Shane Warne’s ‘ball of the century’

An occasional series looking at the defining moments which explain why sport captivates us so much ...

Sport’s superstars often arrive on the scene in a blaze of youthful glory, producing outstanding debut games or seasons. Football has given us teenage sensations such as Wayne Rooney and Lionel Messi, cricket the likes of Sachin Tendulkar (Test debut at 16, a centurion at 17, captain at 23), and women’s tennis a production line of prodigies from Tracy Austin to the Williams sisters.

Some, like Austin, have departed almost before they have arrived, but many have gone on to be dominant figures in their sport for many years.

The sporting annals are littered with examples of great debuts. Few, however, can claim to have had such a profound impact - not just on a match, but on his entire sport - as the showman fittingly nicknamed ‘Hollywood’.

England v Australia, 1st Ashes Test, Old Trafford, June 1993

MW Gatting b SK Warne 4

These are the bare facts as recorded by the match scorecard. In cricketing circles, though, it is referred to in hushed tones as “the ball of the century”. No other ball is as well remembered as Shane Warne’s first ever delivery in an Ashes Test match.

It’s the second day of the first Test. England have started well in their attempt to regain the Ashes – 80 for 1 in response to Australia’s modest 289. The blond-haired wrist spinner is brought into the attack for the first time. Warne measures out his run-up for his debut over against England and measures up the opposing batsman.

The pugnacious, bulldog-like face of Mike Gatting stares back at him. The former England captain is an excellent player of spin bowling and is hugely experienced. This is his 73rd Test, two days short of his 36th birthday, and he has seen pretty much everything there is to see in cricket.

But he has never seen anything like this. Warne’s first ball pitches well outside leg stump, then darts sharply back like a spherical stump-seeking missile to clip the outside of off stump. Bowled!

Gatting stands aghast, unwilling to believe the evidence of his own eyes, before finally acknowledging the umpire’s signal and trudging off the pitch, still shaking his head in bewilderment.

Just in case there are any thoughts that the ‘Gatting ball’ is a one-in-a-million fluke, Warne wastes little time in proving otherwise. The first ball of his second over is a carbon copy. Robin Smith misjudges the ball and edges to slip. Seven balls, two wickets! In the space of less than ten minutes, Shane Warne has set the tone for the match, indeed for the entire series. England’s batsmen will never really get to grips with his magician’s tricks throughout the summer, and the Ashes are as good as lost already.

Warne finishes the match with eight wickets, and goes on to claim a total of 34 victims and the Man of the Series award as Australia romp away with the series.

Ashes Tests are supposed to be intimidating affairs for the uninitiated; after all, this is one of the oldest and most intense of all sporting rivalries, dating back to 1877. An Ashes debutant isn’t supposed to march brashly in and destroy the opposition on their home turf. But that’s exactly what Shane Warne did in 1993, and it all started with one ball.

Not bad for a beginner.

Warne’s legacy

It’s all too easy to attach clichéd labels to Shane Warne such as ‘prodigious’, ‘phenomenon’ and ‘reinventing the art of spin bowling’, but then to look at Warne is to see something of a cliché anyway. He resembles not so much a modern, professional cricketer as a stereotypical Aussie who has wandered into the SCG after catching the morning surf at Bondi, with his burly frame, bottle-blond hair and macho, fun-loving brashness. So let’s work with the clichés.

In all honesty, there are few words that describe Warne’s ability to spin the ball so extravagantly as well as ‘prodigious’. He produced the equivalent of the ‘Gatting ball’ – no more than an extreme version of his standard leg break - repeatedly in his career. Warne frequently left batsmen bamboozled, groping futilely at thin air as the ball spun past the bat. What was particularly impressive was his ability to bowl long, tiring spells with sustained control, accuracy and aggression.

Was he a phenomenon? Unquestionably. To announce your arrival on the Ashes stage in the way that Warne did at Old Trafford and sustain that level of success for more than a decade showed that he is no flash in the pan. He stands second on the all-time wicket takers list (708 in 145 Tests), was voted fourth in Wisden’s Player of the 20th Century poll (being both the highest placed bowler and contemporary player), and has been described by no less an authority than Richie Benaud as “the best leg spinner I’ve ever seen”. Glowing praise, indeed.

