Sport binds us with culture of champions

I worry too much about the big things in life. 

They keep me up at nights and wear me out.

This means I have some hazy Mondays, because late on Sunday night, after biting my nails through the Grand Prix, I set the alarm for sparrow’s so I can shepherd Lydia through the golf.

It’s demanding stuff for the conscientious. Golf eats up hours, and Formula One is a damn tough master. 

If you don’t turn it on by the stroke of midnight, you miss the first corner pile-up which offers you wreckage, safety cars, and maybe even an ambulance.

It’s better than the Frankton roundabout at peak hour.

But I’m not a total sports fruitcake. 

For instance, I can’t abide World Series Darts.

The only things I have in common with the darts viewer are potato chips, and the right to trial by jury. 

No, there are but seven sports I follow closely, and because Premier League soccer is not among them, I’ve preserved many years of useful life.

Keeping up on sports makes me a "Culture Buff".

Before you sniff and summon another macchiato, allow me to justify.

By definition, a "culture" is a society’s way of life — its symbols, values, quirks, and behaviour.

Which of your recent cultural experiences ticks all the above boxes?

The gallery opening, or the symphony? 

You’d be more on the culture money with the night at your friend’s place scoffing pizza, drinking Emerson’s and screaming "offside" at the Wallabies.

Of course sport is the glue that binds us. It’s been that way since the Stone Age bloke  realised fighting might double as fun and also amuse bored wives.

(They eventually called this World Championship Wrestling).

Inventing the ball was sport’s next great bounce forward.

Professors believe Mayan Indians came up with the first ball game when they played "pitz" in 1500 BC.

Teams flapped about marked pitz courts, shoving each other, and trying to thump a 4kg  ball of rubber into a goal.

The rule was "no hands",  and after the more important matches, a priest sacrificed the losing side’s skipper.

It’s much the same today, but we leave the job to the media.

I’m not sure what they did with referees, who are a pretty poor bunch.

Have you noticed how few of the sods care who wins?

Mankind was slow to twig to the second important round object — the wheel.

Mesopotamians invented it  for making pottery, but it took five centuries of circular logic before they  realised  a wheel did wonders for a sledge.

That’s slow, and makes it clear that to the brain of many species, the purpose of a ball is much more obvious.

Cats, dogs, and seals — ballplayers all — would earnestly agree.

Ball games are the biggest crowd pleasers, but this changes at the Olympics when we suddenly understand the poetry of  Valerie Adams putting the shot, and the infamy of her being diddled by a drugs elephant.

Between 1982 and 1995 a doctor chap called Goldman (I doubt he was a GP) polled top athletes asking if they’d use a drug which guaranteed Olympic gold, but had one small hitch — it would kill them within five years.

Consistently, more than 50% said "yes".

Frankly, the Goldman figures are ridiculous.

They’re at least 3%  too high.

However,  the sports buff knows a face-off between athletes who’ve agreed to death would provide extra spice.

This is not just the legacy of the Mayans, the gladiators, and the tournament knights — it’s the win or perish notion that puts viewers in front of TV reality shows.

No wonder the quaint test cricket concept of accepting an "honourable draw" is under threat.

The true sportsman also adores the ritual comedy of the after-game interview.

To hear England’s past soccer manager Bobby Robson observe: "We didn’t underestimate them. They were a lot better than we thought."

Or golfer Greg Norman: "I owe a lot to my parents, especially my mother and father."

And baseballer Tug McGraw, who threw the winning pitch of a World Series.

McGraw got to the heart of it when asked if he played better on grass or astroturf. 

"Dunno," he said.

"I never smoked astroturf."

Sport.

It’s the raw honesty.

- John Lapsley is an Arrowtown writer.