Hitting the bar with Mitchell Starc

No, I've never been drinking with Mitchell Starc. Come to think of it, I've haven't imbibed any substance in the company of a professional cricketer. I'm not sure if this is one of those experiences I should add to my 'Things To Put On A List That I Will Almost Certainly Never Get Round To Doing' list. I have been drinking with people who were better cricketers than me, but that is a large section of society, which includes almost everyone between the ages of ten and seventy who has ever played, watched, or thought about cricket.

So, not that kind of bar. This is a metaphorical bar, used by failed and failing gamblers to describe the experience of almost pulling off a superb triumph of wagering, in which the bet becomes a shot at goal (or conceivably, a penalty in rugby) the gambler's hopes are transmogrified into a ball, and the outcome is that said hopes smack firmly against a metaphorical crossbar, causing all who witnessed it to say, "Ooooohhh...." but more significantly, causing no improvement to the situation on the scoreboard.

And this time, it's all Mitchell Starc's fault. After a week of watching bewilderingly unpredictable quadrupeds galloping around a patch of muddy countryside in Gloucestershire, whilst hurling angry remarks in the direction of Channel Four's racing coverage (of which more in future posts) I was in need of gambling medicine. What better tonic than to scoop up my winnings from the Australian First Innings Top Scorer market. Steven Smith, the reinvented Caractacus of Cameo, was batting at five, which, adjusting for the presence of Phil Hughes, effectively meant he was batting at four. Smith was 12/1 to top score with a bookmaker who shall remain nameless and at Friday bedtime, was on 58, poised to gobble up Ed Cowan's leading score of 86, like a praying mantis looming over a vulnerable bluebottle.

I woke early, as though the God of Gambling had given me a nudge. I scrambled for my phone. There it was: Steven Smith, 92. At that moment, I noticed the sun, I heard the call of an early morning blue tit and everything was fine and lovely. Then I happened to glance across at the other Australian name mentioned. Starc. Oh, I remember him, he was on 22 yesterday, plucky no-hoper. I wonder what he got. Oh, 99.

Mitchell Starc. One run short of his maiden Test century. Good. Serves him right.

This is the trouble with gambling; it can make you bitter and twisted. On the other hand, it gives you a different perspective on a sport. For millions of non-Australians, Mitchell Starc is just one of that gang of interchangeable new fast bowlers who isn't Peter Siddle. But for me, he's the man who ruined my breakfast with his ultimately futile but plucky piece of completely unnecessary tail end tomfoolery. I am coming to realise that cricketers, like horses, are distressingly unpredictable creatures.