Oh my Lord, what next. I mean really.

In London last month, there were shocking revelations, or at least accusations, that the FIFA World Cup bidding process was a little bit corrupt, perhaps. Now it appears that FIFA Vice President Mohamed Bin Hammam may have perhaps been trying to buy votes in his bid to replace Sepp Blatter. Bin Hammam has withdrawn from the election, citing “conspiracy” and “baseless accusations”, leaving Blatter to run unopposed even as he faces the FIFA Ethics Committee.

Now that’s a hearing I’d love to sit in on; given that the Committee has been unable to find any corruption ever in an organisation that does things that would make the IOC blush, and is now attempting to investigate its own President.

Of note is that the initial complaints were made under Parliamentary privilege, because not even a sovereign nation the size of the UK could hope to fund the defence of a defamation case brought Sepp and his boys.

Also of note is the outrage and disappointment voiced by various politicians and administrators at these somehow stunning allegations. Who could have possibly thought that a multi-billion dollar organisation which spans the globe and involves Italy and Africa could have been anything other than completely above-board and ethical and run by a collection of blokes with nothing other than the interests of the game, the people and the kittens of the world at heart?

It’s not as if Melbourne’s bid for the Olympics taught us anything, is it? It’s not as if Australia’s World Cup bid sucking $46 million of our money from Treasury for “lobbying” and production of the world’s worst promotional video gave us a hint that there were possibly dark forces at play, is it?

I wish Senator Xenophon the best of luck in his attempts to get our money back, I really do.

* * *

Speaking of money...

The way sports betting has become such a part of sports broadcasting in so short a time is just revolting. Updates on the odds are given as if they’re just another stat, and presented with such gravitas that they’re almost a part of the commentary.

It was maddening enough having Tony Greig et al endlessly spruiking their latest piece of shit “limited edition” rip off, or Richie Benaud gritting his teeth and reading out ads for Two And A Half Men. Now they cross several times a session to one of their sponsors, who gives the odds for the “exotics”, such as No Balls, next wicket to fall etc.

Ignoring the fact that it’s just bloody annoying and distracting, there are two very bad things about this. One, it makes gambling part of the sport, and will entice more and more, probably younger, fans to start betting online. This is dangerous.

Two, the number of exotic bets is simply mindboggling, and when they’re simple things that won’t actually affect the outcome, the possibility is there for players, coaches, trainers or whoever to be approached and give certain information, or play in different positions, or handball when they should kick or any one of a million other things.

Thankfully the Council Of Australian Governments has got together and said “Enough”. All sporting codes and the TV networks have twelve months (to allow existing contracts to expire) to stop this shit, or they will legislate. Maybe.

Of course, you have to remember that there is fuckloads of money involved in gambling (witness Clubs Australia’s vile campaign). Witness also that NSW ALP grub Karl Bitar now works for Crown, because somehow the vile little man has influence and connections in the party, and will work to ensure Crown’s special treatment continues.

So the next twelve months will involve intense lobbying and threats against Federal and State governments, and if any of them still has the balls to legislate by the time their deadline passes, I’ll buy Gail Dines’ book, and read it to Catherine Deveny over a vegan dinner one night.

* * *

I was at the MCG the day Nicky Winmar lost his mind and started swinging punches at the team-mates who loved him and were dragging him off the field for his own good.

I was there the day Robert Harvey, one of the bravest and truest men ever to lace on a boot, played his last and left football after eighteen years without a flag.

And I watched the Giro D’Italia after Leopard Trek cyclist, Belgian Wouter Weylandt, had died in a crash the day before.

There are a million unkind things you can say about pro cycling. For many years it was effectively a testing laboratory for performance-enhancing drugs, the quest for survival for so many riders and teams meaning that the sport will always and ever be a synonym for drug-cheating.

But it remains, in its own strange way, one of the last bastions of sportsmanship.

If the leader in a Tour gets a puncture or gear failure, or crashes thanks to some idiot spectator’s shopping bag getting caught in his handlebars, as happened to Lance Armstrong a few years ago, the rest of the group slow down and let him catch up.

They may have spent the past week trying to wear him out by sending domestique after domestique against him and his support riders in near-suicidal attacks, and they may bad-mouth him in interviews at day’s end and they may spend the day riding alongside, telling him how good his mother is in bed, but they will not take advantage of simple misadventure. They want to beat him, but beat him fairly.

Cycling is brutal; the Tour de France is three and a half thousand kilometres of racing, much of it almost straight up, over three weeks. Many riders will not finish, and most will crash at some stage; Cadel Evans broke his elbow last year and didn’t tell his team mates until he’d tried to ride through the pain for an entire day.

I’ve seen riders with their lycras in tatters, elbows and knees turning eleven shades of ugly from bruising, going faster up a hill than I can manage going round the lake on my way to work.

Whether they’re on drugs or not they deserve our admiration for what they put themselves through, and for the way they carry themselves.

When Weylandt died, management left the decision to continue or not up to his team-mates. The riders could not go on racing, and would thus forego their earnings for the rest of the Giro, but they would honour their friend before they went home.

All the other teams and riders announced they would not be competing the next day; times and points would not count, despite the huge money involved, and the earning potential of “Giro Stage Winner” being next to their names.

This day’s ride would belong to Weylandt’s team-mates and his memory.

The entire peloton held back for the last kilometre and let Leopard Trek cross the line as one. They invited his friend and training partner, Tyler Farrar of Garmin-Cervelo, to join them, and the nine riders finished the stage arm in arm, most of them in tears., as I was.

Next time you’re watching a batsman waiting for the replay to confirm that he’s out when he knows he is, next time a footballer dives to milk a free kick, next time a tennis player hurls a racquet, think about those nine young men, united in grief and dignity, and the hundred and eighty other riders hanging back to give them their moment, unconcerned about the money or the points.

Look at that photo, and think about sportsmanship and how, even though it has disappeared almost entirely, it survives in unusual places.

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