Jimi Hendrix first set light to his guitar at the end of a gig in March 1967. The crowd loved it so much he started to do it regularly. It soon became such a part of his act that if he didn’t take a cigarette lighter to his Stratocaster, the paying public felt short-changed. Now maybe it is the wild hair, the earring or the outrageous talent, but Tillakaratne Dilshan is starting to remind me of Hendrix. Yes, yes, yes, we were all thinking, as he nudged and tapped his first few balls around today, that’s all very well, but when’s he going to do the funny down-on-one-knee scoopy thingy? That’s what we’ve paid our money for. But when he finally pulled out the party piece, it proved his undoing. So is he going to feel obliged to do it every time? Or could he come up with another gimmick to trump the Scoop. Maybe he could set fire to his bat?
Dilshan couldn’t save Delhi today and nor could Virender Sehwag, despite some trademark carnage which, as ever, was either going to end in a new batting record or a catch on the boundary. After forty-seven effortless runs, he holed out and so the sole remaining IPL franchise crashed out of the Champions League. In fact, the evening game was something of a cricketing Gotterdammerung in which the last two Indian teams failed to do the sensible thing, instead taking one another down like two stubborn elephants squabbling over a bag of peanuts whilst the rope bridge they are both standing on starts to fray.
It may have come as a surprise to the cynically minded, but it appeared that Bangalore really wanted to win, despite being effectively dumped out of the tournament by Victoria’s defeat earlier in the day. Little Roelof van der Merwe spent most of his time in the field either covering his face with his hands in disbelief or roaring like a ten year old doing his fiercest African lion impression. A made up team? Only in it for the money? Don’t you believe it.
The afternoon match was a more frenetic event. Maybe it was the delayed start, the shortened number of overs, the doubts over the team line-ups or the two wickets in the first over, but I soon felt exhausted. It was like one of those mornings when you are late for work, the phone is ringing, you can’t find your keys and everything is a rush. For three-quarters of the thirty-three overs it was a thunderous, ugly but exhilarating tussle. The Cobras won and were the better team but somehow Victoria made more of an impression. There is nothing half-hearted about them. They bat like butchers playing golf and in Siddle and Harwood they have two red-blooded and slightly frightening grunters.
And a word about the crowd. The warmth, excitement and sheer noise generated by those attending the Chinnaswamy Stadium made this the best day’s viewing of the tournament thus far for the armchair cricket connoisseur. The festival exuberance, the fireworks and the chanting for Sehwag and for birthday-boy Kumble turned the occasion into an intoxicating blend of carnival and political rally. It was quite a show. Let’s hope next Friday’s final can match it.
Happy Diwali. And Happy Birthday Jumbo.
Saturday, October 17, 2009
Thursday, October 15, 2009
The Not So Super Over
So, the Sharks of Sussex are out of the world’s finest international-club-versus-franchise jamboree. Their elimination on Tuesday night raised many questions. What were they doing there? What time is the flight home? When will they get their money? Additionally, the manner of their exit led some to question the legitimacy of the super over as a method of settling a match. Surely, it was a violation of Rory Hamilton-Brown’s human rights for him to be embarrassed twice in the same match. Isn’t there a better way? Indeed there is. Here, for your thoughtful consideration are four proposals for ensuring a swift and compassionate end to proceedings on those occasions when the participants have been too inept to sort it out for themselves.
The Coin Toss
Before we consider the ridiculous, let us contemplate the sublime. The coin is in fact an elegant and unimpeachable arbiter and many of us have made some of our most important life decisions after flinging a bit of currency into the air. Indeed, I know of one particular High Court judge who would simply be unable to dispense justice as efficiently as he does without recourse to the coin toss. If it is good enough to decide upon prison sentences, marriage proposals, job offers and where to go for lunch, it ought to be good enough to settle the outcome of a Twenty20 game.
The Percentometer
Cricketers love statistics but are notoriously unreliable. When Ravi Bopara says he gave it 110%, how can we be sure that this is an accurate estimate? For all we know, he might only have given it 106% or 99%. Fortunately, scientists at the Adelaide Institute of Silly Studies have developed the Percentometer, a device that can measure how hard a team have tried in percentage terms by correlating sweat volumes, profanity output and steely glares. In the event of a tie, the team with the highest Percentometer readings will win the game.
The Bank-Off
These days, business goes with cricket like a parasitic green algae goes with an ornamental pond. So why not bring some of the features of the corporate world into our great sport. In the event of a stalemate, accountants dressed in team colours will make their way to the middle of the pitch and at specially built desks will proceed to audit the opposition team’s accounts. The franchise with the fewest accounting errors will be declared the winner. The only disadvantage with this suggestion is that it could take several hours but this will allow plenty of time for television commercials.
The Dance-Off
For reasons that are not immediately apparent, watching people dance badly on television has become very popular in certain parts of the world. What better way to cash in on this trend than by introducing a ballroom dance competition to settle tied cricket matches. Each team will choose one pair of players to dress up in spangly suits and silly grins and perform in front of a celebrity panel of dance floor dynamos, including Ravi ‘Rumba’ Shastri and Sunny ‘Samba’ Gavaskar. Watch out for Kolkata’s fabulous couple of captivating captains, Sourav Ganguly and Brendon McCullum. Their foxtrot is something to behold.
The Coin Toss
Before we consider the ridiculous, let us contemplate the sublime. The coin is in fact an elegant and unimpeachable arbiter and many of us have made some of our most important life decisions after flinging a bit of currency into the air. Indeed, I know of one particular High Court judge who would simply be unable to dispense justice as efficiently as he does without recourse to the coin toss. If it is good enough to decide upon prison sentences, marriage proposals, job offers and where to go for lunch, it ought to be good enough to settle the outcome of a Twenty20 game.
The Percentometer
Cricketers love statistics but are notoriously unreliable. When Ravi Bopara says he gave it 110%, how can we be sure that this is an accurate estimate? For all we know, he might only have given it 106% or 99%. Fortunately, scientists at the Adelaide Institute of Silly Studies have developed the Percentometer, a device that can measure how hard a team have tried in percentage terms by correlating sweat volumes, profanity output and steely glares. In the event of a tie, the team with the highest Percentometer readings will win the game.
The Bank-Off
These days, business goes with cricket like a parasitic green algae goes with an ornamental pond. So why not bring some of the features of the corporate world into our great sport. In the event of a stalemate, accountants dressed in team colours will make their way to the middle of the pitch and at specially built desks will proceed to audit the opposition team’s accounts. The franchise with the fewest accounting errors will be declared the winner. The only disadvantage with this suggestion is that it could take several hours but this will allow plenty of time for television commercials.
The Dance-Off
For reasons that are not immediately apparent, watching people dance badly on television has become very popular in certain parts of the world. What better way to cash in on this trend than by introducing a ballroom dance competition to settle tied cricket matches. Each team will choose one pair of players to dress up in spangly suits and silly grins and perform in front of a celebrity panel of dance floor dynamos, including Ravi ‘Rumba’ Shastri and Sunny ‘Samba’ Gavaskar. Watch out for Kolkata’s fabulous couple of captivating captains, Sourav Ganguly and Brendon McCullum. Their foxtrot is something to behold.
Tuesday, October 13, 2009
Beware The Benaud
It all started at breakfast. I had just poured out my customary bowl of chocolate googlies and was about to add a dash of the semi-skimmed when I noticed that the cocoa flavoured shapes had formed themselves into the image of Richie Benaud gazing sadly into the middle distance.
Now, students of cricket-lore will know that the breakfast-time manifestation of a former Australian cricketer is a portent of some significance. For example, if your egg yolk takes on the shape of David Boon, your health check-up is overdue; if your buttered toast looks a bit like Kim Hughes, you should keep an eye on your work colleagues and if you see Glen McGrath in your tea leaves, you are probably Mike Atherton.
But what, I wondered, could Richie be trying to tell me? The answer became clear at a little after six forty-five this evening. As Rory Hamilton-Brown failed utterly to defend his wooden castle, I finally understood. Besides being everyone’s favourite decommissioned Australian captain, retired wrist-swiveller and microphone jockey, Richie Benaud is a betting shaman. He had taken on cereal form in order to warn me.
For I am afraid dear reader, I had succumbed to the gambler’s curse. I couldn’t let a tournament like this go by without a modest wager and I had chosen to place my money on the Sharks of Sussex. My reasons were plentiful, if not particularly convincing. They are, it must be said, the best hit and giggle troupe in England. They wear a particularly fetching shade of sky blue. And they are called the Sharks. Powerful, swift, killing machines, always on the move. How could they lose? Easily, it transpired.
Under the Delhi floodlights, Sussex toyed with the emotions of the desperate gambler as though they didn’t even care that I had backed them at 16-1 in the upstairs back room of a discrete Soho establishment a week last Wednesday. Like a tedious relative who tells the same joke at every family gathering, Luke Wright ran through his usual repertoire of boundary-boundary-boundary-oopsy daisy and the subsequent exhibition of recklessness by his batting chums was more reminiscent of Lemmings than Sharks.
But all hope was not extinguished. Piyush Chawla, my favourite promising spinner of the pre-Mendis era, span a web of silken subtlety to tie the Eagles down. A dozen to get off the last over and a glorious penultimate yorker from Yasir Arafat – surely the game was won? Alas, no. A heartless, clubbing blow from Ryan Mclaren and we were into a super-duper-sudden-death-knock-out eliminator. By the time Rory of the Hamilton-Browns failed, I was spent, a limp rag of a man lying stretched out on the chaise longue, with a bottle of gin in my hand and a wet flannel over my face.
The moral of the story should be obvious by now, dear reader. Clearly, the game was fixed. I have already written a letter to Sussex County Council asking them to instigate an immediate enquiry and I expect to be reading of the resignation of Michael Yardy in Sunday’s Times. In the circumstances, it is the least he could do.
Now, students of cricket-lore will know that the breakfast-time manifestation of a former Australian cricketer is a portent of some significance. For example, if your egg yolk takes on the shape of David Boon, your health check-up is overdue; if your buttered toast looks a bit like Kim Hughes, you should keep an eye on your work colleagues and if you see Glen McGrath in your tea leaves, you are probably Mike Atherton.
But what, I wondered, could Richie be trying to tell me? The answer became clear at a little after six forty-five this evening. As Rory Hamilton-Brown failed utterly to defend his wooden castle, I finally understood. Besides being everyone’s favourite decommissioned Australian captain, retired wrist-swiveller and microphone jockey, Richie Benaud is a betting shaman. He had taken on cereal form in order to warn me.
For I am afraid dear reader, I had succumbed to the gambler’s curse. I couldn’t let a tournament like this go by without a modest wager and I had chosen to place my money on the Sharks of Sussex. My reasons were plentiful, if not particularly convincing. They are, it must be said, the best hit and giggle troupe in England. They wear a particularly fetching shade of sky blue. And they are called the Sharks. Powerful, swift, killing machines, always on the move. How could they lose? Easily, it transpired.
Under the Delhi floodlights, Sussex toyed with the emotions of the desperate gambler as though they didn’t even care that I had backed them at 16-1 in the upstairs back room of a discrete Soho establishment a week last Wednesday. Like a tedious relative who tells the same joke at every family gathering, Luke Wright ran through his usual repertoire of boundary-boundary-boundary-oopsy daisy and the subsequent exhibition of recklessness by his batting chums was more reminiscent of Lemmings than Sharks.
But all hope was not extinguished. Piyush Chawla, my favourite promising spinner of the pre-Mendis era, span a web of silken subtlety to tie the Eagles down. A dozen to get off the last over and a glorious penultimate yorker from Yasir Arafat – surely the game was won? Alas, no. A heartless, clubbing blow from Ryan Mclaren and we were into a super-duper-sudden-death-knock-out eliminator. By the time Rory of the Hamilton-Browns failed, I was spent, a limp rag of a man lying stretched out on the chaise longue, with a bottle of gin in my hand and a wet flannel over my face.
The moral of the story should be obvious by now, dear reader. Clearly, the game was fixed. I have already written a letter to Sussex County Council asking them to instigate an immediate enquiry and I expect to be reading of the resignation of Michael Yardy in Sunday’s Times. In the circumstances, it is the least he could do.
Saturday, October 10, 2009
The Sound Of Silence
“Make some noise!” screamed the DJ, although from where I was sitting, the Hyderabad crowd needed no instructions in the etiquette of din making. A raucous, joyful racket seems to come naturally to an Indian cricket audience, as does its counterpart: complete and utter silence. And the passing from one state to the other can be disconcerting to the non-Indian, sofa-bound viewer. In the time it took the white ball bowled by Peter Trego to pass VVS Laxman’s bat and crash into the stripy stumps, the deafening nightclub atmosphere of the Rajiv Gandhi International Stadium was replaced by a quiet so complete and so eerie that we could have been watching a county game at Taunton. At first, I thought I’d pressed the mute button by mistake.
‘I want rainy sixes’ read one banner in the crowd, clearly fashioned by a Somerset fan pining for the dampness of old Blighty. There was no rain, but there were sixes, my favourite ones being those dished up by Venugopal Rao who for his first effort seemed barely to touch bat on ball but managed to send it crashing into the Deccan-blue plastic chairs beyond the long-on boundary. And, mercy of mercies, these big hits were entirely unsponsored. They were sixes in their natural state, as God intended them, with just a comforting cliché or two (“Oh that’s gone a long way!”) to mark their passing.
Some IPL innovations are hard to shake off though. For some reason, Marcus Trescothick was miked up and halfway through the Deccan innings, Harsha Bhogle engaged him in a meandering conversation that redefined the word ‘interminable’. Eventually, poor Trescothick was allowed to concentrate on the game, although not before an edge from Rohit Sharma went flying past his left hand as he stood at slip. Bhogle speculated excitedly what it would have been like if Trescothick had been talking to them as he caught the catch. More pertinently, we wondered what it would have been like if the incessant prattling of the studio-jockey had caused him to drop it.
And alongside the irrepressible Harsha was one time fast bowler and Atherton-baiter, Alan Donald, in his new incarnation as commentator-cum-expert. It’s early days but I am pleased to report that he is already showing the skills you need to ascend to the punditry Pantheon. For example, as the Somerset run-chase faltered, Craig Kieswetter lofted a ball from Pragyan Ojha high towards long-on. Donald seized his moment. “Shot!” he exclaimed, confidently, “And this could be out as well…it is! Not a good shot!” With such admirable verbal dexterity, Donald could be a fixture in the commentary box for many years to come.
‘I want rainy sixes’ read one banner in the crowd, clearly fashioned by a Somerset fan pining for the dampness of old Blighty. There was no rain, but there were sixes, my favourite ones being those dished up by Venugopal Rao who for his first effort seemed barely to touch bat on ball but managed to send it crashing into the Deccan-blue plastic chairs beyond the long-on boundary. And, mercy of mercies, these big hits were entirely unsponsored. They were sixes in their natural state, as God intended them, with just a comforting cliché or two (“Oh that’s gone a long way!”) to mark their passing.
Some IPL innovations are hard to shake off though. For some reason, Marcus Trescothick was miked up and halfway through the Deccan innings, Harsha Bhogle engaged him in a meandering conversation that redefined the word ‘interminable’. Eventually, poor Trescothick was allowed to concentrate on the game, although not before an edge from Rohit Sharma went flying past his left hand as he stood at slip. Bhogle speculated excitedly what it would have been like if Trescothick had been talking to them as he caught the catch. More pertinently, we wondered what it would have been like if the incessant prattling of the studio-jockey had caused him to drop it.
And alongside the irrepressible Harsha was one time fast bowler and Atherton-baiter, Alan Donald, in his new incarnation as commentator-cum-expert. It’s early days but I am pleased to report that he is already showing the skills you need to ascend to the punditry Pantheon. For example, as the Somerset run-chase faltered, Craig Kieswetter lofted a ball from Pragyan Ojha high towards long-on. Donald seized his moment. “Shot!” he exclaimed, confidently, “And this could be out as well…it is! Not a good shot!” With such admirable verbal dexterity, Donald could be a fixture in the commentary box for many years to come.
Thursday, October 8, 2009
A Trying Day
It has been a trying day, cricket chums.
On the way home to my country estate, I popped into Mr Border’s Newsagent and Tucker Shop for an Evening Standard and a little refreshment. “Good evening sir, I’d like to purchase a bottle of mineral water,” I offered, politely. The gruff bearded custodian glowered at me from behind his counter. “Mineral water?” he growled, “What do you think this is, a f***** tea-party?” A few minutes later, I emerged, somewhat shaken, with two tins of dog food and a packet of firelighters. I must confess I do sometimes wonder whether poor old Mr Border is quite cut out for the service industry.
Never mind, I thought, at least I have Jamelia to look forward to. Not being able to witness the opening extravaganza of the Champions League, I had entrusted the task of recording said festival of jollity to an electronic device, a device that, it transpired, was incapable of performing the one task that justified its existence; a device that is currently residing amidst the azaleas in an upside-down position.
As the horror of the situation dawned upon me, I didn’t panic. The modern armchair cricketer must have the mind of a nuclear physicist, the reflexes of a panther and the manual dexterity of a concert pianist. I did some quick mental arithmetic, realised that the broadcast hadn’t quite finished and after playing a rapid arpeggio on the remote control, managed to catch the last twenty seconds live from Bangalore.
I saw blue and yellow-shirted players celebrating (these, I learned, were Cobras). I smiled wistfully as I recognised the tireless enthusiasm of Harsha Bhogle, who always sounds as though he has just discovered the game of cricket that very day and can’t wait to tell everyone about it. I even saw Mr Modi, keeping up his proud record of ensuring not a single televised cricket minute can pass without the benefit of his immaculately coiffured presence.
Then, alas, the credits rolled and it was all gone; a brief glimpse of Bangalore under floodlights snatched away. Life, for an armchair cricket fan with a malfunctioning hard disk recorder, can be so cruel. I am left with a forty-over-and-opening-ceremony-with-singing-and-dancing sized hole in the precious memories section of my brain. An evening that had promised much thwackery and a pulsing Bollywood soundtrack will now be passed solemnly, with only the clink of the port decanter, the polite cough of my butler and the cries of the peacocks on the lawn to break the mournful silence.
Of course, I could try to reconstruct the day’s events from the scorecard, but that is rather like trying to relive your wedding by reading the guest list. And how could I possibly recreate the wonders of the opening ceremony? What joys have I been denied? What splendours have passed me by? So, I ask you, dear Cricinfo readers, can you come to the aid of a man in distress? Just answer me this: what was Jamelia wearing? And please, tell me, were there men on stilts? At least I could sleep happily tonight knowing that there were men on stilts.
On the way home to my country estate, I popped into Mr Border’s Newsagent and Tucker Shop for an Evening Standard and a little refreshment. “Good evening sir, I’d like to purchase a bottle of mineral water,” I offered, politely. The gruff bearded custodian glowered at me from behind his counter. “Mineral water?” he growled, “What do you think this is, a f***** tea-party?” A few minutes later, I emerged, somewhat shaken, with two tins of dog food and a packet of firelighters. I must confess I do sometimes wonder whether poor old Mr Border is quite cut out for the service industry.
