RG111 . . . the crowd chants, RG111 . . . the crowd roars, RG111 RG111 - the game hasn’t begun, still the crowd goes hoarse for their hero.

No sight of him just yet, but the fans work themselves into a capricious frenzy.
But don’t fear he’s there, with all the right moves and a team of willing mates riding the wave of RG111 mania all the way to this weekend’s playoffs - Seattle, beware.

RG111, we don’t use his full name – that‘s how well known he is, even this early in his career. But what a star – first year and all, only lightly seasoned until now, with not so much as a drop of salt to far, the twenty-two year old RG111 is having a jolly time of it in his rookie season. His arteries of talent not blocked from the inhibitions of experience, the flange of the Washington Redskin’s has guided his side to finals football.

For sure, no tourist, he’s been in the thick of things from the beginning. Even now, despite the hindrance of a troublesome knee injury, the fate of this side hangs on the youthful shoulders of RG111 as he attempts to keep his team from visiting the tomb of defeat and repel the raiders of the West Coast.

Never mind that the Redskins are playing away, on a small croft of soil in an inhospitable environment far from the comforts of home, this lot are a professional bunch.

No moaning, no groaning, they do the business. All led by playmaker, RG111, sore knee and all, he’s there for the team. He is a star but he’ll play through pain if need be, he is the key.

In an upward arc of form this season, they have already made finals football – that will do for them nicely. You’ve got to start somewhere, after all. But why stop there for Washington are on the verge of the unthinkable; sating the appetite of fans that lust after an eagerly awaited return to the glory days of a Superbowl they last won in 1991.

So there you are, a young star on his first steps towards a rich tapestry of future fame, fortune and glory.

What, you’re still unsure who this is all about?

Oh, okay, for those few of you that have been living beneath a rock, he’s Robert Griffin111 . . . superstar, yet, consummate team man.

Hey Venus, how about one more for the road?

Go on, it won’t harm you. Flush it down with aplomb; let the rest drown their sorrows out in the meadow.

Just one more slam title, to accentuate to the masses that you really are one of the greats.

We all know, and accept, that you may not be the force you were of yesteryear. You won five Wimbledon’s and a couple of US Open’s back in the pomp of your mid twenties.

Those were the days, the days when your competitors would have no choice but to succumb to your brutal talents. That is why, I suppose, you were World number one.

Never could you be accused of being drunk in charge of a tennis racquet, such was – and is – your talent. You were the star, burning brightly, as you destructively went about dismantling a bevy of tennis princesses. Davenport, Henin, Clijsters, Hingis, Capriati and the like, you had their measure. They may have been the princesses of the circuit, but you were the queen. And rule you did.

Even that young upstart sister of yours, Serena, more often than not would be at your mercy, doing your bidding. You shone above all.

You achieved the rush that one gets when perched upon the giddy heights of world domination. The thrill of winning the holy grail of Tennis, Wimbledon, in front of ten thousand adoring fans, that’s what it is all about. It doesn’t get much better than that. Or perhaps it does. For, to win in your own Country, now that really is something. And you did it twice.

Twice you won in New York, the city that never sleeps. It’s where you regularly dealt with your foe in a New York minute. Such was your ruthlessness that they would come and they would go, with you swatting the parasites away with the efficiency of the most disdainful of tennis dictators.

Then, as with every reign, you lost your Midas touch. That perch that you looked down upon the mere mortals of this highly competitive sport suddenly dumped upon you. The star had lost its aura, the glow was no more as the planets failed to align for the once mighty Venus.

The titles were no longer a foregone conclusion. Serena overtook you, challenging the family hierarchy. You were on a slippery slope, and it wasn’t to nowhere. Indeed, it was all downhill, slip sliding your way into the murky dusk of oblivion.

But now is the opportunity to put a halt to this malaise, to rise, like the mighty phoenix, from the ashes to once again soar into the stratosphere of ball playing splendour. This is the time to show all and sundry that the grand old lady of the pro circuit is still alive and kicking, that she is still capable of the grandest of performances and that age has not wearied the mind, nor body.

