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David Coleman’s commentaries still make my hair stand on end David Coleman’s commentaries still make my hair stand on end
(about 2 hours later)
It was his economy of speech, Mike Ingham told me this week, that set David Coleman apart, remembering a long-ago commentary on an England goal scored from a Bobby Charlton corner-kick: “Bobby. Jack. One-nil.” That reminded both of us of another, more famous football haiku: “Pelé! What a save! Gordon Banks!” Coleman didn’t need 140 characters to tell the story.It was his economy of speech, Mike Ingham told me this week, that set David Coleman apart, remembering a long-ago commentary on an England goal scored from a Bobby Charlton corner-kick: “Bobby. Jack. One-nil.” That reminded both of us of another, more famous football haiku: “Pelé! What a save! Gordon Banks!” Coleman didn’t need 140 characters to tell the story.
Ingham had just completed the commentary on his last FA Cup final when we spoke. In a few weeks’ time, at the end of the World Cup, he will bow out after 23 years as the BBC’s chief football correspondent: only the third to hold the post, after Brian Moore and Bryon Butler, in the half-century since it was created. His calm, judicious approach will be much missed.Ingham had just completed the commentary on his last FA Cup final when we spoke. In a few weeks’ time, at the end of the World Cup, he will bow out after 23 years as the BBC’s chief football correspondent: only the third to hold the post, after Brian Moore and Bryon Butler, in the half-century since it was created. His calm, judicious approach will be much missed.
In radio terms, Peter Jones was Ingham’s early idol, but his admiration for Coleman, who moved from radio to television in the mid-50s, was considerable. “He got the hair standing on end,” he said.In radio terms, Peter Jones was Ingham’s early idol, but his admiration for Coleman, who moved from radio to television in the mid-50s, was considerable. “He got the hair standing on end,” he said.
It wasn’t just Coleman’s choice of words, or his gift for paring them to the bone, that made the impact. It was the sense of occasion imparted by his presence at the microphone. He rose to national prominence during a time when there was still very little live sport on television, and when the men who presented it to us – almost all men, in those days – became big figures in the nation’s front room. Coleman big enough to have a midweek show bearing his own name: Sportsnight with Coleman. He was so big that they sent him to cover the Beatles’ arrival at Heathrow after conquering America. It wasn’t just Coleman’s choice of words, or his gift for paring them to the bone, that made the impact. It was the sense of occasion imparted by his presence at the microphone. He rose to national prominence during a time when there was still very little live sport on television, and when the men who presented it to us – almost all men, in those days – became big figures in the nation’s front room. Coleman was big enough to have a midweek show bearing his own name: Sportsnight with Coleman. He was so big that they sent him to cover the Beatles’ arrival at Heathrow after conquering America.
He died last Christmas and this week the BBC remembered his contribution to their sports output with a memorial event attended by Daley Thompson, Linford Christie, David Hemery, Roger Black and many others, and addressed by his former colleagues, including John Motson and Sue Barker. That evening their words were edited into an hour-long BBC2 tribute to a man whose career formed a bridge between black and white and colour, the primitive technology of the teleprinter and the digital zoo of Soccer Saturday. He died last Christmas and this week the BBC remembered his contribution to its sports output with a memorial event attended by Daley Thompson, Linford Christie, David Hemery, Roger Black and many others, and addressed by his former colleagues, including John Motson and Sue Barker. That evening their words were edited into an hour-long BBC2 tribute to a man whose career formed a bridge between black and white and colour, the primitive technology of the teleprinter and the digital info-storm of Soccer Saturday.
A telling piece of footage showed him seated in an Olympic stadium press box – perhaps Sydney 2000 – with headphones on and a microphone clamped to his lips. On either side of him, similarly equipped, were Brendan Foster and Steve Cram, former heroes whose deeds he had described, and now converted into fellow commentators. In itself, that image spoke volumes about the way sports broadcasting has evolved, making room for ever greater numbers of retired sportsmen and women.A telling piece of footage showed him seated in an Olympic stadium press box – perhaps Sydney 2000 – with headphones on and a microphone clamped to his lips. On either side of him, similarly equipped, were Brendan Foster and Steve Cram, former heroes whose deeds he had described, and now converted into fellow commentators. In itself, that image spoke volumes about the way sports broadcasting has evolved, making room for ever greater numbers of retired sportsmen and women.
Foster had also spoken at the gathering earlier in the day. He remembered Coleman as an inspirational figure who told him that television commentary was the art of “learning to caption the picture – and then learning to shut up.” But when it came to the really big event, he emphasised, something extra was required. “Don’t say something that people might remember,” Coleman told him. “Say something they will never forget.” Foster had also spoken at the gathering earlier in the day. He remembered Coleman as an inspirational figure who told him that television commentary was the art of “learning to caption the picture – and then learning to shut up”. But when it came to the really big event, he emphasised, something extra was required. “Don’t say something that people might remember,” Coleman told him. “Say something they will never forget.”
