Well it’s late, but I never said I was the Herald Sun Sports Desk, did I? Things are going to happen in the world of sport, important things, local things, and from time to time I’m going to forget to write about them.

So… a belated and somewhat shame-faced congratulations to the winners of the King Of Tonga pool comp, held last month. Juy won the singles, while the doubles comp was taken out by (a different) Justin, and Ben McGee. Your editors dipped out in the first round, probably due to not having had time to drink enough to meet the required standard of play…

Ben is now facing a black ban from the bar, as he also picked up the lollies at the KOT inaugural Poker Night last week, a somewhat shambolic affair (our designated Dealer/referee was uncontactable), we were forced to raise the blinds at alarming rates to knock people out, due to the fact that the landlord needed his room back and someone forgot to ban the players using mobile phones during the final round.

Apparently I did an okay job as stand-in dealer and coach, and might even be running the next one as well (although Big K will hopefully be back on deck by then so I can PLAY!) – check the Gig Guide for details.

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As I write this it’s Saturday afternoon, two days before deadline. Awaiting me this evening: Saints/Doggies on delay on Channel Ten, then the penultimate stage in Le Tour.

As you know, I’m one of the most organised men on the planet, so I have planned ahead for this wonderful night of sport. Lovely co-editor has a bottle of something nice and plenty of books to read, or, if she so desires, a leave pass to go sit somewhere else and complain about sport over a glass or seven of whatever. Now, sleep is going to be an issue, so I slept in til lunchtime, aided by a fair-to-middling hangover.

I’ll tip St Kilda tonight, despite the absence of Dawson and Kossie, and if I get a chance you’ll be reading my match report in a few paragraphs.

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Tonight’s stage in the Tour De France is a nasty one (see my column last month). There have been steeper individual climbs at various stages over the past three weeks, but there isn’t a stage so ugly and merciless as the ascent up Mont Ventoux. They start at Montelimar, at an elevation of 100m. They finish at the summit of this hideous slag-heap of a mountain, 167km later, at 1912m. The last 21km up Mont Ventoux itself sees them ascend nearly 1600m, giving an average slope of 9.5% . This, after the preceding 140km have seen three Cat3 climbs, a 4 and a 5. After 19 days of racing.

Drug cheats or not, lycra-clad princesses or not, these guys earn their money, and I cannot wait to watch this stage. The winner will be decided here, there is no doubt. Contador, currently wearing the Yellow Jersey, has confirmed his status as one of the world’s great climbers, and I can’t see even the Schleck brothers combining to knock him over tonight.

The Boss has shown us just how bloody good he still is, even at 37 years old, and despite all the rumours and sniping at Astana he’s done a sensational job, both as ostensible co-leader, and, with Alberto now in the Yellow, as an insanely strong team rider.

When you think Cadel Evans and Silence Lotto, the words “insanely strong team” don’t instantly spring to mind, at least not in that order. In fact, the word “team” seems a little out of place. There are dozens of examples by which you can assess the regard in which Cadel is held. One is Yaroslav Popovych’s effort this year, back riding his ring off in support of Armstrong at Astana, as opposed to last year, when he was supposed to be riding for Evans at Silence and did the exact opposite, pushing out on his own on one stage, leaving Evans high and dry, effectively ruining Evans’ race.

A couple more brief examples: team mate Jurgen van den Broeck was allowed to have a solo crack at Stage 16 while Evans foundered worse than mid-field. The earlier stage where Cadel joined a break-away (naturally none of his teammates came with him) and was told by the rest of the group, in no uncertain terms, to Just Fuck Off; without any of his own team there, he had no choice, and Just Fucked Off back to the peloton, where no doubt he was greeted with a lot of friendly sneering. Every attack he’s made has been brutally countered, and he hasn’t been able to stay with any other attackers. Every time he’s near the front of the peloton he’s about six wheels back, on the outside, cutting the wind; no team mate’s wheel to sit on, no support, no chance of even forming alliances with other teams just for the day to upset Astana or Saxo.

The team Time Trial was a disaster for Silence and Evans; their poor showing cost him yet more time on the Yellow, but just as importantly the decision not to wait for their fallen rider early on in the TT exposed, or at least exacerbated, tensions within the team itself: “if he’s not going to wait for me to hook back on this early in the TT, why the fuck should I bust a gut supporting him for the next fortnight?” He’s a climber, and finishing in the grupetto (on mountain stages, the sprinters and other non-climbers stick together at the back to try and drag each other through inside the cut-off time) showed just how out-of-sorts, physically and mentally, he is.

Cadel tells us he’s been a bit ill, describing the no doubt joyful experience of spitting up half a litre of phlegm, and if you watch his post-race interviews in chronological order, or just check the daily rankings, his Tour’s been getting worse and worse every day. He’s alluded to politics within the team, which is no doubt a reference to trying to lead a Belgian team that contains some very good Belgians who want their own day in the sun, and, when asked last night if he’d be with Silence for next year’s Tour, he replied with a shrug of the shoulders and a “Meh”, and stalked off to the showers, alone.

He’s in a bit of a spot, young Cadel. It’s a toss-up whether he’s less committed to Silence-Lotto than Silence-Lotto is committed to him and he’s shown himself to be not particularly well-liked by riders from other teams. Speaking of other teams, it’s hard to see any of the top five or six outfits dropping anyone to take him on. Astana certainly aren’t short of potential GC winners, Columbia are happy winning stages with the terrifyingly fast (but admittedly one-dimensional) Cavendish, Caisse D’Epagne is full of Spanish mountain-goats as is Euskatel, the list goes on.

Most teams have plenty of young up-and-comers who are worth hanging onto and nurturing, rather than blowing the bank on the off-chance of a big win with a 32 year old rider who, it could be argued, has shown himself to be unpopular, petulant, a whinger, and, more importantly, unable to inspire others to burn any energy to support him.

Cycling is unique among team sports, in that it requires at least half the team to willingly push themselves beyond breaking point, even drop out of the whole race through exhaustion, in order to propel their leader to the front and keep him there.

Evans is a good rider, but he’s never going to inspire the dedication and self-sacrifice among others that is needed for a good rider to become a great rider.

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Mick Malthouse can relax for the next couple of years, now that Bucks has been appointed assistant coach. Poor Nathan won’t have a chance to do anything much that will outshine his boss, what with having Eddie stuck to his leg the whole time.

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I’ve been reading a few back issues of the Trib lately, and I think I owe my regular readers an apology. My love of Le Tour and Las St Kilda Magnificas appears to have overtaken me somewhat in recent months, and I guess that can get a bit much if you don’t share my passions. I mean, look at this column, will ya? An attempt at serious sports journalism on a major international event, but more importantly not ONE mention of Demetriou!

I Promise, from the September Issue (ooh, goody, the Grand Final!!!) onwards, normal transmission will resume, and you will once again be regaled with stream-of-consciousness burbles, random shouting, and slanderous asides. Truly.

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Sunday morning update (1): St Kilda won, again. Footscray were the last real hurdle facing the Saints this season, and they were dragged through the dirt, forced to play the game on St Kilda’s terms, pressured out of almost every attack, and it’s still The Saints to annihilate Geelong in the Grand Final. Montagna or Goddard for the Brownlow.

Sunday morning update (2): Contador is a deserving winner, Armstrong can win next year when he brings his own team in, the Schleck brothers will be a force with which to reckon for years to come. Cadel finished about 30th overall and I hope I can get my sleeping patterns back to normal now.

Sunday morning update (3): Demetriou is still a bell-end.

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