DavieCooper.com Editor’s Blog

Somewhere high above the dripping streets of Glasgow, a private jet cuts through the night sky. Onboard a chief executive is deep in thought, pondering a career of tumultuous highs and farcical lows. He’s weary, but sleep evades him – running a football club, for the last 20 years, has nurtured a penchant for nervous tension.  

A few hours later and he is relaxing in the charming countryside of Provence. It’s a pleasant summers evening and he’s unwinding on a farmyard balcony; sipping fine wines and nibbling Camembert. He gazes down at the valley below, marvelling at a rural tapestry of winding streams and quaint stone villages. The dark streets of Govan seem a million miles away. After several glasses of Pinot Noir, Sir David Murray leans back into his wicker chair, closes his eyes and breathes a deep sigh of relief - this dapper bear is now in hibernation.  

Murray’s first decade as Ibrox chairman (1988-1998) was impressive: 9 Scottish league titles, glamorous international signings, stadium expansion, high profile managers. For a while he had the Midas touch. During the early 90s he vowed to make Rangers a credible force in Europe. It was a bold and daring vision that, aside from a few famous victories, was never fully realised. But the fans got caught up in the moment, and some of the Champions League nights were magical.

Murray’s final tenure as Rangers chairman (2004-2009) was an unconvincing cameo. The clubs crumbling finances forced him to adopt the role of a frugal accountant. It didn’t sit well with a man who had previously quipped, ‘that for every fiver Celtic spend I will spend a tenner’. He started making noises about leaving and it seemed the job he once loved had become a dull grind. You can understand why: no money to spend on star players, European success unrealistic, entry to the English Premiership a fantasy, mounting club debts, paltry TV revenues. The ball was on the slates. 

Sir David Murray’s resignation does not bode well for the Old Firm, or Scottish football in general. One of the countries most successful, respected businessmen wants out. What kind of message does this send out to future buyers of Scottish clubs? Surely even the most romantic of billionaires would wince at the financial practicalities of owning one. Right now, Scottish football is a hard sell. 

It looks almost comical, like an ornament crafted in Lilliput. But seldom in the world of sport has something so little been so highly coveted by two old enemies. After 5 test matches and 22 days of gladiatorial jousting, Freddie Flintoff hoisted a minute and rather unimpressive looking terracotta urn above his head. England had won the Ashes.

Over the last few weeks, I’ve been intermittently watching the Ashes saga unfold on television. I have learned that test cricket is an effective cure for insomnia (I can now throw my CD of whale sounds in the bin), and it is soothing background music when perusing the newspaper. Indeed, there’s something reassuring about the gentle thudding sound as the ball caresses the willow, the soft perpetual hum of the crowd, and the commentators’ sedate musings. For middle-aged men it shares all the cosy trappings of the maternal womb.

It may seem bizarre that a Scotsman could enjoy watching a sport that is as popular as Margaret Thatcher and Morris dancing in his native homeland. But during my childhood years I was friendly with a Pakistani boy who was cricket daft. He indoctrinated me into the strange world of googlies, cow corners and silly points. For a while I was hooked, and would dash home after school, throw on some tracky bottoms and scoot down to the local park to bowl a few wides. Life was simple back then.

Aside from misty-eyed nostalgia, the other big draw is Andrew Flintoff, a.k.a. Big Freddie - a bloke’s bloke.  He’s blessed with the navy drinking prowess of Oliver Reed, the natural cricketing ability of Sir Ian Botham, and the cheeky grin of a naughty schoolboy. He is the bad boy of English cricket - inheriting the title from Sir Beefy, who was the original beer swilling, curry-loving rebel. You can’t help but like the guy.

So it was fitting that one moment of Freddie inspired brilliance propelled England towards the finish line: Flintoff, virtually anonymous for the majority of the last test, suddenly burst into life, whipping the ball off the turf, then zinging it through the air to leave Ricky Pointing scrambling for safety - the stumps splayed, bails exploded upwards and the Australian captain trudged off the field crimson faced at having been run out. The Ashes were in the bag and Flintoff’s cameo snatched all the headlines. It was a fitting end to the 2009 Ashes and big Freddie’s test match career.

“Andy Murray has only won crappy tournaments - he’s another Tim Henman,” quipped my friend after watching his Wimbledon semi-final defeat to Andy Roddick. My face ignited as frustration bubbled inside me. I hit back reeling off an impressive list of facts and figures, about the world number 2, that relegated his argument to the dustbin.