Come on, do it one more time, Venus.

We’re all behind you, willing you on as you climb yet another peak in what has been a stellar career. After all, there is nothing quite like a fairytale ending to keep the sporting hearts of the world upbeat.

So now is the time to find that peerless form whereby your racquet head is once again firing down the most menacing of serves, pounding your opposition into submission. And those ground strokes – fearsome things they are. Feel free to, once again, allow them their day in the sun with the fluff of a ball fluttering in awe at the mastery of a magician that regularly has balls bidding a sniggering adieu to many a wrong footed foe.

How about it, Venus? Just one more for the road, to sign off in style, and allow those that once feted over the grandest of them all a chance to see that, yes indeed, the queen is still alive.

Man, what a gigantic cock-up that was.

There they were, a couple of Chinese, two South Koreans and some Indonesians deliberately attempting to lose a match.

What has the sport of Badminton come to?

For so long a sport without corruption, it was now being laid out flat from the tainted actions of a small number of cynical souls.

Talk about making things hard for themselves. Four Women’s doubles pairings hitting a shuttlecock every which way but in, in a shameful attempt to manipulate results to their liking. All of this just to get on the right side of the draw.

So glad they had the confidence in their abilities to take on all-comers.

They couldn’t even muster up enough respect for the Olympic spirit, which it must be said failed miserably to insert itself into the psyche of these women as they defiled the game with their sinister intentions.

Oh well, quaint wee notion anyway.

Luckily, though, officials were alert to the nefarious methods of a few bad eggs, catching them in time before they escaped and impregnated the sport with their mischievous and devilish intentions.

More than likely, this will lead some to say how unfortunate that this has occurred at such a high profile event. Truth to the feather, while we all would prefer nothing untoward happens at any event, let alone the Olympics, that it has under the glare of the big daddy of Badminton Internationals may be a blessing in disguise.

There is now no hiding from the fact that these practices are part of the fabric of this highly skilled sport. And now is the time to stamp it out. To deal with this ticklish poser before it enters the throes of a widespread aneurysm that has become awash with a cancerous shaft of muddy waters that risk exploding through the floodgates of the authorities defences.

Hope remains though. The guilty parties were expelled with a swift ride out the back door with no one to blame but themselves. What’s worse was their lack of smarts in how they went about achieving their goals. In no way should their behaviour be condoned, but one would have thought that they may like to go about their misdeeds in a manner a little less obvious.

So, not only are they now seen as cheats, but also somewhat on the dim side, too.

And the irony of their actions remains that not one of them managed to gain any satisfaction from the end result after being unceremoniously dumped from the Olympic tournament.

To further reinforce the point to these players that their actions will not be tolerated, the International Badminton Federation might like to consider a lengthy ban on top of their disqualification.

Only then could we be sure that there are no more shuttlecocks open to being manipulated for a long time to come.

His time has come. At long last it has come. He must have wondered if and when it would all come together. But those long tortuous hours spent pushing the boundaries of physical endeavour are finally bringing the rewards that one so dedicated richly deserves.

Is he a pretender? Not on your Nellie he’s not.

Yes, Bradley Wiggins is in the now, showing any remaining sceptics that he is indeed the real deal.

Having bided his time patiently waiting for that rarest of opportunities - a Tour de France title - here he is, displaying without a shadow of a doubt that he is well and truly a contender for one of the biggest sporting shows on Earth.

The prime contender that is. Not for him a position as an auxiliary unit. He is far too talented for that.

One of the big guns, firing on all cylinders, the Belgium born Brit resident with the biggest of engines has powered his way to the front of the field.

The maillot jaune becomes him. He wears the honour with a calm presence that befits the scintillating scenery that is the high stakes of the Tour de France.

