For a sport fan, little is more compelling than those extraordinary moments that seem, on their own, to define the outcome of the biggest contests. We fall for the heroes whose greatness defies logic, and see the suffering of the villains whose catastrophic mistakes cost them and their teammates the world. But look more carefully, and we see the mess of power, politics, circumstance and sheer luck that offers a less extreme but much more compelling narrative.
Cricket fans may be familiar with the story of Fred Tate, and the fourth Ashes Test of 1902 nicknamed ‘Tate’s Test’. The Sussex bowler was only selected for his debut minutes before play began at a rain-soaked Old Trafford. He boasted a fine First-Class record and was having the season of his life. It was his thirty-fifth birthday.
Tate went wicketless in Australia’s first innings and fumbled a simple catch in the second that allowed the tourists to limp from a disastrous 10 for 3 to 86 all out. Then, as last man he came to the crease with his team eight runs from victory. He edged his first ball for four, but moments later it was all over when he was bowled. Australia had won by three runs, securing a dramatic series triumph. Tate was booed from the field and never played for England again.
Trinidad’s Andy Ganteaume made his Test debut for West Indies against England in Port of Spain in 1948. He had already scored a hundred against the touring Englishmen in a club match, and was picked to open the batting for the second Test. Ganteaume and George Carew built a huge partnership, and Ganteaume was eventually caught at extra-cover after four and a half hours. He had made 112 in what would be his only Test innings.
The West Indies captain, Gerry Gomez, thought Ganteaume had batted selfishly, scoring slowly to preserve his own record. The eventual rain-affected draw supported Gomez’s case, though Ganteaume insisted he had simply been trying to give the expansive Carew more strike. Then there was Clyde Walcott and Everton Weekes – two of the ‘Three Ws’ – who had debuted in the first Test in Barbados; the team was already packed with great batsmen, and the selectors claimed Ganteaume did not fit. Plus, there was the politics of cricket in the Caribbean at the time, controlled by white officials to whom Ganteaume would not bow.
Thus, despite his achievements and moments of brilliance, invisible forces in the background meant Ganteaume was cast aside. Making his debut in the same match was the third ‘W’ – Frank Worrell: the first black West Indies captain who played fifty-one Tests, became a political activist and Jamaican senator, was knighted in 1964, and who upon his death in 1967 was the first sportsman to be honoured at Westminster Abbey. Ganteaume had not even been allowed to bat in the second innings.
Cricket’s narrative is one of successive, individual moments. Each ball is a new event, and a chance to make a comeback. There is no running down the clock.
It is a stretch to claim that Tate would have had a long Test career had he just been applauded from the field that day, or that Ganteaume would have rivalled Worrell given a second chance. But their tales highlight the limitations of the stories we create when consumed by sporting contest, allowing single events to paint an exciting but simple picture. Powerful people, hard work and luck interact in every moment, not only the ones that seem to define the winner, yet these crown for us our heroes, and condemn ‘villains’ like Tate.
Remember when Jessica Ennis entered the Olympic Stadium to compete at London 2012, under huge pressure as the ‘face of the games’ and gold medal favourite. She ran the fastest 100 metres hurdles ever in heptathlon, setting a British record. Think of Elton Flatley, the Australian whose penalty against England sent the 2003 Rugby World Cup Final into extra time. That the kick was relatively simple and to avoid defeat rather than secure glorious victory made the moment even more tense. And think of the hockey final between Great Britain and the Netherlands at the 2016 Olympics. GB goalkeeper Maddie Hinch’s string of saves took the match to a shoot-out, and she became a national icon stopping every Dutch penalty. #HinchForPM was trending on social media.
The list could go on almost endlessly. Chris Eubank’s uppercut to turn the tide against Michael Watson; football’s magic goals, and the disasters at the other end goalkeepers wish to forget. Contrast Tiger’s chip on the 16th at Augusta in 2005 – the genius that, ultimately, saved the championship – with Jean van de Velde paddling around at Carnoustie in 1999 having blown it.
The fan in me wants just to enjoy the instances of apparent greatness and disaster that seem to define sporting outcomes on their own, and revel in the stories they create. But the scientist within can’t ignore reality lurking in the background.
These moments speak to our need to idolise heroes and vilify losers, and the difficulty of seeing the full complex picture of a sporting contest. Psychologists offer many explanations: an infantile appreciation for the superhuman and our own deficiencies, our aspiration for perfection, and the sense of justice and validation the moments bring. Perhaps we are experiencing the ‘iceberg illusion’ described by psychologist Anders Ericsson, attributing feats of brilliance to talent beyond our grasp rather than years of deliberate practice, teamwork and fortune. Then there is the sheer entertainment: the thrill, hope and despair.
In their 2013 book The Numbers Game – why everything you know about football is wrong, statisticians Chris Anderson and David Sally examine myths and misconceptions in the ‘beautiful game’.
An instructive passage – ‘Dogs that don’t bark’ – discusses the limitations of statistics: measuring events in sport. In 2001, Alex Ferguson sold defender Jaap Stam to Lazio, partly because Stam was tackling less. Stam continued to win trophies until he retired in 2007. Anderson and Sally argue that he had such good positioning and anticipation that his opponents never saw the ball. He tackled less simply because he didn’t have to; he was better than the stats. There weren’t the big moments.
And there is the story of Oakland Athletics’ General Manager Billy Beane and assistant Paul DePodesta, told by Michael Lewis in his 2004 book Moneyball. They felt baseball teams were overpaying for certain players and set about finding bargains. In three years they paid salaries worth $500,000 per win, compared to $3 million per win paid by the Texas Rangers. They found the dogs that were not barking and, importantly, the elements of pure luck they could ignore.
We saw a few seconds of athletic perfection from Ennis. We lost our nerve as an almost robot-like Flatley held his. And when Hinch saved the fourth penalty in a row, we imagined she must have been possessed by unbeatable form.
We don’t see years of training and rituals that deliver an athlete as a picture of concentration. Or the tiny margins along the way: missed kicks and squandered leads; positioning and anticipation; rain and subjective umpiring; scrambled equalisers and Hinch’s little black book of notes on her opposition. The mystery and drama of the big moment is what we want.
This brings us back to Tate and Ganteaume, and the narratives we create. Perhaps if the rain hadn’t come and West Indies had won, all would have been forgiven and Ganteaume might have had a successful Test career. And naming the 1902 Test match after one unfortunate participant ignores the other batsmen who failed to score decisive runs, and brilliant Australian fielding on the final day. History doesn’t give these a second glance.
Tate’s First-Class record is spectacular, spanning seventeen years with 1331 wickets and 234 catches. Later that summer, he scored 22 for Sussex against Australia in an uneventful tour match. But when his moment came, he dropped the catch and was bowled for 4.
That’s why we watch.
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A version of this article was published in the Brighton Argus on 9 April 2020.
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