The Bard on Avon Bar in Christchurch will always have a special place in my heart. That is where I eventually saw the Carling Cup final in the early hours of Monday morning here and that is where I saw Spurs lift their first trophy in nine years. What an experience. What an unusual way to watch your team triumph like that and what a win for us over one of the best teams in the country.
I opted to stay in Christchurch a few hours longer than planned before the five-hour drive to Dunedin for today's Test warm-up match simply because I was told there was more of a chance of finding live coverage of the big game in the south island's biggest city than in this university town that we find ourselves in ahead of next week's first Test.
It is a bit surreal setting your alarm for for 3am (2pm in London and an hour before kick-off) and walking through deserted streets in my Spurs shirt before finding the venue where I could share long distance with all my many friends and family who were at the match the agonies and nail-biting tension before we gained what I thought was a thoroughly deserved win.
Yes, I know I'm one-eyed so I don't know for sure whether we deserved it and I normally turn to Matt Lawton and Paul Hayward for independent analysis in Sportsmail for reassurance but I'm having trouble accessing the internet at this lousy hotel we find ourselves in at Dunedin so I haven't been able to read any match reports yet to check whether my analysis was similar to the objective experts.
No matter. My relief at finding a bar and seeing around 30 people inside wearing Spurs shirts was all I needed to realise I had found the perfect venue for my venture. The big TV was tuned to Sky Sports 3 here in New Zealand - and you try finding many hotels or bars who have that channel because I haven't had much success - and my new found friends from around the globe who shared an obsession for all things Tottenham Hotspur were both friendly and welcoming.
Meanwhile, there was a token bloke in a Chelsea shirt who turned up and watched the game at the bar's second TV in the corner.
He piped up occasionally but this was an experience akin to watching Spurs from the Paxton End and texts from my daughter Hannah and also my big Spurs buddies Gary and Pilch, among others, made me feel that maybe I was close to Wembley after all, not on the other side of the world feeling like an outsider who had been denied entrance to the big party.
And it is amazing how you find yourself cuddling perfect strangers when Dimitar Berbatov scores a goal in a cup final simply because they share the same affiliation as you. It is the magic of sport I suppose and while one of the very few drawbacks of my extremely fantastic job means I wasn't there to share the moment, I will never forget my unusual Carling Cup final experience.
I will remember it just as fondly as all the cup finals I have been present at - and my joy at my kids watching Spurs win at Wembley from the same end where I saw Ricky Villa score THAT goal in my favourite ever sporting moment when I was 15 is immense, even if I wasn't there to share it.
What was very odd was walking back out of the bar just as daylight was breaking and knowing I had to get straight on the road for my latest drive. I wanted to shout from the rooftops about what I had just seen.
I wanted to share the moment, somehow. Instead the best I could manage was a big grin at the early morning hotel concierge as I walked back from the Bard on Avon to the Rydges Hotel complete with a muffled 'we have just won the cup' as I made my way back to the lift to collect my things, jump in my Toyota hire car (very nice it is too) and hit the fantastically uncluttered roads of New Zealand. The concierge did not have a clue what I was talking about, had probably only just got out of bed himself, and just smiled at me. He must have thought I was mad.
And so to the rather contrasting scene of the University Oval in Dunedin and England's practice match ahead of the first Test which followed hard on the heels of the end of a disappointing one-day series.
This was genteel after the drama of watching events at Wembley from afar. This was the start of the build-up to the more important business which awaits us in Hamilton next week and all the first day served to do, in truth, was muddy the waters for England. The selectors are planning on recalling Andrew Strauss but he was out for four while the man they seem intent on leaving on the sidelines, Owais Shah, scored 96.
Meanwhile, our latest wicketkeeping hope Tim Ambrose missed the chance to confirm his place over Phil Mustard by getting out for two. It all leaves England with a bit of thinking to do, at least ahead of the second warm-up game on Thursday.
But, cricket-wise, what I really want to talk about is the Jesse Ryder affair, because it really saddens me. Here is a guy who has had a difficult upbringing, and clearly has had problems with alcohol and other things, but who has a God given talent and made a really good impression in the one-day series with a passable impersonation of Marcus Trescothick at the top of the order.
So what happens next? He jeopardises the whole thing by getting very, very drunk on Saturday night and somehow damaging his right hand so badly that it might even threaten his entire future. And how did he do it? By punching a glass panel on the lock of a toilet to try to get it open, a misdemeanour he compounded by apparently being very rude to the doctors and nurses who tried to help him; a development for which he had to apologise yesterday.
Oh Jesse. You idiot. You have a great chance of building a much better life for yourself than seemed likely not too long ago but you are doing your very best to blow it. Let's hope it is not too late.
But the evidence for the prosecution is not good. A few of us had a drink in the bar of a Wellington hotel a couple of weeks ago after the first one-day international and came upon what appeared to be Jesse's brother and step-mum on a neighbouring table.
The brother, much the worse for drink, was one of the most foul mouthed and unpleasant young people I have ever encountered and did not make me at all confident about Jesse's chances of escaping his background. Then there have been the alleged spottings of Jesse drinking, in one case tequila shots, on the days before games, even in the early hours of the morning before matches. His chances of turning over a new leaf do not look good. Which would be a tragedy.
Oh well. I have only got Spurs on my mind at the moment. As I drove through the beautiful countryside of the south island this morning, with a permanent grin on my face, a message came through on my answerphone from my mate Gaz who was with his mates Jumbo, Holly, Thomo and the Ledge (so called because he once lived next door to Bill Nicholson in Tottenham High Road.)
It was an emotional, and pretty tired, rendition of 'I want to be in that number when the Spurs go marching in.' It was out of tune. It was, I guess, a musical disaster... but it was the most beautiful thing I have ever heard...
February 25, 2008 | Permalink | Comments (2) | TrackBack (0)
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