The home of alternative sports commentary

At TippyTappySports, our aim is to bring you the best alternative sports commentary from around the world.

Whether it's football, cricket, rugby league or basque pelota, we'll bring you the kind of entertaining insight that only former captains of the under 9A's have access to.

So keep an eye on our broadcast schedule for upcoming major sporting events.

Follow us on all our social media for updates, snippets, previews and more. Because at TippyTappySports we’re dedicated to the use of sporting cliches – one match at a time.

So mute the tv. And turn up the tippy tappy!

Roger Federer and The Miami Age Machine

Overnight Roger Federer, the king of effortless strokeplay and diffident pasta twirls, won his 101st career title, taking out the Miami Open. The Miami Open is an ATP World Tour Masters 1,000 event which, to the uninitiated, means that it’s one of the biggest tournaments outside the 4 grands slam – or is it grand slams – and the end of season ATP Finals. In other words, it’s a big deal. After all, the prize money is over USD$1million. Not that Roger needs any more hard earned. Or coolly earned as the case may be.

The reason why we are banging on about this achievement is because Federer is a tennis champion at the grand old age of 37. Thirty seven. He’s the oldest ATP Tour tournament winner and is the only player this year to have won more than a single tournament. Let that sink in for a nanosecond. [Let’s thought sink in] Federer is relatively ancient and he’s still winning major tournaments. Ok stop. You too Federer.

Just a reminder – Federer is playing professional tennis. He’s not a golfer i.e. someone who walks by lakes and sandpits and whacks a little ball with a big stick and doesn’t even have the self respect to carry the clubs himself. Nor is Federer a goalkeeper, ambling around the 18 yard box and occasionally punching balls away because catching them is too hard. No, not for Our Roger. He’s out there floating around the court, creaming off-forehands, fizzing one handed top spin backhands or flicking half volleys from the baseline, all before apologizing for breaking serve. But never breaking into a sweat.  

Yes, much has been written about Federer previously. His talent is supernatural. His touch is extraordinary. His tears whenever Rod Laver appears contain the elixir of eternal life. His grace and demeanor is unparalleled to the point of nauseating. Father of the year, player of the century, there is nothing he can’t do. He even makes wearing a linen blazer in ivory seem like a good idea. Trust us, it’s not. We’ve done it. Heaps of times. It wouldn’t be so hard to take if he was in his mid 20s with a sunny disposition, fuelled by the misplaced optimism of youth. But he’s not. He’s old. He should be retired. He should be Dad bod friendly. He should be spruiking hair plugs and committing unspeakable acts in broom cupboards. He should be working out what to say during a tell all interview with some shonky media outlet who’s holding a form of Swiss kompromat that would make even Donald J. Trump blush. But he’s not. Sad!

By the age of 37, any right thinking person has glanced wistfully into the rear view mirror and thought to themselves, “how did it come to this?” Ok that might be just us here at TippyTappy Sports. As for Federer, he shows no sign of slowing down. Rather, he is accelerating. His skill is in deciding late, yet moving early. His delay is what gives him his advantage. That is the true mark of genius. Watch Federer play and there’s always a nagging sense that he’s not actually playing the person on the other side of the net. His opponent is not Nadal. It’s not Djokovic. It’s also not Kyrgios mainly because Kyrgios has threatened to make good on his talent but has spent the previous evening playing Fortnite and flossing on a jetski before rolling his ankle while jumping off. No, the only opponent that Federer ever has is himself. He may never win another major. He may never win another tournament. But Federer will always be playing.


State of Origin 2 - Queensland Under Pressure

It’s State of Origin 2. It’s only been 3 weeks since NSW comprehensively outplayed Queensland in Game 1. It’s been so long and the memories so good, some of us actually think Mitchell Pearce had a good game the first time round. Well a good game for him. And while we don't think Mitchell Pearce should be seen anywhere near a karaoke bar any time soon, he could be excused for belting out in Queensland's direction the David Bowie/Freddy Mercury masterpiece, Under Pressure. Knowing Pearce though, he'd probably go with the Vanilla Ice rip off. But we digress.

Queensland, stung by the thrashing handed out to them, has rung the changes. Unfortunately, that doesn’t extend to the coach. But Kevin "Not that Big Kev" Walters has made the tough decisions – he’s brought Billy Slater back. And Jonathon Thurston. With that kind of tough decision making, expect Captain Obvious to turn his talents to politics. Because we all know how well that went for is predecessor

Oh yeah, Captain Obvious also dropped most of the forward pack. This has its advantages. Nate Myles has taken up a residency at Pasha in Ibiza. After party security is now handled by His Girl Thaiday. Then it’s Back to Mine with Matty Johns. What.

