Graeme a worthy Major champion.

Pebble Beach is a harsh place, it lures you in with its sloping hills and shushing waves slaloming across its rocks and then spits you out with its murderous greens and needle-eye pins. One by one the superstars of the game fell to the course last night. Els, Woods and Mickelson briefly caught fire but were quickly cooled. The cruel implosion of Dustin Johnson, leading coming into final round was difficult to watch. He seemed in utter control in the previous three rounds but the mental strain of leading a major told. He left the door ajar and an steady Ulster man marched through.

Graeme McDowell never really features on anyone list when it comes to possible major winners. He is the steady Eddie of Irish golf. Padriag Harringtons extraordinary run of major success combined with the pyrotechnics of Rory Mcllroy consigned McDowell to the background.Even his excellent Ryder Cup performance two years ago at Tory Pines has been largely forgotten.

But last night will be remembered and how. It was not just the way he held his head while all around him seemed to be losing theirs. It was his nerves or lack of them. Strolling up the eighteenth McDowell chatted into the camera, wished all the dads a happy fathers day before sinking the two putts to etch his name in history.

Steady joins the superstars.

Mad Ray the man to blame for France.

Schadenfreude, that wonderfully efficient word to describe taking joy in others misfortune was bounded around many a water-cooler or deli-stand this morning. Perhaps not the German form more of an Irish version of Nelson's "Ha Ha!". It is difficult analysing the French from an Irish perspective. The hand of Gaul has joined Saipan in our hellish lexicon and colours any neutral view of them. But there could be no arguing about their defeat to Mexico on Thursday night.

Eccentric would be a mild and frankly bland description of their coach Raymond Domenech. A man known to favour players based on the star signs conjures up team and tactics seemingly based on the paranormal. The decision to go with Nicholas Anelka as a lone striker was baffling. Anelka has been in fine form for Chelsea for the best part of eighteen months now but to use him on his own completely miss-reads him as a player and wastes his talent. Anelka is not the man on the shoulder as he was in his Arsenal days. He now drifts into space, often in midfield, turns and begins to prompt moves.

When he did this on Thursday. France were left playing with a 4-6-0 formation, something pioneered by Luciano Spalletti at Roma and copied by Sir Alex Ferguson at Manchester United. There Totti or Rooney would drop as Anelka did but whereas Roma had Mancini and United Ronaldo to burst into the space vacated by the striker, France had no-one. Govou and Malouda stuck rigidly to the sidelines while Franck Ribery was marooned in midfield.

Domenech had already been castigated for his squad selection but the one he had picked had enough quality to emerge from a gentle group. His demeanour on the sideline, leaning on the dugout unwilling or unable to change the outcome said it all.His improbable run to the final four years ago was instigated by Zinedene Zidane. In the four matches in international competition since France have failed to win, football's version of the gallows awaits. Try and not laugh.

Happily stuck in the middle with these two.

I always found it difficult to warm to Rafael Nadal. His prowess as a tennis player of enormous talent, one who is creative and destructive could never be disputed but the sheer mundane machinery of his game only brought my admiration, never my affection. His slowness in delivering a serve, and his now trademark tugging at his shorts copper fastened my detachment from team Rafa.

At least that is what I’ve been telling myself these past couple of years. For you see the reason I didn’t like Rafa was I was infatuated with Roger. He is the antidote to the Spaniard. A player of such regal grace and charm who represents and embellishes his sport like no other. If you want any proof of that don’t bother consulting the endless records, merely watch the latest Gillette advert where Roger is on his own, the last beacon of sporting morality with the dastardly Tiger presumably off somewhere with one of his disposable blades. He is the greatest of all time yet whenever he meets the devious Nadal on the court he is broken. That jarring sight of Federer’s tears drenching the courts of Melbourne eighteen months ago was a high point in my Nadal irritation. How dare he stop him from creating history? How dare he shatter my illusions of Fed’s invincibility?

It is that simple. It always is. It’s White or Hendry. Tiger or Phil. Ali or Frazier. Individual sports come down to how you perceive a player’s character and how you define their talent. Nadal, to Fed aficionados is a defensive player who relies on athleticism to win. While with each swish of his racket Federer creates a sonnet, Nadal’s stamina makes for a lousy stanza.

