Countdown to the cup

It is unfair to ask sportsmen to make a political decision but somewhere, sometime, they are required to stand up and be counted when the powers that be pass the buck. Zimbabwe, right now, is such a place.

It is unfair to ask sportsmen to make a political decision but somewhere, sometime, they are required to stand up and be counted when the powers that be pass the buck. Zimbabwe, right now, is such a place.

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Expecting sportspeople to take a political stance is akin to asking a spaniel to talk Spanish. As was reaffirmed when Tiger Woods, the planet's best-known and most fire-proof competitive artist, declined to boycott the US Masters over the Augusta Golf Club's insistence on a male-only clientele. An unfair demand? Probably. Unrealistic? Most assuredly.

Hence one's shock at a statement earlier this week attributed to one of Zimbabwe's leading cricketers. "I used to be one for keeping sport and politics separate but maybe it's time to take a stand," he said. "If the political side doesn't work then sport should try and sort out the problems."

It was as unexpected as it was refreshing, not unlike Al Pacino's Vatican confession in The Godfather III — even if it was made on strict condition that the player's identity was not revealed. Such sentiments come at a time when cricket is asking itself a number of awkward questions, all of which boil down to one undodgeable dilemma: should it offer succour to President Robert Mugabe's loathsome autocracy by persisting with the World Cup fixtures scheduled for Zimbabwe in February and March? As confusion, indecision and rank hypocrisy swirl about, notably in Britain and Australia, a familiar explanation springs to mind: Whenever sport and politics collide, idiocy abounds.

What, then, of the ICC? To cancel now would require the consent of seven of the 10 full members: badgered by government, only England and Australia — and possibly New Zealand — appear to be of that persuasion. At the same time, it is easy to understand why, in the interests of solidarity and historical restitution, others turn a blind eye to a black African's concept of fair play and justice. While reports of foreign journalists being barred, jailed and even killed are not uncommon, a recent ICC fact-finding mission deemed itself satisfied that security would be up to scratch. David Graveney, the ECB’s chairman of selectors, urged the Board to peer beyond the end of their noses: a bit rich coming from a fellow who played a role in Mike Gatting's 1989 sanctions-busting tour of South Africa.

That said, the ICC delegation flew home before disruptions were threatened by the Movement for Democratic Change. Mugabe's faith in his ability to maintain order must be supreme. Imagine the face he would lose if viewers saw his boys beating up dissidents on Sky Sports. All the same, Whitehall's chief concern — if not necessarily Canberra's — is not security.

Hussain feels he and his colleagues have enough to cope with trying to score runs and take wickets: why should they be expected to make decisions? Forgivably, he and the ECB passed the scalding potato to Prime Minister Tony Blair, who duly tossed it back. Blair had painted himself into a corner. Having left businessmen to their own devices and consciences, how could he order sportsmen to desist from going to Zimbabwe?

That, though, seems to be precisely what he and his underlings are now trying to do, however subtly. Government ministers are due to meet ECB officials with the aim, apparently, of persuading them to abort the fixture, even though this will result in a million-pound ICC fine. The cause seems plain. Blair has shilly-shallied over Zimbabwe; here is a convenient chance to look tough and act tough. Still, he might recall how Maggie Thatcher's call for her runners and jumpers to boycott the 1980 Moscow Olympics fell on stony ears.

One reason the World Cup was awarded to southern Africa, and why England played in Harare and Bulawayo in 2001, was to replenish the Zimbabwe Cricket Union's sparsely-occupied coffers. Yet the Zimbabwe players, to their credit, appear less willing to put pockets first than one might suspect of men whose livelihoods would be adversely affected by a boycott.

Bulawayo and Harare have both tasted food riots in the past week. People are distressed by shortages, inflation at 175 per cent and unemployment at more than 60 per cent. "You've got more than six million people starving," contended one of those who dared express a negative view. “There's no fuel and basic commodities have run out; half a million people are displaced. It's a question of morality.”

Indeed it is. “No normal sport in an abnormal society” rang the mantra within and without South Africa during apartheid, the indefensible regime that the sports boycott of the 70s and 80s helped extinguish. The only meaningful difference here is that Zimbabwe does not share its neighbour's passion for rugby and cricket. Some contend that the two cases are different. After all, South Africa's leaders decreed, not only who could represent the Republic on the field, but who could oppose it. Neither Mugabe nor the ZCU makes such stipulations, but that is beside the point. Theirs is still an abnormal society.

Once in a while, sportspeople confound our cynical expectations, eschew the Tiger Woods philosophy and raise their heads from the sand. If ours was a more reasonable planet, they would have no need to set an example; but it isn't, they can, and sometimes, just sometimes, they do.

If Sean Penn, the American film actor and director, can be moved to visit Iraq and plead against an invasion by his own forces, why, as their nation's most visible representatives, as ambassadors, should sporting teams not grab the opportunity to shame governments? If nothing else, they owe it to Jesse Owens, Jackie Robinson, Muhammad Ali, Tommie Smith and every other athlete valiant enough to let their humanity do the talking.

(The author is cricket correspondent of the Financial Times, London. He will be covering the World Cup but will not be travelling to Harare)