Andy Cole courage shows how football can be a force for good

Andy Cole felt so ashamed to be taken ill that he was initially reluctant even to inform his GP. He did not want to worry close friends by telling them he had started dialysis, and blamed himself for allowing his kidney disorder to become public knowledge.

He put on excessive weight due to his medication, following three weeks in hospital, and was confronted by the casual cruelty of strangers. Abused on social media and antagonised on the streets, he was dehumanised by his familiarity as a renowned Manchester United player of recent vintage.

“It began to get into my head” he admitted, in an affecting article for Yahoo Sports. “Imagine what it was like for my children to read stuff like that about their father, when their dad is fighting an illness. People would look at me like I had three heads and four eyes.”

This is no self-indulgent plea for sympathy. Cole insists “I don’t feel brave” and “don’t feel that my condition is worth mentioning in newspapers”. He hopes, “God willing”, he will not require a kidney transplant.

But his candour is important, since his status facilitates the sharing of thought-provoking experience. By talking so openly about the exhausting nature of his treatment, and the impact of vindictive mockery, he invites us to count our blessings and offers implicit support to fellow sufferers.

The mortality of celebrated athletes always comes as a shock, and Cole had every reason to dwell on the personal relevance of Jonah Lomu’s tragically premature death. This has been a week in which the shallowness of sport has been a strange release. The urge to accentuate the positive is strong.

A thought occurs: do we really make the most of an athlete’s power to engage? I am not speaking here of using footballers as a Terracotta Army, to be lined up, ramrod straight, in a show of orchestrated empathy for selected causes.

The ritual of the playing of “La Marseillaise” in recognition of victims of the Paris attacks, repeated out of context in this weekend’s Premier League programme following its emotional rendition at Wembley, is troubling since it invites cynicism.

Yet football is a modern point of reference. It does not have to produce heroes to provide realistic role models. Part of the essence of sport is the incorporation of personal weakness, and adaptation to stressful circumstances.

Stan Collymore is, by his own admission, a complex, flawed character. Yet he has emerged as a hugely effective advocate for mental health issues, helping to raise £1 million for friendsinneed.co.uk, an online support group designed to tackle the loneliness and isolation of depression. His response on social media to news of the suicide of Manchester City fan Lee Westbury was typical: “Men. Be a ‘proud’ man, keep it all in and kill yourself (trust me I’ve nearly been there). Or talk to a pal, live and contribute? Talk. PLEASE, if you’re struggling, TALK, it WORKS. Always talk, preserve life.”

Similarly, the case of the former Watford player Al Bangura, presented in a compelling BBC interview, highlighted the evil of child trafficking. Whatever this says about our news values, it received wider coverage than normal because of his profession.

Richard Scudamore, the Premier League’s executive chairman, may be guilty of underestimating the effect of ticket prices, but he deserves praise for normalising the prospect of prominent footballers revealing their homosexuality. They will set a uniquely powerful example, since their moral courage will demand acceptance.

Do not underestimate the game as a potential force for good. I happened to be in Brixton earlier this week when two young West Ham players, Leo Chambers and Nathan Mavila, visited an outreach programme organised by an inspirational urban project, Afewee.

They were greeted with awe, since they have taken the chance to advance themselves by living every boy’s dream. They represent hope, a commodity which seems even more precious in these troubled times.

The scapegoat, a decent man whose principles and processes imploded under the pressure of a home World Cup, is in danger of being lost to a game he still has the capacity to enrich.

Replacing Stuart Lancaster with Eddie Jones, a more celebrated and streetwise foreign coach, is revealingly simplistic and involves flaunting improbable amounts of cash. England might be the richest rugby nation, but it appears spiritually bankrupt and strategically incoherent. The Premiership, supposed flagship of the club game, operates without transparency, though it obviously shares with the Rugby Football Union a depressing faith in protectionism.

Jones is, at first glance, an engaging, restless character with a capacity for glibness and politically driven compromise. The eagerness with which he accepted the absurdity of the edict that will prevent him selecting foreign-based players like Steffon Armitage does not augur well.

He bordered on the condescending when he confirmed his intention to pick Lancaster’s brains. This will never happen, but maybe he should persuade the RFU to re-employ his predecessor in a development capacity.

For all his faults, Lancaster has a flair for strategic planning and an eye for emerging talent. He deserves better than to be tossed idly into the dustbin of rugby history.

If there has been a more repugnant sporting spectacle this year than Hollie Holm’s victory over Ronda Rousey in the so-called Ultimate Fighting Championship in Melbourne last weekend, I am glad it has escaped my attention.

This has nothing to do with the combatants being female. The stylised violence perpetrated by men in the name of a lucrative Mixed Martial Art is also morally indefensible.

Holm knocked Rousey out with a left-footed kick to the head, before punching her prone opponent several times until the referee intervened. The loser needed plastic surgery on a split lip, hid her injuries with a pillow and has been suspended from competition.

The blood lust of 56,000 spectators and millions of TV viewers might have been satisfied, but in a safety-conscious age their enthusiasm was demeaning and uniquely depressing.