Never mind, I thought, at least I have Jamelia to look forward to. Not being able to witness the opening extravaganza of the Champions League, I had entrusted the task of recording said festival of jollity to an electronic device, a device that, it transpired, was incapable of performing the one task that justified its existence; a device that is currently residing amidst the azaleas in an upside-down position.
As the horror of the situation dawned upon me, I didn’t panic. The modern armchair cricketer must have the mind of a nuclear physicist, the reflexes of a panther and the manual dexterity of a concert pianist. I did some quick mental arithmetic, realised that the broadcast hadn’t quite finished and after playing a rapid arpeggio on the remote control, managed to catch the last twenty seconds live from Bangalore.
I saw blue and yellow-shirted players celebrating (these, I learned, were Cobras). I smiled wistfully as I recognised the tireless enthusiasm of Harsha Bhogle, who always sounds as though he has just discovered the game of cricket that very day and can’t wait to tell everyone about it. I even saw Mr Modi, keeping up his proud record of ensuring not a single televised cricket minute can pass without the benefit of his immaculately coiffured presence.
Then, alas, the credits rolled and it was all gone; a brief glimpse of Bangalore under floodlights snatched away. Life, for an armchair cricket fan with a malfunctioning hard disk recorder, can be so cruel. I am left with a forty-over-and-opening-ceremony-with-singing-and-dancing sized hole in the precious memories section of my brain. An evening that had promised much thwackery and a pulsing Bollywood soundtrack will now be passed solemnly, with only the clink of the port decanter, the polite cough of my butler and the cries of the peacocks on the lawn to break the mournful silence.
Of course, I could try to reconstruct the day’s events from the scorecard, but that is rather like trying to relive your wedding by reading the guest list. And how could I possibly recreate the wonders of the opening ceremony? What joys have I been denied? What splendours have passed me by? So, I ask you, dear Cricinfo readers, can you come to the aid of a man in distress? Just answer me this: what was Jamelia wearing? And please, tell me, were there men on stilts? At least I could sleep happily tonight knowing that there were men on stilts.
Tuesday, October 6, 2009
The Champions League - A Dummies Guide
So the big one is almost upon us. Over the next day or so, you can expect to be bombarded with Champions League previews, but frankly, you might as well ignore all of them, because this is the only appetite-whetter you’ll need. Armed with the Long Handle Dummies’ Guide to the Champions League, you will be able to bluff your way through those tricky CL conversations that will soon be taking place in offices, nightclubs, brothels and places of worship around the globe.
How Does It Work?
The format is simplicity itself. A dozen teams play one another approximately 117 times in the first ‘Super Eliminator Knock-Out Round’. The squad with the most hamstring injuries will then drop out before we enter the ‘Extra Special Decider Mini-League’ from which the ten least exhausted teams will progress and so on. Eventually, after just 7,102 pulsating matches, we will reach the ‘Ultimate Supreme Champion Play-Off World Series Final’ at the end of which the Indian team with the highest number of points will be declared the winner and will be named ‘Supreme Overlords and Rulers of the Universe (2009)’ although they will have to defend their title almost immediately.
What Should We Look Out For?
Some of the world’s finest commentators and Mark Nicholas have been polishing their adjectives in preparation for this feast of cricket, so you can expect some innovative and daring use of sponsors’ names during the long, long days ahead. Viewers should also be on the look out for the early signs of Twenty20 fatigue, the first symptoms of which are an inability to remember which teams are playing and a nagging feeling that Ravi Shastri is hiding in your wardrobe.
Teams To Watch:
Deccan Chargers
The reigning IPL champions, they got their name thanks to their habit of asking for exorbitant fees for getting out of bed, practising and smiling. In preparation for the Champions League, Deccan recently unveiled their new team logo: an enormous golden wheelbarrow full of notes.
Delhi Daredevils
Qualified by virtue of not being the worst semi-finalists at IPL 2009, the Daredevils have been boosted by the absence of Paul Collingwood and have warmed up for this tournament with a team-bonding visit to the Bank of India.
Somerset Peasants/Sussex Nobodies
May struggle to adapt to the heat, the travel and the presence of large numbers of spectators. Although they aren’t very good, all the English lads have brought their bank details with them and are hopeful of getting a result.
New South Wales Meat Pies
The only series challengers from outside India, the Meat Pies are planning a big celebration if they win the thing. To thank the folks of New South Wales, Simon Katich will be letting fans catch a glimpse of the yacht he hopes to buy with his winnings and Brett Lee has promised not to sing.
Cape Chokers
The current South African Twenty20 Champions, the Chokers only won their final play-off against the Border Bottlers when the other team got so nervous about the big day that they forgot to turn up. The Chokers still somehow managed to find themselves 10-2 after five overs but then thankfully rain intervened and they scraped through under the Duckworth Lewis system.
How Does It Work?
The format is simplicity itself. A dozen teams play one another approximately 117 times in the first ‘Super Eliminator Knock-Out Round’. The squad with the most hamstring injuries will then drop out before we enter the ‘Extra Special Decider Mini-League’ from which the ten least exhausted teams will progress and so on. Eventually, after just 7,102 pulsating matches, we will reach the ‘Ultimate Supreme Champion Play-Off World Series Final’ at the end of which the Indian team with the highest number of points will be declared the winner and will be named ‘Supreme Overlords and Rulers of the Universe (2009)’ although they will have to defend their title almost immediately.
What Should We Look Out For?
Some of the world’s finest commentators and Mark Nicholas have been polishing their adjectives in preparation for this feast of cricket, so you can expect some innovative and daring use of sponsors’ names during the long, long days ahead. Viewers should also be on the look out for the early signs of Twenty20 fatigue, the first symptoms of which are an inability to remember which teams are playing and a nagging feeling that Ravi Shastri is hiding in your wardrobe.
Teams To Watch:
Deccan Chargers
The reigning IPL champions, they got their name thanks to their habit of asking for exorbitant fees for getting out of bed, practising and smiling. In preparation for the Champions League, Deccan recently unveiled their new team logo: an enormous golden wheelbarrow full of notes.
Delhi Daredevils
Qualified by virtue of not being the worst semi-finalists at IPL 2009, the Daredevils have been boosted by the absence of Paul Collingwood and have warmed up for this tournament with a team-bonding visit to the Bank of India.
Somerset Peasants/Sussex Nobodies
May struggle to adapt to the heat, the travel and the presence of large numbers of spectators. Although they aren’t very good, all the English lads have brought their bank details with them and are hopeful of getting a result.
New South Wales Meat Pies
The only series challengers from outside India, the Meat Pies are planning a big celebration if they win the thing. To thank the folks of New South Wales, Simon Katich will be letting fans catch a glimpse of the yacht he hopes to buy with his winnings and Brett Lee has promised not to sing.
Cape Chokers
The current South African Twenty20 Champions, the Chokers only won their final play-off against the Border Bottlers when the other team got so nervous about the big day that they forgot to turn up. The Chokers still somehow managed to find themselves 10-2 after five overs but then thankfully rain intervened and they scraped through under the Duckworth Lewis system.
Saturday, October 3, 2009
I Don't Like Mondays
So the conclusion of the ICC Champions Trophy, 2009’s last set-piece occasion, the ultimate chapter of a gripping cricket narrative, when all will finally be revealed to a worldwide audience is to be held on…a Monday. High fives all round for the scheduling committee! Give yourself a pat on the back, Haroon Lorgat (or have one of your people do it) cos you da man! Yes, you’ve gone and done it again, ICC and if I hadn’t lost my hat in an unfortunate yachting incident at Cowes, I’d be removing it and doffing it in the general direction of Dubai.
Monday. At the precise moment when a sturdy operatic type with a microphone begins to belt out Advance Australia Fair or God Defend New Zealand at a frighteningly loud volume, I wonder where the cricket populace of the world will be? Well, in South Africa and England, they will be at work. In the Caribbean they will be getting ready for work. In Mumbai, Lahore, Colombo and Dhaka they will be coming home from work. And in Sydney and Wellington, they will be slumped bleary-eyed on their sofas after a day at work. Spot the common theme?
No doubt, in ICC world, where every day is a cocktail party, one day of the week is much the same as another. There may also be the odd weirdo out there for whom the dawn of another Monday is joy incarnate. However, I am with Bob Geldoff on the subject of Mondays. It is not a day for finals. It is a day for weary soberness, for ten cups of coffee before your lunch break, for hauling yourself out of bed and yawning at the futility of another working week. Let us hope those poor souls staying up in Melbourne and Auckland get a decent final, because they deserve it.
If they were watching Saturday’s game, they would have been thoroughly entertained. I found the second semi-final memorable for a couple of reasons. Firstly there was the wince-inducing but compelling fast bowling of Shane Bond, who twice made Kamran Akmal snatch his hand away from the bat in the manner of someone who has been stung by a wasp and then dismissed Imran Nazir with a delivery that appeared to be heading straight up his left nostril until he wisely got his bat in the way.
Then there was the battle between the Mighty D and baby-faced Umar Akmal. In the twenty-fifth over Vettori had already offered up three identical teasers, one of which Akmal had audaciously tickled to fine leg. The next delivery from the bearded one’s left hand fizzed through so quickly that it verged on the impolite. Undaunted, the youngster’s response was to wallop the fifth ball of the over through midwicket with an ungainly lunging sweep. From the other end, Uncle Mohammed Yousuf had clearly had enough. He came down to explain to the rookie the perils of recklessness and the virtues of patience. A smiling and entirely oblivious Akmal nodded at the old man’s advice, then aimed a wild slash at the next one, sending it curving through the air just out of the reach of short third man and away for four. Cricket needs all the teenagers it can get.
Monday. At the precise moment when a sturdy operatic type with a microphone begins to belt out Advance Australia Fair or God Defend New Zealand at a frighteningly loud volume, I wonder where the cricket populace of the world will be? Well, in South Africa and England, they will be at work. In the Caribbean they will be getting ready for work. In Mumbai, Lahore, Colombo and Dhaka they will be coming home from work. And in Sydney and Wellington, they will be slumped bleary-eyed on their sofas after a day at work. Spot the common theme?
No doubt, in ICC world, where every day is a cocktail party, one day of the week is much the same as another. There may also be the odd weirdo out there for whom the dawn of another Monday is joy incarnate. However, I am with Bob Geldoff on the subject of Mondays. It is not a day for finals. It is a day for weary soberness, for ten cups of coffee before your lunch break, for hauling yourself out of bed and yawning at the futility of another working week. Let us hope those poor souls staying up in Melbourne and Auckland get a decent final, because they deserve it.
If they were watching Saturday’s game, they would have been thoroughly entertained. I found the second semi-final memorable for a couple of reasons. Firstly there was the wince-inducing but compelling fast bowling of Shane Bond, who twice made Kamran Akmal snatch his hand away from the bat in the manner of someone who has been stung by a wasp and then dismissed Imran Nazir with a delivery that appeared to be heading straight up his left nostril until he wisely got his bat in the way.
Then there was the battle between the Mighty D and baby-faced Umar Akmal. In the twenty-fifth over Vettori had already offered up three identical teasers, one of which Akmal had audaciously tickled to fine leg. The next delivery from the bearded one’s left hand fizzed through so quickly that it verged on the impolite. Undaunted, the youngster’s response was to wallop the fifth ball of the over through midwicket with an ungainly lunging sweep. From the other end, Uncle Mohammed Yousuf had clearly had enough. He came down to explain to the rookie the perils of recklessness and the virtues of patience. A smiling and entirely oblivious Akmal nodded at the old man’s advice, then aimed a wild slash at the next one, sending it curving through the air just out of the reach of short third man and away for four. Cricket needs all the teenagers it can get.
Thursday, October 1, 2009
A Traitorous Confession
I don’t like the English cricket team. There, I said it. I feel no attachment whatsoever to this particular collection of blue-clad gym-botherers. It may be traitors’ talk, but I am entirely indifferent to the outcome of Friday’s semi-final. The match itself, I am looking forward to. The result is irrelevant.
So why don’t I care?
First of all, I’m not a natural patriot. The merest sight of a St George Cross and I begin to mumble angrily into my cocoa and feel an urge to whistle the Marseillaise or set fire to some Morris dancers’ handkerchiefs.
Ah, you might say, once a traitor, always a traitor. You may be right.
But ‘twas not always thus. Even though I grew up watching an inept bunch of no-hopers struggle desperately every summer, I took it for granted that I wanted England to win and I took these losers to my heart. If I were asked to name my cricket hero, I would first lecture the interrogator on the inanity of the question, and then mutter something about Mike Atherton.
My levels of Englishness peaked in 2005. Watching re-runs of that Ashes series, I realise that at the time I must have been blind to the drunken morons on the terraces; oblivious to the mindless, draining partiality of that summer’s prevailing mood and to the manner in which the subtle complexities of the great game were overwhelmed by a torrent of red and white jingoism. Australia were the cruel tormentors, the heartless tyrants and we were finally overthrowing them. It was a victory for justice and freedom. Cry God for Freddie, England and St George!
But something happened during the post-Ashes hangover. You know what it’s like. A big night out, you wake up feeling depressed and you can’t remember where you left your shoes. Well for me, it was my patriotism. I know I had it at the Oval. I’m sure it was around during the Trafalgar Square parade. But it had gone. And I haven’t found it yet. This summer, as England were being embarrassed by the Netherlands at Lord’s, I joined the worldwide club of neutrals and cheered the men in orange.
How did this happen? To be honest, I don’t know. There has been any number of disillusionments, disenchantments and irritations in recent years. There was Alastair Cook’s biography; Monty Panesar’s biography; the continued selection of Steve Harmison; the Stanford debacle; the canonisation of Andrew Flintoff; the total lack of anything approaching a global perspective on the part of the English press.
Or perhaps I just became bored of looking at the same old surly, unshaven, unsmiling bunch of really quite ordinary sportsmen. I grew tired of hearing how they were all very, very talented – despite all the evidence to the contrary. I began instead to take an interest in other, frankly more exciting teams. I began to enjoy the game for its own sake, without being tensed up in a clench of patriotic desperation.
And that is what I shall be doing on Friday, with a gin and tonic to hand. You are welcome to join me at Hughes Towers, providing you leave your flags in the foyer and don’t spill your lager on the Axminster.
So why don’t I care?
First of all, I’m not a natural patriot. The merest sight of a St George Cross and I begin to mumble angrily into my cocoa and feel an urge to whistle the Marseillaise or set fire to some Morris dancers’ handkerchiefs.
Ah, you might say, once a traitor, always a traitor. You may be right.
But ‘twas not always thus. Even though I grew up watching an inept bunch of no-hopers struggle desperately every summer, I took it for granted that I wanted England to win and I took these losers to my heart. If I were asked to name my cricket hero, I would first lecture the interrogator on the inanity of the question, and then mutter something about Mike Atherton.
My levels of Englishness peaked in 2005. Watching re-runs of that Ashes series, I realise that at the time I must have been blind to the drunken morons on the terraces; oblivious to the mindless, draining partiality of that summer’s prevailing mood and to the manner in which the subtle complexities of the great game were overwhelmed by a torrent of red and white jingoism. Australia were the cruel tormentors, the heartless tyrants and we were finally overthrowing them. It was a victory for justice and freedom. Cry God for Freddie, England and St George!
But something happened during the post-Ashes hangover. You know what it’s like. A big night out, you wake up feeling depressed and you can’t remember where you left your shoes. Well for me, it was my patriotism. I know I had it at the Oval. I’m sure it was around during the Trafalgar Square parade. But it had gone. And I haven’t found it yet. This summer, as England were being embarrassed by the Netherlands at Lord’s, I joined the worldwide club of neutrals and cheered the men in orange.
How did this happen? To be honest, I don’t know. There has been any number of disillusionments, disenchantments and irritations in recent years. There was Alastair Cook’s biography; Monty Panesar’s biography; the continued selection of Steve Harmison; the Stanford debacle; the canonisation of Andrew Flintoff; the total lack of anything approaching a global perspective on the part of the English press.
Or perhaps I just became bored of looking at the same old surly, unshaven, unsmiling bunch of really quite ordinary sportsmen. I grew tired of hearing how they were all very, very talented – despite all the evidence to the contrary. I began instead to take an interest in other, frankly more exciting teams. I began to enjoy the game for its own sake, without being tensed up in a clench of patriotic desperation.
And that is what I shall be doing on Friday, with a gin and tonic to hand. You are welcome to join me at Hughes Towers, providing you leave your flags in the foyer and don’t spill your lager on the Axminster.
Saturday, September 26, 2009
Under Pressure
Some images from Saturday’s game linger in the mind. There were the ghostly faces of players shrouded in sunscreen. There was Mohammed Yousuf’s grim expressionless concentration, a man of fortitude and endurance at work. There was the close up of Harbhajan’s gleaming Kara, his hand cradling the green-stained ball that looked like a moss-covered relic from a bone yard. There was seventeen-year-old Mohammed Aamer blowing Gautam Gambhir a kiss, Tendulkar’s exquisite square drive, the whirl of Simon Taufel’s finger to signal yet another no-ball.
The surroundings played their part. As the stadium resounded with shouts, whistles, drums and music, the fierce light of a Highvelt midday seemed to belong to another continent entirely. Then slowly the Indian players’ uniforms began to turn darker shades of blue, night crept up unannounced and the broiling arena was transformed into a clammy, floodlit film-set.
It was compulsive television. And even though by the standards of one-day cricket, it was not a nail biter, you didn’t want to leave your sofa. We owed the players that much at least. They seemed to be walking on eggshells. Every movement, every gesture, every run, no-ball, misfield and stumble brought instant feedback from the crowd. The audience were part of this drama, not mere onlookers. The pressure was evident in the muted behaviour of the players, unleashed in moments of celebration and sometimes in wild, pleading appeals. India were the more inhibited team, made more bad decisions under pressure and so they lost.
And in the midst of all this sweaty tension, there were some bizarre musical interludes. A failed Harbhajan sprawl and claw at third man was greeted with the chorus to ‘Come On Eileen’. A short while later, RP Singh had only just begun to wipe the grass stains from his trouser knees after an inelegant fumble when Abba’s ‘Dancing Queen’ blasted out across Supersport Park. Either the DJ was a Pakistan supporter or he had a dangerously mischievous sense of humour.
The surroundings played their part. As the stadium resounded with shouts, whistles, drums and music, the fierce light of a Highvelt midday seemed to belong to another continent entirely. Then slowly the Indian players’ uniforms began to turn darker shades of blue, night crept up unannounced and the broiling arena was transformed into a clammy, floodlit film-set.
It was compulsive television. And even though by the standards of one-day cricket, it was not a nail biter, you didn’t want to leave your sofa. We owed the players that much at least. They seemed to be walking on eggshells. Every movement, every gesture, every run, no-ball, misfield and stumble brought instant feedback from the crowd. The audience were part of this drama, not mere onlookers. The pressure was evident in the muted behaviour of the players, unleashed in moments of celebration and sometimes in wild, pleading appeals. India were the more inhibited team, made more bad decisions under pressure and so they lost.
