A change of scene
MICHAEL HENDERSON
The flowers that bloom in the spring, tra-la. And what a fine early spring to boot, The daffs are out in St James's Park, the cherry blossom is upon the bough, and thoughts turn towards summer, towards Wimbledon and Trent Bridge, the Open and Ascot. And, if you're daft enough, Henley.
I shall not be here to hold your hand but, kind readers, fret not. You will be pleasantly surprised by the identity of my successor, who will bring his customary vim and vigour to proceedings, and tell frank tales of high-stepping fly halves, not to mention hale and hearty Gloucestershire yeomen, aye, troupers to a man, who lit up Cheltenham in days of yore.
Actually, I never was much of an observer. Well do I recall the day that Brian Lara took guard at Old Trafford. He began scratchily, as even the great have to when the force is not with them. He might have been out three or four times early in his
innings, and as there was a lovely flower show on at Nether Alderley, off I went, only to discover later that evening that Lara had found his touch — bang! bang! bang? — to make a superlative century. Ah well, I've seen BC at his best before and since, here and in the Caribbean. What's another hundred?
Then there was the FA Cup final between Manchester United and Liverpool. It had been a shocking first half, with both sides wasting the ball with a regularity that dulled the senses. Was that really Eric Cantona, with his pulled-up collar, leading the United attack? This wasn't the man we knew and loved, the master puppeteer who had revived the team's fortunes with his goals and acumen. With 20 minutes left I decided to slope off to the Old Vic to watch Kevin Spacey in The Iceman Corn eth. Imagine my surprise — and disgruntlement — when Cantona popped up to score a magnificent winner as I was walking down Wemble), Way. That was a swizz.
Never two without three, they say. And so it proved at The Belfry, as the golfers of Europe did battle with the Americans over a terrific weekend two years back. It was a golden autumnal afternoon on the Sunday, and the Europeans, ied by Colin Montgomerie, were making a mighty charge. Thousands of fans walked the course, unable to believe that the Americans, with their immensely strong team, would end up with their self-belief scattered to the four winds. The cheers could be heard for miles around. I know, because, sated with all this marvellous sport, I was heading into Birmingham to catch Uncle Vanya at the Hippodrome. And as I sat in my seat, listening to Astrov outline his hopes for a brighter future, I couldn't help wondering whether I shouldn't really have been back at the Belfry, whooping it up with the rest of them.
Test cricket. the FA Cup final. the Ryder Cup, I've missed the greatest moments of all (but not a whisper to my sports editors, please). There have been other absences along the way, but there are always helpful chaps in the press box who can fill you in on events. You just have to change the names, that's all. So thank you, one and all, for your kindness. I'm off to do a job where neither experience nor aptitude is required: nor, apparently, even the reviewer's presence. I'm going to become a theatre critic.
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