'The Joy of Six: Roger Federer to Phil Tufnell – ponytailed sportsmen' diff viewer (0/1)

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~~The Joy of Six: Roger Federer to Phil Tufnell - ponytailed sportsmen~~	The Joy of Six: Roger Federer to Phil Tufnell – ponytailed sportsmen
2014-07-25 13:05:22 UTC	2014-07-25 21:45:57 UTC (about 9 hours later)
1. Roger Federer	1. Roger Federer
The mid-90s were a peculiar time: happy hardcore, Happy Gilmore and happy people. But even amongst all that, there was nothing more peculiar than men's hair.	The mid-90s were a peculiar time: happy hardcore, Happy Gilmore and happy people. But even amongst all that, there was nothing more peculiar than men's hair.
Around the start of the decade had arrived the step, a do that involved trimming the locks populating the top half of the head and shaving those on the bottom – with varying severity, but typically, the graduation was in inverse proportion to hardness. Roughly, those involved fell into one of two pre-teen categories: those making their first solo trip to the barber, and those whose parents had no idea that they were old – what, in north London, at least, was known as a Beck or a Speedway Mum.	Around the start of the decade had arrived the step, a do that involved trimming the locks populating the top half of the head and shaving those on the bottom – with varying severity, but typically, the graduation was in inverse proportion to hardness. Roughly, those involved fell into one of two pre-teen categories: those making their first solo trip to the barber, and those whose parents had no idea that they were old – what, in north London, at least, was known as a Beck or a Speedway Mum.
As you'd expect in this wonderfully post-post-post ironic word, the style has since made a comeback, so too its firstborn son, the wedge, in which the length aborted just prior to a bald nape. The tramline, on the other hand, which featured a thin, shaved portion of head running from ear to ear, suffered from second child syndrome, mainly neglected before disappearing in a sulk.	As you'd expect in this wonderfully post-post-post ironic word, the style has since made a comeback, so too its firstborn son, the wedge, in which the length aborted just prior to a bald nape. The tramline, on the other hand, which featured a thin, shaved portion of head running from ear to ear, suffered from second child syndrome, mainly neglected before disappearing in a sulk.
But the family's Joseph, its undisputed golden child, is the undercut. Copying the curtains that were a step staple, but not essential, the floppy, straightened, generally centrally-parted fringe was lifted, the underneath then shaved. And if this was not sufficiently terrible, which it was, on days when morning pursuits other than grooming were prioritised, the long bits were schlepped taut across the top of the head , gathered midway down its back, and held in place with what teenage boys felt no shame in calling a scrunchy.	But the family's Joseph, its undisputed golden child, is the undercut. Copying the curtains that were a step staple, but not essential, the floppy, straightened, generally centrally-parted fringe was lifted, the underneath then shaved. And if this was not sufficiently terrible, which it was, on days when morning pursuits other than grooming were prioritised, the long bits were schlepped taut across the top of the head , gathered midway down its back, and held in place with what teenage boys felt no shame in calling a scrunchy.
All of which makes for a curious introduction to an entry about the great Roger Federer – but, well, like all of us, he has only himself to blame, even if it was not all his fault. Strangely, mid-90s hair trends were slow to permeate the fashion mecca of Switzerland – unless, of course, they were simply ascribed an anonymous number – and in pre-internet days, information was harder to come by. So it was that when Federer first entered into the public consciousness in the summer of 2001, reaching the French Open quarter-final before beating Pete Sampras at Wimbledon, he sported a ponytail and undercut – albeit one that reflected very poorly upon his playground menace.	All of which makes for a curious introduction to an entry about the great Roger Federer – but, well, like all of us, he has only himself to blame, even if it was not all his fault. Strangely, mid-90s hair trends were slow to permeate the fashion mecca of Switzerland – unless, of course, they were simply ascribed an anonymous number – and in pre-internet days, information was harder to come by. So it was that when Federer first entered into the public consciousness in the summer of 2001, reaching the French Open quarter-final before beating Pete Sampras at Wimbledon, he sported a ponytail and undercut – albeit one that reflected very poorly upon his playground menace.
