LINES IN THE SAND....

I`ve often thought that there must be lines of demarcation that we take for granted. For example, when there are showers of rain, there must be a line on a road somewhere where it has rained on one side but not on the other.

Similarly, we are blessed in this country with a wide variety of regional accents, some lyrical and some which grate on the senses. But somewhere along the line, there must come a point where accents change and in some cases the change is very marked; leave London, go down the M4 and just past Slough the London drawl becomes the Berkshire burr.

But it seems that, like most other things in life, these lines in the sand have become more blurred - no really clear divisions any more. And so it is with sport, although the blurring of the seasons between cricket and football seems somehow to have developed a counterpoint with the cultural divisions between the two coming into ever sharper focus.

This was highlighted this weekend. On Saturday, we had the 20-20 Finals Day at Hampshire`s Rose Bowl ground just outside Southampton. Two semi-finals and the `grand` final were played out over eleven hours of dramatic entertainment before a capacity 20,000 crowd. Durham and Essex fell in the semi-finals and we were left with a final between Kent and Middlesex, which Middlesex won by three runs with the last ball of the game.

I have a friend who was fortunate enough to be there to witness the day`s events, whereas I was reduced to watching the proceedings on television. It was compulsive viewing and although my friend, being a staunch Kent supporter, would have been disappointed with the result, no-one could deny the sheer skill, passion, excitement and drama on show in a match that it truly was a pity that either team had to lose.

Hampshire Rose Bowl

It`s late July and the cricket season still has so much to offer - another limited overs final for Kent, more Test Matches against the South Africans and other domestic issues to be resolved. But creeping up on the blind side we already have the insidious presence of the Barclays Premier football league gearing up for the coming season. Now, years ago, there was a clear dividing line between the cricket and football seasons - to the extent that I well remember people like Willie Watson, Denis Compton and Arthur Milton ending their cricket seasons one day and turning out for professional football teams the next.

Whilst that seasonal line in the sand has long disappeared, the `cultural` aspects of the two games seem to be heading in different directions. Now, I`m quite sure that cricket has its share of scamps, rascals and malcontents but surely nothing on the scale of Joey Barton, he of Newcastle United who are paying this convicted serial assailant a reputed £71,000 a week and who seems likely to be welcomed back into the Magpie fold following his release from Strangeways gaol today after serving a mere two months of a six months sentence.

I also noticed on Saturday the complete respect shown by the cricketers - even in the heat of battle and with so much at stake - towards the umpires officiating in all three games. Contrast that with the coreographed ranting at football referees and linesmen whose every decision is questioned and who are subjected to verbal abuse not only by players but also club managers, the whinging Wenger and the impossible Ferguson being in the vanguard of this unappealing trend.

The `beautiful game?`

Already, the joys of summer cricket are being infiltrated by the ugly sceptre of the returning Premier League, which starts its next chapter as early as 16th August. I`m really quite dreading it. For me at least and especially during these difficult economic times for too many people, the excesses of money, behaviour and arrogance which are awash in the Premier League seem to have little place and even less relevance. And that seems as good a note as any on which to draw a line in the sand and move on at the end of the day. To be fair.