Anyways, for Queensland, Wednesday is crucial – not only is the series on the line, it could be Thurston’s last competitive game at Origin level. No pressure Queensland. No need to think that playing in front of 80,000 Blues fans baying for only the second Origin victory in 10 years would be the kind of scene tailor made – but not Jason Tailor made – for a player like Thurston. Who else would you want to send over a wobbly field goal in the 78th minute to break a 4 all deadlock?

NSW will want to wrap up the series in Sydney. The idea of going to Brisbane in Thurston’s last game with the series still to play for would be the worst case of dead man walking since Paul Gallen's captain's run last year.

Either way, it’s going to be huge. It’s going to be hard. And it’s going to be coming at you. Live on TippyTappy Sports. To hear us call the game, bash that green button any time after 7:45pm 

Australia v Saudi Arabia - A Love Story

Saudi Arabia is a country that is all too often in the headlines for the wrong reasons. Sure, the recent spectacle of President Trump fondling an orb and predicting the next episode of fake news was cool.  After all, it provided a brief respite from the barrage of alleged human rights abuses, censoring of free speech and indiscriminate incarceration that we’ve come to know and love from our Saudi cousins. But Saudi Arabia poses a far more immediate threat to Australia – direct qualification for the World Cup in Russia 2018.  This is why on 8 June 2017, all Australians should check their political sensibilities at the door and either get out to the Adelaide Oval or get down to the pub to support the Socceroos.

The equation for the Socceroos is pretty simple. Win by 3 clear goals and move to second in Group B and pretty much guarantee direct qualification. Or draw/lose, remain in third place and face a play off for qualification. Not just one play off. Possibly two. The first would be against the third placed Asian team in Group A. Win that and then face another play off. Not against an Asian team but the 4th placed team from CONCACAF. At the moment that’s the USA. Let’s hope their keeper has tiny hands. We know their captain does.  

Given all the domestic football that’s on, you might have forgotten that the Socceroos are in the midst of their World Cup qualifying campaign. To be fair, the campaign has been going on since June 2015. That’s not a typo – June 2015. Think back to what you were doing then. Ok stop. Now clean up after yourself. June 2015 is almost a year to the day when the NSW Blues comprehensively demonstrated that victory in 2014’s State of Origin was basically a fluke. Almost six months before the Wallabies would reach the pinnacle in world rugby by being the best team in the world after the All Blacks. Hell, in June 2015 people still genuinely believed signing Lance “Buddy” Franklin on a 10 year contract was a bloody good idea.   

We all know how the match against the Saudis is going to go. It will be a cagey affair with Australia not wanting to commit too many players forward for fear of conceding a goal on the break. The Saudis will remain ‘compact’ in defence which is a polite way of saying they will ‘park the bus, ute and any other armoured vehicle that happens to be around’. Australia will look to Aaron Mooy, he of Huddersfield – and now playing with the big boys in the English Premier League – to inspire. We will look to Tom Rogic to conclusively prove that he does the best Mark Viduka impersonation of his generation i.e. is a gun at club level but goes beyond AWOL in big internationals. Regardless, if it’s 0-0 with ten minutes to play, expect to see lots of footage of Ange Postecoglu lurking in the technical area threatening to go the full Calombaris – no, not underpay his staff but abuse anyone in earshot.

Most importantly, this qualifier will provide cannon fodder for all the soccer ‘haters’ out there as the Saudis look to slow the match down, fake injury and fake concern for fellow human beings. That is not fake news. President Trump would be proud. That’s reason enough to get out there and wear your green and gold. We’re calling it 2-0. To Australia.

This article was first published here

2017 Update: India, Cricket & Vindalosers

It's been a while since our last update so you might think there hasn’t been much happening in the world of TippyTappy Sports. Nothing could be further from the truth. The last few months has seen an intensity of activity to rival the day before an essay is due. Flat panic, abuse of caffeine, self loathing and unfulfilled resolutions to never ever do that again. Ok that last bit might be more indicative of our time at university but hey, it’s part of the rich tapestry that is “making content”. Especially when you do so in India. And call the finished product: Vindalosers.

To give the briefest of recaps, we were lucky enough to have radio juggernaut Southern Cross Austereo come on board and partner with us to make a film in India about cricket; specifically, why it’s so hard for Australia to win at test level in India. We set out with the ambitious task of writing the blueprint for what the Australian test team – and indeed any test team – has to do in order to succeed in India. It’s good to think big. After all, there are 1 billion people in India.

Telling people prior to departure that we were off to India to make a film about cricket was universally met with the same question: have you been to India before? The pause between answer and response was no longer than a nanosecond but looking into people’s eyes during that moment was to relive a Homeric epic in all its glory. The fear, the expectation, the sheer wild eyed intensity as people waited to hear our response “no, never” was immediately replaced with a form of mystical almost transcendental pity – “You don’t know what you’re in for”. Indeed we didn’t.

