Businesses seek profit and sportsmen chase victory, but there’s still hope for morality

Ed Smith's "Left Field" column.

There are times when a columnist, conditioned to take a firm line, feels pressure to pronounce about a controversy – but what if he knows that logic and evidence can be marshalled to make an equally strong case for both standpoints, even though they are perfectly opposed? The temptation is to pick a side and be done with it. Yet if two opposing views support such convincing defences, the hinge of the argument must be in the wrong place. Instead of summoning rhetorical conviction, perhaps we should try to redraw the debate along more helpful dividing lines.

That is how I’ve felt watching the rows about fair play that have flared up throughout the Ashes. The most controversial was Stuart Broad’s decision not to “walk” when he edged the ball to first slip during the thrilling first Test match at Trent Bridge.

Two clear-cut columns write themselves all too easily. First, the disgusted moral one: “Sometimes a batsman is unsure if he hit the ball and may rightfully stand his ground. This was not one of those moments. Cheating is a strong word but when a batsman is 100 per cent sure that he hit the ball and still doesn’t walk, it is hard to pretend that ‘gamesmanship’ is the accurate term.” So thunder the moralists.

It is just as easy to defend Broad by arguing that he did what everyone does, only better: “Modern batsmen do not walk. They let the umpire decide. So a batsman who doesn’t walk for a thick edge is no more ‘in the wrong’ than a batsman who doesn’t walk for a slight deflection. Broad should be congratulated for his professionalism and his poker face.”

The problem is that neither column captures my conflicting emotions. As a batsman who did not always “walk”, I sympathise with Broad. I also know that watching him get away with such an obvious edge felt wrong. It looked silly and demeaned the day.

How did we get into this mess? Ironically, it was once assumed that professionalism would eventually negate the need for moral judgements. Accepting the umpire’s decision would replace the moral imperative of doing the right thing. The advent of new technologies, too, encouraged the delusion that players would never have to think morally in the heat of battle.

However, umpires make mistakes and technology has proved inadequate and unpredictable. We have moved from one grey area, based on a player’s word, to an increasingly precisely calibrated grey area, determined by a Byzantine system of technical apparatus designed to clarify the matter but serving only to confuse it.

If we substitute the words “umpiring” and “technology” with the word “law”, we see how the everyday professional working world has encountered similar problems. Narrowly “legal” behaviour is often shown to be morally wrong. Jimmy Carr’s tax avoidance was entirely legal but rightly caused public indignation. The letter of the law be damned – a rich man should pay a decent amount of tax, even if none of us knows exactly what proportion that should be. The same point applies even more strongly to the tax-avoidance strategies of Starbucks.

We can never reach such an evolved stage of technological or legal precision that the question “Does this feel right?” stops being central to a professional code. Matthew Parris has argued that the pages of small print tacked on to employment contracts paradoxically only encourage dubious behaviour. A long list of prohibited actions merely suggests a further list of (presumably) unprohibited ones. In contrast, the assumption that they shouldn’t “do anything that feels wrong” encourages employees to think for themselves.

When businesses seek profit and professional sportsmen chase competitive advantage, what hope is there for morality? The answer is more likely to reside in culture and conventions than in law and technology.

In her 1994 paper “Bourgeois Virtue”, the American economist Deirdre McCloskey argued that modern society was stuck with outdated conventions. We fall back on old ideals – the honourable aristocrat, the plucky worker – but we lack ethical models for professional or bourgeois virtues.

The history of modern sport fits McCloskey’s model. At first, sport was obsessed with the honourable gentleman who was above the fray. The Corinthians football team declined to score from penalties on the grounds that the opposition’s foul must have been accidental. The second phase of modern sport, the early years of professionalism, emphasised hard work and industry – the plucky worker who kept his head down and stuck to the task. Not for him moral grandstanding and “walking” when he edged it; he had to put food on the table.

Sport is now – uncertainly but distinctly – entering a third phase. It may prove a happy surprise. The relentless determination to win, founded on scientific training and ruthless planning, does not inevitably lead to moral collapse. Today’s snooker players own up when they faintly touch the cue ball, even though it is entirely against their self-interest and rarely visible to the referee. Rugby players in a scrum, driven backwards on to their try line, could halt the disaster by pretending that one of the players was suffering a neck injury. It never happens – faking serious spinal injuries is not part of professional rugby culture. Tennis players are more respectful and courteous than they were 20 years ago.

Cultures are always in flux. An extreme example of questionable behaviour, one that pushes an accepted convention beyond common sense, can tip the culture in a positive direction. Broad’s successful stand may encourage more batsmen to walk.

Professional sportsmen are groping towards McCloskey’s “bourgeois virtues”. But as the third phase crawls forward, spare a thought for the players. If you are confused in the comfort of your armchair, imagine how they feel in the white heat of competitiveness, with the roar of 30,000 people in their ears.

Get more sports news and views over at Fast News Release.

Stuart Broad, whose controversial decision not to "walk" when he edged the ball to first slip has been a point of controversy. Photograph: Getty Images.

Ed Smith is a journalist and author, most recently of Luck. He is a former professional cricketer and played for both Middlesex and England.

This article first appeared in the 12 August 2013 issue of the New Statesman, What if JFK had lived?

