Quite simply, one of the best years ever

Without the hysteria-inducing presence of a World Cup, 2008 has been a year in which countless other major and minor sports have flourished. It has been a year of immense sporting achievement — thrills, excitements and real courage, with a series of ‘That Was the Best Ever...’ moments hurtling by, one after the other, like dominoes. I can’t think of a year like it. And the key to it all, the glory of great sport, is that you just didn’t have a clue what was going to happen from one minute to the next.

When Sean Connery was asked if anything made him cry, he replied ‘Athletics’. And you can understand why: the great man, like most of us, would have needed emergency supplies of the Extra-Strength this Olympic year. The weepiest moment for me came when the gigantic German weightlifter Matthias Steiner took gold in Beijing in the super-heavyweight class. As he stood on the podium, he clutched his gold medal in one hand, and a picture of his dead wife Susann in the other. She had been killed in a car crash the year before, and had been Steiner’s inspiration. Needless to say, he was weeping his heart out, as were all the audience, and everyone watching it at home.

And even with Hoy and Cooke and Romero, and the rowers, still the most sublimely thrilling sight of the Games, from an infinite number of memories, was the side camera’s tracking shot of Christine Ohuruogu ghosting up from fifth place to pass the American favourite and win the 800m. An inspirational girl, haunted by false claims she’s a drugs cheat, in person she’s delightful, funny and dedicated.

What a year. I thought nothing could beat the epic final of the US Open in Torrey Pines. Tiger Woods going head to head, stroke for stroke, with Rocco Mediate, a journeyman pro. Mediate had just five Tour wins against Woods’s 64, and 13 Majors. Woods birdied the 18th on the last day to force the tournament into an 18-hole playoff. It was unbearably tense, the outcome continually in flux. That finished even, and it wasn’t till the 91st hole that Woods took his 14th Major. And only afterwards did we realise his shin was broken and his knee ligaments shot to pieces. He had kept the scale of his injuries quiet because he didn’t want to detract from Mediate’s phenomenal performance. And the reason? In 1997, when Woods creamed his first Major, the Masters, by an improbable 12 strokes, most of the players who had finished before him on the final Sunday immediately left the Georgia course. Mediate was one of the few who stayed behind to hail the 21-year-old’s historic achievement. Now, more than a decade later, Woods was repaying the debt.

But then came the Champions League final. All-English — well, sort of. A superb, constantly fluctuating match, thrilling in every way, and an unbelievable penalty shoot-out, where Ronaldo and Terry did their bit for the weeping world after missing their penalties. Was it the best final? I think so. But it did for poor, unloved but noble Avram Grant.

Could sport get any better? Well, yes. The best ever Wimbledon final finished in virtual darkness at 9.16 p.m. on Sunday 6 July, a raininterrupted match lasting nearly five hours and spread over seven. Rafael Nadal had finally beaten Roger Federer on grass in a game so full of extraordinary shot-making, breath-taking rallies and continual shifts in the balance of power, you hardly dared breathe in case you missed something. Nadal became one of only three players to win the French and Wimbledon in the same year — the last was Borg in 1980. With its cluster of great players at the top, Federer and Nadal, Andy Murray and Novak Djokovic, I can’t think of a time when tennis has been so open: any big tournament is now absolutely mouthwatering.

And what about Mark Cavendish, winner of four stages in the Tour de France, by a mile more than any other Briton, and two in the Giro d’Italia? He’s a spiky character too, more Ovett than Coe if you like, and annoyingly has been forgotten in most of the end-of-year awards. Big respect too to Fabio Capello, fielding a team of kids and beating Germany; to India’s colossal Test team, the best in the world and taking Australia to the cleaners; and to Kevin Pietersen who, after a sour performance in the Stanford Twenty20, took a 5-0 thrashing in the one-dayers against India doughtily on the chin and has done as much as anyone to make sure the Test series goes ahead.

As much as anything, though, sport is also about joy, entertainment and fun. Which is why no look at 2008 is complete without due obeisance to the brilliant Wales Grand Slam XV, who are playing dazzling rugby with a smile and a flourish. Pure joy. This autumn they beat Australia, should have beaten South Africa and certainly won the first half against the All Blacks. Not bad. And for me the gloomy chills of early spring were warmed with regular doses of IPL cricket on the box. Colourful, fun, exciting — roll on next year.

So after a wonderful year, here are the awards that matter.

The Robbie Fowler award for attention-seeking celebration: Andy Murray for his muscle arm. I mean, how old are you? The Steve McLaren award for sporting incompetence: Fabian Espindola of Real Salt Lake in the MLS, who celebrated a goal by doing a back flip and promptly breaking his ankle. The goal was disallowed. And Plaxico Burress, a wide receiver for the New York Giants, who decided to pack a pistol in his pocket for a visit to a Manhattan nightclub. He shot himself in the thigh.

The Kurt Wallander award for best laugh of the year: Steve McClaren’s faux Dutch accent.

The Gary Lineker prize for most inappropriate use of a mobile phone: Blair Aldridge’s mum, who caused the fall-out with cuddly diver Tom Daley by phoning her son poolside at the Olympics. Aldridge took the call: the expression on little Daley’s face as he looks up in incomprehension and horror at his more senior team-mate is unmissable.

The Selina Scott prize for oldie excellence: Hull’s Dean Windass, who at just the right side of 40 steered his team into the Premiership via an unlikely play-off win. And look what they’re doing now.

The Nicholas Bendtner footwear prize: an outright winner in swimmer Rebecca Adlington for her wonderfully dotty obsession with Louboutins.

The Graham Poll bad maths award: the Fakenham course is a mile long, and it was a three-mile race. Denis O’Regan pulled up his winning horse after two laps of the Norfolk course. He got a two-week ban for his pains.

The Usain Bolt award for dance of the year: American golfer Boo Weekley smashed the ball out of sight on the first tee of the first match on singles day of the Ryder Cup. He then galloped off down the fairway using his driver as a makeshift horse and slapping his thigh in true cowboy style. Europe fell apart. The Mike Bassett England Manager award for being (expletive deleted) suitably old school: Joe Kinnear, for his dedication to gender equality. The If Only It Were True moment of the year: Robinho takes the bus to the Trafford Centre (except he didn’t really).

Hubris of the Year: the Fratton Park faithful singing ‘Are you Bournemouth in disguise?’ to Milan. Seconds later Ronaldinho scored that free kick. A couple of minutes later, Inzaghi pops up in the box. Portsmouth are bottom of the group.

The James Bond award for product placement: McDonald’s, who paid more than $800 million to sponsor the Olympics. They were suitably rewarded though: Rebecca Adlington went for one after her second gold, and Michael Phelps after his eighth.