Did he reinvent the art of spin bowling? Perhaps not, but he certainly changed people’s perceptions of it. Prior to his arrival, spin was becoming an increasingly rare and largely defensive art outside of the Asian nations. Warne turned that on its head by presenting spin bowling as a genuinely attacking – and, in cricketing terms, positively sexy - option. You need only look now – virtually every leading Test nation has a spin bowler who is single-handedly capable of turning (if you will forgive the pun) a match. Shane Warne’s legacy extends far beyond the Australian coastline or the time defined by the length of his career.

I was fortunate enough to see the 1993 Old Trafford Test live on television, and I can vividly remember my reaction to the moment Warne delivered that ball. I empathised with Gatting’s disbelief, then, watching the replay, I found myself quietly applauding in the solitude of my own living room as it began to dawn on me that I had just witnessed something truly special. It didn’t matter that it had cost my side a key wicket; such moments of sporting genius transcend something as petty as mere competition. I just knew that I had witnessed, as it happened, one of those precious moments that people would talk about for years to come.

Defining moments 5: Nicklaus defines true sportsmanship

An occasional series looking at the defining moments which explain why sport captivates us so much ...

The English language is a peculiar beast. While the words ‘sports’ and ‘games’ are broadly similar, ‘sportsmanship’ and ‘gamesmanship’ have distinctly different meanings. The former is all about playing fair and giving consideration to your opponent in the heat of competition; the latter suggests a more conniving attitude that seeks to maximise any available advantage short of outright cheating. For instance, a snooker player who deliberately slows the game down in an attempt to disrupt the rhythm of a dominant opponent is employing gamesmanship; another who points out to the referee that he has touched a ball with his waistcoat, thereby committing a foul, is displaying exemplary sportsmanship.

Sporting gestures are frequently small things, such as a footballer kicking the ball out of play so an injured player can receive immediate treatment, with possession being returned at the restart.

Sometimes such acts occur on a more humanitarian scale: for instance, Niki Lauda’s terrifying crash at the Nurburgring, where other drivers stopped to pull him from the wreckage of his burning car, acts of selflessness over self-interest which saved the Austrian’s life.

And occasionally, displays of sportsmanship can be so magnanimous as to sacrifice victory in favour of doing the right thing – a simple matter of gentlemanly honour.

Royal Birkdale Golf Club, September 1969

The 1969 Ryder Cup started amid a less than gentlemanly atmosphere.

The Americans had enjoyed a long period of dominance over Britain (it would not become ‘Europe’ until 1979) in the competition, having won 12 of the previous 13 meetings, including the last five. The 1967 match in Houston had been as one-sided as the final scoreline of 23½-8½ would suggest. However, with a strong, young team and the added benefit of home advantage this time around, captain Eric Brown was confident Britain stood a genuine chance of securing only its second Ryder Cup win since World War II. So keen was he to grab every possible advantage that he even ordered his players not to help the Americans look for their balls if they were lost in the rough, setting the tone for a series of niggly, ill-tempered spats between the teams.

In spite of this, the match itself developed into a classic, with 17 of the 32 ties going to the final hole and the British side matching their American counterparts shot for shot and point for point. With just one game left to complete, the match score was deadlocked at 15½-15½.

In keeping with the rest of the match, the final rubber between Britain’s Tony Jacklin and the USA’s Jack Nicklaus - arguably the two best players in the world at that time - is closely contested. The tie see-saws first one way then the other as they wrestle for the initiative, neither leading by more than one hole at any point.

With three holes remaining, the pair are level. Nicklaus wins the 16th to edge ahead, but Jacklin then sinks a monster 50-foot putt to send them down the last hole of the last match of the Ryder Cup all square.

As they walk down the fairway together after their tee shots, the American asks his opponent how he is feeling.

“I’m petrified,” Jacklin admits, to which Nicklaus responds, “If it’s any consolation, I feel exactly the same way you do.”

By the time they stride onto the 18th green it resembles a tiny, tightly-packed gladiators’ arena, with the entire crowd gathered several rows deep around its periphery, straining to glimpse the climax of three days of competition. Jacklin’s ball is further from the hole, meaning he must putt first. His attempt from around 25 feet away is perfect in line but not distance, agonisingly stopping just over two feet short. A valiant try, but now he must watch, powerless, as his opponent lines up a putt to win both the tie and the Ryder Cup outright.

