EYEWITNESS TO YEARs OF SPORTING HISTORY

From Jonny’s boot to the horrors of Munich, from Coe and Ovett to Gazza’s tears and Fergie’s cheers... and of course the wondrous London Olympics, PATRICK COLLINS looks back as he prepares to hang up his pen

Patrick Collins, The Mail on Sunday’s Chief Sports Writer since the paper was launched in 1982, is retiring after 50 years on Fleet Street. He has watched and written about sporting events around Britain and the world, as well as covering royal marriages and funerals and major political stories. Patrick has been at every summer Olympic Games bar one since 1972, 10 World Cup finals, countless rugby Tests and Ashes encounters in a lifetime of incisive and illuminating writing that earned him more than 10 major awards. To mark his departure, he has picked 10 great events from his memories, a list that illustrates much of British sport in the last half-century, and how it has changed.

FROM a frenzied arena in South America, to a boundary seat in Brisbane, to a flooded field in South Wales, the collected memories of half a sporting century flutter past in happy profusion. To have witnessed such performances, to have been present on such occasions, is a privilege beyond reason.

I once walked to an Oval Test match with a good friend and supremely talented colleague, the late Ian Wooldridge. As we approached the ground, large crowds were trudging away. ‘Look at that,’ said Ian. ‘They’ve been queuing for hours. They would have paid anything to get in, but the tickets are sold. And we are about to occupy the best seats in the house, and getting paid for it! We should never forget how lucky we are.’

I have tried to follow his excellent advice. And this selection of 10 great events may illustrate 50 years of my undeserved good fortune.

WORLD CUP FINALS

Argentina 1978

MY first World Cup, and still the most memorable. Football has yet to experience the ecstatic equal of that Sunday in Buenos Aires, when the Argentina side answered the demands of a nation as the Dutch were overcome in the final. Yet the lasting impression was made by the Scots and their manager, Ally MacLeod.

Before the tournament, Ally was asked what he would do after winning the World Cup. ‘Retain it,’ he replied. In the event, a fine Scottish side lost to Peru, drew with Iran and then, with hope virtually gone, beat the formidable Holland. The team bus was stoned, the nation turned on poor Ally, and he lapsed into self-pity. One cameo told the sorry tale. As he sat in the garden of the Scottish camp, cursing his ill fortune, a small dog approached. ‘Here he is,’ said Ally, ‘my only friend in Argentina.’ The dog promptly bit him.

MUNICH OLYMPICS 1972

MY first Olympics, and the horror has lingered down the decades. As journalists, we had spent much of the previous fortnight visiting friends in the athletes’ village, coming and going as we chose. Germany was seeking a new, non-militaristic image, and an open Olympics was part of that strategy.

Then, in the small hours of September 5, a group of armed men scaled the village fence. Events unfolded in barbaric sequence; invasion, siege, kidnap, slaughter. We scarcely understood the vocabulary, but we stood at a horrified distance at the airport of Furstenfeldbruck, heard the gunfire, awaited the dreadful consequences. Eleven Israeli athletes and coaches were murdered as terrorism discovered the stage it had always sought. After Munich, sport was never so secure, never so innocent. And sport was not alone.

RUGBY WORLD CUP FINAL

Sydney 2003

TO Jonny, the glory. And properly so, for it was Wilkinson’s right boot which ultimately delivered England their remarkable success. But to Martin Johnson, the credit for instilling the drive and the spirit which transformed a formidable England team into world champions.

When the final whistle sounded, the captain stooped, hands on knees, gulping for air. It was the first time in six weeks that he had revealed the faintest trace of fallibility. As that final against Australia entered extra time, the skipper could be seen encouraging, cajoling, threatening his men. He found the words, he set the example. But then, he always did. Martin Johnson may well have been the finest leader any English sports team have ever possessed. Few who were present on that September evening in Sydney would contest the claim.

MOSCOW OLYMPICS 1980

A BOYCOTTED Games, with only 80 nations attending following the Soviet invasion of Afghanistan. As we moved around Moscow, ineptly shadowed by a gaggle of watchers from Central Casting, we had no notion that we were witnessing the final years of a cruel tyranny. Instead, like the rest of the sporting world, our imaginations were seized by two British

middle-distance runners. Seb Coe was portrayed as the paragon, Steve Ovett as the surly tough-of-the-track. The images were faintly absurd, but the public took sides. After 35 years, it is impossible to convey the intensity of the rivalry. The outcome was ideal: Ovett gold at 800m, Coe gold at 1,500m. They had proved themselves by far the best in the world. The nation was content.

