Games that should never have been

Football pays homage with impeccable silence. But as Newcastle tame champions and Reds rule the Mersey, the question remains: should they have played at all?

No one had the heart for football yesterday, though the rituals of a regular Saturday were politely observed. A minute's silence was held before every League match and players wore black armbands as a mark of respect for the thousands killed in the terrorist attacks on America last Tuesday. But when the death toll was still rising through every minute of the 90, you had to question the sensitivity of football's response.

At Goodison Park, wreaths were laid by the captains in a robust and moving pre-match ceremony in memory of the dead, one placed by Kevin Campbell of Everton on the flag of the Stars and Stripes out in the centre circle, the other by Sami Hyypia on the Union Jack. But Gérard Houllier, the Liverpool manager, was not alone in expressing his unease at the swiftness of the resumption of his sport.

"It is not a time when you can express satisfaction or pleasure," Houllier said after the 165th Merseyside derby. "This is a sad period for everybody and particularly difficult for the players, who deserve all the credit." Liverpool have now played twice since Tuesday, and Houllier admitted that on Tuesday night his side had played on "automatic" in the immediate aftermath of the horror. "Just because this was a derby game doesn't change anything. People won't forget."

Yet, for once, sport's confusion was understandable. What is the correct response to a tragedy beyond comprehension? European matches played on Tuesday, but cancelled by Uefa on Wednesday and Thursday. Nationwide League and Worthington Cup fixtures routinely waved on, a Premier League programme played yesterday and today. Ice hockey, a sport predominantly staffed by north Americans, understandably called off. County cricket and racing, on.

Sport is traditionally summoned in these moments to act as a telescope on society. We want a sense of perspective, and sport, as an obvious irrelevance, becomes the logical point of focus and

a very public symbol of care. This matters because we are not playing games any more. But what happens when there is no sense of perspective, when the walls between fiction and reality come tumbling down and the world is thrust into limbo? Then sport can assume a significance out of all proportion to its triviality. Maybe it was appropriate that life could, after five days of darkness, be defined once again by the raucous drama of a Saturday afternoon, by the realities of the referee's whistle and the comforting voice of James Alexander Gordon.

Yesterday, we trooped into the grounds to pay homage to normality and we, the reporters, were as guilty of human negligence as any one else hypnotised by the quest for three points or, in the case of the Merseyside derby, for a few precious months' worth of bragging rights.

It was release of a sort, a chance to settle into a familiar routine, find some footholds at the end of a week of disorientation, but not once did you lose the uncomfortable sense that sporting emotions had been triggered with indecent haste.

The debate will centre this week on the Ryder Cup, which more than any other sporting event encourages the metaphors of battle. In the self-styled War on the Shore in Kiawah Island, in the wake of Operation Desert Storm, the Americans donned commando gear and the European team momentarily felt like an armed invasion force. The 1999 Ryder Cup in Brookline, Boston, was almost irretrievably soured by the excessive patriotism of the American team on the final day.

There are delicate issues to be discussed not just by the American players, who would be entirely justified in their decision to withdraw, but by the Europeans, who would also need to examine their consciences and decide whether engagement in a mere golfing contest would be appropriate at such a sensitive time.

If America, as George Bush has said, is now at war, then it is difficult to see how the American team could travel safely, even to the heart of middle England. Yet sport has a capacity to bring out the best as well as the worst in people. Handled with dignity on both sides, treated with care and respect by players and spectators alike, the three days of the Ryder Cup could prove a worthy symbol of community and act as a welcome reminder that sport too, in its own simple way, can be a force for good.

The lingering memory of yesterday's Merseyside derby was not of victory or defeat but of the three American flags draped over the perimeter boards and of 39,554 people, red and blue, united in an emotional stillness. In the church of St Luke's next door to Goodison Park, they held a service of remembrance on Friday, led by the Reverend Harry Ross, the Everton chaplain. "It doesn't seem quite right to be playing football today," he reflected. "But then you have to start again somewhere, don't you?"