His form is such that he has the pot full with all the necessary ingredients and in the methodical way that only a true professional can he is bringing two of those key qualities of peerless time trialling and strong hill climbing to the boil nicely.

First he goes and matches defending champ Cadel Evans on the initial hill stage of this year’s tour. And it is not as if Evans didn’t attack. Of course he did, he is the defending champ, but it was to no avail as Wiggins defended grimly, determined not to blow the biggest chance of his already stellar career.

STOP it, Bradley. This can’t continue.

Keep this up and the cycling world really will start to believe in you. Now, we can’t have that can we; after all, you may start to do a splendid impersonation of a champion.

There he was on the final ascent of stage eight, a short 6km (average gradient 14%) climb to the finish, with the last three hundred metres at a gradient of twenty-two percent. Not his cup of tea to be honest. The big man is more suited to the long gradual climbs.

But here he was matching Evans spoke for spoke, proving that he is in the form of his life.

All those hours on a training bike, all those missions scouting routes such as this, and all those heartbreaking weeks spent away from his wife and children - the sacrifice is in the process of paying dividends in the form of achieving a lifelong dream.

That same dream is giving him the pleasure of sparring against one of the best in the business, Cadel Evans.

If matching Evans in one of the champ’s favoured arenas of action was the jab that knocked his rival off guard momentarily, then his performance in the next day’s time trial was the left hook that put Evans to the canvass. Sure the Australian got back up and fought on, but he now knows that he has the fight of his life on his hands.

Vulnerability has been ushered into Evans cycling psyche.

The same cannot be said of Wiggins. His confidence will be soaring as high as one of those formidable Alps that have converged on the event. This race, though, is one that he currently holds in the palm of his hand. This should make it relatively easy to maintain his control over the peloton.

The thirty-two year old Brit knows all he has to do is protect a 1m 53s lead over Evans and one hundred and sixty or so other predators that take great delight in tearing to shreds anything in yellow.

So there is no pressure, Bradley. After all, there are only another nine stages and fifteen hundred and twenty-nine kilometres for him to have to defend that hard fought lead. They will – in particular, Evans – attack at any given moment.

Colors, reputations, they mean nothing to that lot.

But he’s a mod, for he can do it all. Proving that no job is too big or too small for the biggest of targets, not only does Wiggins have the mightiest of individual talents, it seems that he is presiding over what is fast becoming known as a supremely well drilled team unit.

And as anyone well versed in the intricacies of the sport of professional cycling knows, a strong team is imperative. No fearless climbers to help you out in the Alps and you’re toast. Vital to have those eight teammates by the side of said star to protect him from the inevitable crashes that often occur in the first week of proceedings, too.

Team Sky has, thus far, done a superb job of protecting their talisman.

Often seen at the front of the peloton, taking nothing for granted, Wiggins has an eagle eye on the lookout for any attacks that may be aimed his way, for he respects all.

Not for him to underestimate anyone, not least his major protagonist in the form of Evans.

And for good reason as those predicted attacks came thick and fast on stage eleven, yesterday.

This was it, the showdown of all showdowns, a day where four of the meanest, nastiest hill climbs, each with the ugliest chip on their shoulder that could be found for many an Alp, charged the most exorbitant of prices upon entry. That they resent anyone conquering them goes without saying. Only the fittest and toughest may proffer. The rest . . . well, the devil of the bike gets your soul.

Not Wiggins though. He not only survived, but repelled the attacks of Evans.

Then he returned the favour, giving his foe a dose of his own medicine. By stage end, Wiggins had gained another 1m 26s to be 3m 19s ahead of Evans.

His nearest competition is now his teammate, Chris Froom. In other words the Tour de France is his to lose.

All he has to do is avoid crashes, mechanical failures, the usual attacks and any sense of complacency, not to mention a litany of other potential pitfalls that could turn his world upside down.

See, it's really not that hard.

After all, he has survived so far and unlike many of his rivals, he left stage eleven with his cycling soul intact.

The naysayers have entered the fray.

