The best thing about sport in 2020 was that any happened at all. And how good much of it was. The worst thing was that hardly anyone got to see it live. Trophies being lifted was a triumph. Trophies being lifted in front of rows and rows of empty seats was just tragic.
Let’s replay the year again. This time, though, we transpose the front and back pages of our newspapers. What a year it would have been if we had awoken each day to stories about the excellence of Jürgen Klopp’s Liverpool; the continual brilliance of Lewis Hamilton; the coronation of the Gypsy King Tyson Fury and his admirable decision to tell the BBC to stuff their sports award where the sun don’t shine; the astonishing batting of some of our limited-overs cricketers; and the ever-more impressive Marcus Rashford’s repudiation of the idea that all footballers worry about is whether their bathroom taps are the right shade of gold.
As we have observed before, politicians are furniture movers, not furniture makers. Sportsmen and women, on the other hand, are creators who at their best have a profound effect on us. Be particularly thankful this year for Jonny May, who reminded us what running rugby looks like; for Maro Itoje, who reminded us what superman looks like; for the West Indian and Pakistan cricket teams, who broke the Covid grip on our sports and played with skill, intensity and grace throughout long and lonely tours in empty grounds. Caps doffed to the Aussies for playing six gripping T20s and ODIs, winning the 50-over decider with a 200-plus stand between Glenn Maxwell and Alex Carey that seemed to come out of nowhere. And never forget magnificent Serena Williams, who reached the semi-finals of the US Open against advancing years and mounting odds.
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