Cunning Stuntmen
Sun Herald
Sunday May 5, 2002
AFTER scoring a try against the Brumbies a fortnight ago, Waratah five-eighth Duncan McRae promptly grabbed his crotch as if he'd dislodged something important and was performing a crude inventory.
The nation held its breath, recalling, no doubt, memories of the family on hands and knees searching for Uncle Merv's prosthetic gonad after yet another nasty low blow in a backyard cricket match all those years ago.
However, fears McRae had been abruptly emasculated were allayed when it became obvious he had merely celebrated ``Michael Jackson-style" after scoring his vital five-pointer.
Few would have baulked at the Bad impersonation, for such exuberant celebrations have become commonplace in sport, backed and even encouraged by such esteemed mainstream arbiters as rugby league's Footy Show, which hands out awards for the best post-try performance.
But it wasn't always elaborate touchdown shuffles, Nathan Blacklock backflips, Ben Tune aquaplanes, Maurice Greene rooster struts or one-fingered Glenn McGrath salutes. Oh no.
Back in the old days, when our mine-blackened great-grandparents were lucky to get crushed glass sandwiches and a thermos of sump oil in their school lunches, a sportsman would no more have thought about theatrically celebrating a moment of glory than he would about wearing a frock to the 6o'clock swill.
Constantly paranoid about the inherent homo-erotic undertones of sport, all the old-time sportsmen would allow was a few bone-breaking handshakes and maybe even a slap on the (upper) back. Yet some time down the track, sportsmen, giddy on crowd adulation, more aware of their roles as entertainers and less paranoid about how things might look, allowed exuberance to get the better of them.
Of all professional athletes, soccer players have been at the vanguard of the celebratory movement.
Arguably, it was Latin soccer players mummy's boys then and now who first thought that a nice hug was a better reward for a goal than a mere handshake. It certainly is more affirming. Such hugs are now supplemented with kisses.
Even among the Once Were Bovver Boys of the English leagues, David Beckham is kissed almost as often as he's fouled. And we're not talking about Liverpool kisses, either.
Aside from the tactile, there are other forms of goal celebration. A popular one, strangely, eschews physical contact, as if in acknowledgement of past greats who, in seeing their teammates rush at them all doe-eyed and pursed-lipped, would have dodged their advances with all the vigour shown by that foxy Warner Bros feline who avoids Pepe Le Pew.
Essentially, however, one suspects ``the dodger" is really just the type who doesn't want a pile of bodies to spoil the crowd's view of the hero of the moment. Himself.
Other popular celebrations include the headless chook run (which can only mean the goal was a fluke and the scorer is rightly embarrassed, so pulls his shirt over his face) and the tummy slide, which allows teammates, sliding in formation, to share in the glory.
This makes me wonder if some of the commercially canny top teams will one day add choreographers to their staff lists to make the most of these TV-friendly moments: ``Zinedine, Zinedine, heavens to Betsy, I sswear you've got two left feet! It's run, sslide, ssmile, not sslide, ssmile, run! You'll be the death of me. Look at Thierry. That's it, Thierry. Gorgeoussss."
Rounding out the most popular celebratory techniques are the meaningful mime, such as the Brazilian Bebeto's rock-the-cradle gesture at the 1994 World Cup and the less subtle strip (``I am Man, see my nipples"), which either leaves oneself with a bare torso or in an undershirt-cum-billboard.
But such message-sending techniques are potentially dangerous as surely, one day, a teammate will pull the old switcheroo in the dressing-room before the game: so that instead of slipping on an undershirt emblazoned with his girlfriend's name, the potential goalscorer will unknowingly slip on an undershirt on which is printed the slogan Tiny Penis.
Now this is not to say such celebrations aren't good for the game, any game. Not only do the crowd love them but they allow the robotic, over-drilled players of today a rare moment of free expression.
But a word of warning. Back in my days as a star of under-16s soccer, I used to celebrate scoring with an exact replica of Mary Lou Retton's floor exercise from the 1984 Olympic Games. Trouble was, while the lengthy performance earned me much applause, it also attracted too many yellow cards for time-wasting, and quite often a red if I scored more than once in a game.
In later years, my goal-scoring celebrations developed into a scintillating Irish dance solo which, in retrospect, brings to mind the genius of Michael Flatley's Riverdance.
My teammates, philistines to a man, would penalise me long before the referee got a chance, with well-directed blows to my kidneys; blows disguised as congratulatory back slaps. Sometimes, it seems, you can go too far.
© 2002 Sun Herald