And in the midst of all this sweaty tension, there were some bizarre musical interludes. A failed Harbhajan sprawl and claw at third man was greeted with the chorus to ‘Come On Eileen’. A short while later, RP Singh had only just begun to wipe the grass stains from his trouser knees after an inelegant fumble when Abba’s ‘Dancing Queen’ blasted out across Supersport Park. Either the DJ was a Pakistan supporter or he had a dangerously mischievous sense of humour.
Thursday, September 24, 2009
The Good, the Bad and the Hairy
Let there be no doubt, cricket is men’s work. Women may be able to bat, bowl and field as well as the lesser sex, but there is one cricket skill at which, by and large, men remain pre-eminent: the rapid production of facial hair. And one man in particular, one selfless hero, has just raised cricket’s masculinity bar a notch higher. That’s right. Jesse Ryder has grown a moustache.
At the moment, it is hard to tell which way Jesse’s ‘tache will go. It’s something of a mini-Boon, but by the time the Champions Trophy comes to an end, he may be walking around with a full Zapata under his nose. Or perhaps he might go in for the waxed Hercule Poirot or possibly even a Salvador Dali. I’ll keep you posted.
Of course, as we all know, the moustache is the nuclear option when it comes to demonstrating one’s masculinity and it brings its own particular dangers. Admirable though it is, this extra infusion of hairy-lipped testosterone into the New Zealand squad could have repercussions. Indeed, I’ve suspected for a long time that we may be approaching a fashion black hole. Consider, if you will, Jacob Oram’s hair. At what point does deliberately messy become just plain scruffy? Before you know it, people will be sprouting sideburns, shirts will remain unfastened and we will be back in the dark, hairy and above all ugly seventies; a decade when even attractive cricketers looked like they’d spent their close season living in a ditch.
It was precisely in order to uphold the aesthetical purity of the modern game that I recently launched my latest campaign. I am proposing that tattoos are made illegal under Level 4 of the ICC Code of Conduct. We all know that there are only three kinds of people on whom tattoos look good: Maoris, Bronze Age tribesmen and nineteenth-century sailors. On everyone else, they look like the scribblings of someone who tried to cheat in their maths exam, failed and then forgot to wash off the evidence. It can surely be no coincidence that the two biggest troublemakers in international cricket - Andrew Flintoff and Brendon McCullum - are covered in inky dribble.
If we don’t make a stand then commentators will be next and before we know where we are, Nasser Hussain’s pitch report will end with him rolling up his trouser leg to show us something deeply personal. Someone needed to draw an imaginary line in the metaphorical sand. That person was me.
The ICC tend not to answer my emails these days, so I decided to go to the top. The modern globetrotting cricketer is a surly sort of cove and not easy to bring to heel. I needed the help of the only man they would listen to. I needed Lalit Modi.
As you might imagine, His Modiness is a tricky man to get hold of, but I find that if you grab him firmly by the Blackberry he eventually stops struggling. He was sympathetic to my request, but replied that he was in no position to take a firm stance on body art. To my mounting horror, he then began to slowly remove his shirt to reveal an enormous, slightly hairy, chest-size Lalit Modi portrait in ink and flesh.
I haven’t been able to sleep ever since.
At the moment, it is hard to tell which way Jesse’s ‘tache will go. It’s something of a mini-Boon, but by the time the Champions Trophy comes to an end, he may be walking around with a full Zapata under his nose. Or perhaps he might go in for the waxed Hercule Poirot or possibly even a Salvador Dali. I’ll keep you posted.
Of course, as we all know, the moustache is the nuclear option when it comes to demonstrating one’s masculinity and it brings its own particular dangers. Admirable though it is, this extra infusion of hairy-lipped testosterone into the New Zealand squad could have repercussions. Indeed, I’ve suspected for a long time that we may be approaching a fashion black hole. Consider, if you will, Jacob Oram’s hair. At what point does deliberately messy become just plain scruffy? Before you know it, people will be sprouting sideburns, shirts will remain unfastened and we will be back in the dark, hairy and above all ugly seventies; a decade when even attractive cricketers looked like they’d spent their close season living in a ditch.
It was precisely in order to uphold the aesthetical purity of the modern game that I recently launched my latest campaign. I am proposing that tattoos are made illegal under Level 4 of the ICC Code of Conduct. We all know that there are only three kinds of people on whom tattoos look good: Maoris, Bronze Age tribesmen and nineteenth-century sailors. On everyone else, they look like the scribblings of someone who tried to cheat in their maths exam, failed and then forgot to wash off the evidence. It can surely be no coincidence that the two biggest troublemakers in international cricket - Andrew Flintoff and Brendon McCullum - are covered in inky dribble.
If we don’t make a stand then commentators will be next and before we know where we are, Nasser Hussain’s pitch report will end with him rolling up his trouser leg to show us something deeply personal. Someone needed to draw an imaginary line in the metaphorical sand. That person was me.
The ICC tend not to answer my emails these days, so I decided to go to the top. The modern globetrotting cricketer is a surly sort of cove and not easy to bring to heel. I needed the help of the only man they would listen to. I needed Lalit Modi.
As you might imagine, His Modiness is a tricky man to get hold of, but I find that if you grab him firmly by the Blackberry he eventually stops struggling. He was sympathetic to my request, but replied that he was in no position to take a firm stance on body art. To my mounting horror, he then began to slowly remove his shirt to reveal an enormous, slightly hairy, chest-size Lalit Modi portrait in ink and flesh.
I haven’t been able to sleep ever since.
Tuesday, September 22, 2009
A Cure for Burnout
Burnout. It is the scourge of our times. And it can devastate lives. In fact, it struck this very morning. I had just sat down to my usual orderly breakfast, my eggs perfectly boiled, my toast symmetrically aligned and my butler standing ready with the Lady Grey. All that was missing was a crisp pile of fan mail. The clock ticked on inexorably. Eight thirty-one. Eight thirty-two. The toast cooled. Outside on the lawn, a cricket chirped. Silence reigned.
Then, instead of the comforting rattle of a brass letterbox, I was shaken by the shrieking of a polyphonic Freddie Mercury. I had received a text message from my local sorting office, informing me that my postman was unable to fulfil his contractual duties today. He had, it emerged, been delivering letters and parcels for fifteen of the last twenty-one days and the Post Office management had decided to give him a rest, lest his letterbox-stuffing career be cut short.
My breakfast was ruined. The eggs were two degrees below their optimum edible temperature and my butler had sustained third-degree teapot burns. But I was not angry. You see, dear reader, I felt that poor mailman’s pain. I too have fallen victim to the curse of burnout.
Yes, I am ashamed to say that mid-way through the recent Natwest series between England and Australia, I experienced what can only be described as a spasm of ennui. I simply couldn’t watch another nudged single or another clumsy fielding pratfall. I was running on empty. I knew that if I didn’t take a break, I would be placing my sanity in jeopardy.
So I took off to the races and asked a chum to help out. He dutifully stood in for me during the fifth and sixth (or it may have been the ninth and tenth) matches, allowing me to return fresh and invigorated to catch the seventeenth game of the series and England’s statistically inevitable victory.
And it was whilst standing on the heath at Newmarket, watching those beautiful, athletic thoroughbreds galloping up the Rowley Mile that a solution to the problem of player burnout occurred to me. Racehorses are sensitive, intelligent creatures. They are only in it for the hay and yet in order to entertain us they are forced to run and run and run and occasionally thwacked with a leather whip, through no particular fault of their own.
So I have contacted the ICC’s disciplinary department to suggest a similar motivational tool for recalcitrant freelancers and lazy-arsed franchise employees. Take that, Mr Anderson and get moving! Your job is to play cricket. We pay money. You play. That’s the deal. No, Mr Collingwood, I’m not interested in your bruised thumb, your dicky knee or your general feeling of world-weariness. Just shut up and play. And while you’re at it, do it better, too!
Then, instead of the comforting rattle of a brass letterbox, I was shaken by the shrieking of a polyphonic Freddie Mercury. I had received a text message from my local sorting office, informing me that my postman was unable to fulfil his contractual duties today. He had, it emerged, been delivering letters and parcels for fifteen of the last twenty-one days and the Post Office management had decided to give him a rest, lest his letterbox-stuffing career be cut short.
My breakfast was ruined. The eggs were two degrees below their optimum edible temperature and my butler had sustained third-degree teapot burns. But I was not angry. You see, dear reader, I felt that poor mailman’s pain. I too have fallen victim to the curse of burnout.
Yes, I am ashamed to say that mid-way through the recent Natwest series between England and Australia, I experienced what can only be described as a spasm of ennui. I simply couldn’t watch another nudged single or another clumsy fielding pratfall. I was running on empty. I knew that if I didn’t take a break, I would be placing my sanity in jeopardy.
So I took off to the races and asked a chum to help out. He dutifully stood in for me during the fifth and sixth (or it may have been the ninth and tenth) matches, allowing me to return fresh and invigorated to catch the seventeenth game of the series and England’s statistically inevitable victory.
And it was whilst standing on the heath at Newmarket, watching those beautiful, athletic thoroughbreds galloping up the Rowley Mile that a solution to the problem of player burnout occurred to me. Racehorses are sensitive, intelligent creatures. They are only in it for the hay and yet in order to entertain us they are forced to run and run and run and occasionally thwacked with a leather whip, through no particular fault of their own.
So I have contacted the ICC’s disciplinary department to suggest a similar motivational tool for recalcitrant freelancers and lazy-arsed franchise employees. Take that, Mr Anderson and get moving! Your job is to play cricket. We pay money. You play. That’s the deal. No, Mr Collingwood, I’m not interested in your bruised thumb, your dicky knee or your general feeling of world-weariness. Just shut up and play. And while you’re at it, do it better, too!
Fear Of Fred
I’m troubled, cricket chums.
In less than three weeks time, the inaugural Champions League Twenty20 tournament will begin. Naturally, I assume you will all be watching. In these parts, the whole shebang is to be broadcast by British Eurosport, something of a coup for a channel more accustomed to bringing us the Baltic Wood-Chopping Grand Prix and Snail Endurance Racing from Calais.
None of this is a problem. I’m a broadminded kind of guy; I can live with getting my fix of the pyjama game via a rickety studio in Luxembourg. Anyway, thanks to the marvels of modern day capitalism, I have no choice.
No, what is troubling me is the news that England’s very own Freddie Flintoff is to be part of the commentary team. Now Fred is a nice bloke, he does a good line in post-match self-deprecation and I understand he has some interesting things to say on the subject of post-millennial immigration and its impact on standards of service in the hospitality industry.
Nevertheless, for all of his merits, he has one fault that renders him a commentary liability. He sounds exactly like Ronnie Irani. This is no trivial objection. For the last six months, I have been running a support group for traumatised IPL viewers suffering the effects of Post-Irani Syndrome. The symptoms they describe are invariably the same. Victims report seeing a yellow haze that they slowly recognise as the Setanta studio. They hear a man talking. The voice gets louder. They can make out the words, “I tell you what…” Then they wake up screaming.
The thought of this much-anticipated tournament being played out to a sound track of Lancastrian platitudes is enough to keep me up in the early hours, gnawing my pillow with anxiety. We can only hope that Freelance Fred is not being paid by the word.
In less than three weeks time, the inaugural Champions League Twenty20 tournament will begin. Naturally, I assume you will all be watching. In these parts, the whole shebang is to be broadcast by British Eurosport, something of a coup for a channel more accustomed to bringing us the Baltic Wood-Chopping Grand Prix and Snail Endurance Racing from Calais.
None of this is a problem. I’m a broadminded kind of guy; I can live with getting my fix of the pyjama game via a rickety studio in Luxembourg. Anyway, thanks to the marvels of modern day capitalism, I have no choice.
No, what is troubling me is the news that England’s very own Freddie Flintoff is to be part of the commentary team. Now Fred is a nice bloke, he does a good line in post-match self-deprecation and I understand he has some interesting things to say on the subject of post-millennial immigration and its impact on standards of service in the hospitality industry.
Nevertheless, for all of his merits, he has one fault that renders him a commentary liability. He sounds exactly like Ronnie Irani. This is no trivial objection. For the last six months, I have been running a support group for traumatised IPL viewers suffering the effects of Post-Irani Syndrome. The symptoms they describe are invariably the same. Victims report seeing a yellow haze that they slowly recognise as the Setanta studio. They hear a man talking. The voice gets louder. They can make out the words, “I tell you what…” Then they wake up screaming.
The thought of this much-anticipated tournament being played out to a sound track of Lancastrian platitudes is enough to keep me up in the early hours, gnawing my pillow with anxiety. We can only hope that Freelance Fred is not being paid by the word.
Sunday, June 21, 2009
World Twenty20 Day Seventeen
Sunday’s final began on a serene afternoon with the odd white cloud placed tastefully about the sky and just sufficient breeze to agitate the assembled flags and freshen the faces of spectators. But though the scene may have been idyllic and though we may be poised betwixt Royal Ascot and Wimbledon, this was no genteel county-themed snoozefest. The crowd at Lord’s had come to have fun.
The face-painted and be-wigged citizens who occupied the twenty-eight thousand, five-hundred seats made an awful lot of noise. Really, an awful lot. The racket that ensued when Tillakaratne Dilshan guided the ball to Shahzaib Hasan in the first over had the same decibelic impact as a space shuttle launch. Yet three hours later, with the game still undecided, murmuring silence reigned. Pakistani supporters lining the roof gardens of buildings off St John’s Wood Road looked anxious, squinting into the fading sunlight, their green and white flags twitching fitfully in the evening stillness.
Tense, but not heart-breakingly so, this was a hard-fought game between well-matched competitors. A stirring start from Mohammad Aamer and Abdul Razzaq was met with Kumar Sangakkara’s patience and guile. Then came a run chase in which Pakistan painstakingly stalked the required run-rate. But, fatally, Sri Lanka could not lock down the irrepressible Shahid Afridi. When, in the seventeenth over, they ran out of world class bowlers, Mr Boom Boom crashed a mighty six and a searing four and the throat-tightening tension eased.
In many ways the home of cricket is an odd venue for such a high profile international game. Venerable, cramped and ornate, for the players it must be like playing in a museum foyer. But it is a museum that has accommodated many tourists over the years and today the elaborate stonework absorbed a battering of Pakistani joy. They were worthy winners. Falling to the turf to thank Allah for their success, they were humble in their moment of triumph, none more so than captain Younus Khan, a man who surely epitomises dignity.
And the tournament, well organised in an old-fashioned, unobtrusive kind of way, also managed to keep its dignity. Yes there was music, but aside from a couple of wild nights at Trent Bridge, there was nothing to frighten your grandparents. Yes there were dancers, but they wore astonishingly sensible clothes and were rarely on our screens. Yes there were commentators, but they were allowed to call DLF maximums by their traditional name. And I only saw Lalit Modi once.
It has been a bracing mixture of old and new; as though someone had poured an energy drink into a pint of English ale. And yet it turned out to be pleasantly palatable, with a satisfying aftertaste. Let’s call it Blighty’s Old Peculiar.
The face-painted and be-wigged citizens who occupied the twenty-eight thousand, five-hundred seats made an awful lot of noise. Really, an awful lot. The racket that ensued when Tillakaratne Dilshan guided the ball to Shahzaib Hasan in the first over had the same decibelic impact as a space shuttle launch. Yet three hours later, with the game still undecided, murmuring silence reigned. Pakistani supporters lining the roof gardens of buildings off St John’s Wood Road looked anxious, squinting into the fading sunlight, their green and white flags twitching fitfully in the evening stillness.
Tense, but not heart-breakingly so, this was a hard-fought game between well-matched competitors. A stirring start from Mohammad Aamer and Abdul Razzaq was met with Kumar Sangakkara’s patience and guile. Then came a run chase in which Pakistan painstakingly stalked the required run-rate. But, fatally, Sri Lanka could not lock down the irrepressible Shahid Afridi. When, in the seventeenth over, they ran out of world class bowlers, Mr Boom Boom crashed a mighty six and a searing four and the throat-tightening tension eased.
In many ways the home of cricket is an odd venue for such a high profile international game. Venerable, cramped and ornate, for the players it must be like playing in a museum foyer. But it is a museum that has accommodated many tourists over the years and today the elaborate stonework absorbed a battering of Pakistani joy. They were worthy winners. Falling to the turf to thank Allah for their success, they were humble in their moment of triumph, none more so than captain Younus Khan, a man who surely epitomises dignity.
And the tournament, well organised in an old-fashioned, unobtrusive kind of way, also managed to keep its dignity. Yes there was music, but aside from a couple of wild nights at Trent Bridge, there was nothing to frighten your grandparents. Yes there were dancers, but they wore astonishingly sensible clothes and were rarely on our screens. Yes there were commentators, but they were allowed to call DLF maximums by their traditional name. And I only saw Lalit Modi once.
It has been a bracing mixture of old and new; as though someone had poured an energy drink into a pint of English ale. And yet it turned out to be pleasantly palatable, with a satisfying aftertaste. Let’s call it Blighty’s Old Peculiar.
Saturday, June 20, 2009
World Twenty20 Day Sixteen
Awards. Everyone likes awards. For instance, I was delighted this week to learn that I have been nominated for ‘Most Trivial Internet Feature By A Complete Nobody’. Apparently I’m up against a woman from Nuttyville, Utah whose blog, ‘Obama’s Pyjamas’ showcases her designs for Presidential nightwear and a retired Mongolian civil servant who posts a daily count of the number of yak he has seen going past his yurt. According to bookmakers, I’m the outsider of the three, but I’m hopeful.
Still, I have to say that I am appalled by the quality of award-ware doled out to those fine sportsmen who through their athletic endeavour and occasional practice earn the right to call themselves The Man Of The Match.
“Who’s the MOMmy?” cries Tillakaratne Dilshan, as he returns to the pavilion.
“You are!” chorus his teammates, “Again.”
“So where’s my prize?” asks the tousle-haired one, forlornly.
It’s a good question, Tillakaratne. Where are all the prizes? Surely, David Morgan you are not telling me that the little white box slipped furtively into the hands of the victorious gladiator as he approaches Nasser Hussain’s microphone is a prize? How much bling can you cram into a box that size? At the IPL they got shiny motorbikes. In the World Series, the MVP gets a small Pacific island for his trouble and Christiano Ronaldo doesn’t get out of bed if there isn’t a fresh Ferrari on his porch every morning. You need to show these people some love, Morgan, they are our futures.
So to show the way, I have commissioned my own awards, with financial backing from the Bank of Antigua, to honour the heroes of this and future ICC World Twenty20 competitions. Ten metres high and cast in solid bronze, they are so heavy that they have to be mounted on wheeled platforms and it takes an entire sub committee of ICC officials to move one. Each magnificent diamond-encrusted trophy depicts an enormous batsman standing with his legs wide apart and his eyes closed, having a heave. They have to be seen to be believed.
