In defence of the summer of sport (even if you're not watching)

We both know what he’s referring to: the summer of sport is upon us. Here cometh the great unifier, as we are constantly being told by excited presenters – but also divider, judging by RT’s steaming postbag and my own conversations with said pal.

Sometimes I don’t know why we’re friends.

I love watching sport: the physicality, the craft, the knowledge that (steroids, money, sponsorship, privilege all aside) it can’t be hacked. The best participants, even those with fawning documentaries to their name, got there through years of early mornings in cold winters. Their rewards are earned. It’s not cynical.

For my friend, though, it’s just “competitive hobbying” – not all but mostly men proving their prowess at moving a ball into a hole, a hoop or a net with a foot, a hand or a task-specific stick (according to him, Formula 1 isn’t a sport). He finds the chest-beating toxic, the commentary banal. Turns out this isn’t a new sentiment, but one honed since being held captive to “the living death of Grandstand” as a kid.

During those weekends of decades past, it did indeed feel as though sport was an irresistible TV force. Frank Bough, Harry Carpenter, and David Vine were as familiar as my parents, and I had weekly dreams featuring “the sandy-eyebrowed man” that turned out to be Tony Gubba.

Meanwhile, over on “the other side”, it didn’t really matter what the sport was; for me, it was all about World of Sport presenter Dickie Davies and his era-defining quiff.

As it happened, this show delved into pastimes not previously bagged by the BBC, and a classic case of “compare and contrast” during those times was the first Saturday in July every year: Grandstand focused on the women’s final at Wimbledon, while WoS went off to the World Hot Rod Championship Final held in Ipswich.

Hence, the wrestlers and darts players featured on ITV became household names and, again being fair to my friend, sports stars leaked well beyond the boxing ring and onto prime-time television.

While there was never a better guest on any show than Muhammad Ali, could the same really be said of Barry Sheene, John Conteh, Alan Minter, Neil Adams or the omnipresent Duncan Goodhew? The truth was, they made for an easy, apparently amiable booking for multi-generational TV shows, with the idle hope that they might encourage any children watching to get outside and “do something”.

We saw during last summer’s men’s Euros just how unifying a sporting event can still be. And in 2019, there was that extraordinary Sunday evening when, as one, we switched over from Djokovic conquering Federer in a marathon Wimbledon men’s final to watch Ben Stokes pull off a miracle at the Cricket World Cup. These days, it doesn’t help non-fans that, because the BBC’s holdall now contains so few gems, the events it still owns get the overflowing kitchen sink treatment. For non-sporties, it can feel like there’s no respite. Where to go?

For a long time, “streaming” was the answer. When Netflix came along in 2012 its drama slate, led by House of Cards and Orange Is the New Black, promised something else entirely. But that behemoth has recently spotted gold in those sporting hills; hence it has brought us live boxing matches, while Amazon has dropped millions on appointment-to-view live tennis. Who knows what might follow? They’ll be building a TV schedule next.

Meanwhile, my pal’s leaving on a jet plane. Of course, I know really why we are friends. As Nick Hornby wrote about music in High Fidelity, “It’s not what you like but what you’re like.” Hopefully he’ll be back just in time to avoid the start of the Premier League season. Horses for courses, I tell him, provoking a fresh shudder.

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