Dan Carter and Andy Murray Documentaries

While Rugby Union, “a game for thugs, played by gentlemen” and tennis, the sport of kings, may on the surface have little in common, two documentaries I’ve recently watched gave some interesting parallels. The first, on Andy Murray’s recent operations with his hip problems and attempts to make it back to being competitive and the other on the career of Dan Carter, the legendary All Black stand-off. The similarities between the two in terms of their individual journeys was most enlightening and highlighted not only the dedication required of a top athlete but the loneliness and problems that can arise from the quest to be the best.

                On the face of it, other than both being brilliant, little would seem to link them. Strikingly different personalities, certainly. Murray; aggressive, emotive and vocal. Politically motivated and active on twitter. Carter; assured, cool, calm and collected. A poster boy and underwear model. What unites them, it seems, is the need to succeed and the trials and tribulations that come with that as well as the personal tragedies and massive professional disappointments that have touched them both. Each documentary by its very style, confirms their differences. The Murray one, a fly on-the-wall, warts and all confessional, complete with swearing and crying. Murray - very much a man of his time, in terms of social media and opening up about his feelings - recording a selfie video from a hotel room somewhere at 3 AM telling us how nervous he is about his forthcoming operation. The Carter documentary, more restrained and discrete, a more traditional documentary in terms of style, seems to mirror him. Growing up on a tranquil South Island farm, where rugby was and is everything, his parents constructed a set of rugby posts in the back garden and the rest was history. Playing for the local school, then the local club, with the ultimate progression to becoming an All Black, although not easy - becoming an All Black is far from easy - was fairly straight forward in its trajectory.

Murray, on the other hand, native of Dunblane - a small Scottish town - a tennis fanatic, in a country not exactly known for producing tennis players, had to leave home as a teenager to go and live and train in Spain. This was his only chance to make it big. Having survived the trauma and horror of the Dunblane Massacre by a whisker and his parents’ divorce, perhaps escaping to the sunshine of Barcelona may have been a godsend but leaving home at such a young age can’t have been easy. There can be no doubt such events helped shape his more emotional, provocative and direct manner. Murray is a one-off, unique in his honesty and approach. Carter, less so, uniquely brilliant as a player, but a guy who is happy blending into the background, having a few beers with his mates. That said, his work as an underwear model, an amusing paradox which he laughs about, has made him a superstar beyond rugby, but he remains a quiet family man. Murray, a devoted family man too, would surely be unlikely to model underwear, should he be asked. Carter suffered the traumatic experience of the devastating earthquake in his hometown of Christchurch in 2011, so he himself has demons to deal with.

Injury unites them too. Murray’s hip issue, a devastating and debilitating condition may still finish his career. That remains to be seen. If he can’t get back to near the top, he will surely retire. One hopes he can make it back to being competitive, the sport is less colourful and weaker without him, but it remains doubtful which, as he said in the documentary seems unfair even if it is a “dick thing to say.” Murray knows how to speak like a millennial, i.e. grammatically incorrectly but he also knows how to put a point across. He’s right, it is unfair, as he is a good person and a great and willing athlete but sport, like life can be cruel at times. Carter would not disagree. In 2011, the year of the earthquake he suffered an injury, prior to the world cup in New Zealand. They were hot favourites, but they’d just lost their best player. The best player on earth. Carter, again in his discreet South Island manner said it was one of maybe a couple of times he cried due to an injury. Murray sat on a court in Washington last year after an epic victory, sobbing uncontrollably into his towel in front of spectators as he feared it may be his last match. This shows how much it means to him, but it also shows where he’s coming from. A need to share his pain and struggles as he does on the documentary. He is a pioneer, a modern man, not afraid to show his emotions. Like a Shakespearean actor shares his feelings and angst to the audience through his words and gestures, there is a theatricality to Murray’s performances on a court, though his words are perhaps not as sophisticated as those of the bard. He could be a fine actor. He has the timing and the humour. Once, after losing a final to Roger Federer at the Australian open he said, “I can cry like Roger, I just wish I could play tennis like him.” All that said, from what he shows in the programme, I don’t think he actually seeks or particularly likes the limelight. Tennis changes him. On court he becomes a different beast. It gives him a purpose. He is a missionary of sorts. His way of playing and his way of expressing himself so openly just happens to be the way he does it. It works for him whether he likes it or not. Maybe that’s the ultimate contrast? Carter seems to be same dude, playing rugby or having a barbeque. That works for him. He is as determined as they come, but he just happens to be as chilled as they come too. Away from the court, I suspect Murray is a bit more chilled himself. The chilled Murray we saw win this year’s Queen Club doubles with Feliciano Lopez. I wonder how his career would have gone if he had played with a little more joy at times, something he alludes to.