And so to the prize-giving. When Shahid Afridi paused in the heat of a semi-final battle to blow Jacques Kallis a kiss, billions of television viewers wept openly at the beauty of the moment. It represented everything that is pure and noble in the modern game. In fact, if only Don Bradman had been secure enough in his sexuality to do the same to Douglas Jardine, that whole Bodyline thing might never have happened. So, the inaugural Hughesie goes to Mr Shahid Afridi; for keeping the love flowing even during the Powerplay.
Still, I have to say that I am appalled by the quality of award-ware doled out to those fine sportsmen who through their athletic endeavour and occasional practice earn the right to call themselves The Man Of The Match.
“Who’s the MOMmy?” cries Tillakaratne Dilshan, as he returns to the pavilion.
“You are!” chorus his teammates, “Again.”
“So where’s my prize?” asks the tousle-haired one, forlornly.
It’s a good question, Tillakaratne. Where are all the prizes? Surely, David Morgan you are not telling me that the little white box slipped furtively into the hands of the victorious gladiator as he approaches Nasser Hussain’s microphone is a prize? How much bling can you cram into a box that size? At the IPL they got shiny motorbikes. In the World Series, the MVP gets a small Pacific island for his trouble and Christiano Ronaldo doesn’t get out of bed if there isn’t a fresh Ferrari on his porch every morning. You need to show these people some love, Morgan, they are our futures.
So to show the way, I have commissioned my own awards, with financial backing from the Bank of Antigua, to honour the heroes of this and future ICC World Twenty20 competitions. Ten metres high and cast in solid bronze, they are so heavy that they have to be mounted on wheeled platforms and it takes an entire sub committee of ICC officials to move one. Each magnificent diamond-encrusted trophy depicts an enormous batsman standing with his legs wide apart and his eyes closed, having a heave. They have to be seen to be believed.
And so to the prize-giving. When Shahid Afridi paused in the heat of a semi-final battle to blow Jacques Kallis a kiss, billions of television viewers wept openly at the beauty of the moment. It represented everything that is pure and noble in the modern game. In fact, if only Don Bradman had been secure enough in his sexuality to do the same to Douglas Jardine, that whole Bodyline thing might never have happened. So, the inaugural Hughesie goes to Mr Shahid Afridi; for keeping the love flowing even during the Powerplay.
Friday, June 19, 2009
World Twenty20 Day Fifteen
Generally, I’m not a fan of sea-faring metaphors. Like Sri Lanka and the Caribbean islands, Britain is completely surrounded by the salty stuff and the temptation for writers to dabble in nautical nonsense is ever present. But I hope on this occasion, you will forgive me, because I’m going to do it anyway.
You see, from the moment that Sanath Jayasuriya played his first air shot on Friday evening he seemed like a hapless extra in a Jaws sequel; a man overboard, thrashing about frantically as he strove to avoid the inevitable. It was an agonising experience watching him call out for new bats, shaking his head in bewilderment, playing blunt cut shots and even attempting a hopelessly vague reverse sweep. All the time, he wore a frantic, desperate look. Eventually, mercifully, he was gobbled up at fine leg.
Then there was Chris Gayle. Trinidadians and others will say he batted for himself. Jamaicans will say he was abandoned by his teammates. Neither is really true. The West Indies were wrecked in their first over and if you ever wanted proof of the existence of fate, surely this was Exhibit A. The gods chose humble Angelo Mathews as their instrument and with two innocuous seamers and a leg side wide, he shattered the stumps three times. From then on, the game had a hollow, broken feel. As Murali and Mendis scavenged amongst the wreckage, the ship went down, with Gayle standing motionless on the burning deck.
Gayle’s restrained power was outdone though by Tillekaratne Dilshan who played like an angel in possibly the prettiest Twenty20 innings there has ever been. Whilst his teammates wielded their bats as though they were mere lumps of wood, Dilshan flourished his magic wand, lapping the ball here, tapping it there, gliding it where he wished. Such was the contrast between his efforts and theirs, it was as though he was playing in digital whilst his teammates were struggling to tune in their analogue wavelengths.
And before we leave South London for the last time this tournament, we should show our appreciation for the real stars of the Oval: the pigeons. On Friday, they had moved from their regular haunt at short midwicket to field in the deep. But they still managed to flap into shot at every opportunity. And why not. There are those who like to believe that these mottled grey outfielders are the reincarnated souls of Surrey cricketers long departed. And if that really is Jack Hobbs pecking away at square leg, then he deserves his share of the Twenty20 birdseed.
You see, from the moment that Sanath Jayasuriya played his first air shot on Friday evening he seemed like a hapless extra in a Jaws sequel; a man overboard, thrashing about frantically as he strove to avoid the inevitable. It was an agonising experience watching him call out for new bats, shaking his head in bewilderment, playing blunt cut shots and even attempting a hopelessly vague reverse sweep. All the time, he wore a frantic, desperate look. Eventually, mercifully, he was gobbled up at fine leg.
Then there was Chris Gayle. Trinidadians and others will say he batted for himself. Jamaicans will say he was abandoned by his teammates. Neither is really true. The West Indies were wrecked in their first over and if you ever wanted proof of the existence of fate, surely this was Exhibit A. The gods chose humble Angelo Mathews as their instrument and with two innocuous seamers and a leg side wide, he shattered the stumps three times. From then on, the game had a hollow, broken feel. As Murali and Mendis scavenged amongst the wreckage, the ship went down, with Gayle standing motionless on the burning deck.
Gayle’s restrained power was outdone though by Tillekaratne Dilshan who played like an angel in possibly the prettiest Twenty20 innings there has ever been. Whilst his teammates wielded their bats as though they were mere lumps of wood, Dilshan flourished his magic wand, lapping the ball here, tapping it there, gliding it where he wished. Such was the contrast between his efforts and theirs, it was as though he was playing in digital whilst his teammates were struggling to tune in their analogue wavelengths.
And before we leave South London for the last time this tournament, we should show our appreciation for the real stars of the Oval: the pigeons. On Friday, they had moved from their regular haunt at short midwicket to field in the deep. But they still managed to flap into shot at every opportunity. And why not. There are those who like to believe that these mottled grey outfielders are the reincarnated souls of Surrey cricketers long departed. And if that really is Jack Hobbs pecking away at square leg, then he deserves his share of the Twenty20 birdseed.
Thursday, June 18, 2009
World Twenty20 Day Fourteen
It is hard to fault the organisation of this World Twenty20 but I do think that when the players line up to sing their national anthems, they could be supported with a vocal track. As they mumble and mime their way through seven or eight verses celebrating their country’s green fields/open grasslands/rocky mountains, your heart goes out to the poor dears as their no doubt sincere patriotism remains entirely unexpressed thanks to the tone deafness of the professional sportsperson.
Still, I find the ritual compelling because it offers you the chance to study these players away from the heat of battle. Pakistan’s line-up before the semi-final began with uncle Younis, chin up, singing manfully. Then the camera moved on to mournful looking Misbah, lingered awhile on Kamran Akmal’s impressive teeth, on the fragile features of Shoaib Malik and finally on the real star, Shahid Afridi, his hair lifting slightly in the Nottingham breeze, looking as though he’d just finished shooting a shampoo commercial.
And perhaps it was follicular jealousy that led Jacques Kallis to sledge the floppy-fringed one soon after he arrived at the crease. Afridi responded with a couple of boundaries which had me out of my seat. At this point, my daughter wanted to know what was happening. Seizing the opportunity to initiate her into the world of international cricket, I explained all about Kallis and Afridi, sure that these two compelling characters were bound to capture the imagination of an impressionable mind. She listened dutifully for a while, and then ran off to impress her mother with her new found knowledge.
“Fat Jack is throwing the ball at Mr Boom,” she reported. A reasonable summary.
You had to feel a little sorry for fat Jack though. A man of substance, he played his hand sensibly, threading the gaps, crafting boundaries where required and by his lone efforts, keeping South Africa in the hunt. But he was thoroughly upstaged by the aforementioned Mr Boom who thrashed the ball around delightfully, used up three bats during the course of his half century and was finally out attempting to land a ball on the moon.
There will be much mention of the C word. But in my dictionary, a choker is a closely fitting piece of neckware or a person who practices strangulation in their spare time. Although one or two of the South Africans could pass for stranglers, I suspect that such a hobby is difficult to sustain alongside a career in professional sport. So lets hear no more of the C word and a little more of the P word. Pakistan play Twenty20 the way God intended: expecting nothing and risking everything. They would be worthy winners.
Still, I find the ritual compelling because it offers you the chance to study these players away from the heat of battle. Pakistan’s line-up before the semi-final began with uncle Younis, chin up, singing manfully. Then the camera moved on to mournful looking Misbah, lingered awhile on Kamran Akmal’s impressive teeth, on the fragile features of Shoaib Malik and finally on the real star, Shahid Afridi, his hair lifting slightly in the Nottingham breeze, looking as though he’d just finished shooting a shampoo commercial.
And perhaps it was follicular jealousy that led Jacques Kallis to sledge the floppy-fringed one soon after he arrived at the crease. Afridi responded with a couple of boundaries which had me out of my seat. At this point, my daughter wanted to know what was happening. Seizing the opportunity to initiate her into the world of international cricket, I explained all about Kallis and Afridi, sure that these two compelling characters were bound to capture the imagination of an impressionable mind. She listened dutifully for a while, and then ran off to impress her mother with her new found knowledge.
“Fat Jack is throwing the ball at Mr Boom,” she reported. A reasonable summary.
You had to feel a little sorry for fat Jack though. A man of substance, he played his hand sensibly, threading the gaps, crafting boundaries where required and by his lone efforts, keeping South Africa in the hunt. But he was thoroughly upstaged by the aforementioned Mr Boom who thrashed the ball around delightfully, used up three bats during the course of his half century and was finally out attempting to land a ball on the moon.
There will be much mention of the C word. But in my dictionary, a choker is a closely fitting piece of neckware or a person who practices strangulation in their spare time. Although one or two of the South Africans could pass for stranglers, I suspect that such a hobby is difficult to sustain alongside a career in professional sport. So lets hear no more of the C word and a little more of the P word. Pakistan play Twenty20 the way God intended: expecting nothing and risking everything. They would be worthy winners.
Wednesday, June 17, 2009
World Twenty20 Day Thirteen
And so we reach the aberration that is the blank day. It is for our own good, no doubt; the spectators’ version of the warm-down; to prepare us for life after Sunday’s finale. But it is a damn strange feeling, not to be going through the old pre-match routine. For the first time in thirteen days, there were no anthems to respectfully observe and no need for a brisk pre-game perambulation around the living room to loosen up those hamstrings. Out of force of habit, I brought the remote control in to silly point, moved the television a little straighter at midwicket and placed a cup of tea at short fine leg. But it was all pointless. I felt like Mahendra Singh Dhoni rearranging the complimentary condiments on his flight back to Mumbai.
So instead, I turned my attention to the rolling acres of Hughes Hall, where, if I am honest, the underprepared surface has more than a tinge of green about it and the outfield is on the lush side. Inspired by what I had seen over the preceding days, I unearthed a rusty old scythe and set about the job Twenty20 style. Taking a low grip, I cleared my left foot out of the way and swung mightily. It was all going swimmingly until I attempted an ambitious switch-scythe hit and very nearly stumped myself.
I reined myself in after that and settled for a little light spadework in the vegetable patch. Wielding my three pound shovel with Dilshanic virtuosity, soil was soon flying in all directions and I quickly found myself well ahead of the dig-rate. Sadly, play had to be abandoned for the day when one of my exquisitely timed scoop shots sent a stray pebble sailing high over the boundary fence and through my neighbour’s bathroom window. Unfortunately, in the absence of video replays, I can’t say for sure whether he caught it or indeed how many feet he had on the ground at the time.
Back in the safety of the pavilion, I decided to catch up on my reading. Of the many good things on the Cricinfo site, I was particularly taken with Tanya Aldred’s highly entertaining piece on just why we are not warming to our chums from the Cape. I would add just one more observation: they look like school bullies. No-one ever roots for a bully, regardless of how troubled the bully’s upbringing may have been.
It isn’t fair, but I suspect that we won’t be feeling warmly towards eight foot tall Graeme Smith or Bulldog van der Merwe until they are collapsed on the Lord’s turf in disbelief at around half-past eight on Sunday evening - the time of day that is known on the mean streets of NW8 as ‘the choking hour’.
So instead, I turned my attention to the rolling acres of Hughes Hall, where, if I am honest, the underprepared surface has more than a tinge of green about it and the outfield is on the lush side. Inspired by what I had seen over the preceding days, I unearthed a rusty old scythe and set about the job Twenty20 style. Taking a low grip, I cleared my left foot out of the way and swung mightily. It was all going swimmingly until I attempted an ambitious switch-scythe hit and very nearly stumped myself.
I reined myself in after that and settled for a little light spadework in the vegetable patch. Wielding my three pound shovel with Dilshanic virtuosity, soil was soon flying in all directions and I quickly found myself well ahead of the dig-rate. Sadly, play had to be abandoned for the day when one of my exquisitely timed scoop shots sent a stray pebble sailing high over the boundary fence and through my neighbour’s bathroom window. Unfortunately, in the absence of video replays, I can’t say for sure whether he caught it or indeed how many feet he had on the ground at the time.
Back in the safety of the pavilion, I decided to catch up on my reading. Of the many good things on the Cricinfo site, I was particularly taken with Tanya Aldred’s highly entertaining piece on just why we are not warming to our chums from the Cape. I would add just one more observation: they look like school bullies. No-one ever roots for a bully, regardless of how troubled the bully’s upbringing may have been.
It isn’t fair, but I suspect that we won’t be feeling warmly towards eight foot tall Graeme Smith or Bulldog van der Merwe until they are collapsed on the Lord’s turf in disbelief at around half-past eight on Sunday evening - the time of day that is known on the mean streets of NW8 as ‘the choking hour’.
World Twenty20 Day Twelve
I don’t know how keen India were to take the field again on Tuesday, but the show must go on and like the troupers they are, they donned the sunblock and gaudy pyjamas and got back up on stage for one last farewell performance. The crowd too had dug out their flags, wigs and face paint for a tribute concert to what might have been. Instead, they got a re-run of Sunday night’s production. They did at least get to see more of Yuvraj, and not just because there is more of him to see these days. The portly one was restored to his normal batting position, though judging by the way he ran his captain out, all may not yet have been forgiven.
It didn’t help that for their swansong, they had to go up against the Green Machine, a team of androids skilfully assembled to look like mortals, but exhibiting none of the signs of humanity. For a start, they don’t drop catches. Literally, they don’t drop catches. Ever. And they are all programmed with the very latest fielding software. Even the statuesque Graeme Smith was hustling in the field, fussing after a nudged single to square leg like a middle aged matron trying to catch a puppy. Their only weakness is in their tailoring. Those shirts are distressingly tight and I am far more familiar with Johan Botha’s upper body than I really ought to be.
But besides Botha’s nipples and Yuvraj’s paunch, the other feature of Day Twelve was the dusty Trent Bridge pitch upon which spinners hunted gleefully in packs. Considering that the breed was on the verge of extinction in the 1980s, it is a remarkable survival story. We were able to watch Vettori, Murali and Mendis in their natural habitat, as well as many unusual species of spinner, including the rarely sighted Raina and the lesser-spotted Rohit. All day the ball was bouncing off pads, looping into the air and plopping into the dust. It was marvellous.
And a quick word too, for that unsung hero of the tournament: the light. When the clouds disperse, early summer evenings in England are the perfect setting for cricket. From the blaring sun of midday, the light passes subtly through shades of amber as the shadows lengthen across the amphitheatre and as today’s evening game drew on and India’s final hopes were extinguished, every single person in the ground, spectators and players alike, were haloed with a golden tinge.
It didn’t help that for their swansong, they had to go up against the Green Machine, a team of androids skilfully assembled to look like mortals, but exhibiting none of the signs of humanity. For a start, they don’t drop catches. Literally, they don’t drop catches. Ever. And they are all programmed with the very latest fielding software. Even the statuesque Graeme Smith was hustling in the field, fussing after a nudged single to square leg like a middle aged matron trying to catch a puppy. Their only weakness is in their tailoring. Those shirts are distressingly tight and I am far more familiar with Johan Botha’s upper body than I really ought to be.
But besides Botha’s nipples and Yuvraj’s paunch, the other feature of Day Twelve was the dusty Trent Bridge pitch upon which spinners hunted gleefully in packs. Considering that the breed was on the verge of extinction in the 1980s, it is a remarkable survival story. We were able to watch Vettori, Murali and Mendis in their natural habitat, as well as many unusual species of spinner, including the rarely sighted Raina and the lesser-spotted Rohit. All day the ball was bouncing off pads, looping into the air and plopping into the dust. It was marvellous.
And a quick word too, for that unsung hero of the tournament: the light. When the clouds disperse, early summer evenings in England are the perfect setting for cricket. From the blaring sun of midday, the light passes subtly through shades of amber as the shadows lengthen across the amphitheatre and as today’s evening game drew on and India’s final hopes were extinguished, every single person in the ground, spectators and players alike, were haloed with a golden tinge.
Monday, June 15, 2009
World Twenty20 Day Eleven
Grrr. Lest any of you are unfamiliar with the foregoing letters, I should tell you that they indicate disapprobation. It may only be registering as Harbhajan Seven (the Bhaji being the international measure of cricket anger) but nevertheless, I am a slightly angry man. And the source of my peevishness is England’s reluctant captain Paul Collingwood. Am I feeling this way because under his palm-licking, eye-rolling leadership, England have lost another cricket match? Hardly. I’ve been watching England lose cricket matches since 1986 and if I’d dug out the effigies and cigarette lighter every time it happened I’d have succumbed to smoke inhalation long ago.
No, losing doesn’t tickle the Hughes hackles. But ungentlemanly conduct is quite another matter. On Sunday, Paul Collingwood complained that the Indian supporters booed him. Now being booed isn’t nice, I’m sure. But it can hardly be the first time. I’ve booed him myself once or twice, and that was only when I bumped into him in the supermarket. Then after Monday’s defeat, he complained that the West Indies had an advantage batting second in a game that was always likely to be rain-blemished. Indeed they did Paul. If only there had been some way of making them bat first?
As Daniel Vettori has recently discovered, getting your ass whipped can be a painful experience. But that doesn’t mean you should air your unsightly soreness in public. In the bitterness of defeat as in the rush of victory, a skipper can if he wants, react like any person in the street. Or he can choose to conduct himself like a captain of his country. Win gracefully; lose gracefully. It is a simple principle but in these days of fist-pumping, verbal abuse and winner grabs all, it is the only boundary rope separating cricket from being just a rather expensive squabble over a ball.
The end of England came in a game that was played under skies so apocalyptic that it made you want to look for gopher wood and start rounding up pairs of animals. As the players slipped and scrambled across the slickened turf, the south London sky turned from sullen lead to looming volcanic abyss and at its heaviest, the rain teamed in the dazzling of the floodlights like billions of onrushing silver fish. So good on the West Indies, on Ronnie and Tiger and on Chris Gayle, for keeping their footing and their nerve. Underrated, ridiculed in the English press and beaten up several times this summer, theirs were the coolest heads in that maelstrom of thunderous heat and they won the one that really mattered.
