Worthy of an Oscar or two?

Two June tear-jerkers showed exactly why I choose sport over cinema

Triumph. Heartbreak. Elaborate builds to ‘will-they or won’t-they?’ moments. Tears. Raw emotion every non-psychopathic human can empathise with. Would-be heroes cut down as victors glug from the goblet of glory.

This was the month of June for posh sports fans. Specifically the final round of the US Open golf and the final of the ICC World Twenty20.

You didn’t need to buy a movie ticket for any of this unscripted, edge-of-your-seat, character-driven drama. Sport never reveals the script until after the show. Sport doesn’t get invited to the Academy Awards. Yet I’d take the story arcs from Pinehurst and Bridgetown any day.

That’s why, when people ask me if I’ve seen movie X or series Y, I always explain my (inevitable) failure to have done so with “I was watching sport that day.”

Empathy with leading characters in the plot? Well, I give you that Sunday at Pinehurst and rest my case. I don’t think, in a lifetime of ogling sport, I’ve been quite so shaken up with empathy as what I felt for Rory McIlroy. Jean van de Velde never came close. Neither did Adam Scott (though my golf hero Ernie Els being beneficiary-in-chief admittedly played a role in that) at Lytham in 2012. Nor Brett Lee after the final play at the Edgbaston Ashes Test in 2005, or Nathan Lyon when he fumbled that run-out at the 2019 Headingley classic.

None of these guys, for a variety of reasons, had quite the backstory and build Rory had leading up to the Pinehurst dénouement. It had been an entire decade since his last major victory, which was supposed to be the fourth of many. He’d spent the last couple of years defending the establishment in the LIV war only to be stung for it. And as a journalist, you tend to like Rory because he actually gives thoughtful, honest answers to questions. He’s polite and decent with the media, even when he’s ill – as I first learned when I interviewed him at Sun City in 2009. And again after a steaming hot round at Abu Dhabi a few years later, when he took time to give me the dull schpiel he knew I needed for the sponsors.

Photo: Kathryn Riley/USGA (from US Open website)

And then there was the on-course build. For so long, Rory played himself out of majors early in the piece. He’d fixed that problem in recents editions, only to fizzle in final rounds. Particularly on the greens. So when the putts began to drop in round four at Pinehurst, how could you not believe this was his moment?

Given what happened next, it was all scriptwriting 101. And then you had the bonus ingredients: a larger-than-life rival with a story of his own (Bryson deChambeau) and a buoyant crowd that probably wanted both to take the trophy. Never mind McIlroy’s home town Holywood. That Sunday was worthy of the California version with an extra ‘l’.

Rory’s reaction in the scorer’s room was theatre of the most heartbreaking kind. There was nothing he needed to say. He was crushed. (By a LIV Crusher, as fate would have it.) Given the aforementioned media work he’s done over the years, I don’t blame Rory one tiny bit for disappearing without an interview. The very fact that he couldn’t stomach talking to anybody - not even Bryson - is exactly the point. That level of emotion is what makes sport the show that it is. Take this away, and all you’ve got is fake PR.

And people still feel the need to make movies?

South Africa’s narrative heading into the Bridgetown final on Saturday was different, but no less compelling. It was significantly longer, having begun when they were calculated out of the World Cup on that fateful night in Sydney in 1992. I was eleven years old then. Trust this 44-year-old, that’s a really long time.

You don’t need me to run through the litany of near-misses, nor the curse theories. It’s been done to death. I’ll just say I remember exactly where I was for that run-out in the 1999 World Cup semi-final. Allan Donald. Lance Klusener. The secondary common room at my university residence (I think some philistines may have been watching a movie in the other…). It was better there anyway. There was more room to pace around biting your nails. It was not an afternoon for sitting down. The memory is vivid.

Aiden Markram wasn’t even five years old at the time of the Edgbaston disaster. But for those South Africans who are old enough, I’m sure the memory of the day is as clear as mine. My point is that few cinema-goers can hope to take their seats in the movie-house with such a backstory as that of the Proteas (or McIlroy) already simmering in their souls.

That’s why no Bollywood (more appropriate for a fixture against India, no?) writer could do better to engage its audience than a cricket match like this one can. The twists and turns were all there, and there’s no need for me to run through them. I’ll just make a brief stop at what was for me the zenith of the drama: Suryakumar Yadav’s catch on the boundary to dismiss David Miller.

It was a bad ball that deserved to be hit. And yet…and yet…Miller couldn’t get those extra couple of inches of power into it. The fraction that would have taken it beyond the reach of a brilliantly athletic Yadav. Given all the talk of curses and chokes over the years, it was almost as though it had been scripted that way.

And yet…nobody could make up a tear-jerker as cruel for Miller (and all South Africa) as that one.

And yet…so many of us still prefer to stick to the movie channel.

Thanks for reading. Sorry I’ve been away for a few months. I got into a funk. Because writers in my situation need something coming back at us in order to keep going. Either positive feedback, or growth, or compensation for the significant chunks of time this takes. In a perfect world, all of the above. So if you want to get more of this free, independent content, you know what to do: share, subscribe (free), comment, donate. Or all of the above. Thank you - and thanks especially to my latest new subscribers…it’s your interest that has brought me back to the keyboard for now!