re Cricket Semi Final

Cricket never was my thing. I apologise.
Here’s a passage from Down Under by Bill Bryson, who is listening to the cricket commentary on his car radio on a lonely drive from Canberra to Adelaide on Sturt Highway. (Please forgive me Richie Benaud.) “...Neasden, it appeared, was turning in a solid performance at square bowel, while Packet had been a stalwart in the dribbles, though even these exemplary performances paled when set beside the outstanding play of young Hugh Twain-Buttocks at middle nipple. The commentators were in calm agreement that they had not seen anyone caught behind with such panache since Tandoori took Rogan Josh for a stiffy at Vindaloo in '61. This was repeated four times more over the next two hours and then one of the commentators pronounced: 'So as we break for second luncheon, and with 11,200 balls remaining, Australia are 962 for two not half and England are four for a duck and hoping for rain.”


I tried cricket out at primary school.
I got a spot in the school team against Coolbinia Primary School, once. Once was enough even for our long-suffering headmaster, Mr Singer. Trying to emulate Dennis Lilee, I marked out a 50 metre run up to the pitch so that the mileage I clocked up tearing my way down to the crease and then hiking back to the “starting block”, broody and recalcitrant, took about 20 minutes to complete. And in my one over, at least 4 balls were wides.
Considering Mr Singer’s trauma it’s not hard to understand why I’m receptive to Bill Bryson’s perspective on the game. Have some more “… It is not true that the English invented cricket as a way of making all other human endeavors look interesting and lively; that was merely an unintended side effect. I don't wish to denigrate a sport that is enjoyed by millions, some of them awake and facing the right way, but it is an odd game. It is the only sport that incorporates meal breaks. It is the only sport that shares its name with an insect. It is the only sport in which spectators burn as many calories as players -- more if they are moderately restless. It is the only competitive activity of any type, other than perhaps baking, in which you can dress in white from head to toe and be as clean at the end of the day as you were at the beginning.”
“Imagine a form of baseball in which the pitcher, after each delivery, collects the ball from the catcher and walks slowly with it to center field; and that there, after a minute's pause to collect himself, he turns and runs full tilt toward the pitcher's mound before hurling the ball at the ankles of a man who stands before him wearing a riding hat, heavy gloves of the sort used to to handle radio-active isotopes, and a mattress strapped to each leg. Imagine moreover that if this batsman fails to hit the ball in a way that heartens him sufficiently to try to waddle forty feet with mattress's strapped to his legs, he is under no formal compunction to run; he may stand there all day, and, as a rule, does. If by some miracle he is coaxed into making a misstroke that leads to his being put out, all the fielders throw up their arms in triumph and have a hug. Then tea is called and every one retires happily to a distant pavilion to fortify for the next siege. Now imagine all this going on for so long that by the time the match concludes autumn has crept in and all your library books are overdue. There you have cricket.”
Maybe part of my problem is the length of the game; four fucking days stuck in front of a television, if my memory isn’t playing tricks on me. You see length can be a problem. It can drain an awful lot of blood away from your cerebral cortex. I’ve gone and checked it up in the encyclopaedia. There it says 3-5 days. I guess the time keepers can't keep going for all that long either without nodding off sometime.
My old friend David, hailing from that small island to the north of Calais, told me this anecdote about a bright Indian kid who took his cricket seriously, got a scholarship to Cambridge and shacked up with an English girlfriend to boot. But halfway through the summer of ‘87 and another interminable test series the maiden wanted to go out shopping.
“Dilip are you coming?”
“But the cricket match.”
Now she wasn’t an indignant person so she asked, “How much longer?”
“Could be maybe 3 or 4 days.”
“If that’s the case I’m sorry Dilip you’ll have to decide, either you’re coming out with me now or I’m leaving you.”
He just swung around in his swivel armchair to face the TV set and said, “Okay.”
As for the rest of you you’re invited to watch the Australia vs. South Africa game on Anzac day. See upcoming events.