Well now I am down the middle. Watching Nadal destroy Robin Soderling yesterday I was struck by the range of ways in which he broke his opponent. I had lost my Fed tinted specs and could finally see what is blindly obvious, that my problem with the bull in the china shop was he smashed the prettiest plate. So join me Rafa-phobes in staying neutral for Wimbledon.

As long as Murray doesn’t win.

A salute to the slowcoaches.

Flicking aimlessly throughout the seemingly infinite satellite channels last Thursday night I eventually was drawn to ESPN and a quick look at the international career of Johan Cryuff. All of his seminal moments in Orange were present and correct. That slaloming run in ‘74 that led to a penalty in the final against West Germany. His trademark turn that would lead to countless imitation but retain the name of its originator and there were numerous other flashes of his dribbles, flicks and of course his passing that was as ubiquitous as the ticking of a clock. What struck me while watching was the pace or lack of it, whenever Cryuff had the ball his world seemed to slow. Defenders snapping at him were reduced to bullets floating past a Matrix-cracking Keanu Reeves. It is an old adage in the game that good players always seem to have time on the ball but this chestnut is losing force as a truth. Lionel Messi and Cristiano Ronaldo, two of the best players in the world currently operate in the supersonic. Theirs is the rapier game, a blur of twinkling feet and flashing shots. Even the controllers in the middle as the Italians call them are quick, elusive forces. Xavi and Inestia the two who Sir Alex Ferguson memorably whined could get you on a carousel and leave you dizzy are more darting than deliberate in their distribution. It is a relief than for those of us who still enjoy the old image of a quarter-back with one sock down below his shin-pad, who scoffs at a sprint and strolls with a smile that two fine exponents of the slow will try to navigate a path to glory beginning in a week.

The first is already a world champion and was the pivotal player behind that triumph. It has been somewhat forgotten just how big an impact that Andrea Pirlo had in the last World cup. Zizou’s “moment” and the blockbuster nature of Cannavaros defending, hell even Marco Matarattzi mouth is remembered more than the hypnotic rhythm of Pirlos passing. He was a constant source of fruitful possession. A conductor who made a mediocre orchestra soar. His pass in the semi-final against a typically stubborn Germany finally found space for a goal for Grosso who gave my generation our Tardelli celebration. Pirlo has been fitful in form since that tournament. His Milan have resembled him, some dizzy highs and frightful lows but he has regained his baton for Italia and alongside his carriers De Rossi and Gattuso will attempt to bend the great showpiece to his will once again.

The second will first have to navigate though the minefield of Diego Maradona’s team selection to take his customary place as the fulcrum of whichever side he plays in. Juan Sebastian Veron was until Dimitar Berbatov stole his crown, fleet streets favourite “enigma”. His time in the premiership was mixed with the sublime and the ridiculous but on the international stage where possession is the law he usually thrives. His passing can be devastatingly creative but only when a run or situation demands it. Maradona believes he can be Argentina’s Xavi, the man who can launch Messi. That remains to be seen but one thing is clear, the man they call “the little witch” will try to weave for his team and he will do it like Pirlo, in his own time.

The start.

I cant ever say I was obsessed with the game from the instant I came kicking and most probably screaming into this world. My formative years were spent fretting about the fall of communism and its subsequent impact across Europe, that and my beloved dinky cars. I would sit quietly and spin, roll and sometimes throw the little replicas around the room until they would be lost forever under the bed. I was a good child from all accounts and was easily pleased and fed while remaining docile. That all changed with a bang as I began to rebel against the establishment i.e. the parents and developed into what my grandmother cheerfully described as “a horrible little s***”.

After what I have been assured was the most terrible of twos I began to focus on the age old cowboys and Indians, and although my father insisted I used to set my cowboys up in an attacking four-four-two to slaughter the more defensive-minded Indians who adopted a “what we have we hold” approach all I seem to recall is placing my plastic gunslingers anywhere they may get stood on. Despite my dad’s metronomic insistence that I devout myself to the game my mother said I remained uninterested with an contemptuous look upon my face whenever Dad began to drone.