Great player though he is, even Nicklaus is struggling to control the adrenaline surging through his veins. He strikes the ball aggressively and watches aghast as it sails past the hole and rolls on a further four feet. Now the shoe is on the other foot; he has to go first, and if he misses and Jacklin succeeds then it will be Britain and not the USA who will claim the Cup.

Big pressure putts are familiar territory for a top golfer; the added expectation of representing a team and a nation in such a historical and prestigious event is not. The situation might destroy a lesser man, but not Nicklaus, who nonchalantly rolls the ball into the centre of the hole and breathes a massive sigh of relief. Now he can do no worse than draw the tie and the overall match, and if nerves get the better of Jacklin, he would claim outright victory for himself and the USA.

One can only imagine what thoughts are racing through Jacklin’s mind as he watches Nicklaus hole out. The putt he faces is relatively straightforward under normal circumstances, but this situation is anything but. This is pressure at its most intense, and with everyone’s eyes trained on him he has nowhere to hide.

However, of all the scenarios playing out in his brain, the one he has not considered is the one that actually occurs. Nicklaus picks his own ball out of the hole, pauses, and then reaches over to pick up his opponent’s marker, conceding the putt. He goes over to the Englishman, offers his hand, and explains, “I don't think you would have missed that putt, but in these circumstances, I would never give you the opportunity.”

The two golfers leave the course together with an arm around each other’s shoulder to heartfelt and deserved applause from the crowd. It is a fitting end to an honourable match between two great rivals.

In the final analysis, Nicklaus and Jacklin halved their match, and the overall score finished 16-16, the first tie in Ryder Cup history. Under the competition’s rules, this meant the USA, as the current holders, retained the trophy. Nicklaus knew this; he knew it made no material difference to the fate of the Cup whether he himself won or drew. The concession cost nothing in competitive terms, but was of immeasurable sporting value.

Nicklaus explained later, “I believed good sportsmanship should be as much a part of the Ryder Cup as great competition.” Jacklin has always been quick to agree, calling it “the greatest single sporting gesture in golf”.

Not everyone involved saw it that way. American captain Sam Snead was apoplectic: “It was ridiculous to give him that putt. We went over there to win, not to be good ol’ boys.” Fortunately, others were able to see the bigger picture. Leo Fraser, President of the US PGA, graciously agreed the two countries should each retain the trophy for a year, contrary to tradition.

The events of 1969 were echoed eighteen years later when the Americans were defeated on home soil for the first time ever after Larry Nelson graciously conceded a two-foot putt to Bernhard Langer. The captains that year? Nicklaus and Jacklin.

Jack Nicklaus demonstrated that sportsmanship is as much about the way you win as the way you play the game, and that it can even be infectious. Conceding Tony Jacklin’s putt was an instinctive act, a small yet grand gesture from one of golf’s true gentlemen, and one which has deservedly earned a place in sporting legend.

Defining moments 4: Armstrong’s last stand

An occasional series looking at the defining moments which explain why sport captivates us so much ...

In sport, you often hear competitors talk about “110 per cent effort” or similar to emphasise that they’ve given absolutely everything. While one might quibble over the mathematics of such a statement, it’s nonetheless a valid reminder that sportsmen and women do push their bodies to the very limit of their capabilities, and sometimes beyond.

Nowhere is such single-minded effort more necessary – or indeed more obvious - than it is every July at the Tour de France.

There’s something about the Tour that sets it apart. It provides the most strenuous examination possible of speed, stamina, strength and sheer obstinacy, with its long flat stages, savage mountain climbs, and against-the-clock time trials stretched over a gruelling three-week schedule.

To put this challenge into context, here are some basic facts and figures about the 2003 edition, which provides the setting for this post. That year’s race comprised 21 stages over 23 days, covering a total of 3,428km, roughly the same distance as Paris to Moscow. The furthest covered in one day was 231km (London to Cardiff), and the longest stage took over six hours to complete. En route, there were fifteen climbs higher than the peak of Ben Nevis, Britain’s tallest mountain. And at the end of it all, the race was won at an average speed of 41kph. At this pace, you would run the hundred metres nearly a second faster than Usain Bolt.

