Any Chance of Putting Some Proper Cricket on the Telly?
Musings on County Cricket and the IPL from an anonymous former Australian Test cricketer
So, the Sheffield Shield final’s done. Alex Carey sorted it out for South Australia the way he sorts everything out - calm as you like, no fuss, no press conferences about his leadership journey, no Instagram posts that asterisk out their own swearing like they’re filing a complaint with HR. Just a bloke who knows his job, doing his job. Beautiful.
And now there’s nothing.
Not nothing nothing. There’s the IPL, if you want to be up at midnight like a glassy-eyed possum, watching a fifteen-year-old tonk sixes into baying crowds, all screaming deliriously like they’re at a bloody Robbie Williams concert, and the big fella’s just taken off his shirt during ‘Rock DJ’.
Have you heard about this kid? Just out there, playing in the IPL, bold as brass. I’m not talking about one of those BBL ankle-biters who stand awestruck on the field while the fireworks go off then get to keep a player’s cap as a reward. Or those Rock Eisteddfod munchkins doing elaborate gestures at a Power Surge button like they’re in a school play about the wonders of electricity. Or the little ferals in the stands chasing after sixes like golden retrievers and lobbing them back into the ground. No, this little shit is playing in the actual match. Fucken smashing them too.
Everyone’s going spare about it - ‘extraordinary talent’, ‘generational prospect’. Analytics merchants weeping into their laptops. Look, good on the kid. Genuinely. Maybe he is that talented - I wouldn’t know, I’m not staying up until three in the morning to find out. But, frankly, I’m not that impressed. As far as I’m concerned, it just means the ‘best T20 competition on Earth’ can be dominated by some young ratbag jacked up on red cordial. That’s not a tribute to the child. That’s a damning indictment of the format. Hell, my asthmatic niece could hit just as many sixes if you gave her a big bat, a flat pitch, and boundaries shorter than a Hobart summer.
No wonder none of the Aussie bowlers can be arsed playing over there. What are you gonna do? Bounce the little bastard? You can’t win - you get him out, you’re being a cruel mongrel, picking on a child half your age. You let him slog you around, you’re a hopeless clown, past your prime. Nah, if I were Big Hoff, Big Cummo or Big Mitch Starc, I’d keep doing what they’re doing - stay at home until this precocious terror’s forced to go back to school or whatever.