No, losing doesn’t tickle the Hughes hackles. But ungentlemanly conduct is quite another matter. On Sunday, Paul Collingwood complained that the Indian supporters booed him. Now being booed isn’t nice, I’m sure. But it can hardly be the first time. I’ve booed him myself once or twice, and that was only when I bumped into him in the supermarket. Then after Monday’s defeat, he complained that the West Indies had an advantage batting second in a game that was always likely to be rain-blemished. Indeed they did Paul. If only there had been some way of making them bat first?
As Daniel Vettori has recently discovered, getting your ass whipped can be a painful experience. But that doesn’t mean you should air your unsightly soreness in public. In the bitterness of defeat as in the rush of victory, a skipper can if he wants, react like any person in the street. Or he can choose to conduct himself like a captain of his country. Win gracefully; lose gracefully. It is a simple principle but in these days of fist-pumping, verbal abuse and winner grabs all, it is the only boundary rope separating cricket from being just a rather expensive squabble over a ball.
The end of England came in a game that was played under skies so apocalyptic that it made you want to look for gopher wood and start rounding up pairs of animals. As the players slipped and scrambled across the slickened turf, the south London sky turned from sullen lead to looming volcanic abyss and at its heaviest, the rain teamed in the dazzling of the floodlights like billions of onrushing silver fish. So good on the West Indies, on Ronnie and Tiger and on Chris Gayle, for keeping their footing and their nerve. Underrated, ridiculed in the English press and beaten up several times this summer, theirs were the coolest heads in that maelstrom of thunderous heat and they won the one that really mattered.
Sunday, June 14, 2009
World Twenty20 Day Ten
I have a complaint. I know that Sunday evening’s game was jolly important and England really really wanted to win and everything. But was it necessary for the curliest left-armer in world cricket to give vent to such a guttural roar, looking for all the world like a Viking who’d come back to his longboat and found a parking ticket on the prow? I was so surprised that I dropped my digestive biscuit into my mug of tea. All across North West London, startled pigeons scattered into the air and heaven only knows what effect it had on the elderly MCC members.
We are told that such roaring is evidence of ‘passion’ and that displays of passion by a sportsperson are the very thing, the cat’s whiskers. But I can’t agree. Call me prudish, but I feel that the sight of Ryan Sidebottom’s sweaty face all twisted up with passion is something that only Mrs Sidebottom should have to be confronted with. If he wants to show us all how passionate he is, how about composing a love sonnet or two during the half-time interval; or maybe performing a romantic ballad, accompanied by Graeme Swann on mandolin and Daisy Anderson on tambourine.
Still, after all the roaring, the booing and the nail biting, India are gone. All those glorious stroke makers, all those impeccably dressed supporters: gone. Was it the pressure? We heard a lot about pressure from the commentators. There were pressure deliveries, pressure situations, pressure shots. There was so much pressure, you’d have thought the game was taking place at the bottom of the Marinas Trench. But were these superstars really under pressure? Or were they just frightened of losing? Twenty20 is a casino. It welcomes gamblers but today India played like accountants.
That said, England’s batting garden is still deficient in rose bushes. In particular, their fondness for the switch-hit is starting to become an unhealthy obsession. Pietersen owns the patent on the turn-around slap shot, but when he tried it on with Harbhajan, the spin meister spotted him and Big Kapes was forced to unswitch, rather sheepishly. A little later, Paul Collingwood, perhaps wondering whether his left-handed alter-ego might turn out to be a dashing stroke player, hopped round optimistically. Sadly he failed to unleash his inner Gower and got himself leg-before-wicketed. Finally, the third Billy Goat Gruff, James Foster had a go. Agile as a panther, he leapt nimbly into position, skilfully flourished his blade and guided the ball straight into his face. Some work required, methinks.
We are told that such roaring is evidence of ‘passion’ and that displays of passion by a sportsperson are the very thing, the cat’s whiskers. But I can’t agree. Call me prudish, but I feel that the sight of Ryan Sidebottom’s sweaty face all twisted up with passion is something that only Mrs Sidebottom should have to be confronted with. If he wants to show us all how passionate he is, how about composing a love sonnet or two during the half-time interval; or maybe performing a romantic ballad, accompanied by Graeme Swann on mandolin and Daisy Anderson on tambourine.
Still, after all the roaring, the booing and the nail biting, India are gone. All those glorious stroke makers, all those impeccably dressed supporters: gone. Was it the pressure? We heard a lot about pressure from the commentators. There were pressure deliveries, pressure situations, pressure shots. There was so much pressure, you’d have thought the game was taking place at the bottom of the Marinas Trench. But were these superstars really under pressure? Or were they just frightened of losing? Twenty20 is a casino. It welcomes gamblers but today India played like accountants.
That said, England’s batting garden is still deficient in rose bushes. In particular, their fondness for the switch-hit is starting to become an unhealthy obsession. Pietersen owns the patent on the turn-around slap shot, but when he tried it on with Harbhajan, the spin meister spotted him and Big Kapes was forced to unswitch, rather sheepishly. A little later, Paul Collingwood, perhaps wondering whether his left-handed alter-ego might turn out to be a dashing stroke player, hopped round optimistically. Sadly he failed to unleash his inner Gower and got himself leg-before-wicketed. Finally, the third Billy Goat Gruff, James Foster had a go. Agile as a panther, he leapt nimbly into position, skilfully flourished his blade and guided the ball straight into his face. Some work required, methinks.
Saturday, June 13, 2009
World Twenty20 Day Nine
I could watch the West Indies all day. They just do their thing and even if their thing happens to be the wrong thing, they do it anyway, because what else would they do? In the middle of what some people might say was a moderately significant game with South Africa, Chris Gayle’s men appeared to fall out with each other. Yet even as they were arguing, scowling and pointedly not clapping, they were still throwing down stumps and pouching catches with ease. The South Africans looked a little perplexed, like policemen trying to arrest a bunch of squabbling bank robbers.
On further investigation, it turned out that the outbreak of grumpiness started with Suliemann Benn, who, perceiving a lack of athletic endeavour from Ramnaresh Sarwan in the field, proceeded to holla on his rass in a vehement fashion. Old boy Ronnie did not like it one bit and everyone else appeared to get all riled up for no particular reason. I know how they feel. I was up late last night too and I was right grumpy this morning until I’d had my pancakes.
But hey, at least they’re still in it. In fact, as we speak, everyone’s still in it.* If only it could continue. After all, who cares who wins the thing? Scorers, statisticians and those in the employ of the ICC might be waiting with bated breath to fill up their wallcharts, but everyone else is savouring the array of dishes that make up the World Twenty20 menu. My favourite flavours of cricket at the moment are Caribbean, Sri Lankan and particularly Pakistani. I’m moved by the fervour squeezed into every syllable of ‘Pakistan Zindabad’; I am entertained by the flippant brilliance of their play and I am fascinated by the luxiourousness of Shahid Afridi’s hair.
Actually, many of the folks in TV land, particularly if they’ve got an England cap mouldering in their wardrobe, like to tell us English that we have a team that is just as mercurial. I beg to differ. To qualify for mercurial status, a team must possess latent astonishment potential, they must play on instinct and they must be touched by genius. Pakistan are proper mercurial, as David Lloyd might put it. England are not. They are perfectly nice chaps, but as was once said of Paul Collingwood, if they were playing on my front lawn, I’d draw the curtains.
*Of course, I did not mean to imply, Aussie fans, that the rest of us are not missing you deeply. It’s just that we’ve seen rather a lot of you over the years and it’s nice to let some of the other boys have a go. Besides, you’ll have your fun soon enough.
On further investigation, it turned out that the outbreak of grumpiness started with Suliemann Benn, who, perceiving a lack of athletic endeavour from Ramnaresh Sarwan in the field, proceeded to holla on his rass in a vehement fashion. Old boy Ronnie did not like it one bit and everyone else appeared to get all riled up for no particular reason. I know how they feel. I was up late last night too and I was right grumpy this morning until I’d had my pancakes.
But hey, at least they’re still in it. In fact, as we speak, everyone’s still in it.* If only it could continue. After all, who cares who wins the thing? Scorers, statisticians and those in the employ of the ICC might be waiting with bated breath to fill up their wallcharts, but everyone else is savouring the array of dishes that make up the World Twenty20 menu. My favourite flavours of cricket at the moment are Caribbean, Sri Lankan and particularly Pakistani. I’m moved by the fervour squeezed into every syllable of ‘Pakistan Zindabad’; I am entertained by the flippant brilliance of their play and I am fascinated by the luxiourousness of Shahid Afridi’s hair.
Actually, many of the folks in TV land, particularly if they’ve got an England cap mouldering in their wardrobe, like to tell us English that we have a team that is just as mercurial. I beg to differ. To qualify for mercurial status, a team must possess latent astonishment potential, they must play on instinct and they must be touched by genius. Pakistan are proper mercurial, as David Lloyd might put it. England are not. They are perfectly nice chaps, but as was once said of Paul Collingwood, if they were playing on my front lawn, I’d draw the curtains.
*Of course, I did not mean to imply, Aussie fans, that the rest of us are not missing you deeply. It’s just that we’ve seen rather a lot of you over the years and it’s nice to let some of the other boys have a go. Besides, you’ll have your fun soon enough.
Friday, June 12, 2009
World Twenty20 Day Eight
Like the assassination of JFK and the resignation of Kevin Pietersen, Sohail Tanvir’s opening over against Sri Lanka was compelling television. Everyone will remember where they were when he finally completed it, though few will remember where they were when he started it. What could have caused such a spectacular malfunction? It seems that his fear of Tillakaratne Dilshan’s signature shot, the Elevator TM had caused his own mechanisms to jam up and after another interminable nine ball exhibition of the jitters, Younis Khan pressed the emergency stop button.
Now, I have to be honest. I didn’t see all of today’s first game. But though I am new to this cricket writing business, I’ve learned enough to know that ignorance is no barrier to penmanship. A sophisticated and above all convenient technique for bottling the complex experience of a three hour game of cricket with all its eye-widening twists and giddying turns is to pick out a tiny part of the match and witter on about it for two or three paragraphs, implying pretentiously that you are the sports writing equivalent of William Blake, able to see a world of cricket in a single over. Like so.
Another staple of lazy hackery is that hoary old chestnut: the game-changing moment. We thought we’d unearthed one early in the second innings of this evening’s contest. Chasing a target that was, like an England fielder, neither here nor there, the Gayle Islands were poised on 42-1. All eyes were on their captain, by common consent, the only man in maroony-pink worth mentioning. A swish of the bat; a nasty, edgy, woody sound and like a gaggle of well to do Victorian ladies, we gasped and clutched our collective handbags. Yusuf Pathan caught it. From the lofty Lord’s media centre came the sound of dozens of laptop lids being flipped as the gentlemen of the press prepared to pin their moment to the page.
But Johnny Twenty20 is a slippery cove and needs to be kept under constant surveillance. Dwayne Bravo just kept right on swinging and I’ll swear that if you listened carefully, you could just make out, under the whoops and cheers of West Indian joy, the rattling thump of dozens of delete keys being jabbed at once.
So what does this defeat of the reigning champions and co-favourites mean for the tournament? With groan-inducing predictability, Sky had the answer. “India against England on Sunday is absolutely massive!” roared Charles Colville. Will these people never learn?
Now, I have to be honest. I didn’t see all of today’s first game. But though I am new to this cricket writing business, I’ve learned enough to know that ignorance is no barrier to penmanship. A sophisticated and above all convenient technique for bottling the complex experience of a three hour game of cricket with all its eye-widening twists and giddying turns is to pick out a tiny part of the match and witter on about it for two or three paragraphs, implying pretentiously that you are the sports writing equivalent of William Blake, able to see a world of cricket in a single over. Like so.
Another staple of lazy hackery is that hoary old chestnut: the game-changing moment. We thought we’d unearthed one early in the second innings of this evening’s contest. Chasing a target that was, like an England fielder, neither here nor there, the Gayle Islands were poised on 42-1. All eyes were on their captain, by common consent, the only man in maroony-pink worth mentioning. A swish of the bat; a nasty, edgy, woody sound and like a gaggle of well to do Victorian ladies, we gasped and clutched our collective handbags. Yusuf Pathan caught it. From the lofty Lord’s media centre came the sound of dozens of laptop lids being flipped as the gentlemen of the press prepared to pin their moment to the page.
But Johnny Twenty20 is a slippery cove and needs to be kept under constant surveillance. Dwayne Bravo just kept right on swinging and I’ll swear that if you listened carefully, you could just make out, under the whoops and cheers of West Indian joy, the rattling thump of dozens of delete keys being jabbed at once.
So what does this defeat of the reigning champions and co-favourites mean for the tournament? With groan-inducing predictability, Sky had the answer. “India against England on Sunday is absolutely massive!” roared Charles Colville. Will these people never learn?
Thursday, June 11, 2009
World Twenty20 Day Seven
For reasons that are still not entirely clear, Sky chose a boxing metaphor to introduce Thursday evening’s game. It was, we were assured, a heavyweight bout between two in-form teams that was going to go the distance. It didn’t sound very plausible. A far more accurate summary of the nature of this sporting contest came from the Trent Bridge DJ at the end of the second over, with England already two wickets down. “Stop!”, implored MC Hammer. “It’s Hammertime!” It certainly was.
But delusional thinking about England’s place in the cricket world extends beyond the Sky commentary box. Paul Collingwood was of the opinion that it has been a rollercoaster tournament for his lads. Has it? Thus far, they have lost to an ordinary team, beaten an ordinary team and lost to a very good team. As rollercoaster rides go, it has been low on thrills. Of course, England are not about to throw the towel in. They are, after all, contractually obliged to fulfil their remaining fixtures.
And at least the English are pulling their weight off the field. Until now, World Twenty20 haute couture has left something to be desired. The hats have been good. We’ve seen leprechaun toppers, Maharajah-style crowns and on Monday, a South African fan had scooped the innards from a water melon, scrawled his country’s name on the outside in thick black marker and squeezed it onto his head. You won’t see millinery like that at Royal Ascot.
Yet for all the great headgear, there has been a lacklustre showing in the fancy dress category. Well on Thursday night, the English crowd upped their game. There were men in inflatable suits. There were men in pink fluffy wigs. There was a scantily clad cohort of rather merry Romans. And there was a trio of companions who summed up what this tournament and Twenty20 is all about: a Tellytubby, a bearded lady in a wedding dress and a knight with a plastic shield.
Unfortunately, their commitment to entertain was not reciprocated by the men in dirty blue. Booing began to echo across the ground and reached a crescendo in the eleventh over when mild mannered Dr Owais blocked yet another delivery. It was then that a strange transformation overtook the Middlesex man. He became wild-eyed Mr Shah, stepping back with a swagger and a snarl and heaving the ball ferociously to all parts. Sadly, the potion soon wore off and, as usual, no-one else had thought to bring any.
But delusional thinking about England’s place in the cricket world extends beyond the Sky commentary box. Paul Collingwood was of the opinion that it has been a rollercoaster tournament for his lads. Has it? Thus far, they have lost to an ordinary team, beaten an ordinary team and lost to a very good team. As rollercoaster rides go, it has been low on thrills. Of course, England are not about to throw the towel in. They are, after all, contractually obliged to fulfil their remaining fixtures.
And at least the English are pulling their weight off the field. Until now, World Twenty20 haute couture has left something to be desired. The hats have been good. We’ve seen leprechaun toppers, Maharajah-style crowns and on Monday, a South African fan had scooped the innards from a water melon, scrawled his country’s name on the outside in thick black marker and squeezed it onto his head. You won’t see millinery like that at Royal Ascot.
Yet for all the great headgear, there has been a lacklustre showing in the fancy dress category. Well on Thursday night, the English crowd upped their game. There were men in inflatable suits. There were men in pink fluffy wigs. There was a scantily clad cohort of rather merry Romans. And there was a trio of companions who summed up what this tournament and Twenty20 is all about: a Tellytubby, a bearded lady in a wedding dress and a knight with a plastic shield.
Unfortunately, their commitment to entertain was not reciprocated by the men in dirty blue. Booing began to echo across the ground and reached a crescendo in the eleventh over when mild mannered Dr Owais blocked yet another delivery. It was then that a strange transformation overtook the Middlesex man. He became wild-eyed Mr Shah, stepping back with a swagger and a snarl and heaving the ball ferociously to all parts. Sadly, the potion soon wore off and, as usual, no-one else had thought to bring any.
World Twenty20 Day Six
Wednesday’s games didn’t matter in the slightest. They were utterly pointless in every respect. And it rained too. But despite the existential futility of Day Six of the World Twenty20, it all turned out to be rather entertaining. There was Dwayne Bravo smoking boundaries in all directions as the rain tumbled down, Sanath Jayasuriya manfully holding back the tide of age and more elegant trickery from the sparkly-wristed magician, Tillakaratne Dilshan. When Kevin Pietersen plays the switch-hit, it looks like a gorilla trying to do the Twist, yet Dilshan turns it into ballet.
Then there was the curious incident of the six that never was. Angelo Mathews’ one man volleyball-style acrobatic display did momentarily flummox the umpires but after a brief delay, they concluded that no six-action had occurred. Yet the chaps in the Sky commentary box were not sure. Nasser Hussain knows which way up to hold a book and he had apparently been scouring the laws for a definitive answer, without success. Had the umpires dropped a clanger? I decided to venture into the arcane and mysterious world of cricket lore myself. After literally five seconds searching, I located Law 19 on boundaries. Ten seconds later, I had uncovered the incredible truth. The umpires were right. Dan Brown it wasn’t.
But out there in cyberspace, the citizens were revolting. Emails pinged into inboxes like angry bees returning to the hive. You would have thought poor Angelo had just punched the Duke of Kent in the face and set fire to the Lord’s pavilion. One correspondent to Cricinfo suggested that teams would now take the precaution of stationing players in the stands, ready to leap into action at a moment’s notice, barge down the steps, jump over the advertising boards, dodge the stewards and bat a potential six back into play. Whilst keeping both feet in the air. I suppose it would be something for Rob Key to do. “We’ve been getting a lot of emails on the subject,” said Sky’s presenter, Ian Ward. Wisely, he didn’t read any out.
Mr Mathews was also the source of some multicultural misadventure for our favourite former fast bowler, Ian Bishop. Earlier in the week, he had seemed unsure of his footing when delivering Angelo’s second name. So, anxious not to offend the Sri Lankan viewers any further and with Ranil Abeynaike as his co-commentator, he tried to enlist his compadre in a little name clarification. Sensibly, Ranil was having none of it. After much hopeless digging, the former fast bowler gave up. “Why can’t they just have simple names, like Bishop,” he concluded, putting down his shovel. I wouldn’t open your emails for a day or two, Bish.