During the next two years he improved, winning a few tournaments, losing in a few more finals, growing out his hair – but only the shorter bits, the remainder remaining the same. Unlike Andre Agassi, karmically retributed with male pattern baldness for previous crimes against coiffure, his hair was not long enough to poke out the back of a cap. This forced him to continue competing in ponytail, dribbling off the back of his head and over his neck – a small price to pay for the dazzling pageboy cut he wore the rest of the time.	During the next two years he improved, winning a few tournaments, losing in a few more finals, growing out his hair – but only the shorter bits, the remainder remaining the same. Unlike Andre Agassi, karmically retributed with male pattern baldness for previous crimes against coiffure, his hair was not long enough to poke out the back of a cap. This forced him to continue competing in ponytail, dribbling off the back of his head and over his neck – a small price to pay for the dazzling pageboy cut he wore the rest of the time.
Then, at Wimbledon in 2003, he dropped just one set en route to the semi-final, where, following a tight opener won on a tie-break, he dematerialised Andy Roddick. And in the final, an identical fate befell Mark Philippoussis, destroyed by some of the finest tennis ever seen.	Then, at Wimbledon in 2003, he dropped just one set en route to the semi-final, where, following a tight opener won on a tie-break, he dematerialised Andy Roddick. And in the final, an identical fate befell Mark Philippoussis, destroyed by some of the finest tennis ever seen.
Some of the finest tennis ever seen soon became not some of the finest tennis ever seen, because Federer made it so; he won the next four Wimbledons, a year later took the first of five in a row at Flushing Meadows, and also nabbed three of the next four Australian Opens. This unprecedented, unforeseeable run was possible because Federer is the best player ever to play tennis, different from anyone ever to play tennis, but at the same time, an amalgam of the best of the best of the rest. Roughly, he combined the calmness and touch and of Stefan Edberg with the wit of John McEnroe, the competitive courage of Jimmy Connors, and as potent, reliable a serve as Sampras –to which were added blazing groundstrokes that mind of no one but him.	Some of the finest tennis ever seen soon became not some of the finest tennis ever seen, because Federer made it so; he won the next four Wimbledons, a year later took the first of five in a row at Flushing Meadows, and also nabbed three of the next four Australian Opens. This unprecedented, unforeseeable run was possible because Federer is the best player ever to play tennis, different from anyone ever to play tennis, but at the same time, an amalgam of the best of the best of the rest. Roughly, he combined the calmness and touch and of Stefan Edberg with the wit of John McEnroe, the competitive courage of Jimmy Connors, and as potent, reliable a serve as Sampras –to which were added blazing groundstrokes that mind of no one but him.
But to define Federer according to others is to miss the point of his genius. If sport is how man defines and redefines the capacity of body, mind and soul, never has there been a more harmonious, rhapsodic coalescence. To watch Roger Federer at his peak was a sensuous, moving, existential experience about much more than tennis, a study in perfection. Because he was not just the best at a sport, but amongst the best ever at anything, compelling not just for those interested in what he did, but for anyone interested in humanity; you don't need to like architecture to enjoy the Taj Mahal, nor understand chemistry to appreciate being high.	But to define Federer according to others is to miss the point of his genius. If sport is how man defines and redefines the capacity of body, mind and soul, never has there been a more harmonious, rhapsodic coalescence. To watch Roger Federer at his peak was a sensuous, moving, existential experience about much more than tennis, a study in perfection. Because he was not just the best at a sport, but amongst the best ever at anything, compelling not just for those interested in what he did, but for anyone interested in humanity; you don't need to like architecture to enjoy the Taj Mahal, nor understand chemistry to appreciate being high.
And amongst all of this was a ponytail – silly, yes, but given the monogrammed monomania than succeeded it, perhaps not that silly after all. DH	And amongst all of this was a ponytail – silly, yes, but given the monogrammed monomania than succeeded it, perhaps not that silly after all. DH
2. Roberto Baggio	2. Roberto Baggio
The thing about the ponytail is it has never really been in fashion in the normal world, and thus has only sporadically penetrated the realm of that most slavish group of trend-chasers, the footballer. Today you will see many professionals strutting around with a do that resembles a slightly flamboyant World War One tommy, harshly shaved up the sides and with a mop of varying shades of silly atop their bonce.	The thing about the ponytail is it has never really been in fashion in the normal world, and thus has only sporadically penetrated the realm of that most slavish group of trend-chasers, the footballer. Today you will see many professionals strutting around with a do that resembles a slightly flamboyant World War One tommy, harshly shaved up the sides and with a mop of varying shades of silly atop their bonce.