The chances of that happening diminish pretty well every time another former athlete – whether a runner, a jumper, a footballer or a cricketer – is added to a commentary team. Retired heroes may provide technical insight – sometimes, as in the case of the justly celebrated Gary Neville, in impressive quantities – but more usually they do not. And the chance of them delivering the phrase that helps establish the event in the collective memory is remote. Generally speaking, the person most likely to do that is someone for whom words are to be constantly weighed and measured, refined and polished, and reserved for the proper moment.The chances of that happening diminish pretty well every time another former athlete – whether a runner, a jumper, a footballer or a cricketer – is added to a commentary team. Retired heroes may provide technical insight – sometimes, as in the case of the justly celebrated Gary Neville, in impressive quantities – but more usually they do not. And the chance of them delivering the phrase that helps establish the event in the collective memory is remote. Generally speaking, the person most likely to do that is someone for whom words are to be constantly weighed and measured, refined and polished, and reserved for the proper moment.
Not that professional broadcasters are beyond reproach. The voices of Coleman and others of his era, such as Moore, Motson and Barry Davies, were immediately recognisable. But who can differentiate between the Babel of voices heard every Saturday night on Match of the Day, seemingly none of them with anything interesting or original to say, all uttering their banalities with a hoarse urgency that is a pale echo of Coleman’s delivery?Not that professional broadcasters are beyond reproach. The voices of Coleman and others of his era, such as Moore, Motson and Barry Davies, were immediately recognisable. But who can differentiate between the Babel of voices heard every Saturday night on Match of the Day, seemingly none of them with anything interesting or original to say, all uttering their banalities with a hoarse urgency that is a pale echo of Coleman’s delivery?
So many commentators now see the opening stages of a match as an opportunity to recite the fruits of their research, talking across the action at a time when viewers are trying to get a fix on the individual players and identify emerging patterns of play. Their desire to inform may be praiseworthy, but they sound as if no one has ever delivered the vital piece of wisdom that Coleman passed on to Foster: the bit about captioning the picture and then shutting up. So many commentators now see the opening stages of a match as an opportunity to recite the fruits of their research, talking across the action at a time when viewers are trying to get a fix on the individual players and identify emerging patterns of play. Their desire to inform may be praiseworthy but they sound as if no one has ever delivered the vital piece of wisdom that Coleman passed on to Foster: the bit about captioning the picture and then shutting up.
Only the really great commentators possess the instinctive ability to share the viewer’s emotions. That may have been what Sir Paul Fox glimpsed when he first spotted Coleman’s talent and gave him a national audience. This week Fox spoke of “the energy and enthusiasm that never left him in 46 years of broadcasting … the deep love and knowledge of sport and the ability to bring it to viewers at home.” It was, he said, “more than a gift – [it was] a genius”. Only the really great commentators possess the instinctive ability to share the viewer’s emotions. That may have been what Sir Paul Fox glimpsed when he first spotted Coleman’s talent and gave him a national audience. This week Fox spoke of “the energy and enthusiasm that never left him in 46 years of broadcasting … the deep love and knowledge of sport and the ability to bring it to viewers at home”. It was, he said, “more than a gift – [it was] a genius”.
Not everyone would agree, because a love of Coleman’s style was not universal, although no one could argue with a level of professionalism that placed severe demands on his colleagues. “Someone once said his bark was worse than his bite,” Motson reflected. “Don’t you believe it.” If his sense of humour did not extend to the borrowing of his name for Private Eye’s fortnightly list of commentators’ gaffes, then that was the price of the pre-eminence he enjoyed for so long. Not everyone would agree, because a love of Coleman’s style was not universal, although no one could argue with a level of professionalism that placed severe demands on his colleagues. “Someone once said his bark was worse than his bite,” Motson reflected. “Don’t you believe it.” If his sense of humour did not extend to the borrowing of his name for Private Eye’s fortnightly list of commentators’ gaffes, then that was the price of the pre‑eminence he enjoyed for so long.
Motson also referred to a shrewd mention of Coleman and his producer, Bryan Cowgill, in the most recent volume of David Kynaston’s post-war history of the nation, Modernity Britain 1957-59. Kynaston suggests that by dispensing with the plummy urbanity of their predecessors, the new boys – Cowgill, a printer’s son from Clitheroe in Lancashire, and Coleman, a grammar school boy from Manchester – played a part in announcing the age of meritocracy. Motson also referred to a shrewd mention of Coleman and his producer, Bryan Cowgill, in the most recent volume of David Kynaston’s post‑war history of the nation, Modernity Britain 1957-59. Kynaston suggests that by dispensing with the plummy urbanity of their predecessors, the new boys – Cowgill, a printer’s son from Clitheroe in Lancashire, and Coleman, a grammar school boy from Manchester – played a part in announcing the age of meritocracy.
Many, however, will remember Coleman less for his role in societal change than for a single well-chosen phrase. For Ingham and others, it was one that became almost a signature: the brusquely emphatic “One-nil.” For Foster it was the once-only description spat out as the Olympic 800m final in Moscow neared its climax: “Steve Ovett, those blue eyes like chips of ice...” Had that been pre-cooked? What mattered was that it sounded spontaneous, new-minted. And that 34 years later, as Coleman’s voice rang around the BBC Radio Theatre, it could still get the hair standing on end. Many, however, will remember Coleman less for his role in societal change than for a single well-chosen phrase. For Ingham and others, it was one that became almost a signature: the brusquely emphatic “One-nil.” For Foster it was the once-only description spat out as the Olympic 800m final in Moscow neared its climax: “Steve Ovett, those blue eyes like chips of ice …” Had that been pre-cooked? What mattered was that it sounded spontaneous, new-minted. And that 34 years later, as Coleman’s voice rang around the BBC Radio Theatre, it could still get the hair standing on end.