They have the noose at hand, first for Roger and now Serena. Off to retirement they should go, to this mob that would be okay. Be careful, the critics may get their way.

Both are past it, they say. So convinced have they become that they risk being entrenched in the blasé, overlooking two fine careers and what are still two outstandingly good players.

Thirty, it is too old to be so bold as to believe that a career in the mould of the physical could continue to take hold.

Thirty... that’s right, thirty – the cynics want them out – Roger, Serena, they’re so old hat, could it be that a career or two has finally been beckoned by earth’s end?

What do you reckon?

Yes, they should go. . . WHAT.

Noooooo . . . it is not true I tell you, NOT true. Didn’t you see the American up against Jie Zheng on Saturday? Serena could not have been more magnificent, if not in the mastery of her game, then in the way she fought for all she was worth.

Retirement . . . what repugnance, just the very idea of it.

Let us take this argument to the fold, for there was the youngest of the William’s sisters doing battle with a menacing opponent who thought nothing of spending a good couple of hours sending down a barrage of ground strokes laden with the most barren despondency that Serena could imagine.

Who could blame the thirteen time grand slam winner if she had considered quitting.

Staring her in the face was a force of nature red with fury and ferocious in its intent. A formidable foe, out to take the scalp - a scalp that has done the names of Court, Jean King, Navratilova, Evert and Graf proud - of one of Women’s Tennis’ biggest ever names.

Only a few short weeks ago Williams had lost in the first round of the French Open.

Sure, clay is not her pet surface, but all the same the mental scars had to be there.
Could she do it anymore when there was most certainly a deep reservoir of uncertainty shaking the very roots of her self-belief to its core?

You betcha she could. 9-7 in the third set to the good and a win was there for Serena to saviour.

So please prophets of doom be gone with you. Take your gloom and let us clear the murk away, lavishing the vast rays of the ravishing Wimbledon summer sun upon the career of Serena Williams.

She has so much more to offer, she really does. Past it – yeah right.

There was Serena scrapping it out to the end. There was some good; there was some of the not so good. To be sure it wasn’t her best, but she hung in for the long haul like the champion she is.

By all means critique her performance but to write her off – big mistake.

When the important points came, there was Serena at the door, ready, willing, fully loaded and prepared to send a flurry of verbs hurtling down with a velocity that defied.

She aced it alright; she’ll be back for she is no hack.

For that matter there is a good few years left in this supposedly run down old dame if she so desires.

Now is the time for the great lady to dedicate herself solely to her Tennis, to remind us all of her greatness. Sharapova, Azarenka, Kvitova, now there is a formidable line-up. Chomping at the bit, they're young and hunger for the glory of Grand Slam titles. Energetic and fit, there is only one way to deal with the parasites of opposition; work harder than them.

For Serena the time has come to rise up once again and put the young sasses in their place - their rightful place, that being behind her staring into an undefeatable wall of despair. Yes, there is some mighty talent amongst them, but then she is the mightiest of them all.

Of all tennis folk, Williams knows how the hard times can fall on the unexpecting.

There she was in early 2011, thought to have recovered from a foot injury the previous July, when complications set in.

A blood clot formed in her leg, she nearly died. Fortunately the time was not nigh for Williams to wave goodbye.

Back to full health, the world is a greater place for her presence. What is more, Williams appears to have mellowed. Her dice with death looks to have shown her the way to a more serene outlook on life.

Her on-court demeanour appears to have quietened for the better. Gone is a lot of the grunting, along with what at times has been a rather demonstrative outlook towards officials. Perhaps turning thirty has ushered in a much welcomed maturity, not a fading of her tennis ability.

And now this champion has a chance to leave a legacy over the next couple of years that will not only have her remembered as one of the greats of the game, but completely change the public’s perception of her as a person.

Ladies and Gentlemen, it is that time of the year; Wimbledon. So hunker down, grab a liberal lashing of strawberries and cream and welcome to centre court the competitors for our first match of the day.