Three weeks. Two wheels. One living hell. Welcome to Le Tour. This is not an event you choose to participate in unless you are the hardest of masochistic hard men (or doped up to the eyeballs, but that’s an entirely different topic).

I can’t stress enough just how tough the Tour is to even complete, let alone win. It may share the same means of propulsion as a Sunday afternoon bike ride, but it has about as much in common with it as the marathon does with my walk home from the corner shop.

Over the years, the Tour has provided a plethora of memorable images and defining moments, many of them involving Lance Armstrong, the most successful Tour rider of all time. This is my favourite.

Tour de France, July 2003

No matter how good a climber you are, this is the kind of day you know is going to hurt in a way that no amount of training can truly prepare you for. Covering 160km and culminating in three major climbs – the Col d’Aspin (the warm-up act at a mere 1,489m above sea level), the Col du Tourmalet (2,114m) and finally the finish at the top of Luz-Ardiden (1,715m) – this is four-and-a-half hours of intense suffering for the very best; an extra thirty minutes or more for many others.

The American Lance Armstrong is seeking a fifth consecutive Tour victory, but he has not dominated this race in the manner of his previous wins, looking vulnerable in the Alps and conceding a massive 96 seconds to Jan Ullrich in the individual time trial three days earlier. His advantage over the German is now a wafer-thin 15 seconds, with Alexandre Vinokourov just three seconds further behind. Armstrong’s objective today is simple, at least on paper: build his slim cushion over Ullrich and Vinokourov, ideally to a minute or more, ahead of the potentially decisive second time trial.

The slopes of Luz-Ardiden are to be the battleground for Lance Armstrong’s last stand.

Four hours into the stage, the leading riders are bunched together at the foot of the final climb. They are watching each other, waiting for the attack they know must come soon.

Sure enough, the yellow jersey eases into position at the head of the group, the orange-shirted Spaniard Iban Mayo and Ullrich at his shoulder, the others a few metres further back. And then suddenly, inexplicably, Armstrong’s bike twitches violently and he crashes to the ground, taking Mayo with him. (TV replays will later show his handlebars had caught the straps of a spectator’s bag.)

A second passes, then two, then three. Is his bike broken? How badly is he hurt? Is it all over for Lance Armstrong – just like that?

The wait is excruciating, like watching a jelly-legged boxer struggling to beat the referee’s count. Ullrich and the other leading riders cycle past. Armstrong is clearly dazed and shaken as he picks himself up and rights his bike, pausing to refit his chain before setting off in pursuit. A TV camera zooms in on his bleeding elbow, then pans up to his face. His wide-eyed, adrenaline-fuelled fury tells you everything you need to know: I will not let it end like this!

Armstrong strains every sinew to regain the lost ground, but not without one further flirtation with disaster. Charging up the mountain in pursuit - out of the saddle, standing on the pedals, maximum effort - his right foot slips out of the pedal, and he lurches forward precariously, his balance utterly compromised. For a moment it looks as if he’s either going to lose his manhood on the bike frame or else come off his machine altogether. Fortunately he does neither. He instinctively catches himself, regains his balance, and quickly slots his foot back into the pedal. A hiccup, no more.

At this point, any ordinary human would probably be content to thank their lucky stars and follow the pack to the finish. But professional cyclists are not ordinary humans, and Lance Armstrong is no ordinary cyclist. He has been in this situation – hunted, disrespected, written off as lacking a winner’s quality – before, and he knows what to do.

The leading group is now back together again, and almost immediately Mayo launches an attack, his tired legs developing an instant burst of speed in an attempt to put a decisive gap between him and the others. Armstrong’s response is immediate, surging forward to catch the Spaniard’s breakaway, and then without pause for breath he does what he has always done best – launch an attack himself. A devastating burst of acceleration, a quick look over the shoulder to see if anyone can respond - they can’t - and he’s away, a yawning gap opening up rapidly behind him: five seconds, fifteen, thirty …

Literally and figuratively, Lance Armstrong never looked back again. He finished 40 seconds ahead of the rest that day, but it might as well have been 40 minutes. The war was not yet won, but the key battle had been.

