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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How Donald Trump is slouching towards the Republican nomination

There was supposed to be a ceiling above which Trump’s popular support could not climb.

In America, you can judge a crowd by its merchandise. Outside the Connecticut Convention Centre in Hartford, frail old men and brawny moms are selling “your Trump 45 football jerseys”, “your hats”, “your campaign buttons”. But the hottest item is a T-shirt bearing the slogan “Hillary sucks . . . but not like Monica!” and, on the back: “Trump that bitch!” Inside, beyond the checkpoint manned by the Transportation Security Administration and the secret service (“Good!” the man next to me says, when he sees the agents), is a family whose three kids, two of them girls, are wearing the Monica shirt.

Other people are content with the shirts they arrived in (“Waterboarding – baptising terrorists with freedom” and “If you don’t BLEED red, white and blue, take your bitch ass home!”). There are 80 chairs penned off for the elderly but everyone else is standing: guys in motorcycle and military gear, their arms folded; aspiring deal-makers, suited, on cellphones; giggling high-school fatsos, dressed fresh from the couch, grabbing M&M’s and Doritos from the movie-theatre-style concession stands. So many baseball hats; deep, bellicose chants of “Build the wall!” and “USA!”. (And, to the same rhythm, “Don-ald J!”)

A grizzled man in camouflage pants and combat boots, whose T-shirt – “Connecticut Militia III%” – confirms him as a member of the “patriot” movement, is talking to a zealous young girl in a short skirt, who came in dancing to “Uptown Girl”.

“Yeah, we were there for Operation American Spring,” he says. “Louis Farrakhan’s rally of hate . . .”

“And you’re a veteran?” she asks. “Thank you so much!”

Three hours will pass. A retired US marine will take the rostrum to growl, “God bless America – hoo-rah!”; “Uptown Girl” will play many more times (much like his speeches, Donald J’s playlist consists of a few items, repeated endlessly), before Trump finally looms in and asks the crowd: “Is this the greatest place on Earth?”

There was supposed to be a ceiling above which Trump’s popular support could not climb. Only a minority within a minority of Americans, it was assumed, could possibly be stupid enough to think a Trump presidency was a good idea. He won New Hampshire and South Carolina with over 30 per cent of the Republican vote, then took almost 46 per cent in Nevada. When he cleaned up on Super Tuesday in March, he was just shy of 50 per cent in Massachusetts; a week later, he took 47 per cent of the votes in Mississippi.

His rivals, who are useless individually, were meant to co-operate with each other and the national party to deny him the nomination. But Trump won four out of the five key states being contested on “Super-Duper Tuesday” on 15 March. Then, as talk turned to persuading and co-opting his delegates behind the scenes, Trump won New York with 60 per cent.

Now, the campaign is trying to present Trump as more “presidential”. According to his new manager, Paul Manafort, this requires him to appear in “more formal settings” – without, of course, diluting “the unique magic of Trump”. But whether or not he can resist denouncing the GOP and the “corrupt” primary system, and alluding to violence if he is baulked at at the convention, the new Trump will be much the same as the old.

Back in Hartford: “The Republicans wanna play cute with us, right? If I don’t make it, you’re gonna have millions of people that don’t vote for a Republican. They’re not gonna vote at all,” says Trump. “Hopefully that’s all, OK? Hopefully that’s all, but they’re very, very angry.”

This anger, which can supposedly be turned on anyone who gets in the way, has mainly been vented, so far, on the protesters who disrupt Trump’s rallies. “We’re not gonna be the dummies that lose all of our jobs now. We’re gonna be the smart ones. Oh, do you have one over there? There’s one of the dummies . . .”

There is a frenzied fluttering of Trump placards, off to his right. “Get ’em out! . . . Don’t hurt ’em – see how nice I am? . . . They really impede freedom of speech and it’s a disgrace. But the good news is, folks, it won’t be long. We’re just not taking it and it won’t be long.”

It is their removal by police, at Trump’s ostentatious behest, that causes the disruption, rather than the scarcely audible protesters. He seems to realise this, suddenly: “We should just let ’em . . . I’ll talk right over them, there’s no problem!” But it’s impossible to leave the protesters where they are, because it would not be safe. His crowd is too vicious.

Exit Trump, after exactly half an hour, inclusive of the many interruptions. His people seem uplifted but, out on the street, they are ambushed by a large counter-demonstration, with a booming drum and warlike banners and standards (“Black Lives Matter”; an image of the Virgin of Guadalupe, holding aloft Trump’s severed head). Here is the rest of the world, the real American world: young people, beautiful people, more female than male, every shade of skin colour. “F*** Donald Trump!” they chant.

After a horrified split-second, the Trump crowd, massively more numerous, rallies with “USA!” and – perplexingly, since one of the main themes of the speech it has just heard was the lack of jobs in Connecticut – “Get a job!” The two sides then mingle, unobstructed by police. Slanging matches break out that seem in every instance to humiliate the Trump supporter. “Go to college!” one demands. “Man, I am in college, I’m doin’ lovely!”

There is no violence, only this: some black boys are dancing, with liquid moves, to the sound of the drum. Four young Trump guys counter by stripping to their waists and jouncing around madly, their skin greenish-yellow under the street lights, screaming about the building of the wall. There was no alcohol inside; they’re drunk on whatever it is – the elixir of fascism, the unique magic of Trump. It’s a hyper but not at all happy drunk.

As with every other moment of the Trump campaign so far, it would have been merely some grade of the cringeworthy – the embarrassing, the revolting, the pitiful – were Trump not slouching closer and closer, with each of these moments, to his nomination. 

This article first appeared in the 28 April 2016 issue of the New Statesman, The new fascism