Neal Collins
So it’s all off. The Champions League fixtures have been cancelled. No more talk of Manchester United’s “life-or-death” clash with Olymp-iakos, or the “tragedy” of Arsenal’s defeat at Real Mallorca on Tuesday.
No, the sensible course has been taken. Call it all off; give us time to reflect, let life, for those of us fortunate enough to have it, return to something like normality.
Those ridiculous sporting impostors victory and defeat, were rendered meaningless by our television screens, where the score was Innocents 4 Terrorists 10 000 and rising.
The Gunners losing in Mallorca? Ashley Cole off? Another Michael Owen salvation act for Liverpool? Bollocks.
What about the thousands in New York (and, probably, others in London, Sydney, Munich, Paris, Johannesburg and beyond) where daddy isn’t coming home? Where the watched phone never rings. Where the last contact was with your loved one on an airliner heading for the Pentagon.
When I got back from work on Tuesday night, my car (an invaluable 1993 Fiat Tipo complete with rust patches and old Kitkat wrappers) had been torn apart by thieves, its windows shattered, the doorlocks ruined. A week ago I lost my job on the Daily Mail.
Normally such things would hurt. The old sense of injustice would rise in the throat.
But not now. Not today.
Men and women jumping hand in hand from the 100th floor of the World Trade Centre. Entire fire stations bereft of firemen. Limbs lying hidden in inches of dust. And, of course, thousands with nowhere to go, their workplace crumbled from 110 floors to nothing.
In New York the jobless are the lucky ones. The ones who have their cars broken in to will thank God that life is carrying on as normal.
And I sat, waiting to find out which worthless Worthington Cup second round game I will have to sub-edit for the Daily Express.
Would it be Premiership new-boys Blackburn Rovers “terrifying” match against fading Oldham? Derby’s potential “disaster” against Hull? Or perhaps Sunderland finding themselves “slaughtered” by Sheffield Wednesday?
Normally, I love my job. I look forward to every assignment a sports department can throw at me. From bowls to the Olympics, Lions tours, even unsuccessful England cricket safaris.
But for the life of me, I couldn’t garner much enthusiasm for the night’s task. The Worthless Cup? When we still couldn’t tell within the nearest thousand how many were dead? Ryder Cup hype? When the whole Muslim world is fearfully watching the skies, awaiting retribution from a vengeful George W Bush? Arsene Wenger’s contract details, when Afghanistan is about to go up in smoke?
Sometimes, we have to accept Bill Shankly was deranged. Sport can never be more important than life and death.
Not today, not yesterday, not any day.