Not the ponytail though. There have of course been some notable exponents of the hairstyle that style forgot, from Darren Peacock, who looked like he belonged behind the bar of a heavy metal pub wearing a denim jacket held together with Megadeath and W.A.S.P patches, to Brian Kilcline, who just followed his own rules and you damn well let him for fear that he'd rip your arms off if you objected. Tragically, Martín Demichelis lopped his off before the World Cup, ensuring that ponytail will no longer drive these Manchester City fans wild, and then there's Andy Carroll, who when he scrapes his hair back from its usual wild, free and flowing arrangement looks like he's physically being restrained, the bobble almost acting as a way of very literally holding back the worst excesses of his physicality. The 'hair as metaphor for personality and playing style' very much works with wild man Carroll.	Not the ponytail though. There have of course been some notable exponents of the hairstyle that style forgot, from Darren Peacock, who looked like he belonged behind the bar of a heavy metal pub wearing a denim jacket held together with Megadeath and W.A.S.P patches, to Brian Kilcline, who just followed his own rules and you damn well let him for fear that he'd rip your arms off if you objected. Tragically, Martín Demichelis lopped his off before the World Cup, ensuring that ponytail will no longer drive these Manchester City fans wild, and then there's Andy Carroll, who when he scrapes his hair back from its usual wild, free and flowing arrangement looks like he's physically being restrained, the bobble almost acting as a way of very literally holding back the worst excesses of his physicality. The 'hair as metaphor for personality and playing style' very much works with wild man Carroll.
And so it does, or at least did, for Roberto Baggio. In some ways Baggio was the great lost talent of a generation, a brilliant youngster who shone on occasions for his country, but never really reached his full potential and enjoyed his best years at club level for, with due respect to Bologna and Brescia, the lesser lights of Serie A. His career was not just hampered by injury, but by cruelly-timed injury, most notably the five months spent out in 1994/95, when Marcelo Lippi compensated for his absence by giving a young Alessandro del Piero a go in the first team.	And so it does, or at least did, for Roberto Baggio. In some ways Baggio was the great lost talent of a generation, a brilliant youngster who shone on occasions for his country, but never really reached his full potential and enjoyed his best years at club level for, with due respect to Bologna and Brescia, the lesser lights of Serie A. His career was not just hampered by injury, but by cruelly-timed injury, most notably the five months spent out in 1994/95, when Marcelo Lippi compensated for his absence by giving a young Alessandro del Piero a go in the first team.
Of course, the time most remember him for was the 1994 World Cup, when after a slow start for both their No10* and Italy, Baggio dragged his team to the final in a manner to rival Diego Maradona in 1986, scoring both in the last 16 game against Nigeria, the winner against Spain in the quarter-final and both in the semi against Bulgaria. That he missed the crucial spot-kick in the penalty shoot-out in the final means that tournament basically summed up his entire career: incredibly good, but in the end not quite as good as it could have been.	Of course, the time most remember him for was the 1994 World Cup, when after a slow start for both their No10* and Italy, Baggio dragged his team to the final in a manner to rival Diego Maradona in 1986, scoring both in the last 16 game against Nigeria, the winner against Spain in the quarter-final and both in the semi against Bulgaria. That he missed the crucial spot-kick in the penalty shoot-out in the final means that tournament basically summed up his entire career: incredibly good, but in the end not quite as good as it could have been.