Then there was the curious incident of the six that never was. Angelo Mathews’ one man volleyball-style acrobatic display did momentarily flummox the umpires but after a brief delay, they concluded that no six-action had occurred. Yet the chaps in the Sky commentary box were not sure. Nasser Hussain knows which way up to hold a book and he had apparently been scouring the laws for a definitive answer, without success. Had the umpires dropped a clanger? I decided to venture into the arcane and mysterious world of cricket lore myself. After literally five seconds searching, I located Law 19 on boundaries. Ten seconds later, I had uncovered the incredible truth. The umpires were right. Dan Brown it wasn’t.
But out there in cyberspace, the citizens were revolting. Emails pinged into inboxes like angry bees returning to the hive. You would have thought poor Angelo had just punched the Duke of Kent in the face and set fire to the Lord’s pavilion. One correspondent to Cricinfo suggested that teams would now take the precaution of stationing players in the stands, ready to leap into action at a moment’s notice, barge down the steps, jump over the advertising boards, dodge the stewards and bat a potential six back into play. Whilst keeping both feet in the air. I suppose it would be something for Rob Key to do. “We’ve been getting a lot of emails on the subject,” said Sky’s presenter, Ian Ward. Wisely, he didn’t read any out.
Mr Mathews was also the source of some multicultural misadventure for our favourite former fast bowler, Ian Bishop. Earlier in the week, he had seemed unsure of his footing when delivering Angelo’s second name. So, anxious not to offend the Sri Lankan viewers any further and with Ranil Abeynaike as his co-commentator, he tried to enlist his compadre in a little name clarification. Sensibly, Ranil was having none of it. After much hopeless digging, the former fast bowler gave up. “Why can’t they just have simple names, like Bishop,” he concluded, putting down his shovel. I wouldn’t open your emails for a day or two, Bish.
Tuesday, June 9, 2009
World Twenty20 Day Five
Twenty20 demands a pumping soundtrack and after a slow start, decibel escalation reached Defcon Four on a jaw-juddering Monday night at Trent Bridge where the sonic blasts emanating from the DJ station blew bats out of the night sky and shattered sherry glasses as far as Chesterfield. But such aural stimulation would be too much for some of the more elderly MCC members, many of whom have still not recovered from the presence of Alesha Dixon in the Lord’s pavilion last Friday.
Fortunately, the crowd brought their own noise. And something else too, beyond the determination to have a party. In the faces and reactions of the Pakistani supporters, there was repressed anger; a stored up electrical charge generated by Sunday’s Oval frustration. In the end, the Netherlands crumpled inwards under intolerable atmospheric pressures and all that green-shirted fury evaporated as sighs of relief into the London sky rather than pouring down on the heads of those luckless souls currently charged with upholding the honour of Inzamam, Wasim and Imran.
The tournament then entered a period of limbo with the first of three games that are entirely devoid of purpose. This is something of a triumph for the ICC Kiljoy Department who, for many years now have been perfecting the science of tension removal and drama dispersal at international cricket tournaments. Naturally, no effort has been made to explain the bizarre seeding-based qualification system for the Super Eights to the public. Why should mere cricket fans be entitled to understand how the competition works? They didn’t put in the long hours on ICC committees, did they.
Still, we got a decent scrap in the second game anyway, a tussle that maybe wasn’t final material, but would have made a good little semi. Above all, it was the fielding that caught the eye. Like troupes of green and grey formation dancers they swooped, pirouetted and dived whilst all the time keeping up a rhythm of clapping, shouting and exhortation. New Zealand flung themselves around like rugby players while South Africa prowled the turf with the intent of well-drilled commandoes.
But what does the Proteas tigerish victory really mean? Daniel Vettori spent the game sitting on the Lord’s balcony, in his black hoodie looking for all the world like a geography teacher trying to infiltrate a street gang. Jesse Ryder was similarly hors de combat. Surely South Africa aren’t so good that they can defend 128 against a full strength team in a game that really matters? Are they? Like a fifteen part thriller, we’ll have to keep tuning in to find out.
Fortunately, the crowd brought their own noise. And something else too, beyond the determination to have a party. In the faces and reactions of the Pakistani supporters, there was repressed anger; a stored up electrical charge generated by Sunday’s Oval frustration. In the end, the Netherlands crumpled inwards under intolerable atmospheric pressures and all that green-shirted fury evaporated as sighs of relief into the London sky rather than pouring down on the heads of those luckless souls currently charged with upholding the honour of Inzamam, Wasim and Imran.
The tournament then entered a period of limbo with the first of three games that are entirely devoid of purpose. This is something of a triumph for the ICC Kiljoy Department who, for many years now have been perfecting the science of tension removal and drama dispersal at international cricket tournaments. Naturally, no effort has been made to explain the bizarre seeding-based qualification system for the Super Eights to the public. Why should mere cricket fans be entitled to understand how the competition works? They didn’t put in the long hours on ICC committees, did they.
Still, we got a decent scrap in the second game anyway, a tussle that maybe wasn’t final material, but would have made a good little semi. Above all, it was the fielding that caught the eye. Like troupes of green and grey formation dancers they swooped, pirouetted and dived whilst all the time keeping up a rhythm of clapping, shouting and exhortation. New Zealand flung themselves around like rugby players while South Africa prowled the turf with the intent of well-drilled commandoes.
But what does the Proteas tigerish victory really mean? Daniel Vettori spent the game sitting on the Lord’s balcony, in his black hoodie looking for all the world like a geography teacher trying to infiltrate a street gang. Jesse Ryder was similarly hors de combat. Surely South Africa aren’t so good that they can defend 128 against a full strength team in a game that really matters? Are they? Like a fifteen part thriller, we’ll have to keep tuning in to find out.
Monday, June 8, 2009
World Twenty20 Day Four
So farewell then, Australia. As each brave new yellow-clad soldier trudged to the wicket, the chorus of ‘Land Down Under’ sounded less like a stirring paean to a virile sporting nation and more like a poignant ode to a vanishing golden age. There was a wilful refusal to succumb from Mitchell Johnson and Brett Lee but they were mere mime artists paying homage to the great actors of the past; to Hayden, to Gilchrist and (say it quietly) to Symonds.
Two fleeting impressions of the Australian captain linger in the memory. Receiving his first ever delivery from Ajantha Mendis, he gave himself a little room to marmalise it over cover but the tricky little ball did a most uncivil thing and slid by his flailing willow to topple the Ponting castle. Slow motion television froze his face in a wincing ‘O’ of disbelief, the look of a man who’d just tried and failed to jump over a thorny bush.
Then in the penultimate over of the game, with runs coming only at a trickle and an Aussie victory not completely impossible, Brett Lee strayed too straight and Jehan Mubarak swung his long arms, depositing the ball into a mass of jubilant Sri Lankan humanity. Ricky sighed, tilted his head on one side and folded his arms, like a disappointed father who, against his better judgement, had given his wayward children just one more chance to get it right.
To be honest, they were a dull bunch, these Aussies. Men at work, rather than geniuses at play, they were the grizzled antithesis of what this tournament is about. What is required is not honest toil but flashy brilliance. It is a karaoke contest not the Sydney Opera House, but the Aussies really didn’t get into party spirit and weren’t prepared to risk making fools of themselves. Which is why they are now going to have a long rest. In Leicester, so we understand.
And who can begrudge Sri Lanka their laurels? Whilst all the other captains have a selection of boring implements in their tool box, Kumar Sangakkara has a range of unusually shaped devices from the Twirling Murali to the Flailing Malinga, not to mention a succession of slightly built but compelling six-hitters. And of course, there is Mendis, whose modus operandi is so beautifully simple it makes every other bowler look foolish. He’s probably never even heard of the corridor of uncertainty
Two fleeting impressions of the Australian captain linger in the memory. Receiving his first ever delivery from Ajantha Mendis, he gave himself a little room to marmalise it over cover but the tricky little ball did a most uncivil thing and slid by his flailing willow to topple the Ponting castle. Slow motion television froze his face in a wincing ‘O’ of disbelief, the look of a man who’d just tried and failed to jump over a thorny bush.
Then in the penultimate over of the game, with runs coming only at a trickle and an Aussie victory not completely impossible, Brett Lee strayed too straight and Jehan Mubarak swung his long arms, depositing the ball into a mass of jubilant Sri Lankan humanity. Ricky sighed, tilted his head on one side and folded his arms, like a disappointed father who, against his better judgement, had given his wayward children just one more chance to get it right.
To be honest, they were a dull bunch, these Aussies. Men at work, rather than geniuses at play, they were the grizzled antithesis of what this tournament is about. What is required is not honest toil but flashy brilliance. It is a karaoke contest not the Sydney Opera House, but the Aussies really didn’t get into party spirit and weren’t prepared to risk making fools of themselves. Which is why they are now going to have a long rest. In Leicester, so we understand.
And who can begrudge Sri Lanka their laurels? Whilst all the other captains have a selection of boring implements in their tool box, Kumar Sangakkara has a range of unusually shaped devices from the Twirling Murali to the Flailing Malinga, not to mention a succession of slightly built but compelling six-hitters. And of course, there is Mendis, whose modus operandi is so beautifully simple it makes every other bowler look foolish. He’s probably never even heard of the corridor of uncertainty
Sunday, June 7, 2009
World Twenty20 Day Three
The pre-match anthems are usually a dirgeful experience, a yawn inducing run through of some of the dullest tunes on the planet. But today we were treated to ‘Flower of Scotland’ followed by ‘Nikosi Sikelel’ iAfrika’. For the quality of their anthems alone, South Africa should meet Scotland in the final. But it isn’t going to happen. In crushing the Scottish dream, the Proteas showed all the sensitivity of a steamroller flattening a daisy patch. Such was the ruthlessness of the operation that in his post match interview, Graeme Smith didn’t even mention the men in blue.
Still, the Scots did give us one moment to cherish, besides the swirl of bagpipes ringing in our ears. For most of the tournament, they had fielded with all the sprightly elegance of retired Sumo wrestlers. Enter the explosively named Kyle Coetzer. In pursuit of yet another South African boundary attempt, he executed a backward turnaround leap with extra twistiness as the ball screamed over his head and smacked firmly into the centre of his outstretched palm. I hope his video recorder was working.
We were all hoping for similar jaw-dropping moments in the second game where the incompetent but undeniably desperate English took on the rusty Pakistanis. The Oval was throbbing with noise and vibrant with colour. Storm clouds were gathering overhead as the floodlights blazed down on the coliseum. When Ravi Bopara holed out in the second over, the resultant roar nearly rattled my television off its stand. England surged ahead; Pakistan pegged them back. Pietersen launched the ball skywards. Umer Gul splintered Shah’s leg stump. Surely this was all building to an unbearable, coronary inducing finish?
Well, no it wasn’t. Salman Butt came and went, Boom Boom Afridi was at least one Boom short and Misbah arrived at the party just as the last guests were leaving. Throughout, Younis Khan batted with such Zen-like calm that I began to wonder whether he had something extraordinary up his sleeve. Perhaps a photo of Paul Collingwood in a compromising position with Giles Clarke? But no. It turned out that the poor old chap had simply forgotten that this was a twenty over game. It all petered out drably as the rain-sodden England players high-fived themselves silly.
And finally, a piece of consumer advice. During his commentary stint from the Oval, legendary fast bowler Ian Bishop suggested that anyone visiting the capital must go for a ‘tinkle’ on the London Eye. Should you be tempted to follow his advice, I must point out that the City of London authorities enforce a strict ‘no tinkling’ policy on the Eye and that you are instead advised to use the toilets situated near the ticket office.
Still, the Scots did give us one moment to cherish, besides the swirl of bagpipes ringing in our ears. For most of the tournament, they had fielded with all the sprightly elegance of retired Sumo wrestlers. Enter the explosively named Kyle Coetzer. In pursuit of yet another South African boundary attempt, he executed a backward turnaround leap with extra twistiness as the ball screamed over his head and smacked firmly into the centre of his outstretched palm. I hope his video recorder was working.
We were all hoping for similar jaw-dropping moments in the second game where the incompetent but undeniably desperate English took on the rusty Pakistanis. The Oval was throbbing with noise and vibrant with colour. Storm clouds were gathering overhead as the floodlights blazed down on the coliseum. When Ravi Bopara holed out in the second over, the resultant roar nearly rattled my television off its stand. England surged ahead; Pakistan pegged them back. Pietersen launched the ball skywards. Umer Gul splintered Shah’s leg stump. Surely this was all building to an unbearable, coronary inducing finish?
Well, no it wasn’t. Salman Butt came and went, Boom Boom Afridi was at least one Boom short and Misbah arrived at the party just as the last guests were leaving. Throughout, Younis Khan batted with such Zen-like calm that I began to wonder whether he had something extraordinary up his sleeve. Perhaps a photo of Paul Collingwood in a compromising position with Giles Clarke? But no. It turned out that the poor old chap had simply forgotten that this was a twenty over game. It all petered out drably as the rain-sodden England players high-fived themselves silly.
And finally, a piece of consumer advice. During his commentary stint from the Oval, legendary fast bowler Ian Bishop suggested that anyone visiting the capital must go for a ‘tinkle’ on the London Eye. Should you be tempted to follow his advice, I must point out that the City of London authorities enforce a strict ‘no tinkling’ policy on the Eye and that you are instead advised to use the toilets situated near the ticket office.
World Twenty20 Day Two
Hello. My name is Andrew Hughes, I’m a right handed writer and my favourite piece of punctuation is the semi-colon.
Yes, the latest innovation in televisual infotainment is the cheery player introduction in which the next batsman out of the bus shelter grins a pre-recorded grin and announces his name, batting orientation and preferred method of dismissal. Occasionally, a maverick may slip in extraneous information they feel will tickle the viewer’s fancy. So today we learned that David Hussey is known as ‘Huss’ to his teammates. Thanks David. Never let it be said that Team Australia lack whimsy.
They do, however, lack a certain je ne sais quoi, an indefinable something, a Quantam of Roy-ness. Thus far, Dame Twenty20 has smiled kindly on the brave, the reckless and the biff-happy, qualities that reach their apogee in the personage of Andrew Symonds. But whilst Australia have rejected their talented troublemaker, West Indies have made theirs captain. The long tall Jamaican has been the subject of many purse-lipped English editorials for not pretending to like Test cricket, but he’s always been a favourite in the Hughes household and his casual butchery of Lee, Johnson and Bracken was balm to soothe the English soul.
Earlier on in the day, Scotland had threatened to reduce the tournament to anarchy by toppling New Zealand’s dignity as Netherlands had done to England the night before. Sadly, some stout bat-lashing was let down by a fielding performance that was more Mrs Doubtfire than Braveheart. In fact, if Jonty Rhodes was watching today’s games, he might be in need of resuscitation about now. The West Indies in particular set the cause of ball retrieval back a generation or two with a performance that suggested the white Duke had been replaced by a live grenade.
For a while, India were showing them how it was done. Indeed, catch of the tournament so far was pulled off by everyone’s favourite sulky superstar, Yuvraj Singh. In the thirteenth over, he leapt like a gazelle or at least, like a hippo that had been on a diet, to claim a stunner. He roared his celebration to the night sky. I am Yuvraj, King of Fielders! Look on me and despair, ye mighty!
Nemesis arrived, ahead of schedule, in the next over. A gentle lob looped towards our hero, travelling so slowly that it seemed to pause for a moment or two in mid-air. “Catch me, Yuvraj, catch me!” the ball sang as it hung there, defying gravity. But in an oopsy-daisy moment it bounced from his knuckles and nestled with a disappointed sigh in the turf. The fielding gods giveth and they taketh away.
Yes, the latest innovation in televisual infotainment is the cheery player introduction in which the next batsman out of the bus shelter grins a pre-recorded grin and announces his name, batting orientation and preferred method of dismissal. Occasionally, a maverick may slip in extraneous information they feel will tickle the viewer’s fancy. So today we learned that David Hussey is known as ‘Huss’ to his teammates. Thanks David. Never let it be said that Team Australia lack whimsy.
They do, however, lack a certain je ne sais quoi, an indefinable something, a Quantam of Roy-ness. Thus far, Dame Twenty20 has smiled kindly on the brave, the reckless and the biff-happy, qualities that reach their apogee in the personage of Andrew Symonds. But whilst Australia have rejected their talented troublemaker, West Indies have made theirs captain. The long tall Jamaican has been the subject of many purse-lipped English editorials for not pretending to like Test cricket, but he’s always been a favourite in the Hughes household and his casual butchery of Lee, Johnson and Bracken was balm to soothe the English soul.
Earlier on in the day, Scotland had threatened to reduce the tournament to anarchy by toppling New Zealand’s dignity as Netherlands had done to England the night before. Sadly, some stout bat-lashing was let down by a fielding performance that was more Mrs Doubtfire than Braveheart. In fact, if Jonty Rhodes was watching today’s games, he might be in need of resuscitation about now. The West Indies in particular set the cause of ball retrieval back a generation or two with a performance that suggested the white Duke had been replaced by a live grenade.
For a while, India were showing them how it was done. Indeed, catch of the tournament so far was pulled off by everyone’s favourite sulky superstar, Yuvraj Singh. In the thirteenth over, he leapt like a gazelle or at least, like a hippo that had been on a diet, to claim a stunner. He roared his celebration to the night sky. I am Yuvraj, King of Fielders! Look on me and despair, ye mighty!
Nemesis arrived, ahead of schedule, in the next over. A gentle lob looped towards our hero, travelling so slowly that it seemed to pause for a moment or two in mid-air. “Catch me, Yuvraj, catch me!” the ball sang as it hung there, defying gravity. But in an oopsy-daisy moment it bounced from his knuckles and nestled with a disappointed sigh in the turf. The fielding gods giveth and they taketh away.
Friday, June 5, 2009
World Twenty20 Day One
Ga Nederland! Stop the tournament right now. There is no point carrying on. Anything that happens from this point onwards can only be a mere imitation of the nerve jangling, stomach-churning and rather sweaty tension that gripped a damp corner of North West London and several million homes around the globe.
It had seemed so unlikely. We had tuned in to be greeted by what we thought was ill-mannered precipitation on our parade. But the weather gods have much wisdom. The rain lasted just long enough to see off the much-threatened opening ceremony which was replaced by a stand-up routine from the Three Stooges. David Morgan droned on for a while, like a Welsh Methodist preacher warning us of the perils of enjoying ourselves. Giles Clarke, the silent one in the bad suit looked on gormlessly. Then His Venerable Eminence the Duke of Kent, in his best 1930s accent, regaled us with an account of his school days or possibly his shopping list. I can’t be sure, because, to be honest, your Dukeship, I wasn’t really listening.
Enter the clowns. England’s comedy show took some time to get going, with many of Luke Wright’s hilarious straight-up-in-the-air heaves falling inexplicably short of the fielders. But once Ravi Bopara had holed out, the old routine fell into place and they followed up some cheeky little getting out shots with a slippery slidey fielding performance as the grass grew greasier and the game kept popping out of their grasp like an errant bar of soap in a bubble bath.
