Bear with me on this one, as the logic behind the comparison isn’t immediately apparent, but watching Roger Federer struggle with tears as he celebrated his Australian Open win, I was reminded of The Big Lebowski.
Not the Jeff Lebowski/Dude character in that most excellent of movies, but the wheelchair-bound millionaire Lebowski, whose sharing the same surname with the Dude provides the mistaken identity that sets the film’s plot in motion. Specifically, I was put in mind of the moment when the Dude is taken to see the big Lebowski in the east wing of his Bel Air mansion, where he is in seclusion following the apparent kidnap of his highly nubile young wife, Bunny.
”Are you surprised by my tears?” he demands of his guest.
”Fuckin’ A,” replies the Dude hoarsely, on account of the drag from a joint having just hit the back of his throat.
”Strong men also cry,” comes the painfully choked response. ”Strong … men … also … cry.”
Well, of course they do. Indeed, as the mighty Federer lost the battle with his bottom lip last Sunday, it occurred to me that in the way that people divert themselves by dividing the world into two groups — cavaliers or roundheads, gentlemen or players, and so on — it is entirely possible to split the sporting world into criers and non-criers.
And Federer’s a crier. Not that there’s anything wrong with that, to quote Jerry Seinfeld. Indeed, it will be entirely down to the traditional poor execution on my part if what follows appears to suggest that there’s something wrong with being a sporting blubber. On the contrary, no uniform moral judgement is implied in branding anyone a crier, or otherwise. Criers can be heroes or villains, charismatic or achingly tiresome, in just the same way that non-criers can.
The next crucial thing about the carve-up is that it is based on psychological truth. You don’t have to have seen them in Gazzatian floods to brand them a blubber. Indeed, they may never be filmed crying in victory, defeat, anything, in their entire sporting career. But in your heart, you know. (Incidentally, as with most delightful yet pointless exercises, this is a pastime pleasingly spiced by the taking of drink.)
Stevie G? Crier. Lampard? Non-crier. Paul Ince? Crier. Even at this elementary stage you should be able to handle Roy Keane without assistance. Most don’t require more than a nanosecond of debate, though occasionally you’ll get a momentary puzzler —Michael Vaughan, for instance (crier) — but really you have to go swiftly and on instinct. Call from the gut.
So, a few snooker players to ease us in gently. Ronnie O’Sullivan: crier. Ditto Jimmy White. Hendry, Davis, Parrott: not criers. Golf-wise, off the top of my head, you’ve got Monty (classic crier), along with Woosie and Fred Couples, in counterpoint to Vijay Singh and Tiger (if he’s ever cried it doesn’t count). Rowing is a sport of blubbers, apart from Steve Redgrave, of course, with rugby union a close second. Those in search of stiff upper lips are directed towards league.
Of particular interest are sporting siblings, where scientific pub debate suggests one or other will have custody of the tear ducts, but not both. Steve Waugh’s not a crier; Mark Waugh is. Michael Schumacher weeps with the best of them, but Ralf’s lachrymal glands are positively Saharan. The Williams sisters? It’s Venus who packs the Kleenex.
Then, of course, there are those who should be criers but aren’t. Shane Warne. Boris Becker. Above all, Beckham. As for the England captain’s current national coach … clearly, Sven doesn’t have tear ducts. Elsewhere, Big Sam doesn’t carry a tissue in his cuff, and I hardly need tell you in which camp Stuart Pearce sits. He is joined by Mick McCarthy and Glenda Hoddle, among many others, though David O’Leary never cries for anyone. Not even watching Schindler’s List.
And if you find yourself dithering over Keegan in the manner of Louis Walsh wondering which of his two X Factor acts to put through into the next round, as though it were Sophie’s bleeding Choice … well, it’s the old ”if you have to ask, you’ll never know” thing.
We end by taking things to an advanced level. If you have truly mastered this essential sporting dichotomy, you may test yourself on two Match of the Day pundits, Lineker being too obvious a dry-eye to bother with. The queenly Lawrenson is not a crier. But the peerless Hansen? Oh, yes. Great big blubby tears. — Â