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.
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