Anyone might be tempted to think it is soccer's newest ruse, a gimmicky novelty guaranteed to outwit and confuse the Premiership's most experienced opponents.

Rory Delap's long throw has been causing defensive consternation all season. His influence, at least his biceps, could be traced back to both of Stoke City's goals against disgruntled Arsenal last weekend.

At the latest count, the 32-year-old Irish midfielder has been given much of the credit for seven of his side's recent goals. That makes him a key component in manager Tony Pulis's still vulnerable Premier League team.

Delap's mighty, muscular and precise throws have become a constant talking point on training grounds over the past few months. Team bosses and coaches have spent hours trying to find the best way to nullify the tactical threat.

All of which must be very flattering to the player who, after all, has been practising and refining the uncomplicated art during his previous career with Derby County and Southampton.

Delap shrugs off his success rate. "It's no secret," he says. "Everyone seems to know about it but it appears to be still working."

Maybe he also has one or two other things on his mind at the moment – like the highly-charged words of Arsene Wenger who was far from pleased about Stoke's physical approach and what he saw as a tackle from behind by Delap, which led to Theo Walcott's exit on a stretcher.

It does look as if the Irishman's prodigious throws are needlessly unnerving to some opposition. At Stoke's home games, an audible wave of expectancy regularly surfaces whenever Delap picks up the ball and ponders his options. At times, orthodox marking becomes a matter of uncertainty and anxiety.

Yet, as we suggested earlier, the long throw is hardly a new trick. When I was still a schoolboy, Sam Weaver was the great exponent. Those were the days of heavy balls, though he seldom threw less than 35 yards, often more. It was then a curious, radical idea. The game's academics wrote at length about it. "I use my back as a lever," Sam told them, in simple explanation.

He was a wing-half for Hull City, Newcastle and Chelsea, won three England caps and appeared in a cup final for the Magpies. And let's not forget his Somerset roots.

Sam lived for a time at Radstock. He was, in addition, a useful cricketer who spent his summers on the Derbyshire groundstaff. Twice he played for Somerset, including the much-quoted tied match with Worcestershire at Kidderminster in 1939.

In that low-scoring fixture, he figured in two fighting last-wicket stands with Horace Hazell, the roly-poly left-arm slow bowler who had earlier in the game taken five wickets for six runs. Hazell was eventually out off the sixth ball of the final over.

This mention of cricket brings us neatly on to the column's belated reflection on the vulgar riches of the Allen Stanford extravaganza which traded falsely under the name of cricket.

This week's reaction, from the England point of view, has been deafening in its silence. Players, who not long ago were stumbling over each other in their rush to get in the million-dollars-a-man queue, have now skulked away, feeling misguided and humiliated.

The repercussions will simmer for weeks. Giles Clarke and David Collier are bracing themselves, as leading ECB enthusiasts in the greed-induced charade, for a rough ride.

Publicity-conscious Stanford has been roundly cited as the villain. But is that entirely fair? For whatever motives, he has built a ground, given a new vitality to Caribbean cricket and passed money, in many cases, to players who probably needed it more than our already better-paid cricketers. Whether we should ever have allowed ourselves to be swept away into this ominous sporting unknown is another matter.