What is happening to our sport and sporting stars. It seems that they’ve all collectively lost it.

Oh Hanse, you give me such pleasure when you fall on your knees and open your mouth. You work the mike like the true slut that you are. Your loyalty to your own hide is stirring, your willingness to mention of all your fallen comrades is touching, your act of contrition is nothing short of masterful. You are the Diego Maradonna of deception. Only the Hand of God will save you now.

Oh Cathy, precious Cathy. All you ever wanted to do was run, run, run. Apart from your sponsorship deals, your book deals, your newspaper deals and your pillow-talk deals, all you ever wanted to do was bury your head in the record books. But now all the poor punters are mournfully shaking their heads as they watch your erstwhile manager fighting in the courts for a share of a small fortune. Will you still be able to run a sub-49? But how could this happen? On the eve of your greatest flight into glory, your pie-eyed innocence has been snatched away like a fistful of dollars. How cruel sport can be. You must feel like the South African Cricket Team when it lost the World Cup Cricket semi-final to Australia in an unbelievable mix up. Such an unfortunate mix up. How could such a thing happen?

Oh Rabbitoh supporter. Howling on national TV. You twisted you face into unbelievable contortions. You waved your furious arms and stomped your feet like a man possessed. Your puffy eyes gave their best. You lost , but you were great to watch (in an F1 car wreck sorta way). Great Grab!!

And the memories. Oh Ben Johnson, whatever happened to you? There was a time when you ran like the wind, like you’d been shot in the arse. Beautiful, just beautiful to watch. And the look on Carl Lewis’ face as your breasted the tape. Priceless (He looked like a man watching untold millions go down the drain).

Oh Colonial Stadium: Reduced to a desert because the grass don’t grow where the sun don’t shine where the rain don’t fall so the crowds stay dry. The funny side of footy. Wasn’t it hilarious watching ’em flounder in the sand? Remember when they played in the mud at Moorabbin, Footscray, South Melbourne, Junction Oval, North Melbourne, Windy Hill, Glenferrie Oval, et al? Well it was like that. (Except that doesn’t happen anymore cos they moved all the games to better grounds). Anyway, they were slipping and sliding like that champion female skater who had her legs broken by that other champion skater. And you’ve gotta have a laugh at stuff like that, don’t ya? It can’t all run to plan, can it. It’s sport after all, isn’t it – not some studio controlled game show?

Ah yes, I love sport. There was a time when I cried a bit – after they cut the heart out of the game. The time when they chucked the fuzzy bits into a ditch, like offal, cos they didn’t sell as well as prime cuts served with razzmatazz and lashings of corporate gravy. I cried a bit then.

But now I love watching Sport. I can’t get enough of the stuff and really, and you couldn’t ask for anything more, could you … really. Except, perhaps, for it all to come crashing down like some cheap bridge built across a polluted river on the road to Maccabi …

Maybe then we could all go back to kick-to-kick in the park. Or we could put our jumpers on the ground to mark the goals? Or play footy as dusk falls, or laugh out loud as the dog steals the ball …

And for weekend sport we could round up Rupert or some other old money man, and lop off his head, and let the kids kick it around like some tribal soccer ball – just as they did in days of yore,

I’d love to see that.

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Peter Fray
Peter Fray
Editor-in-chief of Crikey
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