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
Monday, May 25, 2009
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
Tuesday, May 5, 2009
IPL Update
Warning! The following piece of writing contains extended metaphorical sequences which some of the more literate readers may find distressing.
Andy Zaltzman’s Cricinfo articles never fail to arrive punctually at Comedy Central. But whilst his latest piece on the IPL was chugging along nicely, inducing more than its share of laughter from the Hughes sofa (or more accurately, the idle man reclining upon the Hughes sofa) it gradually became clear that I had boarded the wrong carriage. Having travelled on his train of thought for most of the journey, I was forced at the last minute to leap from the speeding vehicle of logic and roll down a grassy embankment of disillusionment.
Jumping from a metaphorical locomotive isn’t easy, but I had no option. So what was it that could have provoked me, all these days later, to create such a shaky analogy? It wasn’t that he expressed his lack of interest in who might win the IPL. I don’t care who wins it either. What led me to pull the emergency cord was the conclusion that he drew from that insouciance. Not giving a Mark Nicholas about who won the thing, he seemed to be saying that it would not therefore be permitted to cross the electronic threshold into Zaltzman Land.
Do other people feel like that? If so, then what is cricket about? Why do we watch it? Do we only care about a match because we want one side to win or another to lose? These are big fat hairy challengers that every cricket person should at one time or another get into a wrestling ring with. They are fundamental questions that deserve to be fully explored by a literate, learned and erudite writer.
I won’t be doing that, obviously. For me, as Ronnie Irani would say, it’s simple. I like cricket. I watch a lot of it. Really, far too much of it. Not because I care who wins any of it, but because I like it. I’m watching the IPL because the best players in the world (and Ajit Agarkar) are playing the best sport in the world in the same place at the same time. What other reason do you need?
Cricket is like the works of Shakespeare (yes, really, trust me on this.) When you file in to a performance of Romeo and Juliet, are you carrying an enormous foam hand that says, ‘Chak De Capulets!’ on one side and ‘Tybalt Rocks!’ on the other? Do you come out of the theatre shaking your head because you felt Mercutio was on the wrong end of a poor decision? No. The play’s the thing. So it is with cricket. It’s the game, stupid. As Oscar Wilde definitely didn’t say, there is no such thing as the wrong or right result; there is only good or bad cricket
There is of course, a third way to look at the IPL. I know that there are people in England who have only taken an interest in the tournament whilst the English players were involved. For them, the entertainment has been rather thin, though they have, if they’ve been paying attention, witnessed a fascinating phenomenon, known as the Freddie Paradox. It runs something like this. Pre-IPL, everyone was agreed that Andrew Flintoff was a snip at $1.55m and would do the canary-coloured ones proud. Post IPL, everyone is equally adamant that the big buffoon can barely hold a bat and is so deficient in the important skill of bowling slightly more slowly than usual that he should never have gone in the first place.
I say ‘everyone’, by which I mean cricket journalists, by which I mean former England cricketers. And if you are prepared to be patient, you may see another paradox. Currently, the ex-pro press corps are unanimous that Andy Flower is much better than they said he was two months ago and that the selection of a man named Onions is a sure sign that England can win the Ashes. Make a mental note of this so that you can compare and contrast with what they say amid the ashes of England’s Ashes hopes in mid August.
But I digress. Freddie didn’t do very well nor did the rest of them, with the exception of Ravi Bopara. Still, at least we now know for sure what kind of England captain Kevin Pietersen could have been. For Bangalore, he strutted, he clapped and he chivvied and all of it registered high on the decibel scale. He was a tattooed mother hen with a megaphone. Sure, he lost most of the games he played in, but he did it at an impressive volume. And Collingwood’s and Shah’s familiarity with dug-out facilities at all of South Africa’s main stadia could prove very handy when England tour there later this year.
Coinciding with the departure of the Englishmen has been a noticeable stripping out of dead wood as international class egos are ignored in the pursuit of victory right now. The franchises are like Formula One teams, frantically tinkering and modifying mid-race, with the result that those making the early pace are now in danger of being overtaken. Even Bangalore, now running on Kumble, a lower emission, higher efficiency fuel, are looking like contenders. It’s all very confusing.