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Erdogan’s purge was too big and too organised to be a mere reaction to the failed coup

There is a specific word for the melancholy of Istanbul. The city is suffering a mighty bout of something like hüzün at the moment. 

Even at the worst of times Istanbul is a beautiful city, and the Bosphorus is a remarkable stretch of sea. Turks get very irritated if you call it a river. They are right. The Bosphorus has a life and energy that a river could never equal. Spend five minutes watching the Bosphorus and you can understand why Orhan Pamuk, Turkey’s Nobel laureate for literature, became fixated by it as he grew up, tracking the movements of the ocean-going vessels, the warships and the freighters as they steamed between Asia and Europe.

I went to an Ottoman palace on the Asian side of the Bosphorus, waiting to interview the former prime minister Ahmet Davu­toglu. He was pushed out of office two months ago by President Recep Tayyip Erdogan when he appeared to be too wedded to the clauses in the Turkish constitution which say that the prime minister is the head of government and the president is a ceremonial head of state. Erdogan was happy with that when he was prime minister. But now he’s president, he wants to change the constitution. If Erdogan can win the vote in parliament he will, in effect, be rubber-stamping the reality he has created since he became president. In the days since the attempted coup, no one has had any doubt about who is the power in the land.

 

City of melancholy

The view from the Ottoman palace was magnificent. Beneath a luscious, pine-shaded garden an oil tanker plied its way towards the Black Sea. Small ferries dodged across the sea lanes. It was not, I hasten to add, Davutoglu’s private residence. It had just been borrowed, for the backdrop. But it reminded a Turkish friend of something she had heard once from the AKP, Erdogan’s ruling party: that they would not rest until they were living in the apartments with balconies and gardens overlooking the Bosphorus that had always been the preserve of the secular elite they wanted to replace.

Pamuk also writes about hüzün, the melancholy that afflicts the citizens of Istanbul. It comes, he says, from the city’s history and its decline, the foghorns on the Bosphorus, from tumbledown walls that have been ruins since the fall of the Byzantine empire, unemployed men in tea houses, covered women waiting for buses that never come, pelting rain and dark evenings: the city’s whole fabric and all the lives within it. “My starting point,” Pamuk wrote, “was the emotion that a child might feel while looking through a steamy window.”

Istanbul is suffering a mighty bout of something like hüzün at the moment. In Pamuk’s work the citizens of Istanbul take a perverse pride in hüzün. No one in Istanbul, or elsewhere in Turkey, can draw comfort from what is happening now. Erdogan’s opponents wonder what kind of future they can have in his Turkey. I think I sensed it, too, in the triumphalist crowds of Erdogan supporters that have been gathering day after day since the coup was defeated.

 

Down with the generals

Erdogan’s opponents are not downcast because the coup failed; a big reason why it did was that it had no public support. Turks know way too much about the authoritarian ways of military rule to want it back. The melancholy is because Erdogan is using the coup to entrench himself even more deeply in power. The purge looks too far-reaching, too organised and too big to have been a quick reaction to the attempt on his power. Instead it seems to be a plan that was waiting to be used.

Turkey is a deeply unhappy country. It is hard to imagine now, but when the Arab uprisings happened in 2011 it seemed to be a model for the Middle East. It had elections and an economy that worked and grew. When I asked Davutoglu around that time whether there would be a new Ottoman sphere of influence for the 21st century, he smiled modestly, denied any such ambition and went on to explain that the 2011 uprisings were the true succession to the Ottoman empire. A century of European, and then American, domination was ending. It had been a false start in Middle Eastern history. Now it was back on track. The people of the region were deciding their futures, and perhaps Turkey would have a role, almost like a big brother.

Turkey’s position – straddling east and west, facing Europe and Asia – is the key to its history and its future. It could be, should be, a rock of stability in a desperately un­stable part of the world. But it isn’t, and that is a problem for all of us.

 

Contagion of war

The coup did not come out of a clear sky. Turkey was in deep crisis before the attempt was made. Part of the problem has come from Erdogan’s divisive policies. He has led the AKP to successive election victories since it first won in 2002. But the policies of his governments have not been inclusive. As long as his supporters are happy, the president seems unconcerned about the resentment and opposition he is generating on the other side of politics.

Perhaps that was inevitable. His mission, as a political Islamist, was to change the country, to end the power of secular elites, including the army, which had been dominant since Mustafa Kemal Atatürk created modern Turkey after the collapse of the Ottoman empire. And there is also the influence of chaos and war in the Middle East. Turkey has borders with Iraq and Syria, and is deeply involved in their wars. The borders do not stop the contagion of violence. Hundreds of people have died in the past year in bomb attacks in Turkish cities, some carried out by the jihadists of so-called Islamic State, and some sent by Kurdish separatists working under the PKK.

It is a horrible mix. Erdogan might be able to deal with it better if he had used the attempted coup to try to unite Turkey. All the parliamentary parties condemned it. But instead, he has turned the power of the state against his opponents. More rough times lie ahead.

Jeremy Bowen is the BBC’s Middle East editor. He tweets @bowenbbc

This article first appeared in the 28 July 2016 issue of the New Statesman, Summer Double Issue