that could kill, manage to co-exist for the entire competitive game with hardly a physical foul and in that ice rink based version of cage fighting otherwise called ‘Ice Hockey’ the extreme violence, officially sanctioned and encouraged, is seen as part of the sport.
I need not make any mention of Boxing nor road race cycling whose riders get knocked off, flayed, get back on the bike and race.
In all of these sports the referee, umpire, judge or the person with the whistle is respected and generally obeyed immediately, sometimes on threat of an increased penalty.
Much of the above is why I cannot stand to watch the Football World Cup.
Rarely have I seen a bigger bunch of preening, precious and pampered ‘sportsmen’ diving and acting as if they have been shot with a double barrelled howitzer when the heinous criminal who is actually accused of committing the attempted murder is sometimes a metre away.
That man obviously hiding about his person the Taser that he clearly used to incapacitate the unfortunate opponent who is now writhing on the ground and on his fifth rolling movement with arms flailing and agonised grimace displaying his full theatrical repertoire in re-enacting a fish out of water.
These players bodies would benefit medical science by being examined to find the remarkable genes or recuperative powers that allow then to come back from a near death experience within 30 seconds and play on unaffected by whatever life threatening injury they apparently suffered.
That sort of melodramatic acting has turned me off the game completely.
I used to play football.
In my senior school days I was the captain of the senior side playing ‘centre forward’ (does that position still even exist?) and scored the goal that won us the championship one year.
I also played rugby and basketball for the school.
I supported Chelsea in the days of Peter Osgood and on into the mid 1990s. Both my Mother and Father were season ticket holders for decades of an English league team that he actually sponsored.
Football was part of the fabric of my upbringing.
It was a hard game in those days but I cannot remember any of the Prima Donna diving that is now in every game and goes unpunished.
I also cannot remember the total disrespect shown to the referee when players disagree with a decision.
Crowding him, jostling and abusing him, once again without penalty in most cases.
I have certainly worked with some impressive egotistical divas in motor racing over time but none compare to your standard millionaire footballer, albeit talented beyond the normal and skilled more than any mere mortal, but who would be more at home in a performance of ‘The Dying Swan’ ballet than kicking a ball.
The antics and overacting, with the deliberate intention of milking a foul or worse by manipulation, is an insidious plague that has crept into ‘The Beautiful Game’ and is now an integral part of it but it is nothing more than lying and cheating and it sickens me, so no Football World Cup for me thank you.
I shall stick to watching rugby and all my other sports and continue to marvel that on the race-track, men and women can have a near death experience and wave it off with no more than a slight shrug of the shoulders.
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