Thank goodness then for the old-school incompetence of the Kolkata Knight Riders. John Buchanan’s sequel to ‘If Better Is Possible’ will presumably be entitled, ‘Can It Get Much Worse?’ to which the answer is, undoubtedly. Kudos though to the laptop-bothering Sun Tzu quoting coach. In such an open format of the game where anyone can beat anyone, it takes a special kind of magic to string together six defeats out of seven.
Finally, you may have noticed that these ramblings contain no mention of commentators. That is because I have realised that they are impervious to criticism of any kind. Like a herd of charging rhinos with their Ipods turned up full, they are not going to listen to reason, even if it is shouted in their faces. I realised that satire was futile when I heard Alistair Campbell admit that he had run out of nouns with which to describe the action. Muting is too good for them.
Andy Zaltzman’s Cricinfo articles never fail to arrive punctually at Comedy Central. But whilst his latest piece on the IPL was chugging along nicely, inducing more than its share of laughter from the Hughes sofa (or more accurately, the idle man reclining upon the Hughes sofa) it gradually became clear that I had boarded the wrong carriage. Having travelled on his train of thought for most of the journey, I was forced at the last minute to leap from the speeding vehicle of logic and roll down a grassy embankment of disillusionment.
Jumping from a metaphorical locomotive isn’t easy, but I had no option. So what was it that could have provoked me, all these days later, to create such a shaky analogy? It wasn’t that he expressed his lack of interest in who might win the IPL. I don’t care who wins it either. What led me to pull the emergency cord was the conclusion that he drew from that insouciance. Not giving a Mark Nicholas about who won the thing, he seemed to be saying that it would not therefore be permitted to cross the electronic threshold into Zaltzman Land.
Do other people feel like that? If so, then what is cricket about? Why do we watch it? Do we only care about a match because we want one side to win or another to lose? These are big fat hairy challengers that every cricket person should at one time or another get into a wrestling ring with. They are fundamental questions that deserve to be fully explored by a literate, learned and erudite writer.
I won’t be doing that, obviously. For me, as Ronnie Irani would say, it’s simple. I like cricket. I watch a lot of it. Really, far too much of it. Not because I care who wins any of it, but because I like it. I’m watching the IPL because the best players in the world (and Ajit Agarkar) are playing the best sport in the world in the same place at the same time. What other reason do you need?
Cricket is like the works of Shakespeare (yes, really, trust me on this.) When you file in to a performance of Romeo and Juliet, are you carrying an enormous foam hand that says, ‘Chak De Capulets!’ on one side and ‘Tybalt Rocks!’ on the other? Do you come out of the theatre shaking your head because you felt Mercutio was on the wrong end of a poor decision? No. The play’s the thing. So it is with cricket. It’s the game, stupid. As Oscar Wilde definitely didn’t say, there is no such thing as the wrong or right result; there is only good or bad cricket
There is of course, a third way to look at the IPL. I know that there are people in England who have only taken an interest in the tournament whilst the English players were involved. For them, the entertainment has been rather thin, though they have, if they’ve been paying attention, witnessed a fascinating phenomenon, known as the Freddie Paradox. It runs something like this. Pre-IPL, everyone was agreed that Andrew Flintoff was a snip at $1.55m and would do the canary-coloured ones proud. Post IPL, everyone is equally adamant that the big buffoon can barely hold a bat and is so deficient in the important skill of bowling slightly more slowly than usual that he should never have gone in the first place.
I say ‘everyone’, by which I mean cricket journalists, by which I mean former England cricketers. And if you are prepared to be patient, you may see another paradox. Currently, the ex-pro press corps are unanimous that Andy Flower is much better than they said he was two months ago and that the selection of a man named Onions is a sure sign that England can win the Ashes. Make a mental note of this so that you can compare and contrast with what they say amid the ashes of England’s Ashes hopes in mid August.
But I digress. Freddie didn’t do very well nor did the rest of them, with the exception of Ravi Bopara. Still, at least we now know for sure what kind of England captain Kevin Pietersen could have been. For Bangalore, he strutted, he clapped and he chivvied and all of it registered high on the decibel scale. He was a tattooed mother hen with a megaphone. Sure, he lost most of the games he played in, but he did it at an impressive volume. And Collingwood’s and Shah’s familiarity with dug-out facilities at all of South Africa’s main stadia could prove very handy when England tour there later this year.