But Baggio was almost defined as much by his coiffure as he was by either brilliance or heart-breaking failure, as proven by the nickname that he carried throughout that World Cup, and beyond. Not many professional sportsmen are specifically know for and by their hair, but Il Divino Codino was, his grooming habits governing his nickname as much as his talent did. Baggio's ponytail was different to the rest, not a mere practical necessity, keeping an excess of hair from his eyes, but a very deliberate choice, the do looking from the front like a standard short back and sides, but from behind sprouting and breaking free, unexpectedly, like one of his explosive slaloming runs. One assumes it was this that helped catch the eye of Madonna, who voted Baggio as the sexiest player at the 1994 World Cup, that tournament tragically coming three years too late for Baggio to make a cameo in the film In Bed With Madonna.	But Baggio was almost defined as much by his coiffure as he was by either brilliance or heart-breaking failure, as proven by the nickname that he carried throughout that World Cup, and beyond. Not many professional sportsmen are specifically know for and by their hair, but Il Divino Codino was, his grooming habits governing his nickname as much as his talent did. Baggio's ponytail was different to the rest, not a mere practical necessity, keeping an excess of hair from his eyes, but a very deliberate choice, the do looking from the front like a standard short back and sides, but from behind sprouting and breaking free, unexpectedly, like one of his explosive slaloming runs. One assumes it was this that helped catch the eye of Madonna, who voted Baggio as the sexiest player at the 1994 World Cup, that tournament tragically coming three years too late for Baggio to make a cameo in the film In Bed With Madonna.
There have, of course, been maverick hairstyles in the realm of professional sport, but Baggio's was one that summed him up rather nicely. He was a footballer who always carried a sense of 'the other', an unusual athlete who combined brilliant talent with a keen interest in Buddhism, one who virtually disappeared from the public eye after retirement in favour of hunting wild boar in Argentina. Baggio wasn't your average player, and he didn't have your average topiary.	There have, of course, been maverick hairstyles in the realm of professional sport, but Baggio's was one that summed him up rather nicely. He was a footballer who always carried a sense of 'the other', an unusual athlete who combined brilliant talent with a keen interest in Buddhism, one who virtually disappeared from the public eye after retirement in favour of hunting wild boar in Argentina. Baggio wasn't your average player, and he didn't have your average topiary.
* As an aside, Brendan Rodgers clearly wasn't the pioneer of the position-based management speak nonsense, if Michel Platini's assessment of Baggio is anything to go by. "Baggio is neither a typical No9, nor a typical No10," he once said. "He's more of a No9 and a half." NM	* As an aside, Brendan Rodgers clearly wasn't the pioneer of the position-based management speak nonsense, if Michel Platini's assessment of Baggio is anything to go by. "Baggio is neither a typical No9, nor a typical No10," he once said. "He's more of a No9 and a half." NM
3. Peter Ebdon	3. Peter Ebdon
Snooker, while carrying with it the somnolent pleasure of watching a game unfold gently before your eyes, is not a sport that is a particular hive of mavericks. There have, of course, been those who break from the norm and so forth, but they are generally welcomed with some suspicion and no little surprise. All it takes is a slightly unusual choice of waistcoat for someone to be deemed a 'character', with Willie Thorne and Dennis Taylor gently wiping a tear of mirth from the corner of their eye as another bout of 'wackiness' (read: Mark 'The Jester From Leicester' Selby indulging in some light banter with referee Jan Verhaas) unfolds before their incredulous eyes.	Snooker, while carrying with it the somnolent pleasure of watching a game unfold gently before your eyes, is not a sport that is a particular hive of mavericks. There have, of course, been those who break from the norm and so forth, but they are generally welcomed with some suspicion and no little surprise. All it takes is a slightly unusual choice of waistcoat for someone to be deemed a 'character', with Willie Thorne and Dennis Taylor gently wiping a tear of mirth from the corner of their eye as another bout of 'wackiness' (read: Mark 'The Jester From Leicester' Selby indulging in some light banter with referee Jan Verhaas) unfolds before their incredulous eyes.
