Noovak Djokovic recently became the first tennis player to earn $100-million in prizemoney. He also has five blue-chip sponsors who pay him handsomely. And he lives in a sumptuous pad in tax-free Monaco when he’s not at his penthouses in Miami and New York.

But it’s not enough, it seems, for one of sport’s most pampered stars.

The multiple major winner was at the vanguard of a move at the Australian Open to push for more money for the game’s elite. It’s not enough that 50-plus men earned more than $1-million from tennis in 2017, or that today’s men’s winner in Melbourne will pocket a cool $3,1-million.

You wonder where he gets the nerve, but there he was rallying his colleagues to push for more cash during an extraordinary meeting in which non-players were ushered out. It reeked of revolution.

The poor darling is apparently motivated by the extraordinary profits generated by tournament organisers. What he forgets is that the cash is spent, reinvested and spoken for. He forgets, too, that prizemoney is constantly cranked up, not least at the Australian Open.

South Africa’s Kevin Anderson, not short of a dollar himself, also piped up on behalf of the downtrodden, making a fallacious comparison with NBA and NFL stars. Apples and pears and all that.

Contradictions abound, as cranky Bernard Tomic confirmed after failing to qualify for the Australian Open. “I just count money, that’s all I do. I count my millions,” he tartly told the media. “You go do what I did (on court). You go make $13, $14-million. Good luck, guys. Bye bye.”

An uncomfortable truth, but a truth nonetheless: the superstars don’t go short.

It’s rich for Djokovic and his cohorts to pipe up. None of them has worked a day in their lives and for all the artistry of their performances as sportsmen, that’s all they are: sportsmen.

Had Djokovic rallied behind the poor shmucks who operate beyond the top 200 on tour, it would have been another story, but this was a money grab for the well-heeled.

This is the same guy, remember, who two years ago said that men should be paid more than women. It’s a view believed to be shared by many men in the locker room.

More commendable from Djokovic was the call to form a separate players’ union which would presumably torpedo the current situation whereby the ATP represents both players and tournament organisers (Wayne Ferreira tried a similar initiative 15 years ago, but it floundered).

There is a definite need for players to be better represented, although they must pick their fights better than a chase for more money. Djokovic’s views would have been far more palatable had he spoken of redistributing the money to ensure it trickles down more equitably to ensure that the outliers earn a liveable wage. Of course, he did not.

The vast majority of the pot of cash on offer at ATP tournaments goes to top 100 players, so there will be more caviar for them, not the little guys who sweat on the margins.

There’s now loose talk of a strike at next year’s Australian Open, a dangerous suggestion that must be shut down if the players are to avoid a public backlash. Not all players are entirely comfortable with Djokovic’s growing militancy and even tennis fans would have little sympathy in the event of a strike.

It’s difficult to hold the moral high ground when you live as swanky a life as Djokovic. He might have emerged from impoverished Serbia, but he’s one of the world’s one percenters; a nouveau riche man oblivious to the deprivations that most of the world’s people live under.

All he’s done is look at the economy that swirls around the game and assumed that the players deserve a bigger slice of the cake. He conveniently forgets about the thousands of underlings who prop up the sport, often doing unglamorous jobs that pay a standard wage. They may be nameless, but they are vital cogs in the machine that makes the international tour purr along.

Djokovic is a magnificent tennis player, but he’s no poster boy for the failings of the sport. He’s best doing his talking on the court where no-one can dispute his standing. – © Sunday Tribune

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Asked to forecast the actions of Russia ahead of World War II, Winston Churchill uttered the memorable phrase, “Russia is a riddle wrapped in a mystery inside an enigma.”

As indeed it remains some 80 years later, as I have discovered these past few weeks on holiday in this vast, endlessly fascinating land. Russia is a place where you must park your idea of normal and go with its homegrown equivalent.

Contradictions abound. The hospitality is happy and hearty, but go down to the shops and you’ll be barged out the way by rude locals. The passion for sport runs deep, but there’s largely an ambivalence about the state-sponsored doping programme that continues to hobble the country’s ambitions.

“Everyone’s doing it . . . we just got caught,” said one (which is probably true).

Even so, among many caught up in the firestorm was Russia’s football boss Vitaly Mutko, who resigned last month after a lifetime ban by the IOC over the doping.

Of course, the world’s eyes will be focused on Russia when the soccer World Cup starts in June. The country hosted the much-boycotted Olympic Games in 1980 and, in 2014, the Winter Olympics, but the World Cup is a far bigger pageant.

Soccer is the biggest sport there is and geopolitical circumstances are delicately poised, not least with Russia’s malevolent influence over the US elections. For all the hand-wringing over America’s failure to qualify, perhaps it’s just as well.