Coinciding with the departure of the Englishmen has been a noticeable stripping out of dead wood as international class egos are ignored in the pursuit of victory right now. The franchises are like Formula One teams, frantically tinkering and modifying mid-race, with the result that those making the early pace are now in danger of being overtaken. Even Bangalore, now running on Kumble, a lower emission, higher efficiency fuel, are looking like contenders. It’s all very confusing.
Thank goodness then for the old-school incompetence of the Kolkata Knight Riders. John Buchanan’s sequel to ‘If Better Is Possible’ will presumably be entitled, ‘Can It Get Much Worse?’ to which the answer is, undoubtedly. Kudos though to the laptop-bothering Sun Tzu quoting coach. In such an open format of the game where anyone can beat anyone, it takes a special kind of magic to string together six defeats out of seven.
Finally, you may have noticed that these ramblings contain no mention of commentators. That is because I have realised that they are impervious to criticism of any kind. Like a herd of charging rhinos with their Ipods turned up full, they are not going to listen to reason, even if it is shouted in their faces. I realised that satire was futile when I heard Alistair Campbell admit that he had run out of nouns with which to describe the action. Muting is too good for them.
Sunday, May 3, 2009
Ten Uses for Collingwood and Shah
1. Stand-in Chess Pieces
Every Sunday during the IPL, Lalit Modi will be entertaining guests with a game of living chess on the manicured lawn of his palatial Cape Town villa. Spare pawns are always useful, should any of the regular pawns cry off.
2. Trophy Integrity Monitors
Equipped with feather dusters and a range of cleaning products, the dynamic duo could keep their eye in by swatting away specks of dust that threaten to settle on the IPL Trophy.
3. Reserve Cheerleaders.
For when the first team girls need a break. Pretty much what they’ve already been doing, but with fewer clothes.
4. Bat Chaperones
Ensuring that Gambhir and Sehwag’s bats get their share of RnR, the superfluous Englishmen could show them the sights, maybe take in a show, perhaps on to a classy restaurant, before making sure they are safely tucked up in their kit bags by midnight.
5. Commentary Box Attendants
A range of duties including mopping Mark Nicholas’s brow, polishing Sunil Gavaskar’s shoes and ensuring that Ravi Shastri is plugged into the mains an hour before the toss.
6. Dog Enticers
In the event of canine interruptions, the Delhi duds could be released onto the field of play with raw steaks tied to their ankles and encouraged to run towards the exits.
7. Bodyguards
Working directly to a Mr Shahrukh Khan they would be responsible for opening packages with Kolkata postmarks and tasting any dish sent with the compliments of a former Indian captain.
8. Ball Retrievers
Stationed in the vicinity of Newlands, they will be equipped with fishing nets, roller blades and maps of Cape Town. This will also have the benefit of freeing up another two seats in the ground.
9. Hand Shakers-In Waiting
Accompanying Mr Lalit Modi as he traverses the ground and shaking the hands of some of the less important people on his behalf, thus freeing His Modiness to spend more time on his BlackBerry.
10. Precipitation Awareness Operatives.
Where bad weather is forecast, they could be positioned at either end of the Delhi dugout with their palms outstretched.
First published on Cricinfo
Every Sunday during the IPL, Lalit Modi will be entertaining guests with a game of living chess on the manicured lawn of his palatial Cape Town villa. Spare pawns are always useful, should any of the regular pawns cry off.
2. Trophy Integrity Monitors
Equipped with feather dusters and a range of cleaning products, the dynamic duo could keep their eye in by swatting away specks of dust that threaten to settle on the IPL Trophy.
3. Reserve Cheerleaders.
For when the first team girls need a break. Pretty much what they’ve already been doing, but with fewer clothes.
4. Bat Chaperones
Ensuring that Gambhir and Sehwag’s bats get their share of RnR, the superfluous Englishmen could show them the sights, maybe take in a show, perhaps on to a classy restaurant, before making sure they are safely tucked up in their kit bags by midnight.
5. Commentary Box Attendants
A range of duties including mopping Mark Nicholas’s brow, polishing Sunil Gavaskar’s shoes and ensuring that Ravi Shastri is plugged into the mains an hour before the toss.
6. Dog Enticers
In the event of canine interruptions, the Delhi duds could be released onto the field of play with raw steaks tied to their ankles and encouraged to run towards the exits.