In Britain, there are people who watch Wimbledon (my friend), and people who follow tennis. The former are casual tennis fans that, for two weeks every summer, appoint themselves as experts on the subject. They pay little or no attention to the remainder of the tennis tour and it is a footnote in their sporting calendar. Yet after watching a few hours of Wimbledon highlights they nonchalantly write-off a player’s career. Infuriating. It’s not all their fault – the lack of terrestrial TV coverage of the ATP tennis tour, and the dearth of meaningful tennis tournaments in the UK makes perspective difficult. Even so, Brits who watch only one grand slam a year should really know better.

Indeed, as the dust settles over the leafy hamlet of Wimbledon, in southwest London, Andy Murray is dominating on the other side of the Atlantic; having just won another elite Masters title in Montreal. Victory must feel sweet, especially after all the nonsense he had to endure at SW19: a smug John Inverdale, strawberries and cream, further interrogation about his comments on the England football team, Gary “Alan Partridge” Richardson, Henman Hill, criticism from a tennis-ignorant British public, John “I’m still a rebel” McEnroe and all the other faux charm that haunts the grass court season.

Murray has always been adamant that the American hard courts are where he places his best tennis, and that the US Open is his favourite tournament. The sporting crowds in North America are more raucous than their UK counterparts and respond to his fist pumps, emotional outbursts and win at all costs attitude - Muzza feeds off their energy. Let’s hope he can go all the way this time and win his first grand slam title in the Big Apple. Andy, forget about stuffy Wimbledon and go for it!

Thor wielded his hammer over the grey, murky skies of Oslo last night, and smashed George Burley’s fragile World Cup dream into a thousand pieces. Seconds later, the after shock ripped across the North Sea towards Scotland - rocking the plush chambers of the SFA and the printing presses of Glasgow. As Bob Dylan’s new song goes “I feel a change comin’ on…”. 

Towards the final whistle, the standard of Scottish play was reminiscent of the unorganised mayhem that flourished under Berti Vogts. He debunked the theory that Germans can’t do comedy. We can debate the folly of Burley’s team selection, the injuries, and the manner of the sending offs, but this wasn’t just an unfortunate series of mishaps in Norway – the cracks run deeper. 

The underlying problem is that Burley, in the eyes of the media and the public, was never the man for the job. Perhaps even in his own mind a deep sense of insecurity haunts his every managerial decision. His Scotland career has been a procession of apologies, appeasements and U-turns. Not the convictions of a strong, single minded, charismatic leader. Would certain players have indulged in an all-nighter at Cameron House if Walter Smith had been in charge? I doubt it. This result has been coming, a long time coming.

I want to congratulate Celtic on an unlikely victory in Russia last week. Serial failure away from home has blotted their European CV in recent times. But in the historic, imperious city of Moscow they redeemed themselves in dramatic style. Following a nail biting 90 minutes, the Mick Jagger of London road ghosted into the box in injury time and trundled the ball into the bottom corner to secure a famous win. Scenes of jubilation followed as the Celtic players piled on top of each other, there Russian counterparts were disconsolate and trudged back to the half way line head in hands.  

Meanwhile, in the dilapidated stands, the Celtic fans burst into life. They bounced and bounced and bounced, exorcising the pain of countless defeats on foreign soil. They were giddy on a potent cocktail of emotions: excitement, relief and bittersweet joy; like an innocent prisoner celebrating his release from jail. Indeed, after the endorphins subsided and the Celtic supporters sobered up on the red eye back to Glasvegas, they must have been asking: Why couldn’t we do this under wee Gordon? 

Several hundred miles south on an exclusive golf resort in the Mediterranean, the news probably filtered back to the diminutive ex-Hoops gaffer. Whither he hooked his next drive into the manicured rough or split the fairway is up for debate. Publicly, he would be diplomatic about his former employer and supportive of his successors achievement, but deep inside his subconscious a little green monster would be whispering. Okay, so it was only a Champions league qualifier and not a prestigious group stage match. But the timing of this victory made it symbolic – coming shortly after he was replaced as Celtic manager. But let’s not get over excited, this isn’t a new dawn for Celtic under Tony Mowbray, but it does give Scottish football a much needed and unexpected lift ahead of the 2010-11 season. Right now, be thankful for small mercies.