WORLD CUP FINALS

Italia 90

THE memory plays tricks. When we look back coldly, it was a largely cynical, defensive World Cup, with good sides afraid of failure. England possessed fine attacking players in Gary Lineker, Peter Beardsley and Chris Waddle, yet they limped through their qualifying group with two goals from three matches. Somehow, they found themselves in a semi-final with West Germany and took the game to penalties. Yet Paul Gascoigne, the finest talent to emerge in Britain since George Best, was booked. He was therefore unable to play in the final, had England reached it. And he wept as sentence was passed. That is the enduring image. When an English football fan hears the term ‘Italia 90’, he or she will answer in two words: ‘Gazza’s tears.’

RYDER CUP 2010

WE stood, shoulder to shoulder, in nine inches of Welsh mud. After days of relentless rain, the Monday morning sun was shining belatedly on Celtic Manor. Europe needed to win five of the 12 singles to regain the trophy, and things were not going well. And it mattered, because it was Us and Them, Europe v America. Different people. Their team talk had been delivered by a wild-eyed fighter pilot. Our lot enjoyed the eloquence of Seve Ballesteros and Ian Botham.

A wonderful contest, and it all came down to the last game: Graeme McDowell against Hunter Mahan. I stood on a slope by the 17th, and I joined in the roar of triumph and the daft chants of ‘Ole, Ole, Ole!’ as Mahan graciously conceded. The Ryder Cup was won by a single point. We all splashed down the slope, still cheering like crazy. It mattered, you see. On that day in South Wales, we enjoyed sport in excelsis.

CHAMPIONS LEAGUE FINAL 1999, Barcelona Bayern Munich 1, Man United 2

AS a match, it was nothing special. Bayern Munich, despite leading by a goal, were ordinary. United were something less. Barcelona’s Camp Nou was used to better fare. Strange how the small things linger. With the board showing three minutes of added time, officials attached Bayern ribbons to the cup. It seemed a rational prediction.

The rest, we know; within three minutes, the United substitutes rewrote the plot. Sheer opportunism, first from Teddy Sheringham, then Ole Gunnar Solskjaer. Two goals, and the European Cup was won. Alex Ferguson paused from cuddling everyone in his path to utter one of the sport’s most memorable quotes. ‘Football!’ he said. ‘Bloody hell!’

AUSTRALIA v ENGLAND

Ashes Test at Brisbane, Nov 1998

ACCORDING to the records, Australia won the toss, elected to bat, and by the close were 246 for five, with Steve Waugh on 69 not out and Ian Healey undefeated on 46. I can’t remember a thing. I was racked with jet-lag, having climbed off a plane early that morning. But it didn’t matter, since a long-held ambition had been achieved. If you love sport, then there are some things you just have to do, and this one stood high on my list. The match muddled on to a mundane draw. I didn’t care. For I was in Australia, at the Gabba, watching an Ashes Test. A grown man, thrilled as a child. It was a perfect day.

BARRY McGUIGAN v EUSEBIO PEDROZA

June, 1985

THE young McGuigan was an extraordinary fighter, capable of engaging the emotions like few athletes ever could. On that marvellous night at QPR’s football ground, the man from Clones, County Monaghan, rode the demented support of his fans to overcome the fearsome Panamanian over 15 rounds.

In those pre-computer days, ringside reporters phoned their stories to copytakers. I was gabbling my account into a telephone when a large gentleman stood on my shoulders and tried to clamber into the ring. When I protested, he apologised. Then he asked if he might borrow my phone in order to tell his mother back in Kerry what a great night he’d enjoyed. I don’t precisely recall my answer, but I do remember the dry tones of the copytaker, who had overheard the exchange. ‘Not a friend of yours then, Patrick?’ he murmured.

LONDON OLYMPICS 2012

MANY of my selections provided sensational sport, yet my personal choice offered something more. For sustained excellence of performance, soaring drama, superb presentation and overwhelming goodwill, nothing came close to the London Olympics and Paralympics.

For day upon wondrous day, the medals arrived in clusters of gold: Wiggins and Brownlee, Weir and Cockcroft, Mo and Jess and so many, many more. From late July until deep into September, London gave the best of itself to its Games. I was attending my 10th Summer Olympics, and none had been delivered so perfectly. I was never so proud of my own city. When it was over, Lord Coe found some resonant phrases. ‘We lit the flame and we lit up the world,’ he said. ‘When our time came, Britain, we did it right.’ Indeed we did. And in half a privileged century of covering magnificent sport, I have seen nothing to equal London’s glorious Olympics.