Put firmly on the back foot, Ullrich would go on to crash in a torrential downpour during the final time trial in a desperate attempt to make up time, confirming Armstrong’s fifth Tour de France victory. The American would go on to win the next two Tours; Ullrich would never get as close again.

Armstrong’s stirring fight-back on Luz-Ardiden was potentially the difference between him losing his stranglehold on the world’s greatest bike race and becoming its most successful ever participant. On such critical, defining moments are sporting legends made.

Defining moments 3: Redmond’s three-legged race

An occasional series looking at the defining moments which explain why sport captivates us so much ...

Not all defining moments in sport are about winning; occasionally a glance into the mirror of defeat tells us more about the human spirit than the glory of victory, and provides us with images which are indelibly etched into the memories of those watching.

Sceptical? Well, try this.

Olympic Games, Barcelona, August 1992 – men’s 400 metres semi-final

It is one of the most heart-rending of sporting images, and yet also one of the most heart-warming. Two men hobble over the finish line together, arms around each other like participants in a three-legged race. The other competitors have long since finished, but they are nonetheless given a champion’s reception by the crowd in Barcelona’s Olympic Stadium. One is a finely honed athlete dressed in the red, white and blue of Great Britain, the other a more generously proportioned man dressed in shorts, t-shirt and baseball cap.

This is one of those ineffable moments that television captures brilliantly, but still photographs somehow capture better. Photos of this strange duo crossing the line show the athlete being all but dragged across the line, freely shedding tears of pain and despair.

The pair are joined, not just physically but by ties of blood: Derek Redmond and his father Jim.

Redmond had entered the Olympics in good form, knowing this was his best opportunity to win an individual Olympic medal. The early signs had been good as he ran the fastest time of all in the first round, then won his quarter-final comfortably. Everything was going exactly according to plan, with no hint of trouble.

And so to the semi-final.

As usual, the athletes settle into their blocks for the start, followed by a moment of pin-drop silence and finally the bang of the starter’s gun. Redmond starts well, settling quickly into his stride and asserting his authority. All is going well. Then, about 150 metres into the race, sudden disaster. One moment he’s running smoothly; the next thing he knows his right hamstring has torn and he is tumbling on to the track.

In that instant, he knows it is all over. And so do we.

Redmond lies on the track, watching as the other athletes speed into the distance, still chasing their Olympic dreams. His are shattered.

But although the race is lost, he will not be beaten. He struggles to his feet while his father Jim makes his way on to the track. Together, they slowly make their way towards the finish. Officials attempting to stop them are waved away by a father who insists his son is allowed to finish with dignity.

The standing ovation the Redmonds receive from the 65,000 crowd as they cross the line conveys sympathy, empathy and respect in equal measure. In competitive terms, the victory is a Pyrrhic one; in human terms it is truly Olympian. 

Officially, Derek Redmond was disqualified from his 400 metres semi-final and did not finish. We know better. He may not have won a medal, but he captured the hearts of millions.

Redmond later featured in one of the International Olympic Committee's 'Celebrate Humanity' videos entitled ‘Courage’, and last year he featured in a TV ad for Visa which stated that "he, and his father, finished dead last. But he, and his father, finished."

Derek Redmond's defining moment was, for him, not a happy one. But his reaction to the sudden ending of his Olympic dream - and that of the crowd in Barcelona that day - spoke volumes about the indomitability of the human spirit, and the role which sport can play in revealing that to us.

It's scant consolation and no substitute for an Olympic medal, but Derek Redmond will always be remembered simply because, although he had already lost the race, he refused to be defeated. That should count as a victory in anyone's books.

Defining moments 2: No ordinary Joe

An occasional series looking at the defining moments which explain why sport captivates us so much ...

The image is as clear in my mind today as it was 20 years ago. On a field of giants stands a comparatively slight figure in red and gold, his arms held aloft in simple celebration, as if he was just an ordinary Joe celebrating a touchdown in a pick-up game of football in the park.

But this was no ordinary game; no ordinary touchdown. And it was certainly no ordinary Joe.

