Nostalgia, the spin-dry that washes whitest

This is indeed the year of change in sport. It began with Chelsea overpowering Arsenal and Manchester United, and Barcelona humbling mighty ...

This is indeed the year of change in sport. It began with Chelsea overpowering Arsenal and Manchester United, and Barcelona humbling mighty Real Madrid. Then Alonso and Raikkonen pull the rug from under Michael Schumacher’s wheels, though that particular race is not yet over.

And now the Australians are in a crisis (however, this member of the jury is still out on that; the real Australian crisis is not now — they will bounce back in this series — but a couple of years down the line, when their stars actually stop playing.) Anyway, we are all happy that the swaggering, all-conquering, omnipotent Aussies are having it stuck up them as their coach so eloquently puts it.

They deserved what was coming to them, right?

But sport is like a washing machine; its cyclical process removes dirt and bad memories, what emerges is clean and free of bad vibes. It’s a process otherwise known as nostalgia — and this year nostalgia is a big hit.

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Who, for example, would imagine that Manchester United fans who had lived through the Dark Ages of the 1970s and 1980s would actually be supporting the Anfield club in the Champions League final last May? Twenty years ago Liverpool were the Australia of their sport, swaggering, all-conquering, omnipotent, their playing style based on teamwork and organisation. How everyone else hated them.

Today, everybody loves Rafa.

Or McEnroe. Hands up those of you who thought, back in the 1980s, that the foul-mouthed brat who threw rackets and tantrums with equal facility and frequency was a disgrace to tennis? And hands up, again, those who were turned off by the anodyne tennis of the Sampras era and supported Agassi only because he was Mac Lite?

Twenty years ago another team was also at its peak (though in the very early stages of decline). The West Indies had lost Clive Lloyd to retirement but with a pace battery that makes these Aussies seem doddering, and a batting line-up made in heaven, they still had enough to dish out blackwashes by the bucketful.

How everyone hated them. How everyone cursed their four-man death squad, aka Marshall, Holding, Garner, Patterson. How everyone criticised their one-dimensional gameplan.

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How we missed them when they were gone, and how we celebrated when they won the Champions Trophy at Lord’s last year. How we feel something special every time Lara scores a century, or Gayle gets into one of his murderous moods. How we shake our heads sadly when we see Collins and Collymore trundle up…

One day, when Messrs McGrath, Warne and Gilchrist give up grilling opposition bowlers and batsmen for grilling shrimps on the barbie, we will miss them too. It sounds funny now but we may even miss the metronomic, precise, ordered cricket they showed the world. When cricket has plunged into the anarchy of inconsistency, we may even sigh a wistful sigh and say, ‘‘If only the Aussies would bring some order into the game.’’

It won’t happen just yet, not least because the Aussies aren’t there just yet. They’ll start winning again soon enough, and we’ll all be cursing their infallibility. Until nostalgia, like Schumacher, catches up with us.