You can therefore imagine the ripples of shock that fairly tore through the sport when Peter Ebdon strode into town in the early nineties, his long hair tied behind his head in a manner that caused mumbles aplenty in the quietened halls of The Crucible. Snooker has of course enjoyed its share of curious haircuts, from the voluminous look favoured by Jimmy White before the ravages of time meant a trip to Advanced Hair Studio was required, to fierce mullet of Stephen Hendry's early days, to the Alice bands of Paul Hunter and Ronnie O'Sullivan. But a ponytail? Good lord, not a ponytail.	You can therefore imagine the ripples of shock that fairly tore through the sport when Peter Ebdon strode into town in the early nineties, his long hair tied behind his head in a manner that caused mumbles aplenty in the quietened halls of The Crucible. Snooker has of course enjoyed its share of curious haircuts, from the voluminous look favoured by Jimmy White before the ravages of time meant a trip to Advanced Hair Studio was required, to fierce mullet of Stephen Hendry's early days, to the Alice bands of Paul Hunter and Ronnie O'Sullivan. But a ponytail? Good lord, not a ponytail.
Indeed, the long hair, combined with him occasionally shouting a bit, was more than enough for Ebdon to be dubbed the 'bad boy of snooker', but the odd thing about Ebdon was that, merely going on his style of play, he was about as far from a 'bad boy' as it's possible to be. If a ponytail suggests some degree of flamboyance about a man, it might therefore follow that they go about their chosen profession with similar élan, but not Ebdon. While he was perhaps a little more fluent in his early years, Ebdon's career has been defined by a style of play that might most kindly be described as 'attritional', but by most others as bloody boring, seemingly on a mission to win in the most joyless way possible.	Indeed, the long hair, combined with him occasionally shouting a bit, was more than enough for Ebdon to be dubbed the 'bad boy of snooker', but the odd thing about Ebdon was that, merely going on his style of play, he was about as far from a 'bad boy' as it's possible to be. If a ponytail suggests some degree of flamboyance about a man, it might therefore follow that they go about their chosen profession with similar élan, but not Ebdon. While he was perhaps a little more fluent in his early years, Ebdon's career has been defined by a style of play that might most kindly be described as 'attritional', but by most others as bloody boring, seemingly on a mission to win in the most joyless way possible.
Ebdon seems to be a man who revels in annoying people, or at least in doing the unexpected – you can imagine him waking every morning and chanting Albert Finney's line from 'Saturday Night, Sunday Morning' into the mirror, solemnly repeating 'Whatever people say I am, that's what I'm not' over and over. Perhaps his turgid approach to the game is defined by some of the criticism in those early, ponytailed years. "Some unkind people have said I am a showman who couldn't play the game," he said back in 1993, shortly after lopping the ponytail off, which he said was a choice, but a quick examination of his hairline suggests it was more from necessity. "I am making those people eat their words all the time and that's one of my great motivations."	Ebdon seems to be a man who revels in annoying people, or at least in doing the unexpected – you can imagine him waking every morning and chanting Albert Finney's line from 'Saturday Night, Sunday Morning' into the mirror, solemnly repeating 'Whatever people say I am, that's what I'm not' over and over. Perhaps his turgid approach to the game is defined by some of the criticism in those early, ponytailed years. "Some unkind people have said I am a showman who couldn't play the game," he said back in 1993, shortly after lopping the ponytail off, which he said was a choice, but a quick examination of his hairline suggests it was more from necessity. "I am making those people eat their words all the time and that's one of my great motivations."
Even if his main motivation was to irk people, you have to admire the approach of someone like Ebdon. He is, after all, the man who once sagely noted that he "had Lexus, Mercedes, Honda, top-of-the-range motors, and by far, the Skoda had the best windscreen-wipers of them all." He is the man who often earnestly filled the 'fun' bits in the BBC's World Championships coverage by strumming David Gray-esque numbers on his acoustic guitar, and once recorded a cover of David Cassidy's seminal 1973 smash 'I'm A Clown'. He was and is resolutely uncool, but always carried that slightly odd attitude of ostentatiously making it very clear that he didn't care what anyone thought of him, which of course revealed that he very much did care what everyone thought of him. To wit, the ponytail, and its subsequent removal. NM	Even if his main motivation was to irk people, you have to admire the approach of someone like Ebdon. He is, after all, the man who once sagely noted that he "had Lexus, Mercedes, Honda, top-of-the-range motors, and by far, the Skoda had the best windscreen-wipers of them all." He is the man who often earnestly filled the 'fun' bits in the BBC's World Championships coverage by strumming David Gray-esque numbers on his acoustic guitar, and once recorded a cover of David Cassidy's seminal 1973 smash 'I'm A Clown'. He was and is resolutely uncool, but always carried that slightly odd attitude of ostentatiously making it very clear that he didn't care what anyone thought of him, which of course revealed that he very much did care what everyone thought of him. To wit, the ponytail, and its subsequent removal. NM
4. David Seaman	4. David Seaman
Goalkeepers are generally believed to fit one of two personalities: weirdo or nutter. But David Seaman is an outlier, a nice bloke reduced to quite literally appalling lengths to fit in. Unfortunately, no one taught him that, while a haircut – or a red and black lumberjack, with a hat to match – can reflect notoriety, it cannot construct, comprise or augment.	Goalkeepers are generally believed to fit one of two personalities: weirdo or nutter. But David Seaman is an outlier, a nice bloke reduced to quite literally appalling lengths to fit in. Unfortunately, no one taught him that, while a haircut – or a red and black lumberjack, with a hat to match – can reflect notoriety, it cannot construct, comprise or augment.
