48 hours: Winter Olympics slide into disappointment

Whatever you may think of the Winter Olympics - if you are thinking about them at all - those watching the television coverage can only be impressed by the expertise of the commentators. They're a class act, if ever you heard one.

Despite this, TV is fighting an uphill battle holding our interest in these Italian Games.

The weekend brought another defeat for our curlers, the Olympians on whom fairytale lovers had rested their hopes.

Like its land-lubber relative lawn bowls, curling is ripe for gigantic upsets.

But my hunch is that this country's enthusiasm has dropped because the curlers have failed to deliver the ice rink boilover that would have had Turin, or is that Torino, on everybody's lips.

Confession time here, because I am a fair-weather friend when it comes to bad weather sports - and curling has failed to fire despite a series of last-gasp defeats.

This was curling's chance for a few minutes of fame. We love a quirky underdog in this country, and they don't come more unusual than curling.

If only our curlers had built something more in the house, actually protected it, and let the last rock swing in more, then they might have secured a triumph to grip our nation.

It's no good sweeping this under the carpet - curling has bombed a golden opportunity.

For my money, this has left the commentators - especially the Brits - as the stars of the games so far.

The British are simply the best in the world of sports commentary - the difficult art of revealing plenty by saying just enough.

The detail, precision, enthusiasm and analysis from their Winter Olympics commentators has provided the highlights from Turin, giving us a chance of becoming involved in sports we know little about.

Right from the superb opening ceremony, where the English commentator had even done his homework on the art of Futurism, they have hit the peaks.

Much closer to home, our cricket commentators are never short of a word but ironically it was a moment of silence that revealed so much about the visiting West Indian cricket team during Saturday's opening one-day match in Wellington.

Who would ever have thought the day would come when we had the scariest fast bowler in a series against the Windies.

And who might have envisaged the famous West Indians ever arriving here with such an anonymous team list that we had to ask someone who the heck they were.

The commentary exchange which said it all involved veteran Windies cricket watcher Tony Cozier and our own Jeremy Coney, increasingly the court jester as Sky rebuilds around the dogged Mark Richardson and the more relaxed Chris Cairns.

With the West Indian batting lineup listed on our screens, Coney invited Cozier to tell us something about the players to come.

Not exactly out of the British book of commentary homework, but a telling telly remark all the same.

Cozier, who comes across in interviews as distraught about West Indian cricket, couldn't muster a reply and the names were left hanging on the screen, like a roll of dishonour. Priceless.

Which brings us to the weekend's commentary highlight in terms of entertainment, although it is also a tragedy for followers of England's most famous old sporting competition. It is an FA Cup on a number of fronts, you might say.

It was high comedy yesterday morning, as Newcastle and Southampton - where England's World Cup rugby winner Sir Clive Woodward is director of football - battled in the fifth round at St James' Park.

The commentators were a couple of Americans - one of whom was called "Shep" - who gave new meaning to the term American football.

No doubt, as is broadcaster ESPN's way, these commentators were in an American studio half a world away from the live action.

It was an extraordinary occasion: a great old soccer competition once regarded as the most famous on the planet, plus the Woodward rugby angle and multi-national English club teams, all brought to us via the wonders of satellite yet filmed as if stuck in a 1970s time warp, with a remote commentary using language more at home in shoulder pads.

My wife, who I'd assumed for more than 20 years was a total stranger to sport, was beside herself in the humour of it.

"I'm so confused - is that gridiron?" she exclaimed, as I reeled from shock, the shock that she knew of the word gridiron.

"It's almost worth watching. It's all arrrfence and deeefence," she continued.

Shep and co. intervened: "We hope you are enjoying ESPN's coverage."

Clutching her sides, my wife replied: "Yes, more than you could possibly know."

Shep concentrated on the game: "I didn't see any contact - he just fell awkwardly."

My wife screamed: "He dived."

It was an incredible morning.

This was not soccer, or even my house, as I knew it.

Players "checked into the game", there was "the business of maintaining some offensive attack", plus "no mustard on that at all", and "a missed play".

And then, a Newcastle goal.

It might have been Shep, or it might have been his mate, who explained this so deftly.

"Oh baby did they need that goal. Gooooooooal, baby they needed that," he screamed.

The 'Gooooooooal' lacked any of the conviction in which commentators from soccer crazy countries deliver it. A commentator's own goal really.

I was almost tempted to nip down the freeway and grab burgers, fries and a shake with grits on the side, just to top off the atmosphere.

No. The game was too good to leave. Although as it turned out, there was no need to panic about missing any action.

Because come the final whistle, Shep's mated declared: "We'll be back with a wrap."

High

The Crusaders - magnificent in the Brisbane heat. The Cheetahs - giving the Super 14 a bit of early credibility.

Low

Super 14 injuries - a black day for the All Blacks. The Blues lineout - cleaned out.