What undeniably links these two, it seems, are the mental and physical sacrifices and the hard work that goes into being a top sportsman (or woman). The courage to come back from injuries or losses is immense. Two very different men, two good men, two magnificent athletes. Whether it’s kicking a vital penalty in the world cup final in front of eighty thousand people or serving for the match in a grand slam final they have shown that despite the massive contrast in their sports - one the ultimate team game, the other, the ultimate individual sport - keeping one’s nerve is the greatest challenge in achieving sporting brilliance. I raise my hat to them both.

Ode to a goldcrest.

A brief visit last Saturday by Britain’s smallest bird inspired these November notes. November was cold at times, wet at times, mild more recently and often murky. Quite atmospheric really, not much sunshine unfortunately, but it was misty and murky. I like it. It’s a nice contrast from the autumnal sunshine of October and makes me think of Robert Louis Stevenson or Arthur Conan Doyle stories. November can be a forgotten month, as it’s not quite Autumn and not quite winter but this one has been reasonable, in London, at least. Autumnal colours on the trees were still strong until recently and some cold nights too. A taster of things to come, hopefully. I can’t abide mild winters, when it’s grey and windy, partly as it’s adds to my anxiety about climate change, partly as it’s just so dull. Nothing is more beautiful than a crisp winters day, except perhaps a beautiful summer’s day or a beautiful spring day etc. Nothing is more beautiful at this time of year, rather. The fact is, however, that the mild South-westerly winds which often blight my desire for something a bit more wintery are inevitable each year, due to the gulf stream’s dominance. For the cold wintery weather to occur; frost, blue skies etc., we need high pressure to block the prevailing westerly winds and drag in air from the Arctic or Siberia. There endeth the weather lesson. Much of the autumn overall has been extremely wet. If this is a sign of things to come, I’ll be disappointed.

Meanwhile, back to unexpected guests. The goldcrest, a truly tiny and delightful bird is often seen in evergreen conifer trees. One of the few birds – along with the coal tit – that was able to capitalize on these non-native forests which appeared all over Britain in the twentieth century, they are pretty common, but I rarely see them round here. Not surprisingly, it was around the lone conifer tree that I noticed it, watching it for maybe a minute before it moved off. I had, in fact, been distracted by another spectacle; that of the blue, great and coal tits taking turns at helping themselves to seeds from the feeder with kamikaze-like abandon. Seemingly unaware that there are three ports from which they can all collectively take seeds, one arrival would quickly be chased off by the next, barely managing to grasp a seed before being divebombed by another. This is perhaps an explanation for the coal tit doing something that I’d never seen before. Burying the seeds in the ground; a form of panic buying. To the left of this, in my peripheral vision - less than ten feet from the window - I saw something hovering in front of the evergreen conifer and at once guessed it to be a goldcrest. This isn’t boastful. The size or lack of, gave it away. Only the wren is of similar minute stature and wrens don’t hover like that. It was a thrill to see it up close for a minute or two. The thrill is in the surprise as much as anything. Like when I see the greater spotted woodpecker or a redwing visit the garden in winter, but it got me thinking. Why is the unexpected or rare visitor a bigger thrill than the regulars? Am I taking my regulars for granted? Has familiarity bred contempt? If I saw the goldcrest every day, of course, the reaction would be different. I don’t think I do take the regulars for granted, but it reminded me to be grateful for them. The blackbirds, the robin, the dunnock and so on. If they weren’t there the garden would be a lot lonelier. Nature, once again, serves up life lessons.

I don’t consider myself a bird-spotter, maybe an aficionado but more just a friend. I see the birds as my friends and I’m grateful for them. The attitude of gratitude is a very powerful emotion. Feeding birds is a bit of work, not too much, but a bit. Like anything, once it becomes a habit, then you’ll do it without thinking. Access to nature has perhaps never been more important to us city dwellers, surrounded as we are by pollution, noise, electricity, mobile phones and so on. Non-organic things - in the biochemical sense – which are corrosive to our bodies and minds. You may not have a garden, but everyone has access to nature in some form. A balcony, a window ledge even. Stick a bird feeder on your window. That’s how I started over thirty years ago. Cherish nature, cultivate it, help it. It's reciprocal. In feeding the birds and cultivating your garden, literal or otherwise, you'll feed your own soul.