Seaman's goalkeeping was largely predicated on unspectacular but superior competence, the given line that he made relatively few memorable saves on account of exceptional positioning. And there was plenty of truth in this, likewise in the fact that he played a large chunk of his career for George Graham's Arsenal, the relevant back-four still there to protect him even when Arsène Wenger arrived.	Seaman's goalkeeping was largely predicated on unspectacular but superior competence, the given line that he made relatively few memorable saves on account of exceptional positioning. And there was plenty of truth in this, likewise in the fact that he played a large chunk of his career for George Graham's Arsenal, the relevant back-four still there to protect him even when Arsène Wenger arrived.
On the other hand, English football's other great goalkeeper of the era, Peter Schmeichel, had no need to attempt any kind of do. Famed for both mania and magnificence, his reputation also profited on account of the opportunities afforded him by the style in which Manchester United played, and the shortcomings of the defences detailed to protect him.	On the other hand, English football's other great goalkeeper of the era, Peter Schmeichel, had no need to attempt any kind of do. Famed for both mania and magnificence, his reputation also profited on account of the opportunities afforded him by the style in which Manchester United played, and the shortcomings of the defences detailed to protect him.
But like all goalies, players and people, both men were deeply pervious to error. Schmeichel, though, had team-mates able either to rescue him or to render any shortcomings irrelevant in advance – whereas Seaman was not so lucky. Conceding avoidable, or unusual goals in several of the biggest games in which he played – to Paul Gascoigne, Ronald Koeman, Nayim and Ronaldinho – he is remembered as much for blunders as brilliance, his finest moments coming in penalty shoot-outs.	But like all goalies, players and people, both men were deeply pervious to error. Schmeichel, though, had team-mates able either to rescue him or to render any shortcomings irrelevant in advance – whereas Seaman was not so lucky. Conceding avoidable, or unusual goals in several of the biggest games in which he played – to Paul Gascoigne, Ronald Koeman, Nayim and Ronaldinho – he is remembered as much for blunders as brilliance, his finest moments coming in penalty shoot-outs.
This fit ill with a goalkeeping persona aiming to pass unnoticed – a virtue also evident in his appearance. In his early years, his hair and moustache were just there – unsurprising, given the likely trauma of his playground experience, itself perhaps connected to his specialism.	This fit ill with a goalkeeping persona aiming to pass unnoticed – a virtue also evident in his appearance. In his early years, his hair and moustache were just there – unsurprising, given the likely trauma of his playground experience, itself perhaps connected to his specialism.
But moving to Arsenal in 1990, he won the title in his first season, and with the trappings of success came a slicked-back look popular a few years before. Though the majority of us arrive at trends late, even at this early stage, the impression was of a man out of his element. Commonly, footballers set the agenda – consider perms, mullets, bleachings and Mohawks – whereas Seaman continually to arrive at things once they had departed.	But moving to Arsenal in 1990, he won the title in his first season, and with the trappings of success came a slicked-back look popular a few years before. Though the majority of us arrive at trends late, even at this early stage, the impression was of a man out of his element. Commonly, footballers set the agenda – consider perms, mullets, bleachings and Mohawks – whereas Seaman continually to arrive at things once they had departed.
