Big Blogger: Week Three

Week by week, the competition improves and the decisions get harder. Who to shortlist? Who to publish? Who to let down? This week we had fewer submissions (65) than in previous weeks, but the standard kicked on again. All those commended below came very close to making the final three.

Over the past few weeks, we've been repeatedly asked about our decision-making process: which blogs make it and why? Selection is an imprecise science, but the best articles contain a mixture of excellent writing, analysis, interesting subject matter and humour.

When sport has true meaning by Darren Ford (Darren F)

In 2006 Oscar Pistorius ran the 200m in 21.66 seconds. An impressive time for a relative newcomer. A remarkable time for a double-amputee.

Proud to be referred to as 'the fastest thing on no legs', the 20-year-old South African is phenomenal in every sense. After having both legs amputated before his first birthday, he now holds world records at three distances - 100, 200 and 400m - and has set his sights on qualifying for the able-bodied Olympics next year. If he can shave two more seconds off his 400m PB he'll achieve the required time. Sorry, 'when' not 'if'.

Trying to find a Paralympian story that isn't remarkable is a fool's pursuit, but one tiny detail sets Oscar apart from his fellow competitors - eight months prior to winning gold and silver medals at Athens 2004 he hadn't even stepped on a cinder track, never mind competed on one.

At the turn of that year, while his future rivals were busy bringing four years dedicated training into sharp focus; Pistorius was receiving treatment for a rugby injury. Athletics had never even been on his radar. In one life-changing instant, the University of Pretoria specialist responsible for his recovery suggested 'a little sprint here and there' might aid his rehabilitation.

That was January. By September he'd introduced himself to the wider world of sport in truly dramatic style.

In his heat of the 200m the then 17-year-old rookie exploded out of the blocks on 'the b of the bang'. Sadly by 'the g of the bang' he'd fallen teeth-first into the track. Where others would've crumbled, Pistorius picked himself up and in a staggering display of determination caught up with, scythed through and ultimately destroyed the rest of the field to win in 23.42s, a new world record for double-amputees.

For all the medals and records that have followed, it's his pragmatic - almost irreverent - attitude towards what others perceive as a disability that truly sets him apart from the rest of us.

"You don't miss what you never had."

Worse things happen, he's quick to point out. And he should know. The sudden death of his mother when he was 15 galvanised within him a perspective on life so humbling it inspires and shames you in equal measure.

"Meeting other athletes reminds me how lucky I am," he says. "I saw one swimmer doing the butterfly with one arm but all his other limbs missing. That's when you realise you're in no shape to complain."

The opening paragraph of the Olympic charter states that the games are an opportunity to share in "the joy of effort". In an age where sports coverage has reached saturation point, and event after soporific event is over-hyped and underwhelming, it's depressingly rare to find yourself genuinely moved by sporting endeavour. Now more than ever we owe a debt of gratitude to the rare and beautiful spirit of Oscar Pistorius, a true Olympian.

The Forgotten Hero by Michael Gibbons (byebyebadman)

Once a derided medium, the football film has undergone a renaissance in recent years with well-crafted documentaries on Zidane and the New York Cosmos and period dramas like Das Wunder Von Bern. But one fine but forgotten mid-1980s production deserves a final moment in the sun while its few remaining VHS-only copies are traded for the odd few quid on eBay: Hero, the official film of the 1986 World Cup.

We'll get the bad stuff out of the way now - the narration and score of this documentary are abysmal. Michael Caine, sounding half an eyelid from comatose, provides a disinterested voiceover throughout and the music by Rick Wakeman is a cringeworthy example of 80s synth pop that doubtless took all the creative imagination of hitting the demo button on a Casio keyboard. Between them they almost remove the poignancy from the opening shots of the aftermath footage of the 1985 Mexico City earthquake nearly led to the tournament being moved.

Yet Caine and Wakeman are mere window dressing as the moving images of the players are what truly fascinate and save the film from itself. Focusing on an elite selection including Hugo Sanchez, Enzo Francescoli, Socrates, Karl-Heinz Rummenigge and Emile Butragueno, it is a touching reminder of those halcyon days when the stars of international football turned up at the World Cup and lived up to their billing - a case in point being the majestic sequence where strikers Michael Laudrup and Preben Elkjaer run rings around the brutal Uruguayans as Denmark deliver a six-goal masterclass in Nez. Somewhat bizarrely, the director then burns up five precious minutes filming the bare backsides of the Danish players as they head into the showers.