First, please, a round of applause for Great Britain’s Andy Murray.

Twenty-five years old and ranked number four in the world, Wimbledon 2012 is his time.

Long anointed as the best player to have never won a grand slam event, the 6ft 3” lion-hearted talent from Glasgow is ready to propel himself into the dressing room of champions.

With millions in prize money up for the take, one would imagine that oysters and champagne will be the order of the day. All that money, that is what matters; after all, it is what makes the world go round.

At least for most it does.

Twenty million in career prize money, he is made. That Andy lacks for nothing goes without saying. A condo here, a condo there, all that hard work, it sure paid.

Not for Murray the trappings of obscene wealth. There has to be more, for he is no fat cat.

Financially set up for life, there is plenty of time to enjoy the spoils. Those spoils, though, would taste decidedly better accompanied by a host of grand slam titles, particularly that local delicacy the British have not feasted on since 1936; Wimbledon.

But now is the hour and after a seventy-six year odyssey, the British - having done battle with the tennis gods of faraway lands that are the breeding grounds of the wicked - have sent the chosen one.

With a ready supply of heavy artillery available to bombard anyone foolish enough to block his path into greatness, nothing can stand in the way of the best of British. It is not just a case of assault and battery. For sure, if Murray wishes, he can use the weaponry at his disposal, but unlike many a modern day player who know no other way than to belt the cover off the ball he also has the capacity for the deftest of stroke making.

His foe could be sent this way or that, usually the opposite to where the ball is at.

Oh so infuriating it must be for that field of pretenders to know that they are up against a Tennis genius. One that will pull out shots that will rescue the day whenever is required.

A talent for sure, he’s a fighter too. In it till the end, he is the fiercest of competitors. No matter the dilemma put in front of him, Murray will battle to find a solution. Sure, it will not always go his way, but champions are fighters and fighters are champions. That is what they do; fight, come what may.

And now, would you please extend a warm welcome to his competitor, Scotland’s Andy Murray.

Yes, it may take him awhile to get to his courtside seat as he slowly slouches his way onwards due to an ongoing battle with a troublesome back. But do be patient with the Scot, for life has never been easy.

Twenty-five years old and ranked number four in the world, Wimbledon 2012 more than likely will not be his time.

The talent is there, but which will win out? The breathtaking talent he so clearly possesses or the demons that swirl around in his head which seem to regularly supersede any valuable commodity in the form of a stoic mental outlook.

Those said demons might go some way to explaining the three grand slam finals to his name, and yet not a set won.

Not his fault, mind, as there are a multitude of reasons for things to go wrong; racquets, balls, weather conditions and the like.

But support is what a twenty-five year old desires.

Which is why, in his courtside box, he has brought with him a welcome party of extras that include his Coach, person trainer, doctor, physiotherapist, masseuse and, of course, his Mother.

And what normal adult doesn’t need his mother at his side. Along with a record number of others, it must be very helpful to have such good people in one’s camp, to search out in between points for reassurance. After all, why do your own thinking when you can lean on another’s expertise continuously. It is much easier that way. You see, taking responsibility for oneself is a novel concept in today’s society.

And why should Andy be any different? If it is good enough for others to avoid the real world, why shouldn’t he? No need to stand tall, battle on and think on one’s feet as he maturely attempts to fight the ravages of his given situation, when it is so much easier to sulk around the court muttering and cursing darkly to himself on the desperation and unfairness of his lot, feeling sorry for oneself and blaming everyone else.

So, who is going to win out?

Will it be the angst ridden Scot or will that Scot transcend into the free flowing Brit who has the world at his feet with his vast array of limitless shotmaking possibilities that he parades before an adoring crowd who cannot help but roar their approval.

I have no idea. How about you?

It is a cold hard world out there. Just ask Tiger Woods, he’ll tell you. At least he would if he were the type to admit to any fallacy within his psyche.