Super Bowl XXIII - Joe Robbie Stadium, Miami, January 1989

The NFL’s annual showpiece between the San Francisco 49ers and the Cincinnati Bengals kicks off in the sunny warmth of a late Miami afternoon. Like many other Super Bowls before and since, it takes a while to get going. A lethargic first half finishes 3-3, punctuated by two lengthy delays while Cincinnati’s Tim Krumrie and San Francisco’s Steve Wallace are stretchered off with broken legs. It’s not until the closing moments of the third quarter that the game suddenly explodes into life, the Bengals’ Stanford Jennings returning a kickoff for the game’s first touchdown to put Cincinnati ahead 13-6. The 49ers are stung into action, quickly restoring parity as 49ers’ quarterback Joe Montana tosses a touchdown pass to Jerry Rice.

But then the tempo drops again. A feint; a parry. Rice catches a long pass, but Mike Cofer misses the subsequent field goal attempt. Cincinnati then embark on a laborious drive that seems to encapsulate the mood of the entire match: slow, tentative, slightly fearful. It’s like watching a boxer who refuses to open up and go for the knockout blow. After five and a half minutes of cautious jabbing, Jim Breech’s field goal makes it 16-13.

The game is now finishing under floodlights, and the spotlight is very much on Joe Montana. It’s the point of no return – down by three, just over three minutes remaining - and the task is clear: orchestrate a touchdown to win, or at least a field goal to force overtime. As if this isn’t a big enough ask, the Niners must start from under the shadow of their own goalposts: on their own eight-yard line, with 92 yards to go.

No problem.

The San Francisco offense huddles in the endzone waiting to start their drive, with the eyes of a 75,000 crowd and a global television audience upon them. The pressure is almost unbearable. They know a critical moment will come at some point; they’re not sure they can handle it.

This is a time when you look to a team’s leader to deliver passionate and motivational words, something in a Churchillian vein perhaps. Not Joe Montana. He takes in the surroundings and points out a familiar face in the stands – “Hey, check it out, that’s John Candy” – to break the tension. He’s not nicknamed ‘Joe Cool’ for nothing. Then it’s down to business, the full extent of his final pep talk being, “Let’s go, be tough.”

The 49ers go to work. With the calmness of a surgeon, Montana starts to dissect the Bengals’ defense with precise cuts into its underbelly. A mix of runs and short passes moves the 49ers to the Cincinnati 35 with nearly a minute and a half left. It all seems so calm, so inevitable. Montana is the man at the eye of the hurricane, making the near impossible appear simply routine. But behind the façade, the stress and pressure are troubling even Montana. He’s hyperventilating as he shouts out the play to his teammates over the noise of the crowd, and as he drops back he feels wobbly, his vision blurring, so he deliberately throws his pass away high over the sideline. No harm done, but it’s a wasted play, and a penalty immediately afterwards leaves the 49ers in a nasty situation: second-and-20, the equivalent of being stuck in a green-side bunker.

This, then, is the singular moment everyone’s been waiting for. Do or die. Roll those dice, Joe.

Montana dismisses the crisis casually. With the team around him functioning smoothly – and, more importantly, believing – he waves his magic wand, conjures up a long range completion to Rice and, hey presto, secures another first down.

Now victory is within touching distance. Another pass moves the 49ers to the Cincinnati 10, and with 39 ticks remaining on the clock they call a timeout. One final pause, as much a chance for the crowd to catch their breath as it is for the players.

Montana makes the call, and the eleven offensive players break the huddle and line up opposite their defensive counterparts: lineman against lineman; cornerback on wide receiver; man to man. A moment’s stillness, and then the ball is snapped, initiating the customary violent ballet.

Tick. A series of crunching thuds as linemen’s shoulder pads and helmets crash against each other, the perpetual battle in the trenches between irresistible force and immovable object.

Tick. A blur of speeding motion around the fringes, as defensive flashes of white track the choreographed movements of red and gold: the languid, flowing grace of Jerry Rice, the slashing, high-stepping strides of Roger Craig, the bullish power of Tom Rathman.

Tick. The conductor, Montana, at the centre of it all. Ball in hand, dropping back, surveying everything being played out in front of him. His eye is drawn to wide receiver John Taylor (who has not caught a single pass all day) as he slips unguarded into a soft spot in Cincinnati’s coverage. It’s a small window of opportunity, open for only an instant, but Montana spies it immediately and delivers the perfect pass.