I can vaguely recall Italia 90 and Ireland’s glorious march to the quarter-finals only to be foiled by a dastardly bald Italian. Despite weeks of celebration and silly hats the round ball had yet to gripe me. I grew weary of the cowboys and instead became infatuated with the teenage mutant ninja turtles. I would tune in religiously every week to see what fiendish plot Shredder had designed only to see it crumble at the hands of those remarkable turtles. Donatello’s meticulous approach to forming and executing a plan was invigorating and I like to think this is where I found my love of football tactics and not the more conventional Subbeto. Such a notion is ridiculous of course but I have devoted a lot of thought wondering if Donatello would have made as a top level manager. I have since concluded that his reliance on a rat as a mentor would ultimately hinder him.

The moment of blissful clarity regarding the beautiful game came when I was aged six, after a routine day of wiping one nose on your sleeve and steeping in a pile of the dogs finest, I climbed into bed, rolled up my official Turtles duvet and readied myself for a another idyllic night of worry free sleep. The type only a kid gets but only an adult can appreciate. Just as I began to doze my stomach erupted in a fit of what can only be described as liquid snot. I rushed to the bathroom and projectile-vomited the contents of my stomach into what looked a frightened toilet. My mother came crashing up the stairs in a DEFCON-ONE panic. All sorts of towels and cloths were thrown over me while my temperature was took and retaken with all kinds of devices until I was left looking like a particularly crazy sheik. I was nursed downstairs and ushered into the sitting room next to the fire. My father dismissed my illness a “one of those bugs” but assured me there was a sizable upside. I could watch match of the day. United had won six-three at Arsenal and the glow that emitted from his eyes was evident to me even in my morbid state. That unmistakably signature tune blared out from the T.V and I decided to rouse myself long enough to watch what all the fuss was about and for some unknown reason it hit me. Believe me I would love to tell you it was Van Basten and his volley, Maradona and his hand or Gullit and his hair but my first real intoxicated moment as a football fan was Lee Sharpe and his Elvis impression. It was like a light had been switched in my head. Pass, move shoot, tackle. It was all so rhythmic, so poised. Was there anything more satisfying then a ball slamming into the net? And seeing the scorer sing into the corner flag after? Immediately after the highlights of the game finished and the esteemed panel of pundits concluded that Lee Sharpe “had a good game” after scoring a hat-trick I turned to my dad to ask him more only to see him staring at me with a delirious look upon him. The game had finally gripped me and he knew it.

Inter stifle Barca to reach Madrid.

There was a moment halfway through the second half of the European Cup semi-final that best encapsulates the devil and the detail of Jose Mourinho. Christian Chivu went down in apparent injury and went to the sideline for treatment. The special one left his technical area to deliver yet more instructions before he was accosted by the referee who reminded Jose to stay in his area. That was the Inter motto for the night.

It started as expected, Barcelona’s famed cerebral game adopted a more scatter gun approach as the rush for the goals that could level the tie began from the first minute. Inter sprung the first surprise with Mourinho replacing Gordan Pandev with Christian Chivu minutes from kick-off. Jose also summoned the sprit of the last man the take Inter to Champions League glory; Helano Herrera in his tactics to stop Barca. Lionel Messi was tapped and hassled every time he touched the ball with the Camp Nou screeching any time an Inter player had the audacity to tackle him. Pedro Rodriguez starting on the left flashed the first shot in anger after three minutes wide of Julio Ceaser’s goal. A crude challenge from Thiago Motta on Messi after ten minutes earned the Brazilian a yellow card, a card that was rendered meaningless by his subsequent red. Inter at this point were reduced to the scavenging of Diego Milito upfront, with Wesley Sneijder tolling manfully but struggling to make a mark. Barca were in complete control in the possession stakes but their clever narrow passing inevitably came unstuck in front of the durable Inter back-four. On two occasion’s Danni Alves managed to scurry free down the right and from the resulting crosses Pedro smashed a volley wide while Ibrahamovic managed to wriggle free from Samuel before being crowded out. The flash point of the red-card occurred soon after. Thiago Motta shielding the ball inside the Barca half raised his hand to the face of Sergio Busquets who fell to the ground dramatically, Motta received an unduly harsh straight red and his subsequent reaction-appearing to throttle Busquets-while not welcome was understandable in the face of such theatrics. Inter resumed their shape soon after and bar one coruscating moment from Messi, a turn and curling shot that was palmed wide, were comfortable going into the break.

