Sport, say those who write about it, is only the toy department of daily journalism. They don’t really mean it. Some of the finest wordsmiths in what may still be called Fleet Street earn a crust by writing about games, and the people who play them. In some cases — the late Ian Wooldridge comes to mind — they transcend their specialism. People bought the Daily Mail to read Wooldridge, just as they buy it now to read Quentin Letts.
In recent years sports journalism has been invaded by outsiders who, to borrow a phrase from Paul Hayward, one of its finest practitioners, display nothing more than ‘strident ignorance’. They don’t attend events, or know very much about the performers, yet hand out opinions like parking tickets. Rod Liddle, a colourful writer, can get away with it. Others, who seem terribly pleased with themselves, struggle to hold a tune. Perhaps the worst current example is the former rugby international, Brian Moore, whose long-winded attempts to write a general sports column in the Telegraph read like the jottings of a provincial Edwardian solicitor.
Not all interlopers from the field of play are unwelcome visitors. The two outstanding cricket correspondents on national titles, Mike Selvey and Michael Atherton, played for England, Atherton as captain in 54 Tests. But the best sports writers are, almost without exception, specialists who have spent years of close observation refining their craft: Stephen Jones on rugby, Patrick Barclay on football, Simon Barnes and Richard Williams on many things, Patrick Collins on virtually everything.
Lynne Truss came to this largely male world from a cosy billet in arts and features, where reporters do not file ‘on the whistle’. To say she was wet behind the ears is only a slight exaggeration.
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