Tick. Taylor makes the catch, and the official at the goalline raises both arms above his head to signal the score. Montana does the same, a simple, routine celebration in circumstances which are neither. The crowd in the stadium is somewhat more demonstrative, however, erupting in a cacophony of pure noise.

Tick. The clock stops at 34 seconds. San Francisco 20, Cincinnati 16.

In what little time remains, the Bengals are unable to mount a response, and the 49ers win Super Bowl XXIII after one of the most exciting finishes ever seen in a championship game.

A miracle? No, it’s just another day at the office for an extraordinary Joe.

The legend of Joe Montana

Super Bowl XXIII was the crowning glory of the Joe Montana legend, but it was hardly the first time he had overcome apparently insurmountable odds.

A late bloomer at both high school (Ringgold High, Pennsylvania) and college (Notre Dame), he gained a reputation for unlikely come-from-behind victories, the most dramatic in his final game as a collegian, the 1979 Cotton Bowl against the University of Houston. It was so cold that Montana – who grew up accustomed to freezing Pennsylvania winters – suffered from hypothermia and had to sit out most of the third quarter while he was fed soup in an effort to raise his temperature. However, he was red hot when he returned, overcoming a 34-12 deficit in the final 7:37 of the game and throwing the winning touchdown as time expired.

And it was no different when Montana graduated to the NFL. In 1980, his second pro season, Montana inspired San Francisco to the biggest regular season comeback in NFL history at the time, overcoming a 35-7 deficit to defeat the New Orleans Saints.

The following year, Montana led the 49ers to their first Super Bowl with a dramatic comeback against the Dallas Cowboys, marching his team from their own 11-yard line late in the game and culminating in a scrambling run and throw to receiver Dwight Clark, who leapt and stretched with every inch of his six-foot-four frame to haul in what 49ers’ fans refer to simply as ‘The Catch’.

Montana didn’t just specialise in on-the-field comebacks either. In 1986, he underwent major surgery after suffering a ruptured disc in his back. The doctors recommended retirement; Montana was back playing – and winning - within eight weeks. And after injuries had forced him to miss nearly two whole years, he returned in the final game of the 1992 season, winning in his final appearance as a 49er and looking like a quarterback who had been out of the game for barely 23 minutes, let alone 23 months.

And even in that triumphant Super Bowl XXIII-winning season, Montana had had to overcome his doubters. In pre-season, experts were declaring him past the peak and suggesting it might be time to hand over to his highly-rated backup, Steve Young. Injuries and inconsistent performances fuelled a quarterback controversy that was not resolved until Montana led a four-game winning streak to clinch the division title. No one ever questioned whether Montana should give way to his Young pretender again.

Joe Montana never understood the concept of “giving up”. That’s the thing about legends: as much as they love the sweet scent of victory, they despise the bitter taste of defeat even more.

How good was Montana as a player? Well, no less an authority than John Madden – former player, Super Bowl-winning coach and long-time television commentator – has said, “I say with no disclaimers, ‘This guy [Montana] is the greatest quarterback who ever played.’”

Joe Montana could never claim to have the strongest arm, or the quickest feet, or the most durable body; indeed, there are many quarterbacks in the history of the NFL who were quantitatively better athletes than Joe Montana. However, when it came to the vital, intangible qualities that turn a good athlete into a great player – vision, leadership, poise, heart and the ability to galvanise a team and make the impossible happen – these he possessed in abundance. In street clothes, Joe Montana looked no better than any other player in the NFL; once the helmet and pads were on, he was without equal.

And while it is true that there are lies, damned lies and statistics, just consider these two facts. Joe Montana played in four Super Bowls, and won all four. In those four games, in the most pressurised atmosphere in the sport, he threw 11 touchdown passes and no interceptions. Two simple statistics: 4-0 and 11-0. One great man. When the heat was on, the player everyone could rely on was Joe Cool.

Randy Cross, a long-time teammate, encapsulated the essence of Montana perfectly when he said, "If every game was a Super Bowl, Joe Montana would be undefeated."

Joe Montana’s career left NFL fans with many great memories; Super Bowl XXIII is the one most will think of as his defining moment.