Russia will be sure to do its grand-standing, something sports’ grandees routinely indulge with host nations, but it will need something special to transform its team.

Although the country recently drew 3-3 with Spain, the prevailing mood is one of anxiety, dread even. The best they could do at their own Confederations Cup last year was beat New Zealand.

Most believe that the coach, former Russian keeper Stanislav Cherchesov, isn’t up to it, but he has the critical backing of the country’s big boss, Vladimir Putin. Turns out that Cherchesov played for Dynamo Dresden, one of Putin’s favourite teams when he was a KGB officer in the German city.

You would think a country of 144 million could rustle up 11 world-class players, but as some believe, Putin among them, Russia’s youth system is not delivering and an over-abundance of foreigners has diluted the domestic league. MacBeth Sibaya and Matthew Booth spent many seasons here, as have many inostranets from elsewhere.

More certain is that visitors to the World Cup are in for an unusual, eventful time. The stereotype of dead-eyed Russians is both hurtful and unwarranted. Many are loud and boisterous and fun to be around. The aim of every soccer tourist should be to secure at least one dinner invitation with a local family. Their English might be rudimentary, but sure to be far better than the visitor’s Russian. Somehow, the blend of soccer, vodka – yes, it is served relentlessly – and robust conversation produces a heady brew; a glorious treat for an open-minded tourist.

If the Russian soccer team is underpowered, its fans are not. The Internet is peppered with videos of Russian skinheads promising “a festival of violence”. One local minister even voiced his belief that hooliganism should be made a spectator sport.

Russia’s bloated bureaucracy ensures militia are everywhere and, besides, Putin will  instruct his police and military to come down hard lest Russia give a bad impression to the world. The nutters will be kept well in check.

Hotels are world-class and host cities like Moscow, Kazan and Sochi are exotic and offer history and tradition beyond compare. Although Moscow is largely multilingual with many signs in both Russian Cyrillic and English, this is much less true elsewhere. Best buy data and crank up Google Translate, in that case.

Russian cuisine is a heady mix, big on salads and potatoes and its best export, borsch, the classical red soup beloved of babushkas everywhere. Food is served in waves, so visitors best pace themselves. Portions, and moods, are generous.

Russia needs the World Cup to be grand and successful, if only as a temporary salve to the massive doping shame that tarnishes its image.

It’s a mysterious, majestic place. And it’s the Russia that travelling fans ought to embrace. – © Sunday Tribune

IImagine running over halfway to the moon.

If it sounds like a crazy idea, that’s probably because it is, although it never stopped Bruce Fordyce, who this week clocked up his 200 000^th kilometre of running. I do a little running myself – and once beat Fordyce in a park run, although he was going very slowly – and it’s a mind-bending thought to imagine he has run so much.

It’s a source of inspiration for many that his first run in 1976 was no more than a gentle shuffle around the block. We now know that was the start of a remarkable record that saw him win nine Comrades titles and become an icon of the sport. In later life he became a prominent (and excellent) public speaker and is the driving force behind South Africa’s park run phenomenon.

Upon learning of his landmark run this week, I got to thinking about other local sports heroes of mine. These aren’t the obvious ones who score tries for the Springboks or runs for the Proteas, but rather the everyday people who quietly light up other sports.

There’s Doug Ryder, the former cyclist now ensconced as team principal of the Dimension Data team. He does remarkable work championing his team all over the world, luring star riders and cracking entries for major races. He’s a hero who deserves every acclaim.

Closer to home, there’s former SA light-heavyweight champion Ryno Liebenberg. Not especially talented, but possessed with the heart of a lion, he’s often beaten better boxers. He takes his licks too, getting cut to pieces or robbed of a decision in a faraway town overseas. The thing with him, though, is that he understands the business. Every disappointment is treated with little more than a shrug . . . and then it’s onto the next fight.

He’s a wonderful, earthy talker, too, a standout in a sport where too few locals know how to entertain beyond the boxing ring.

A similar character is mixed martial artist Andrew van Zyl, the EFC heavyweight champion. A huge bear of a man, he spends his days as a school teacher and first team coach. It’s almost an old-fashioned existence for a pro sportsman, but for Van Zyl it’s a case of giving back. He just happens to love both teaching and smashing faces. He’s my kind of hero.

Sticking with academia, of a sort, it’s almost a sport trying to keep up with Sherylle Calder, the frenetic former SA hockey player now making her mark as a visual sports expert. Calder has worked with the Springboks – she sports World Cup-winning medals with both SA and England – and has done work with Formula One, Miami Dolphins wide receiver Kenny Stills, Ernie Els, Tottenham Hotspur and the All Blacks.

