Death of the Flawed Genius

The Death of the Flawed Genius

Snooker again? You bet. It only gets two weeks a year.

Snooker’s winner was one of a disappearing trend of sportsman. Ronnie O’Sullivan. The archetypal flawed genius. Won it three times, should have done so every single year since he competed. His is a swaggering array of marvelous skills, and when Ronnie hits a rhythm he brings out the full meaning of being ‘in the zone.’ But Ronnie’s on the edge, plagued by twists of his mind Clearly he hates and loves the game. Thrives from the pressure, and simultaneously strangled by it. And of all games its snooker he plays, as fidgety and maddening a sport as they come. Champions like Ronnie are irresistible. They are outrageously far ahead of anyone else in their sport (and so beautiful to watch when they’ve hit the zone), but with inner contortions that may provoke implosion at any time. It’s a banker in sporting entertainment.

The point is that the flawed genius is going out of sport. The money-boosted business of sport today, and its highly sensitive coverage by the media, are manufacturing players with shields around their brains. They know what to say, what message to convey. They know every trick to stave off the mental demons and the questions. Look at Woods, Federer, Hamilton, and the entire cast of football stars. No shortage of pure sporting entertainment, that’s actually getting better. But much less of the inner struggles (at least overtly) that can make sport so compelling.

Ronnie didn’t falter here. If you caught him in spells, it was sparkling. And he surprised everyone with safety play that was just as much a display of his mastery control of the balls as his silky breaks. But there is surely more to come from the Rocket, a few more catapulting failures in between some genius.


FOOTY:

Very odd what happened when Lampard scored the penalty which knocked my Liverpool out of the Champions League last week. As the empty nothingness began seeping in, I was in fact completely taken away from the disaster. Lampard was surrounded by Chelsea players and he suddenly lost all his capacity to celebrate and needed his teammates to keep him on his feet. Dare I say it, to hold him. His mother’s death was now upon him most weightily. And it was fascinating to see it all transfused through football and the apparent triviality of a penalty. It was extraordinary that this should have seized me momentarily from the gloom of critical defeat. That came later, in spades.

Furthers

Hugo wanted my views on Spurs. About 4-0 I’d say on Sunday. Torres hatrick and a Carragher goal scuffled over the line. Allright?

Alex Bank promised some mean critique of my blog with some fancy words. Where is it?

West Ham were rolled over, like I said. Now for Wigan to prove me wrong. Please, please Wigan.