The second half followed an eerily similar tone. Barca pressed, played their football and Inter defended with utter ease. Messi was dropping further deep in an attempt to gain some kind of penetrative control on the match but the result was that he and the equally subdued Xavi kept swapping passes with each other right in front of a diligent Estabian Cambiasso.. The woefully ineffective Ibrahamovic was substituted after an hour to give way for Bojan and it was the youngster who had the best chance of the half at that point meeting a lobbed Messi pass before heading wide with ten minutes left. Pep Guardiola now in desperation sent Gerard Pique upfront and it was the centre-half that restored hope for the Catalans when he latched onto a Xavi pass, spun quite wonderfully away from Ivan Cordoba before slamming the ball home. Barcelona now only needing one with five minutes to go suddenly began to find space. Both Messi and Xavi had shot’s saved by Caesar and deep in stoppage time Bojan had the ball in the net but it was disallowed for a handball in the build up.

That may have been harsh but no more so than the sending off. Inter saw out the game and had the prize of Madrid. Barca put on the water hoses at full time to douse the Italian celebration but one suspects Jose could have stifled them too if he wanted. He ran onto the turf at full-time, that is his area.

Europe awaits its blockbuster.

The mere prospect of Barcelona against Inter Milan in the semi-final of the champions league should be enough to sate any rabid connoisseur of the game but the sheer abundance of little duels, duels with bite and a history that form the sub-plot to this game give it the air of a blockbuster. How about one brother marking another? Gabi Milito, the durable Barca centre-half must deal with Inter's main poacher Diego. What about Zlatan Ibrahamovic going back to his old stomping ground? Or Samuel Eto'o back at his, eager to prove to Pep Guardiola that he was wrong in discarding him. Even Maxwell, Barca's quiet left-back is playing against his former club. These clubs have even met this year twice in the group stages. A bore draw in Italy was followed by a comfortable Barca victory. That, though is no form guide. The Inter of today are a different more believing beast. One that will not be afraid of Barca. All these sub-plots though, merely form the crust to the meaty center. The meeting of the special one and Jose Mourinho.

In six meetings against teams managed by Mourinho, Lionel Messi has failed to score. There are mitigating circumstances for this. Messi was a teenager when he faced Jose's Chelsea. He was also the reason Aisner Del Horno was sent off in one of those encounters. In his meetings with Inter this season Messi wore the look of an prized endurance runner keeping it cool for the opening laps and the salient point about records of course is that they are meant to be broken. Remember before Rome? Messi had gone eleven without scoring against English teams and couldn't score a header apparently. Mourinho will have a plan and it will have to be a clever one. Inter have no-one in the Cole or Evra mould to shadow Messi but they do have some grizzled South Americans who know all about him.

Of course Barca are more than Messi and Inter pose some serious threats themselves. Wesley Snejider's performance at Stanford Bridge was arguably the finest in this season's champions league bar the flea's against Arsenal. Milito, Pandev and Eto'o form a quick, intelligent triumvirate up front. Lucio has been the outstanding defender in the competition and in Julio Ceaser they have a goalkeeper of genuine class. Mourinho may follow the blueprint marked out by Espanol on Saturday. Press Barca, make Xavi work for his passes and try to choke any space around Messi. Barca only have a plan A. It just happens to be one of the finest ever seen. It will be interesting to see if Guardiola opts for Bojan or Ibrahamovic. The Swede is just back from injury and his more physical approach would suit Lucio who sometimes struggles against quicker more nimble attackers.

Like so many classic movies the setting is superb, the journey-for bus-bound Barca at least-is arduous. Brothers and comrade's will do battle while a general will try and stop the seemingly unstoppable. The Catalans to prevail but with a bloodied nose.