She’s made it big internationally and we probably shouldn’t be too surprised that her current top client is Eddie Jones, who doesn’t miss a trick.

How about Farai Chinomwe, the backward running Rastafarian who pops up all over Joburg at various road races and brings his shtick to Comrades each year. The part-time bee-keeper has run Two Oceans, Om die Dam and Comrades backwards, doing so to raise awareness around bees and their threatened ecology.

His inclusion in this offbeat list is based on the cheerfulness he demonstrates when he runs and his daring to be different. He gets plenty of chirps and endless staring, but he doesn’t mind, so long as it’s his bees who benefit.

It’s a similar case with Richard Laskey, the prodigious runner who annually runs Comrades in a cow suit in aid of cancer sufferers. It’s a cause close to home: his young wife died of cancer and he fights it any way he can. Bravo to him.

There’s the rugby writer Dan Lombard, who 10 years ago broke his neck playing rugby for Pretoria Boys High. Undeterred, the quadriplegic attained his honours in journalism and is a familiar sight at rugby events around SA.

Remarkably, every word is typed out by his tongue via his phone. Watching him at work inspires a sense of awe and is a compelling reminder that not all heroes need to be glamorous goal-scorers or headline makers. – © Sunday Tribune

 

 

There’s massive cricket and rugby to come, but everything in the world of sport in 2018 will be dwarfed by the soccer World Cup in Russia.

The marketers like to trumpet the Olympic Games as the globe’s biggest sporting event, but the World Cup frequently garners more television viewers. Soccer is also the only true world game played everywhere, from the slums of Rio to the playgrounds of England and the beaches of tiny island nations.

Even though Bafana Bafana won’t be there, having lost their way during qualifying, we support the traditional big teams anyway, whether Germany, Spain, Brazil or England. We’ll all be watching and willing on our favourites.

The Russian experience will be different, for sure. Distances between the major cities are massive, rampant nationalism, and its associated problems, is a stark reality and insularity prevails across this vast land.

(Full disclosure: this column was penned in Moscow).

If there are concerns over potential racism and crowd trouble, it’s true, too, that sport often sweeps people up in its glory. We become ridiculously friendly and happy, our problems momentarily forgotten. Let us hope.

What’s more, militia are to be found everywhere and it will be a brave fan who steps out of line.

Back at home, a thrilling end to summer awaits as India arrive for a full 12-match cricket tour, to be followed by Australia. That’s a little like waiting ages for a bus to arrive, only for two to do so at once, but it’s a terrific way to reinvigorate the sport locally after a tough few months.

India will offer a curious challenge, unable to fall back on their home comforts, but bolstered by outstanding stalwarts like Rohit Sharma and Virat Kohli.

New Proteas coach Ottis Gibson will have his smarts tested early on and there will be little respite with Australia following soon after for a four-match Test series. The mongrel within ensures they are never easily beaten.

If South African rugby emerges into the blinding light of 2018 with a long-standing bloody nose, things won’t get easier. There’s a new-fangled Super Rugby tournament beginning in February. It’s been chopped down to size from 18 to 15 teams, but all the old variables remain, such as bruising travel, the tricky conference system and wild card places. Don’t say you weren’t warned.

Things will heat up mid-year when Eddie Jones’ rampant England arrive for a three-match tour. Things are never dull when England and their press corps come to town. For all his flippancy and geniality, Jones is a fierce competitor who will prepare England well and fully expect them to win 3-0.

It’s a frightening prospect, because it might well happen given his excellence and the parlous state of the Springboks. The English will dine out on it for years and it will be sack cloth and ashes for us.

After the reawakening of local athletics in 2017, new year ambitions will focus on the Gold Coast of Australia where the Commonwealth Games will be held. We’ll likely pick up a couple of medals across a range of sports, but in truth it’s an anachronistic event that doesn’t quite reveal the true depth of a nation’s athletic prowess.

No matter. Superstars like Caster Semenya and Wayde van Niekerk, provided he recovers from a nasty knee injury, will elevate the Games and doubtless get us all excited. Perhaps a new star or two will emerge.

South Africa’s golfers have always punched above their weight, but it’s been a while since we last had a winner in the majors, Ernie Els having won the Open in 2012.

After his heroics at the 2017 Open and subsequent success at the Nedbank Golf Challenge, Branden Grace could be the next local to make a breakthrough. Ranked in the top 30, he has the game and the temperament to follow contemporaries like Louis Oosthuizen and Charl Schwartzel.

There’s a world of promise to come and my wish for the year is for administrators to stop hogging the headlines. What we need are visionaries and pioneers, people who nourish sport and truly love it.

It’s a forlorn hope, I know, but it is the season of giving.

Roll on 2018. – © Sunday Tribune