No comedy in the Sky studio but there was an intriguing game of good cop, grumpy-cop-who-hasn’t-had-his-coffee-yet. Clean cut new boy Nick Knight thought Wright’s recent performances amounted to green shoots of improvement. Scowly Mike Atherton winced his disagreement. Knight read out a sonnet of his own composition on Paul Collingwood’s inspirational leadership. Atherton threw up in a bucket. Still, they were unanimous on one thing: the Netherlands couldn’t possibly win. “A bunch of butchers, bakers and candlestick makers,” chuckled Atherton, inordinately pleased with himself.
However, it appeared that the Dutch hadn’t got the memo informing them of the futility of their plight. They set about chasing down their target with bravery and gusto and the crowd seemed to grow more orange by the second as everyone’s eyes began to widen to the possibilities. Orange hats, orange flags and orange wigs bobbed up and down in the steamy rain as their supporters went respectably crazy in a very Dutch way. Then that final ball and I, like millions of others around the world, leapt right off my chair.
It had seemed so unlikely. We had tuned in to be greeted by what we thought was ill-mannered precipitation on our parade. But the weather gods have much wisdom. The rain lasted just long enough to see off the much-threatened opening ceremony which was replaced by a stand-up routine from the Three Stooges. David Morgan droned on for a while, like a Welsh Methodist preacher warning us of the perils of enjoying ourselves. Giles Clarke, the silent one in the bad suit looked on gormlessly. Then His Venerable Eminence the Duke of Kent, in his best 1930s accent, regaled us with an account of his school days or possibly his shopping list. I can’t be sure, because, to be honest, your Dukeship, I wasn’t really listening.
Enter the clowns. England’s comedy show took some time to get going, with many of Luke Wright’s hilarious straight-up-in-the-air heaves falling inexplicably short of the fielders. But once Ravi Bopara had holed out, the old routine fell into place and they followed up some cheeky little getting out shots with a slippery slidey fielding performance as the grass grew greasier and the game kept popping out of their grasp like an errant bar of soap in a bubble bath.
No comedy in the Sky studio but there was an intriguing game of good cop, grumpy-cop-who-hasn’t-had-his-coffee-yet. Clean cut new boy Nick Knight thought Wright’s recent performances amounted to green shoots of improvement. Scowly Mike Atherton winced his disagreement. Knight read out a sonnet of his own composition on Paul Collingwood’s inspirational leadership. Atherton threw up in a bucket. Still, they were unanimous on one thing: the Netherlands couldn’t possibly win. “A bunch of butchers, bakers and candlestick makers,” chuckled Atherton, inordinately pleased with himself.
However, it appeared that the Dutch hadn’t got the memo informing them of the futility of their plight. They set about chasing down their target with bravery and gusto and the crowd seemed to grow more orange by the second as everyone’s eyes began to widen to the possibilities. Orange hats, orange flags and orange wigs bobbed up and down in the steamy rain as their supporters went respectably crazy in a very Dutch way. Then that final ball and I, like millions of others around the world, leapt right off my chair.
Tuesday, June 2, 2009
Haircut XI
Kevin Pietersen
Whilst playing for Hampshire, wildlife lover and safari enthusiast KP became concerned for the endangered indigenous burrowing mammals of the New Forest. To raise awareness of their plight he agreed to play the entire Ashes series of 2005 with a live badger on his head.
Yuvraj Singh
India’s batting heartthrob showed that he still knows how to laugh at himself when he turned up to a recent photo shoot with a drastic new coiffure. “What do you call that?” joked Zaheer Khan. “I call it Yuvraj Singh’s new haircut,” said the pouty one.
Shane Watson
As a protest at the vanity of the modern cricketer, Shane used his time on the sick list to pioneer the anti-haircut. The beauty of the ‘Watson’ is that it can be achieved by anyone. All you need is a full head of hair and a small, bushy shrub into which to plunge it and hey presto, you’re Australia’s third best all-rounder!
Brendon McCullum
Some men are born blonde and some achieve blondeness. At one time, dousing your scalp in industrial bleach was de rigeur for the international sportsman. Those days may be gone but Kolkata’s hapless captain continues to stage a one-man tribute to the 1980s.
Ryan Sidebottom
All those hours spent with the curling tongues finally paid off last week for the England swing merchant when his ringlets secured the part of Lizzie Bennett’s hairdo in a stage production of Pride and Prejudice.
Ishant Sharma
Heavy metal fan Ishant used to pass his time on the tour bus shaking his tresses to the sound of Metallica or Megadeth. Unfortunately, on one occasion, the noise emanating from his Ipod was so loud that it disturbed Sourav Ganguly as he was cutting out offending newspaper articles for his scrapbook of vengeance. Since that day, Ishant has worn his hair a little shorter.
Shoaib Akhtar
At one time, the ladies swooned as he ran his fingers through a full head of hair. But these days the balding lothario and doughnut connoisseur cuts a rather sad figure in the nightclubs of Lahore as he sidles up to single women, brushes a few lank strands from his face and asks if they’d like to see his ‘fast ball’.
Nathan Bracken
The first Australian sportsperson of either gender to openly wear an Alice band in public, Natalie’s flowing locks are so beautiful that batsmen have been known to break down in tears at the sight.
R P Singh
An admirer of Dennis Compton, the swingingest bowler in India looks back fondly to a time when men were men and hair salons were for girls. “Short back and sides, please and a dash of Brylcream,” is all you will hear RP say to his barber. Sensible bowler. Sensible haircut.
Kyle Mills
Ever the patriot, the Black Cap seamer has sought inspiration from the eighteenth century for his style, modelling it on the same wig worn by Captain Cook when he discovered New Zealand. Egad sir what a splendid barnet!
Lasith Malinga
The Lesser Spotted Afro Bird thrived during the 1970s but loss of its natural habitat has forced it to the brink of extinction. For a while, Lasith Malinga’s hairdo contained what was thought to be the only remaining breeding pair in the world.
Whilst playing for Hampshire, wildlife lover and safari enthusiast KP became concerned for the endangered indigenous burrowing mammals of the New Forest. To raise awareness of their plight he agreed to play the entire Ashes series of 2005 with a live badger on his head.
Yuvraj Singh
India’s batting heartthrob showed that he still knows how to laugh at himself when he turned up to a recent photo shoot with a drastic new coiffure. “What do you call that?” joked Zaheer Khan. “I call it Yuvraj Singh’s new haircut,” said the pouty one.
Shane Watson
As a protest at the vanity of the modern cricketer, Shane used his time on the sick list to pioneer the anti-haircut. The beauty of the ‘Watson’ is that it can be achieved by anyone. All you need is a full head of hair and a small, bushy shrub into which to plunge it and hey presto, you’re Australia’s third best all-rounder!
Brendon McCullum
Some men are born blonde and some achieve blondeness. At one time, dousing your scalp in industrial bleach was de rigeur for the international sportsman. Those days may be gone but Kolkata’s hapless captain continues to stage a one-man tribute to the 1980s.
Ryan Sidebottom
All those hours spent with the curling tongues finally paid off last week for the England swing merchant when his ringlets secured the part of Lizzie Bennett’s hairdo in a stage production of Pride and Prejudice.
Ishant Sharma
Heavy metal fan Ishant used to pass his time on the tour bus shaking his tresses to the sound of Metallica or Megadeth. Unfortunately, on one occasion, the noise emanating from his Ipod was so loud that it disturbed Sourav Ganguly as he was cutting out offending newspaper articles for his scrapbook of vengeance. Since that day, Ishant has worn his hair a little shorter.
Shoaib Akhtar
At one time, the ladies swooned as he ran his fingers through a full head of hair. But these days the balding lothario and doughnut connoisseur cuts a rather sad figure in the nightclubs of Lahore as he sidles up to single women, brushes a few lank strands from his face and asks if they’d like to see his ‘fast ball’.
Nathan Bracken
The first Australian sportsperson of either gender to openly wear an Alice band in public, Natalie’s flowing locks are so beautiful that batsmen have been known to break down in tears at the sight.
R P Singh
An admirer of Dennis Compton, the swingingest bowler in India looks back fondly to a time when men were men and hair salons were for girls. “Short back and sides, please and a dash of Brylcream,” is all you will hear RP say to his barber. Sensible bowler. Sensible haircut.
Kyle Mills
Ever the patriot, the Black Cap seamer has sought inspiration from the eighteenth century for his style, modelling it on the same wig worn by Captain Cook when he discovered New Zealand. Egad sir what a splendid barnet!
Lasith Malinga
The Lesser Spotted Afro Bird thrived during the 1970s but loss of its natural habitat has forced it to the brink of extinction. For a while, Lasith Malinga’s hairdo contained what was thought to be the only remaining breeding pair in the world.
Monday, May 25, 2009
Alternative Employment XI
Rahul Dravid
Growing up in a small Welsh village, the young Dravid was known as ‘Rahul the Wall’ for his skills with bricks and mortar. Sadly, his time as a brickie was cut short when he was selected to represent India.
Jacques Kallis
Those watching the Bangalore versus Delhi game may have noticed the corpulent Kallis fielding at point and diving over the ball in the manner of one of the larger primates slipping on a banana skin. That is no coincidence, since in the off-season he dons a hairy suit and works as a Gorillagram for the Jonty Rhodes Party Agency.
Kevin Pietersen
KP makes batting looks easy, but in fact, every single plie, petit jete and pirouette is carefully choreographed. Renowned for his media skills, it is less well known that the former England captain once studied at the Natal Academy of Dance and is a prima ballerina of some distinction.
VVS Laxman
The silky smooth stroke player has the ability to blend invisibly into any situation (as Deccan Chargers fans will attest) and he uses those skills to pursue a double life as a high society burglar. Now, here at Cricinfo, we don’t condone jewel theft, but frankly it is an honour to have one’s rubies rifled by VVS.
Paul Collingwood
As a boy, little Colly roamed the pine forests of Durhamshire, leaping from tree to tree and was later employed as a lumberjack for the Durham Forestry Commission. Unfortunately, he had to leave this job as his one-dimensional bottom-handed chopping style was boring his colleagues.
Dimitri Mascarenhas
A swashbuckling bowler with a nautical roll to the wicket, Dimi finds gainful employment during the off-season by donning a kerchief and cutlass and starring as Third Pirate from the left in Peter Pan at the Southampton Odeon.
Ramesh Powar
The young Ramesh’s first love is rugby and in his youth, he scrummed down as an immense prop-forward for Llanelli, where he was known simply as The Powar.
Dale Steyn
The crocodile-wrangling quick bowler bears more than a passing resemblance to Lee Harvey Oswald, a fact he used to his advantage when securing a job as Gary Oldman’s stunt double in Oliver Stone’s epic film JFK. As a result, whenever he’s hit for four, opposition supporters have been known to shout, “He’s just a patsy!”
Ajantha Mendis
The youngest member of the Sri Lankan Magic Circle, Ajantha has spent years honing his formidable skills of prestidigitation. He is well known in the magic world for his ability to produce an astonishing variety of small mammals from his top hat with no discernable change of action.
Lasith Malinga
The Slinger isn’t always available for Tests as he is on constant call for the Sri Lankan air force, for whom his horizontal arm action and vivid hair colourings are vital in helping to guide pilots to a safe landing.
Ashok Dinda
The Kolkata trundler’s trademark six foot delivery leap has caught the eye of many potential employers and it is understood that when the IPL is over, Ashok will be taken on by the Bengali Fire Service to retrieve kites, balls and pet animals from the branches of tall trees.
First published on Cricinfo
Growing up in a small Welsh village, the young Dravid was known as ‘Rahul the Wall’ for his skills with bricks and mortar. Sadly, his time as a brickie was cut short when he was selected to represent India.
Jacques Kallis
Those watching the Bangalore versus Delhi game may have noticed the corpulent Kallis fielding at point and diving over the ball in the manner of one of the larger primates slipping on a banana skin. That is no coincidence, since in the off-season he dons a hairy suit and works as a Gorillagram for the Jonty Rhodes Party Agency.
Kevin Pietersen
KP makes batting looks easy, but in fact, every single plie, petit jete and pirouette is carefully choreographed. Renowned for his media skills, it is less well known that the former England captain once studied at the Natal Academy of Dance and is a prima ballerina of some distinction.
VVS Laxman
The silky smooth stroke player has the ability to blend invisibly into any situation (as Deccan Chargers fans will attest) and he uses those skills to pursue a double life as a high society burglar. Now, here at Cricinfo, we don’t condone jewel theft, but frankly it is an honour to have one’s rubies rifled by VVS.
Paul Collingwood
As a boy, little Colly roamed the pine forests of Durhamshire, leaping from tree to tree and was later employed as a lumberjack for the Durham Forestry Commission. Unfortunately, he had to leave this job as his one-dimensional bottom-handed chopping style was boring his colleagues.
Dimitri Mascarenhas
A swashbuckling bowler with a nautical roll to the wicket, Dimi finds gainful employment during the off-season by donning a kerchief and cutlass and starring as Third Pirate from the left in Peter Pan at the Southampton Odeon.
Ramesh Powar
The young Ramesh’s first love is rugby and in his youth, he scrummed down as an immense prop-forward for Llanelli, where he was known simply as The Powar.
Dale Steyn
The crocodile-wrangling quick bowler bears more than a passing resemblance to Lee Harvey Oswald, a fact he used to his advantage when securing a job as Gary Oldman’s stunt double in Oliver Stone’s epic film JFK. As a result, whenever he’s hit for four, opposition supporters have been known to shout, “He’s just a patsy!”
Ajantha Mendis
The youngest member of the Sri Lankan Magic Circle, Ajantha has spent years honing his formidable skills of prestidigitation. He is well known in the magic world for his ability to produce an astonishing variety of small mammals from his top hat with no discernable change of action.
Lasith Malinga
The Slinger isn’t always available for Tests as he is on constant call for the Sri Lankan air force, for whom his horizontal arm action and vivid hair colourings are vital in helping to guide pilots to a safe landing.
Ashok Dinda
The Kolkata trundler’s trademark six foot delivery leap has caught the eye of many potential employers and it is understood that when the IPL is over, Ashok will be taken on by the Bengali Fire Service to retrieve kites, balls and pet animals from the branches of tall trees.
First published on Cricinfo
Wednesday, May 20, 2009
IPL Day Thirty-Three
Like a band of rogue plastic surgeons, Lalit Modi and his IPL cronies are changing the face of our ancient, rather wrinkly game. We have already had injections of entertainment and enthusiasm, concepts without which cricket has managed perfectly well for hundreds of years. And it is possible that with all this whooping, shouting and high-fiving, the human gene responsible for polite applause might pass into obsolescence.
No nook or crevice has escaped their beady eye. Even the sacred ritual of the pitch report is being tampered with. Long ago it was writ that the least useful or most annoying member of the commentary team should venture out onto the cut strip and hitching up his slacks, should bend, haemorrhoids permitting and solemnly prod the turf with a car key whilst chanting mystically about loam, root stock and water tables.
But what was once a brief but pleasant excursion into the world of horticulture has been turned into a five minute comedy audition. Game Fifty-Two saw Daniel Kyle Morrison, former international cricketer and taker of 160 Test wickets, standing on the New Wanderers pitch with a cheerleader on his shoulders. I have no idea why he was burdened with a professional dancer and I suspect neither did he. It is possible that no-one knows, since it is the kind of idea that presumably emerged at the end of a particularly long, drunken night out.
Still, I suppose you have to have some sympathy for the lot of the television producer. Under continual pressure to make things exciting, the pitches in this IPL haven’t really come to the party. For the most part, they just lie there. And they all look the same. Though the tournament has been played in every corner of South Africa, the strips of turf with which we have been presented have borne more than a passing resemblance to one another. Invariably they look like concrete but play like porridge.
So slow have these pitches been that batsmen have had time to write a chapter or two of their autobiographies, answer their fan mail and polish their bat before the ball finally arrives. And by the time it does get there, they have usually played at least three shots already. In contrast to last year’s festival of thwackery, this IPL has been characterised by the bunt, the lob and the unfeasible edge. For example, on Thursday, Mithun Manhas somehow managed to hook a bouncer that was proceeding slowly past his left ear in the direction of first slip, whereupon Jacques Kallis seized it in his paw, like a bear catching a salmon.
Actually, when I look back on this tournament, Kallis is one of the players who will spring to mind most readily. It isn’t particularly because of his feats with bat and ball. I just seem to have spent an awful lot of time watching him. I have enjoyed his sweaty, full-blooded bowling, his general grumpiness leavened by the occasional tombstone smile, his curmudgeonly sledging of his South African teammates and his utilisation of the sarcastic throw.
Kallis is of course, a well-established character in the cricket soap opera. Another of the many treats of this IPL has been the chance to watch young and not so young Indian players with whom many of us outside the subcontinent are entirely unfamiliar. To genuine cricket lovers, this is a pleasure. Every Kamran Khan and Ravindra Jadeja whom we get to know represents another acre of knowledge reclaimed from the sea of ignorance and extends the realm of the world of cricket, which is after all, a country of the mind.
If you’re thinking that this sounds like end of term wistfulness, you’d be right. The sun will soon be setting on the IPL and the sky is already tinged with sadness. For all their buffoonery, I have grown accustomed to the faces of Coney, Morrison and Rambo Raja and to having my afternoons divided neatly into forty-five minute portions. I’m not sure how I’m going to cope without it.
And in recognition of the imminent end of festivities, a certain autumnal chill has been evident at the evening games. The IPL doesn’t really do cold, anymore than it does rain and the response has been charmingly improvised. On Thursday night the cheerleaders had acquired red woollens and on the Bangalore bench, Mark Boucher and Roelof van der Merwe shared a blanket whilst Anil Kumble donned at least three hats.
Still no mere cold weather can stop these crowds from enjoying themselves. Indeed, the spectators have been one of the best things about the IPL. I don’t refer to the be-suited individuals sitting stony-faced in their corporate boxes, fingering their official passes and sipping chardonnay. It is the ordinary people who have made this tournament; the punters in the cheap seats and on the grass banks, with their home made banners, their flags and their quite astonishing, seemingly limitless enthusiasm.
Port Elizabeth crowds are the best. Even through the muffling of the television screen, the carnival atmosphere they create has been apparent. The ground seems to reverberate with music; a song throbbing constantly like a pulse underneath the action. Even when the commentators are wittering on as they do, you can still catch the surge and swell of brass and chorus, the mingling of gospel and Latin rhythms and the joyous percussion of a seething crowd banging their inflatable clackers, singing, cheering and shouting. They deserve a trophy of their own.
No nook or crevice has escaped their beady eye. Even the sacred ritual of the pitch report is being tampered with. Long ago it was writ that the least useful or most annoying member of the commentary team should venture out onto the cut strip and hitching up his slacks, should bend, haemorrhoids permitting and solemnly prod the turf with a car key whilst chanting mystically about loam, root stock and water tables.