There are exclusions - no Josimar goals, nothing on an epic second round match between the USSR and Belgium - but some brilliant panoramic shots of the Azteca and agonising slow-motion clips of the ultra tense penalty shoot-out between France and Brazil more than make up for this. One unexpected gem is the original radio commentaries from the homelands of the featured nations, giving us several Latin American cries of 'Goooooool!', ecstatic moans of 'Oui! Oui!' as Michel Platini equalises against Brazil and Bryon Butler's brilliant but rarely heard summation of Diego Maradona's wonder goal against England. Barry Davies and Jimmy Hill managed to botch the TV equivalent with Hill sermonising on Peter Shilton's inadequacies as Diego bore down on the England goal.

And it is Maradona that really captivates in what ultimately is a homage to his glorious Mexican summer. Pre-dating Zidane by 20 years the close-up footage of El Pibe D'Oro captures the grace, poise and ingenuity of the great man like nothing you'll ever see as he leaves a trail of flummoxed defenders from assorted nations in his wake, and ends with Diego leading a demented post-match chorus of 'AR-GEN-TINA!' in the changing rooms after victory over West Germany in the final.

This forgotten gem is surely ripe for DVD release - after all, if they'll put out Love Thy Neighbour ...

Timmy Got A Raw Deal by Nick Hughes (NickTheGrinch)

Tim Henman, archetypal British loser. It's a common perception and one that I have readily subscribed to. Until recently.

Two summers ago I worked at a corporate box at Queen's Club during which time I subjected an affable lady barrister to an ill-conceived anti-Tim tirade. Great player, I argued, but lacks the Jacobs to go the final yard and win a major. Mine was a low-risk strategy. I was merely regurgitating an argument that had been spun out by countless others over the years. Satisfied, I awaited her approval.

As it turned out, the lady in question was best friends with Lucy Henman. Bugger, was my initial reaction. Bang goes my gratuity, my second. But to her great credit, rather than dispatch me to fetch another bottle of Maet, she argued eloquently that, even without a major title, Henman's career should be seen as a success story.

Henman, as she pointed out, was indeed a very good player but never in the top bracket. Top of the second tier, yes, but not a first rater. His game was based on an old-school model of how tennis should be played. Come in off a solid serve and dominate from the net. But, backed up by an erratic forehand and a timid backhand, this in itself was not enough to compete with the all-court game of a Pete Sampras or a Roger Federer, nor was it reason to burden him with favourite's status against the likes of Sebastian Grosjean, Mario Ancic and Lleyton Hewitt. In effect, a major win would have been a momentous achievement, no major, merely the status quo.

But British sports fans do not do realism. What will ultimately determine the legacy of Henman as a failure is the gross lack of perspective of the British tennis public. The absurd fluctuation between unrealistic hope and overblown despair created a situation where nothing but a Wimbledon victory would prevent us from venting our spleen against Tiger Tim.

The reality is that Henman had no right to beat a Sampras or a Federer. His inferior game meant that his destiny was largely out of his control. On the one occasion the draw opened up for him, Henman was defeated by an opponent in Goran Ivanisevic, who played the rain breaks better.

Such was the frenzied expectation surrounding a Wimbledon triumph that Henman's genuine achievements have been shunted to the back of the memory. His performance in reaching the semi final of the French in 2004, playing an all court game totally against his natural instincts, rates as one of the finest I've seen from a British sport star.

Alas, his ultimate failure to hit the heights at Wimbledon will forever be his cross to bear. Tim Henman, the clean cut Oxfordshire boy with the perfect vowels and prep school haircut. Tim Henman. The archetypal British loser.

Let's hope when Tim finally does call it a day, he is afforded a fair trial. We owe him that much at least.

Honourable mentions: Clare Davies (mimitig), Jonathan Jones (JohnnyBoy71), Lee Calvert (LeeRoycal), Benjamin White (Zenith), Gary Naylor (Mouth of the Mersey), Jack White (Levremance), Tom Barrett (50kaweeksub), Indy Neogy (Metatone), James Andrews (Ebren), Tony Ellis (Tony Ellis), Chris Beauchamp.