Tie a yellow ribbon on Australian sport

Amid the tragedy of journeyman golfer Jarrod Lyle’s death, an understated tribute reminds us of an unfathomable blessing.

Australia’s Adam Scott wears a yellow ribbon in memory of Jarrod Lyle at the PGA. Picture: AP

Thirteen-year-old girls from Sydney are hoppity-skipping through a crisp Sunday morning soccer match between the white shirts and the purple shirts. The white shirts need to win to reach the semi-finals but alas, the trumped-up little darlings in the purple shirts haven’t been beaten all year.

When the white shirts jag a ­victory, the tinny little sweethearts, from a goal that has the ball rebounding off knees, shoulders, stomachs, heads and the crossbar like it’s in a pinball machine, you’ve rarely seen excitement like it.

“We’re still alive!” shouts one of the fathers.

And the first image that springs to mind is of someone who ain’t so lucky, Jarrod Lyle, while this ­delightful snippet of Australian sport is being played out to the sounds of girlie squeals, singing, dancing, hugging and victory chants.

They may as well have won the Bledisloe. But the shocking sadness of the 36-year-old journeyman golfer and father of two daughters having been sent to the great clubhouse in the sky is still felt to the extent that I haven’t been able to watch any sport this weekend without his massive ­yellow hat getting in the way.

Jarrod Lyle. Picture: Getty Images

Merely being involved as a player or spectator or writer or ­official has seemed an unfathomable blessing. We’re where Lyle wishes he could be. We’re still in the game.

The symbol of this freedom to play and participate is the yellow ribbon worn in honour of the big lug at the US PGA Championship. It’s something for Australian sport to embrace in the long term. It’s a Cancer Council logo with limitless reach. If nothing else, it beats a scrap of yellow sandpaper as a representation of what this country’s athletes are all about.

It’s been a confronting, sobering and inspiring sight at the golf. It’s been understated. It hasn’t been accompanied by words, which means we’ve been free to ­interpret it how we wish.

I see these ribbons as celebrating participation in any form of sport; the sheer simple thrill of getting to play or watch or organise or analyse sport for another day; the miracle of having enough good health to run around. Because sooner or later, for all of us, those days are going to run out.

The day Lyle died, I saw kids in Newcastle cricket nets getting ready for the summer. Luckiest buggers alive. I’ve seen grandmas hitting tennis balls at their local Sydney club. They appreciate it more than most, the old boilers. I’ve seen Australian wheelchair rugby players having their hearts ripped out in a one-point loss to Japan at the world championships. I’ve seen hobbling old golf club members having a whack in the wind on a Sunday morning and thought, what Lyle would have given for another 18 holes at ­Torquay.

“My time was short. I hope it wasn’t wasted,” he said in his final days, and there’s a message to ­savour. Don’t squander a second. We can live twice as long as Lyle and make only half the impact.

Another Sunday arvo of sport has come and gone. Wests Tigers coach Ivan Cleary is drained from a week of having two clubs chasing his services. Half his luck. The ­Tigers players are still in the hunt for the finals. It’s the time of their lives.

Canberra Raiders coach Ricky Stuart looks as if his world has come to an end. Half his luck, too. Dave Warner is getting a howler of a decision in the Caribbean Premier League. He’s given out leg before wicket despite the seemingly significant fact that the ball hasn’t struck his leg before the wicket. Half his luck.

Lyle’s AFL club, the Melbourne Demons, are playing the Sydney Swans at the MCG. To walk on to that stage and perform as your day job is an extreme piece of luck. Adam Scott is hoppity-skipping through the USPGA with a yellow ribbon pinned to his cap. Beautiful. He may or may not win it. Who ­really cares?

I think Vince Lombardi was wrong. Winning isn’t the only thing. It’s an important thing, of course. The preferable thing. The money-making, trophy-gathering, history-making thing. But there’s more to sport than that. There’s the involvement of one and all. As the sun went down last night, there’s been the opportunity for everybody to play a game for another day.

Had a win? Onya. Lost? You’ll be right. Dreaming of something bigger? Go get ’em. Disappointed? Suck it up. Ecstatic? Great. Getting better? Getting worse? World-beater? Worst ever? Count your good fortune. You’re still in the game.

We should pick the most lion-hearted Australian athlete at the end of every year — not the most successful nor the highest-profile nor the most entertaining, but the athlete with the biggest damn heart in the whole sporting land, probably someone who loses more than they win but fights on regardless — and give him or her an award worth savouring. A yellow ribbon.