Its a cruel, cruel summer.

It has been the summer of so close. It has teased and tormented us weather wise, the sun peeking out from the clouds and shining upon us all only for the deluge of rain to whisk it away. The summer has not been a glorious one sports-wise especially in comparison with last year. The Olympics with Bolt laughing at the clock and Phelp's immortal flick of a finger nail in his duel with Cavic enthralled. Spain passed and moved their way to European success while Nadal and Federer played possibly the finest final ever served on centre court. That this year doesn't quite measure up has alot to do with scheduling. Caught between World cups and Olympics there wasn't much to really get excited about but despite this two very different codes manged to raise all our hopes of an unlikely victory Alas much like the sun it was only a fleeting burst.

The British and Irish lions arrived in South Africa as overwhelming underdogs. Hampered by time constraints and injuries the lions were expected to perhaps fight manfully and subside gracefully and if one looked coldly at the results you cold argue that is exactly what they did but the story of this tour was so much more than the result. It was the tour were the lions rediscovered their teeth. The emergence of young tyros like Jamie Roberts combined with legends like Brian O Driscoll to play some sumptuous rugby. Simon Shaw raged against the light while Paul O Connell proved himself a leader of men. The lions restored pride and set alongside a South African team guilty of gouging and of a farcical protest certainly won the moral contest.

The British open last year was memorable in the way Padraig Harrington closed out his second major and squashed any thoughts of an oldie resurrection in Greg Norman. This year was expected to be dominated by the tiger. Woods entered Turnberry in fine form and was expected to be in contention coming down the back nine on Sunday at the very least. That Woods missed the cut at the halfway stage was not the seismic story one would expect. Another champion with the initials T.W was leading the open and the tiger was reduced to an after-thought. Tom Watson was playing beautifully. An opening round of 65 had all the ingredients of the feel good story. That of the veteran leading a major on a course were he had won some thirty-two years ago. His challenge was expected to fizzle out and leave the winning to one of the young guns. But as Friday passed and then Saturday the old dog had refused to let go and suddenly one of the greatest sports stories ever was being told right before our eyes. Ross Fisher imploded, Lee Westwood was doing what he does in major's and heading into the eighteenth Tom Watson had to par to win the open. He hit is approach iron perfectly, but as the ball trickled into the rough the rainclouds began gathering. He still had a putt to win but his shoulders slumped and his belief washed away. Stewart Cink was methodical in the play-off and dismissed the old-timer. As has been the case this summer the light only shone briefly but my goodness it was bright.