But that isn’t the way of the Tiger. Hell will freeze over before he is heard to utter anything remotely resembling an admission of defeat. Never mind that having had a share of the lead heading into the final rounds of last Weekend’s US Open, he flopped when it mattered most.

Despite the writing being on the wall after round three, he still wasn’t ready to concede defeat.

Fair enough, but what Woods fails to realise is that fate has an unpleasant habit of taking any aspirations the ambitious have and heading off in whichever direction that takes its fancy, regardless of what its subject may wish for.

Unfortunately for Woods, he may never recapture the form of his glory days until he learns to accept that, particularly post scandal days, he can no longer manipulate any given situation to best suit his needs.

This of course means that he will now have to acquire the mental skills to perform at his optimum, under duress. Admittedly, this is not exactly breaking news, but after two and a half years he is still clearly struggling with the reality of an unfriendly environment.

Will this change? Despite signs of improvement over the previous few months, doubt remains.

Gone are the days when his competitors were intimidated by anything and everything Tiger.

With the help of the PR machine that amped him up to be the perfect family man and the fawning public rallying behind his every move, he could do no wrong; we all loved him and everything he stood for. He gave us the best of both worlds; he was a nice guy whose family values resonated, and a champion to boot.

He made us all believe we could be someone, too, which offered us hope beyond our ordinary everyday existences. We loved him for it and he felt comfortable within an environment that he was able to control.

He could get away with almost anything with the public on his side.

But not now, for he lost their respect. Down came the aura of invincibility that had prevailed for so long. The prey is no longer the hunted, and more than ever now is on equal terms having become every bit the hunters.

Tiger is now nothing more than a cub wandering the wilderness of the long lonely fairways desperately seeking out the habitation of old needed to sate his insatiable appetite for acceptance as he searches earnestly for the one key ingredient in mental toughness that will once again set the raging fires of high performance alight with a searing intensity that no other can withstand.

It is a cold hard world out there. Just ask Tiger Woods, he’ll tell you. On second thoughts, nah, don’t bother, he proberly hasn’t learnt yet.

At least that is what you would surmise by his response when asked to comment on seventeen year old amateur Beau Hossler, who was leading after round one. All Woods had to do was conjure up some complementary remarks about a young up and comer, a few pleasantries, a smile and then move on with his day. Instead he responded by pointedly picking the kid to pieces. It smacked of a man sour with his lot, of someone lacking the confidence in his ability, desperately concerned about a competitor getting an edge. Not of a golfer that knew he had a seventeen year olds measure, not to mention the rest of the field.

To be sure, it was not a good look. Already, the public’s respect for him as a person had diminished to the point of non-existence. Certainly it wasn’t the way to win back a doubting public. There will be only one way to do that: win a major. Then they will forget.

Problem is Woods does not appear to have the confidence in himself that he used to possess. That protective cloak has been torn asunder. It is now ripped to a pulp and lying wastefully in the grisliest of bunkers as a new breed of golfers that do not fear the former great trample over the sediment of Tiger’s once proud golfing spirit.

Interesting to note over that torturous final two days was Woods choice of attire.

Gone were the loud colors of days gone by when he was busy obliterating opponents as he relentlessly marched on to a sensational fourteen major titles. Nowhere to be seen were the bright red shirts. Now, granted, this does not seem like a huge issue, but maybe it is indicative of a man that, at the very least, subconsciously, no longer has the confidence to go out and take the fight to the golfing world on his own terms.

It is almost as if he was trying to blend in. Surely not.

Whatever the problem was, the only thing in the red by the end of seventy-two holes was his scorecard.

In the end, despite there having been a myriad of reasons put forward for the demise of Woods over the last two days, maybe it comes down to something as simple as that lack of self-belief.

Until he rediscovers that inner confidence, his much desired fifteenth title will continue hiding out in the far flung reaches of the barren desert that is his major ambition.

This can only mean that a bear will go down in history as the greatest ever, not a tiger.