Defining moments: Pearce's redemption

It can be difficult to explain exactly why sport captivates us so much, but for me one key reason is that it provides us with great tales which can stick long in the memory. Unlike the kind of stories that we see in films or books, sporting narratives rarely stick to the basic formula of having a beginning, a middle or an end, with key dramatic 'beats' punctuating the action at regular intervals. And it is that unpredictability which keeps us constantly on the edge of our seats even in the 89th minute of a dull, poor football game, because witnessing those magical moments when sport hits those high notes are what makes it all worthwhile.

In some cases these moments of magic are lightning strikes, little cameos which showcase sport's never-ending capacity to delight, surprise and astonish (a stunning breakaway goal against the run of play, for instance). In others, they may be the culmination of a long, winding narrative which, with hindsight, has an air of glorious inevitability about it (Kevin Pietersen's destructive innings which finally clinched the 2005 Ashes, say).

I call these 'defining moments'. In my mind, they form a mental photo album which underlines what great sport is all about and represents the pinnacle of my experiences watching, attending or participating in sporting events. Some of these will be recognisable to most fans, others deeply personal.

Since a big part of the essence of sport is that it is a shared experience, I thought I'd share some of my defining moments from the mental archive. So let's start with an example of that most compelling of basic plots: a tale of redemption.

Euro 96, Wembley, June 1996

The report card on the veteran England full back Stuart Pearce prior to Euro 96 would have read something like this: “A great defender and a loyal servant to both club and country, but best remembered for one terrible mistake which has forever tainted his career. Questionable performance under pressure.”

Turin, 1990. England versus Germany. Two hours of football had failed to separate two evenly matched sides. A place in the World Cup final rested on a sudden-death penalty shootout; ten kicks of the ball from twelve yards out. Pearce – a regular and highly proficient penalty taker – failed to convert his spot-kick. Germany won and went on to beat Argentina 1-0 in the final.

Wembley, 1996. The European Championship quarter-final. England and Spain have battled to a tense, goalless stalemate. So now it’s the agony of penalties again.

First up for England is striker Alan Shearer, who emphatically blasts his shot into the top corner. Next, Fernando Hierro steps forward for Spain and strikes an equally powerful effort beyond the reach of David Seaman, but the ball cannons off the crossbar and away to safety. A huge roar from the crowd. Miss! David Platt then scores for England; Amor responds for Spain. 2-1.

Next in line for England: Stuart Pearce.

As a spectator, there is a familiar sensation of fear which forms in the pit of your stomach as a player makes the long, lonely walk from the centre circle to the penalty spot. In Pearce’s case, it is much more than that. A murmur of anticipation goes around Wembley. Are we about to witness a man released after six years of hell, or see him condemned to a life sentence for a repeat offence? Not even a man who goes by the nickname ‘Psycho’ deserves to suffer like this twice in a lifetime. With one sweep of his left boot, Stuart Pearce would be either redeemed or branded a choker, a man whose career is defined not by years of outstanding success but by two moments of failure.

A nation collectively holds its breath, but Pearce exhibits not the slightest trace of fear or hesitancy, stroking a left-foot shot wide of the goalkeeper’s despairing dive and into the back of the net.

Wembley roars in celebration and approval. And absolution; to a man, everyone in the stadium knows just how much this means to him.

Pearce himself is in another world – fists clenched, eyes bulging, a lung-bursting scream releasing six years of pent-up frustration and exorcising his demons.

It is one of the all-time great sporting photos, one of those rare occasions you get to glimpse the human being behind the professional façade. Emotion laid raw for all to see; the nightmare of 1990 finally consigned to history in one cathartic moment.

Even now, 13 years later, the memory of it is enough to bring a tear to my eye.

There’s a line in the English football anthem 'Three Lions' that says, “Thirty years of hurt never stopped me dreaming”. For Stuart Pearce, it was six years of agony and frustration, but he never stopped dreaming of redemption. And how he had earned it.

It is not often we are reminded in such stark terms about the fine line between career-defining success and failure which even the most successful of sportsmen and women must walk; rarer still that we see the circle completed, with abject failure being followed by redemptive success. The image of an emotionally-released Pearce screaming at the heavens - and the fact it was played out live in front of an audience of millions - is exactly what great sport is all about, and why I and millions of others love it so much.