Even so, no one could possibly have foreseen the horrors that came to pass. Typically, he drew curtains well after their zenith, teaming them with a tremendous rump of hair at the back – this happened around this time that he began calling and signing himself "Safe hands". Still, there was nothing too untoward about this identity crisis – after all, footballers are humans too.	Even so, no one could possibly have foreseen the horrors that came to pass. Typically, he drew curtains well after their zenith, teaming them with a tremendous rump of hair at the back – this happened around this time that he began calling and signing himself "Safe hands". Still, there was nothing too untoward about this identity crisis – after all, footballers are humans too.
But flush with sudden power and autonomy, like Lester Burnham he never stopped, a restrained man belatedly enjoying the world of stupid that had existed independently of him all these long years. So he grew a ponytail of enormous, luxuriant swish – remarkably similar to that of his team-mate, Emmanuel Petit. Petit, you see, had some fire. "I like rebels, I like people who have balls," he said. "They're the ones who get things done. Don't blame anything on the rebels and marginals of our society just because you don't have any balls: just stay the sheep that you are, I don't give a fuck. I tell you to fuck off with a capital 'F'."	But flush with sudden power and autonomy, like Lester Burnham he never stopped, a restrained man belatedly enjoying the world of stupid that had existed independently of him all these long years. So he grew a ponytail of enormous, luxuriant swish – remarkably similar to that of his team-mate, Emmanuel Petit. Petit, you see, had some fire. "I like rebels, I like people who have balls," he said. "They're the ones who get things done. Don't blame anything on the rebels and marginals of our society just because you don't have any balls: just stay the sheep that you are, I don't give a fuck. I tell you to fuck off with a capital 'F'."
Never did Seaman intimate these feelings, but somehow, it all still worked. Not that it wasn't terrible – it was terriblest – but it complemented the bluff of his voice and laid bare the torment of his soul. And though he transmogrified into neither rebel nor marginal, Petit's dictum was unarguably satisfied: this man had balls, and got things done. DH	Never did Seaman intimate these feelings, but somehow, it all still worked. Not that it wasn't terrible – it was terriblest – but it complemented the bluff of his voice and laid bare the torment of his soul. And though he transmogrified into neither rebel nor marginal, Petit's dictum was unarguably satisfied: this man had balls, and got things done. DH
5. Phil Tufnell	5. Phil Tufnell
Cricket isn't exactly full of ponytails. Sure, the game has seen plenty of hair touching the shoulder, the likes of Jason Gillespie, Jeff Thomson and Warwickshire's Paul Smith flying the flag for men your nan might tut at for 'looking like a girl'. Ponytails weren't all that common though, perhaps as much for practical reasons as anything else; long-haired bowlers like Gillespie, Dennis Lillee or Yorkshire's Jack Brooks usually favour the more 'masculine' option of a sweat band across the forehead to keep hair from eyes, while if you're batting the hair can be tucked inside your helmet or sunhat, depending on exactly how devil-may-care your attitude to life is.	Cricket isn't exactly full of ponytails. Sure, the game has seen plenty of hair touching the shoulder, the likes of Jason Gillespie, Jeff Thomson and Warwickshire's Paul Smith flying the flag for men your nan might tut at for 'looking like a girl'. Ponytails weren't all that common though, perhaps as much for practical reasons as anything else; long-haired bowlers like Gillespie, Dennis Lillee or Yorkshire's Jack Brooks usually favour the more 'masculine' option of a sweat band across the forehead to keep hair from eyes, while if you're batting the hair can be tucked inside your helmet or sunhat, depending on exactly how devil-may-care your attitude to life is.
One might say that Phil Tufnell's attitude to life, and indeed cricket, was very much in that category. Or alternatively you might say he was a perpetual flake who, despite obvious talent, spoiled his chance of being among England's great spinners with a casual attitude to the game that caused many a captain to tear their hair out.	One might say that Phil Tufnell's attitude to life, and indeed cricket, was very much in that category. Or alternatively you might say he was a perpetual flake who, despite obvious talent, spoiled his chance of being among England's great spinners with a casual attitude to the game that caused many a captain to tear their hair out.