The only thing more humiliating than being bowled about by a 12 year old is being bowled out by hundreds of 12 year olds. Indeed, we could still be in India and there would be kids lining up to have a crack at the Australian cricketing anti talent who put the pads on – plus an inner thigh pad for good measure – in a pathetic attempt to channel his inner backyard Steve Waugh from the early 90s. That’s not a clumsy dig about India’s huge population – we all know this anyway – but the sheer joy that cricket brings to the people of India is something to be witnessed first hand. Finding a cricket coach in Mumbai whose first lesson consisted of us eating ice cream is a long way from Mr Walker standing behind me with a stump aimed directly at my bum to stop me from backing away. 

Travelling from Mumbai to Delhi to Vizag to Banglaore to Mysore, it was impossible not to be swept up in the pure enthusiasm for cricket – not cricket as highly paid professional sport but cricket as pure play; play that knew no age or gender but did know Facebook friend requests. In fact, we were in more selfies in our time in India than in our entire life. If cricket celebrity be the food of India, play on. Pass me the dhal though. What. Anyways, cricket in India is exhausting, intoxicating and no argument about a leg before wicket dismissal in street cricket – or gully cricket as it’s known – can’t be resolved over cardamom tea prepared by someone’s mother.

Clearly, we were on to something. Australia won the first test. They hadn’t come close to winning a test in India since 2004. Unsurprisingly, we took the credit for that victory. Our invoice to Cricket Australia remains unpaid. No wonder the organization is in turmoil if it can’t pay its critical suppliers let alone its players.

India is as crazy as we had been led to believe. And the Indians are as obsessed with cricket as people say. But don’t take our (written) word for it. Watch the film. Go on.

The preview can be seen here: 


The full 30 minute extravaganza here:


For all the bonus clips, check out our Insta or Facebook. Of course if that’s too hard, just watch them all on the site here under “Video”.

Lost in the Shire: Why Peter Stirling is the Bill Murray of Rugby League

It is the biggest mystery since the investigation into what exactly Eddie Haysen was thinking during that press conference. We all want to know: just what did Peter Sterling say to Chad Townsend after the Sharks v Cowboys preliminary final. Townsend has done a remarkable thing and stated that he would rather keep it private. What? To himself? That’s not the way of the 21st century rugby league player – privacy is limited to the evanescence of Snapchat. Yeah that’s right, evanescence. Bet you never thought you’d see that word and Snapchat in the same sentence about rugby league.

The point is this: how much better would rugby league be if players, coaches and administrators kept stuff to themselves? Imagine a world where we didn’t know what James Segeyaro was having for dinner – honey king prawns, beef in blackbean sauce, chicken chow mein and a fried rice, yeah large cheers thanks – or which convicted criminal he was having it with? Or a world where Andrew Fifita didn’t write the names of his mates on his arm? All three of them too! That would be as much fun as a ride at Jarrydworld on the Gold Coast but something we could all believe in.

This season is the greatest annus horribilis in rugby league since the last one. In a year of salary cap biatches, #instaexcuses and Stephen Dank memes, the Sterling/Townsend lovefest is the best news since Anthony Mundine agreed to stop giving players lifts to the airport. Clearly, there is one man who is singlehandedly responsible for bringing league back from the brink. And that man is Bill Murray.

Were it not for the ludicrousness of Bill Murray whispering sweet nothings into the ear of an emotional Scarlett Johansson on a busy street in Shibuya, Peter Stirling would have had no reference point for his words to Townsend. None. Nada. Big fat cronut. Sure, Sterlo could have taken the David Lynch route and gone all Mulholland Drive silencio on Townsend, but Sterlo has never struck me as a lesbian noir kind of guy. That’s clearly Wayne Bennett’s thing. Maybe Freddie Fittler too if he’s had a few too many Bacardi Breezers and is running around like an excited puppy.

The fact is, Peter Sterling is the Bill Murray of rugby league. He has the same bald head. The same goofy persona. That singular ability to look confused and a font of all wisdom at the same time. They both have a love for early 80s glam rock at karaoke and oversize meals of shabu shabu. The same legendary status within their field. After all, who else could make a Mazda RX-7 seem like an appealing possibility in 1986? Who else would be able to say, hand on heart, I won a Grand Final, I basically did nothing and the score was 4-2?

If Peter Sterling is the Bill Murray of rugby league, does that make Chad Townsend league’s Scarlett Johansson? The answer, in rugby league talk, is clearly yeahnah. He has, however, displayed all the qualities of the ingénue such that he deserves a medal. Let’s call it a Clive Churchill. But only if James Maloney beats him to it.