But what was once a brief but pleasant excursion into the world of horticulture has been turned into a five minute comedy audition. Game Fifty-Two saw Daniel Kyle Morrison, former international cricketer and taker of 160 Test wickets, standing on the New Wanderers pitch with a cheerleader on his shoulders. I have no idea why he was burdened with a professional dancer and I suspect neither did he. It is possible that no-one knows, since it is the kind of idea that presumably emerged at the end of a particularly long, drunken night out.
Still, I suppose you have to have some sympathy for the lot of the television producer. Under continual pressure to make things exciting, the pitches in this IPL haven’t really come to the party. For the most part, they just lie there. And they all look the same. Though the tournament has been played in every corner of South Africa, the strips of turf with which we have been presented have borne more than a passing resemblance to one another. Invariably they look like concrete but play like porridge.
So slow have these pitches been that batsmen have had time to write a chapter or two of their autobiographies, answer their fan mail and polish their bat before the ball finally arrives. And by the time it does get there, they have usually played at least three shots already. In contrast to last year’s festival of thwackery, this IPL has been characterised by the bunt, the lob and the unfeasible edge. For example, on Thursday, Mithun Manhas somehow managed to hook a bouncer that was proceeding slowly past his left ear in the direction of first slip, whereupon Jacques Kallis seized it in his paw, like a bear catching a salmon.
Actually, when I look back on this tournament, Kallis is one of the players who will spring to mind most readily. It isn’t particularly because of his feats with bat and ball. I just seem to have spent an awful lot of time watching him. I have enjoyed his sweaty, full-blooded bowling, his general grumpiness leavened by the occasional tombstone smile, his curmudgeonly sledging of his South African teammates and his utilisation of the sarcastic throw.
Kallis is of course, a well-established character in the cricket soap opera. Another of the many treats of this IPL has been the chance to watch young and not so young Indian players with whom many of us outside the subcontinent are entirely unfamiliar. To genuine cricket lovers, this is a pleasure. Every Kamran Khan and Ravindra Jadeja whom we get to know represents another acre of knowledge reclaimed from the sea of ignorance and extends the realm of the world of cricket, which is after all, a country of the mind.
If you’re thinking that this sounds like end of term wistfulness, you’d be right. The sun will soon be setting on the IPL and the sky is already tinged with sadness. For all their buffoonery, I have grown accustomed to the faces of Coney, Morrison and Rambo Raja and to having my afternoons divided neatly into forty-five minute portions. I’m not sure how I’m going to cope without it.
And in recognition of the imminent end of festivities, a certain autumnal chill has been evident at the evening games. The IPL doesn’t really do cold, anymore than it does rain and the response has been charmingly improvised. On Thursday night the cheerleaders had acquired red woollens and on the Bangalore bench, Mark Boucher and Roelof van der Merwe shared a blanket whilst Anil Kumble donned at least three hats.
Still no mere cold weather can stop these crowds from enjoying themselves. Indeed, the spectators have been one of the best things about the IPL. I don’t refer to the be-suited individuals sitting stony-faced in their corporate boxes, fingering their official passes and sipping chardonnay. It is the ordinary people who have made this tournament; the punters in the cheap seats and on the grass banks, with their home made banners, their flags and their quite astonishing, seemingly limitless enthusiasm.
Port Elizabeth crowds are the best. Even through the muffling of the television screen, the carnival atmosphere they create has been apparent. The ground seems to reverberate with music; a song throbbing constantly like a pulse underneath the action. Even when the commentators are wittering on as they do, you can still catch the surge and swell of brass and chorus, the mingling of gospel and Latin rhythms and the joyous percussion of a seething crowd banging their inflatable clackers, singing, cheering and shouting. They deserve a trophy of their own.
Monday, May 11, 2009
IPL Day Twenty-Four
It is a truth universally acknowledged that an English cricket lover with an opinion on the IPL must be in want of an Empire. It seems that every one of my irregularly scribbled posts provokes at least one stinging missive from V.Angry of Bangalore, who, presented with a typically shaped stick invariably seizes it firmly by the pointy end and runs off with it, singing the Indian National Anthem.
I don’t know what else to try. I have disavowed county cricket, I have proclaimed my profound and yawnsome indifference to all things Vaughan and everything that is Bell in the world. I have even paraded my Jeremy Coney fetish for all to see. Yet it avails me naught. The words ‘United Kingdom’ seem to be the only two that certain readers notice. So I might as well give people what they want.
Ahem. You see, I’m not really watching the IPL at all. That’s right. I’m being employed by the ECB, the ICC and the CIA to undermine it. It’s true. Furthermore, the BCCI are a bunch of idiots; Sachin Tendulkar never could bat and Sunil Gavaskar is having an illicit and quite possibly illegal relationship with Ricky Ponting.
There, that should take care of that. And remember, Mr Angry, for extra emphasis, you may want to spell imperialist with a capital letter.
Of course, there is a serious point to be made here about some people’s determination to divide the cricket populace of the world into pro-India and anti-India, with your place on that Axis of Silliness being decided entirely by your geographical location.
But I haven’t time for serious points because the IPL is on again. Yes, it’s Monday, so it must be Rajasthan against Deccan, for what might be the first or possibly the second or even the third time. Never mind strategy breaks, what the IPL needs is a mid-season break or at the very least, a mini-pause, a delay of some kind, to enable us to digest, to reflect and to savour. No-one, not even Jacques Kallis, likes to be force-fed, but that’s what it has felt like in this mid-tournament phase.
Abandoning the idea a gradual build up of momentum, the IPL accelerated to the spin cycle by the first Wednesday and has remained there ever since, a screaming whirl of games blurring into games, with the only reality being the points table to which we cling like shipwrecked sailors being flung around a whirlpool. When was the curious incident of the dog on the outfield? Which was the game where Preity Zinta swore? When did Ravi Shastri stop shouting? Who played yesterday? Who’s playing tomorrow? Like Kevin Pietersen in a hall of mirrors, I don’t know which way to look.
In addition to a mid-season break, the tournament needs the attention of an image consultant, a man with an aesthete’s eye and quite possibly a top hat and a polished cane. For a start, no-one should be contemplating staging games in the middle of the day. The brassy autumnal sun glares down, the pitches gleam like strips of still wet cement and everyone squints into their sunglasses. It’s like partying with a hangover.
I’d go further. The disappointing quality of the fielding is detrimental to the beauty of the tournament. Now, in order to explain the high number of spilled catches there has been a lot of earnest dug out chat about such concepts as ‘variable air thickness’ and the ‘spongy turf coefficient’, most of it about as convincing as a builder trying to explain why the wall he built last week has just collapsed. Time to cut the bull and fess up. A certain proportion of these players can’t catch. Another sizeable group seem to have difficulty touching their toes (yes, that means you Bangalore).
So to this end, in order to restore some dignity to the occasion, I suggest that in IPL 2010, each side will only have two designated fielders. Only the lithest, most attractive movers will be permitted to bend, stretch or pirouette. Everyone else must remain still once the ball is delivered, though a graceful stoop to retrieve a stationary ball is to be permitted. And a new ‘Aesthetic Play League’ will replace all that Fair Play nonsense. Franchises will lose points for pratfalls, facial stubble, stumbles, yelling and tattoos. Credit will be given for difficult catches taken with nonchalance, stylish leaps, neatly pressed trousers and stifling a yawn.
And speaking of barely suppressed somnolence, I bet all of you non-Setanta-ites are wondering how Ronnie Irani is getting on. No? Well I’m going to tell you anyway. He’s doing great. And I am pleased to reveal that, having completed an intensive home study course in Applied Irani, I can reveal the essence of Irani-ness. The secret is in the five key phrases:
Listen
To be honest
For me
Err…
I promise you
Slip these beauties into your every day conversation and you’ll regularly be mistaken for the former biffer. I promise you. Now you may be thinking that we’ve been here before, that this isn’t the first time I have mentioned the awfulness of Setanta’s coverage and that I am now merely overstating, repeating and reiterating the same observation again and again and again until you just want to scream out, “For the love of Modi, just please make it stop!” If you are thinking that, then I have successfully conveyed to you the magic of Setanta.
But hang on just one moment. Because Saturday 9th May was no ordinary Setanta day. It was the day they went all competent on us. It was the day of ‘The Bish’. Due to some kind of mix-up in the booking department, the yellow ones had gone and got themselves a high quality studio guest. Now Ian Bishop is a Christian man and so I will refrain from declaring my televisual love for him here. Suffice it to say, he is the anti-Irani. Clear-spoken, intelligent and informed, his Bishopness does not flap his gums just to keep the air warm. He is a purveyor not of silly grins or lame jokes, but of knowledge and insight. The Setanta presenter was almost in tears of gratitude at the beauty of it all. For the first time in three weeks, I didn’t use the strategic break to file my toe nails, de-louse the dog or eat more toast. I stayed where I was. And I listened.
Finally, to the Kolkata Knight Riders fan who was angry at my taking the name of Ajit Agarkar in vain, I can only apologise. It was a glaring error on my part. I meant to type ‘S.o.u.r.a.v.G.a.n.g.u.l.y.’ but my fingers slipped. I hope that clears that up.
First Published on Cricinfo
I don’t know what else to try. I have disavowed county cricket, I have proclaimed my profound and yawnsome indifference to all things Vaughan and everything that is Bell in the world. I have even paraded my Jeremy Coney fetish for all to see. Yet it avails me naught. The words ‘United Kingdom’ seem to be the only two that certain readers notice. So I might as well give people what they want.
Ahem. You see, I’m not really watching the IPL at all. That’s right. I’m being employed by the ECB, the ICC and the CIA to undermine it. It’s true. Furthermore, the BCCI are a bunch of idiots; Sachin Tendulkar never could bat and Sunil Gavaskar is having an illicit and quite possibly illegal relationship with Ricky Ponting.
There, that should take care of that. And remember, Mr Angry, for extra emphasis, you may want to spell imperialist with a capital letter.
Of course, there is a serious point to be made here about some people’s determination to divide the cricket populace of the world into pro-India and anti-India, with your place on that Axis of Silliness being decided entirely by your geographical location.
But I haven’t time for serious points because the IPL is on again. Yes, it’s Monday, so it must be Rajasthan against Deccan, for what might be the first or possibly the second or even the third time. Never mind strategy breaks, what the IPL needs is a mid-season break or at the very least, a mini-pause, a delay of some kind, to enable us to digest, to reflect and to savour. No-one, not even Jacques Kallis, likes to be force-fed, but that’s what it has felt like in this mid-tournament phase.
Abandoning the idea a gradual build up of momentum, the IPL accelerated to the spin cycle by the first Wednesday and has remained there ever since, a screaming whirl of games blurring into games, with the only reality being the points table to which we cling like shipwrecked sailors being flung around a whirlpool. When was the curious incident of the dog on the outfield? Which was the game where Preity Zinta swore? When did Ravi Shastri stop shouting? Who played yesterday? Who’s playing tomorrow? Like Kevin Pietersen in a hall of mirrors, I don’t know which way to look.
In addition to a mid-season break, the tournament needs the attention of an image consultant, a man with an aesthete’s eye and quite possibly a top hat and a polished cane. For a start, no-one should be contemplating staging games in the middle of the day. The brassy autumnal sun glares down, the pitches gleam like strips of still wet cement and everyone squints into their sunglasses. It’s like partying with a hangover.
I’d go further. The disappointing quality of the fielding is detrimental to the beauty of the tournament. Now, in order to explain the high number of spilled catches there has been a lot of earnest dug out chat about such concepts as ‘variable air thickness’ and the ‘spongy turf coefficient’, most of it about as convincing as a builder trying to explain why the wall he built last week has just collapsed. Time to cut the bull and fess up. A certain proportion of these players can’t catch. Another sizeable group seem to have difficulty touching their toes (yes, that means you Bangalore).
So to this end, in order to restore some dignity to the occasion, I suggest that in IPL 2010, each side will only have two designated fielders. Only the lithest, most attractive movers will be permitted to bend, stretch or pirouette. Everyone else must remain still once the ball is delivered, though a graceful stoop to retrieve a stationary ball is to be permitted. And a new ‘Aesthetic Play League’ will replace all that Fair Play nonsense. Franchises will lose points for pratfalls, facial stubble, stumbles, yelling and tattoos. Credit will be given for difficult catches taken with nonchalance, stylish leaps, neatly pressed trousers and stifling a yawn.
And speaking of barely suppressed somnolence, I bet all of you non-Setanta-ites are wondering how Ronnie Irani is getting on. No? Well I’m going to tell you anyway. He’s doing great. And I am pleased to reveal that, having completed an intensive home study course in Applied Irani, I can reveal the essence of Irani-ness. The secret is in the five key phrases:
Listen
To be honest
For me
Err…
I promise you
Slip these beauties into your every day conversation and you’ll regularly be mistaken for the former biffer. I promise you. Now you may be thinking that we’ve been here before, that this isn’t the first time I have mentioned the awfulness of Setanta’s coverage and that I am now merely overstating, repeating and reiterating the same observation again and again and again until you just want to scream out, “For the love of Modi, just please make it stop!” If you are thinking that, then I have successfully conveyed to you the magic of Setanta.
But hang on just one moment. Because Saturday 9th May was no ordinary Setanta day. It was the day they went all competent on us. It was the day of ‘The Bish’. Due to some kind of mix-up in the booking department, the yellow ones had gone and got themselves a high quality studio guest. Now Ian Bishop is a Christian man and so I will refrain from declaring my televisual love for him here. Suffice it to say, he is the anti-Irani. Clear-spoken, intelligent and informed, his Bishopness does not flap his gums just to keep the air warm. He is a purveyor not of silly grins or lame jokes, but of knowledge and insight. The Setanta presenter was almost in tears of gratitude at the beauty of it all. For the first time in three weeks, I didn’t use the strategic break to file my toe nails, de-louse the dog or eat more toast. I stayed where I was. And I listened.
Finally, to the Kolkata Knight Riders fan who was angry at my taking the name of Ajit Agarkar in vain, I can only apologise. It was a glaring error on my part. I meant to type ‘S.o.u.r.a.v.G.a.n.g.u.l.y.’ but my fingers slipped. I hope that clears that up.
First Published on Cricinfo
Wednesday, May 6, 2009
Philosophers XI
Virender Sehwag
Teaches us that the external world is illusory and that pitches, bowlers and cricket matches do not exist. The essence of Sehwagism is simple. If it moves: hit it. If it doesn’t move: hit it. If you can’t quite see what it is: hit it.
Chris Gayle
Siddhartha Gautama once resolved to sit at the foot of the Bodhi tree and not to move until he had found Truth. Centuries later, the West Indian captain seeks to emulate the Buddha’s search for enlightenment by standing completely motionless for hours at a time.
Kevin Pietersen
A devotee of Freud’s theory of the Super Ego, he has added much to the school of Existentialism, with his poignant writings on the loneliness of the million dollar sportsman and his habit of referring to himself in the third person.
Kumar Sangakkara
This chatty Sri Lankan is a raconteur behind the stumps and regularly wrongfoots opponents by quoting Oscar Wilde. “Consistency,” he once triumphantly declared to a bemused Jacques Kallis, “is the last refuge of the unimaginative.”
Sourav Ganguly
Like Machiavelli’s ideal ruler, the Prince of Kolkata understands that sometimes it is necessary to treat people badly for their own good and that it is better to be feared than to be loved.
Andrew Symonds
When not lassoing sharks or strangling wild pigs with his bare hands, Roy can often be found poring over the works of John Stuart Mill. A devotee of free speech, his career thus far has been a refutation of the philosophy of Rene Descartes: “I (don’t) think, therefore I am.”
Adam Gilchrist
Rejected Steve Waugh’s ‘Spirit of Cricket’ in favour of Aristotle’s Nichomachean Ethics. The Jimmy Stewart of the cricket world, this jug-eared glove man always walks when he nicks it. Unless it really matters, obviously.
Shane Warne
Believes that man should throw off the shackles of coachism and obtain ownership of the means of selection. The acceptable face of Marxism, his stock delivery pitches on the right before veering sharply to the left.
Daniel Vettori
A follower of Flemingism and The Way of The Straight Bat, this bespectacled monk spent many years sitting silently on wooden benches, absorbing the teaching of the master and contemplating the nature of defeat.
Harbhajan Singh
A true Nietchzsean, he believes we should not be bound by meekness. The superior man does not let Australians, ethics or the ICC Playing Regulations restrict him. And the weak and childlike are often deserving of a slap. Thus spake Harbhajan.
Glenn McGrath
Practitioner of the philosophic arts, this latter day Socrates is a master of inductive reasoning: (“We’re going to win five-nil”) and a skilled rhetorician: (“Hey, Eddo, why are you so f***in’ fat?)
First published on Cricinfo
Teaches us that the external world is illusory and that pitches, bowlers and cricket matches do not exist. The essence of Sehwagism is simple. If it moves: hit it. If it doesn’t move: hit it. If you can’t quite see what it is: hit it.
Chris Gayle
Siddhartha Gautama once resolved to sit at the foot of the Bodhi tree and not to move until he had found Truth. Centuries later, the West Indian captain seeks to emulate the Buddha’s search for enlightenment by standing completely motionless for hours at a time.
Kevin Pietersen
A devotee of Freud’s theory of the Super Ego, he has added much to the school of Existentialism, with his poignant writings on the loneliness of the million dollar sportsman and his habit of referring to himself in the third person.
Kumar Sangakkara
This chatty Sri Lankan is a raconteur behind the stumps and regularly wrongfoots opponents by quoting Oscar Wilde. “Consistency,” he once triumphantly declared to a bemused Jacques Kallis, “is the last refuge of the unimaginative.”
Sourav Ganguly
Like Machiavelli’s ideal ruler, the Prince of Kolkata understands that sometimes it is necessary to treat people badly for their own good and that it is better to be feared than to be loved.
Andrew Symonds
When not lassoing sharks or strangling wild pigs with his bare hands, Roy can often be found poring over the works of John Stuart Mill. A devotee of free speech, his career thus far has been a refutation of the philosophy of Rene Descartes: “I (don’t) think, therefore I am.”
Adam Gilchrist
Rejected Steve Waugh’s ‘Spirit of Cricket’ in favour of Aristotle’s Nichomachean Ethics. The Jimmy Stewart of the cricket world, this jug-eared glove man always walks when he nicks it. Unless it really matters, obviously.
Shane Warne
Believes that man should throw off the shackles of coachism and obtain ownership of the means of selection. The acceptable face of Marxism, his stock delivery pitches on the right before veering sharply to the left.
Daniel Vettori
A follower of Flemingism and The Way of The Straight Bat, this bespectacled monk spent many years sitting silently on wooden benches, absorbing the teaching of the master and contemplating the nature of defeat.
Harbhajan Singh
A true Nietchzsean, he believes we should not be bound by meekness. The superior man does not let Australians, ethics or the ICC Playing Regulations restrict him. And the weak and childlike are often deserving of a slap. Thus spake Harbhajan.
Glenn McGrath
Practitioner of the philosophic arts, this latter day Socrates is a master of inductive reasoning: (“We’re going to win five-nil”) and a skilled rhetorician: (“Hey, Eddo, why are you so f***in’ fat?)
First published on Cricinfo
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