7. Bodyguards
Working directly to a Mr Shahrukh Khan they would be responsible for opening packages with Kolkata postmarks and tasting any dish sent with the compliments of a former Indian captain.
8. Ball Retrievers
Stationed in the vicinity of Newlands, they will be equipped with fishing nets, roller blades and maps of Cape Town. This will also have the benefit of freeing up another two seats in the ground.
9. Hand Shakers-In Waiting
Accompanying Mr Lalit Modi as he traverses the ground and shaking the hands of some of the less important people on his behalf, thus freeing His Modiness to spend more time on his BlackBerry.
10. Precipitation Awareness Operatives.
Where bad weather is forecast, they could be positioned at either end of the Delhi dugout with their palms outstretched.
First published on Cricinfo
Saturday, May 2, 2009
Hues The Best
Leading spectrumologist Marcia Nicholas casts her expert eye over the pretty shirts on display at IPL 2009 and tells us what they reveal about the men who wear them.
Deccan Chargers
Ah, now these guys mean business. They’ve chosen a distinctive shade of blue known as Mechanic’s Oily Overalls. It tells me that they are industrious, mechanised and well-oiled. They will get the job done, but they may not always wash their hands.
Chennai Super Kings
The canary is an attractive bird, with bright yellow plumage and a cheery, optimistic tune. But in mimicking the songbird, the man who sports this vivid shade will also turn out to be easily dislodged from his perch and prone to fly north for the summer.
Mumbai Indians
A lovely, soothing, calming blue, evocative of summer skies. This tells of a team relaxed and completely at ease with themselves, serenely going about their business. They may be so relaxed in fact, that they are in danger of falling asleep on the job.
Royal Challengers Bangalore
Now these shirts tell a story. At first glance, Ferrari red appears the epitome of virility, power and success. In reality, it usually masks deep seated insecurities. Men who wear this shade are likely to have performance issues.
Kings XI Punjab
I like these Preity shirts, they put me in mind of red and white roses; of romance. However, the men who wear them are easily distracted by a pretty face and are likely to spend their time in the field composing sonnets or picking daisies.
Delhi Daredevils
English red and blue. I can only forsee bad luck for the wearers of these ill-fated shirts. They should change them immediately.
Kolkata Knight Riders
These colours trouble me. Every time I look at them, I am reminded of burning effigies. The abundance of black is also deeply symbolic; suggestive of secretive plotting and dark intrigue.
Rajasthan Royals
Electric blue shirts are a sign of sparky confidence. This team will have a lot to say for itself and be full of energy. They will be the life and soul of the party at first, but eventually, everyone will get sick of them.
Deccan Chargers
Ah, now these guys mean business. They’ve chosen a distinctive shade of blue known as Mechanic’s Oily Overalls. It tells me that they are industrious, mechanised and well-oiled. They will get the job done, but they may not always wash their hands.
Chennai Super Kings
The canary is an attractive bird, with bright yellow plumage and a cheery, optimistic tune. But in mimicking the songbird, the man who sports this vivid shade will also turn out to be easily dislodged from his perch and prone to fly north for the summer.
Mumbai Indians
A lovely, soothing, calming blue, evocative of summer skies. This tells of a team relaxed and completely at ease with themselves, serenely going about their business. They may be so relaxed in fact, that they are in danger of falling asleep on the job.
Royal Challengers Bangalore
Now these shirts tell a story. At first glance, Ferrari red appears the epitome of virility, power and success. In reality, it usually masks deep seated insecurities. Men who wear this shade are likely to have performance issues.
Kings XI Punjab
I like these Preity shirts, they put me in mind of red and white roses; of romance. However, the men who wear them are easily distracted by a pretty face and are likely to spend their time in the field composing sonnets or picking daisies.
Delhi Daredevils
English red and blue. I can only forsee bad luck for the wearers of these ill-fated shirts. They should change them immediately.
Kolkata Knight Riders
These colours trouble me. Every time I look at them, I am reminded of burning effigies. The abundance of black is also deeply symbolic; suggestive of secretive plotting and dark intrigue.
Rajasthan Royals
Electric blue shirts are a sign of sparky confidence. This team will have a lot to say for itself and be full of energy. They will be the life and soul of the party at first, but eventually, everyone will get sick of them.
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