Lester Piggott won his first Derby on Never Say Die in 1954 and afterwards enraged the racing establishment by proclaiming: “It's just another race.” Clearly this was a mental trick that Piggott had worked on himself, doubtless with the backing of his father, for this was the Derby, which was then beyond question the world's greatest race. But Piggott rode the horse rather than the occasion and, as a result, he not only won, but he also showed himself before the world as he really was: that is to say, freakishly cold, withdrawn, remote; ever so slightly sinister.

I have no doubt that Andy Murray is telling himself, “It's just another tournament.” It isn't, of course, though it's a useful trick if you can pull it off. He will seek to play the ball, play the match, even though he knows that this is the occasion that will define him.

I expect most of us are still in two minds about Murray, half ready to celebrate him as a matchless talent, half ready to condemn him as a brattish disappointment. After a wrist injury ruled him out last year, we are now ready to watch Murray in the first post-Henmaniacal Wimbledon. The absurd and hysterical expectation will now attach itself to Murray - amusing, in a way, since the position of darling of Middle England is at odds with someone who doesn't really see himself as British. Or even Scottish: but a Scot.

We will soon see if he can play the part, though, lifted by the crowd as Henman always was and pulling off tennis's daily miracle of raising your game to a level that had seemed beyond your grasp. It happens in all sports, but in tennis it does so often and obviously. That, by the way, is the secret of tennis's annual appeal.

We will be looking at Murray to see if he can find these raises in his game as the tournament gets tough. We want to see his skills, but we also want to see his guts, if that's an appropriate phrase for someone who has made a career of on-court vomiting. But for good or bad, this is a defining fortnight for Murray. It's just another tournament. No it's not.

£70m is silly money for Cristiano Ronaldo

As the increasingly sordid business of Cristiano Ronaldo's transfer unravels, so I think of Ronaldo's last kick for Manchester United. It was in the penalty shoot-out at the Champions League final against Chelsea. Ronaldo took his penalty with a flamboyant stutter in the run-up and his shot was saved. This failure would have cost United the European crown had John Terry not had a fit of the vapours.

That penalty is a useful reminder that for all the brilliance and the 42 goals last season, there is also something slightly silly about Ronaldo. This silliness is the obvious weakness in an outstandingly gifted player.

It leads one to ask how he will cope with being a 70 million quid monarch, rather than a cosseted princeling. There is no guarantee that the next step, from peripheral brilliance to central authority, is within his scope. It is possible that when he has to bear the responsibility for his team, the silliness will get in the way.

This could be a very good deal for United.

Cricket loses part of its soul

I want to tell you about The Fish. He was a great man. Paul Fisher not only played for mighty Tewin Irregulars, but he made the Irregulars possible. When we three founding members sounded out Fish he at once agreed to play for us, turning us at a stroke into a proper cricket team.

Paul could bowl, you see. He would stroll in off a dozen paces and whang the ball in with an action that was all shoulders, but he was gifted in the shoulder department.

In the dozen or so seasons we operated he was our mainstay. Whenever he was able to play, we knew that we would be putting up a decent show.

He set the tone for the side: cheerful, bantering, always able to see the absurdity of what we were doing, always committed to the seriousness of our endeavour. He believed that cricket should be played in a spirit of sporting generosity mixed with precisely the right amount of competitive meanness.

He made my palms ring and sting through the gauntlets every match. He clouted sporadic sixes over long-on and afterwards he had a good and proper thirst.

He was not only the spirit of the Irregulars, but there was something about him that was the spirit of England itself: village green, cartwheeling stumps, pints of ale, permanent good humour, bottomless generosity and unending laughter at the absurdity of cricket and life. He was one of the few men I ever met who chuckled.

He collapsed and died of a heart attack at Edgbaston the weekend before last: the second Irregulars bowler to go this year.

Obscurity an ally on England rugby tour

Have you noticed the calm, relaxed and laid-back way in which we have greeted the news that four England rugby players may have been involved in a rape? The players have retreated into a legal silence, we wait to see if a formal complaint will be made and in the meantime life goes on, England get walloped by New Zealand and prepare to come home.

We don't need to imagine the way the news would be received if we swapped “rugby” for “football”. It would be the greatest crisis for humanity since the assassination of Archduke Franz Ferdinand. Hell, remember what happened when some bloke we'd never heard of was accused of rape at the Manchester United Christmas party?

If this scandal had attended the England football team, rather than the England rugby team, the four would somehow have been named and shamed and every newspaper in England would have its hardest hacks in Auckland. Indeed, if the England football team had held a party that involved late-night shenanigans of any kind, it would have been the most frightful scandal: unprofessional behaviour, poor match preparation, letting the nation down, etc, etc. But because these are good ol' rugby boys, we let it all wash over us. Yes, poor show and all that, but not such a terribly big deal.

Why should this be? Do we think claims of rape are more serious when footballers do it? The answer to that must be yes.

We love and hate footballers in equal measure. Let them step a foot out of line and we will muster every bit of righteous anger we can. Rugby players deeply envy footballers their fortunes. Those who were involved, no matter how innocently, should understand that there are advantages in comparative obscurity.

Kevin Pietersen prompts switch to common sense

First, we hear from the lawmakers that Kevin Pietersen's switch-hitting is perfectly legal, MCC more or less saying, “You think it gives the batsman an advantage, you go out and play it.” Then we have a swift adjustment on the umpires' discretion over the length of the interval in one-day matches after the absurd finish to the England-New Zealand game at Edgbaston. What? Common sense? In cricket administrators? Twice in a week? What is the world coming to?