Stanislav Gridasov

One of my ex-bosses once asked me if I play tennis. No, I don’t, I replied, I play football, I used to play ice hockey when I was a kid, and I generally prefer team sports above individual ones. ‘So you’re too scared to take personal responsibility’, — he concluded sympathetically. I opened my mouth, stupefied with this statement, but then decided that I’d better keep shut.

When I was a kid, I used to dream of becoming an ice hockey goalkeeper, I practised every day, even indoors, using the technique I found in one of Vladislav Tretiak’s articles. I threw a tennis ball into a wall and tried to catch it, threw it again, and tried to catch it again, at various angles. Another skill I was determined to master was dropping to my knees as fast as possible and jumping up again. Amazing, but I never felt the pain from hitting my knees against the parquet for about twenty times in a row.

I can picture myself being a biathlete, fifty-odd competitors on the track ahead of me, Greis and Bjørndalen catching up from behind, the flag fluttering in the wind, Guberniev (popular Russian sports commentator — TN) screaming wildly off-screen somewhere… But as for tennis, I do really find it too boring.

When it comes to sports, I’m the type of person who enjoys direct collisions much more than sarcastic skirmishes fought from the baselines.

There’s not a one single sports journalist I know, that wouldn’t have at least neighbourhood-level sports experience.

I believe, everyone remembers what it feels like being hit on your legs when you’re worn out completely, but still have to carry on, managing to win even though you’ve been losing all along, watching the ball rolling into your goal while you’ve only made it to run into the post.

I used to sometimes be a goalkeeper when we played football, and do you even know what incredible thrill it is — diving to the bottom corner and grabbing that ball. True, that’s certainly not the way Akinfeev would have done it, and we’re not at Wembley, and the only spectators are the bags thrown onto the benches. But your emotions usually don’t seem to bother much about such minor audiencial discrepancies.

Since my very childhood, I’ve always hated playing with those who don’t care, who believe that “you can’t win them all”. Now that I’ve grown up, I hate working with them.

In my yard, we never even heard of such a word — “basketball”: hockey in winter, in felt boots or skates, using a puck or a woven ball, football in spring, summer and autumn, and always football only at school. I started writing about basketball accidentally. I was sent to do a job instead of a reporter who fell sick. This job was how it all started. I’ve been playing football all my life, but I’ve barely ever written anything about it. I’ve never held a basketball in my hands, but now I’m writing about this best ball games of all.

I respect the feelings of the writer Nick Hornby who is determined to keep supporting Arsenal even with David Moyes or Valeriy Gazzaev appointed as its coach. It’s been a while since I haven’t been able to gain inspiration for supporting a team merely from slogans, diamond-shaped emblems, or a red, ferociously grimaced mug.

When I was a kid, I used to support CSKA, like my dad. But now I only favour those whose personal and professional qualities appeal to me. However, there is still one team that I’d say “forever” to. France national football team. Ever since 1978. Domenech, go away. Stop ruining my team.

If I happen to come across Michael Jordan or Magic Johnson, the sportsmen who I respect endlessly, I won’t turn into a melting piece of butter. Rather have a bit of a chat, smoke a cigar. Now that would be great. To have a couple of drinks in some bar with Zidane, to pick the damn Italians to pieces — what a pleasure. But, alas, dictaphone is what our job is about.

It was at the 2006 Football World Cup that I met Arsène Venger, the coach who became the reason why I started supporting the London Arsenal. After the France vs Brazil match, I got a little lost on my way down from the box, and then suddenly saw a glass door leading to another staircase. Arsène Venger was standing behind that door. I pulled the handle. The door was locked. Venger also pulled the handle from his side for some reason. We looked at each other and each went his own way: he went back to coaching his team and I went back to admiring his team’s play.

Sometimes I think I’d kill the players of the Arsenal.

While in the press box, everyone abides to the tacit rule that prohibits showing emotions openly, but if it’s a team that I feel for, I can barely suppress the urge to drum on the table, throw plastic glasses around and swear.

I wouldn’t be able to name a one single Russian journalist who’d write as great at his 45 as he used to at 30. And if he does, this only means that he’s not really a journalist, but a writer.

There’s been a lot of talking going on lately about the “edition formats”, “target audiences” and “growth rates”, but what they don’t talk that much about is making oneself happy. Not only with the figures in the business plan.