Jason Recliners,
You can just imagine Pup in rehab.
He'd be stretched out on the banana lounge by the mill pond infinity pool at home, surely?
Beautiful women with certificates in physiotherapy would be working on both hammys while swabbing his surgical wounds, as an exotic four-and-a-half foot female of slight frame would be walking back and forth on his Shagger's Back, with the cricket on the radio in the background.
Wouldn't have it any other way.
He'd be sipping on an iced tea with a scant slice of lemon and a cocktail umbrella in it given the ban on consuming alcohol while injured, which may, or may not, include the five o'clock dry martini.
At least The Board took my advice and installed SPD Smith as Captain forthwith, without much ceremony, apart from being cloaked by Tubby.
No one ever really doubted that The Baby Faced Killer would come up with a Captain's Knock when it was needed the most.
Fairy tales do come true; win the match on the back of you going large in yr debut game as skippy.
Did like the baptism of fire at the start, when Smiffy was sent into the field on the hottest day for cricket in Brisbane in living memory.
Something's going on.
Reminded me of playing in a social match as a specialist No.11 one time at the Burnside Rugby Union Club ground nigh on 35 years ago, which was rated all round as a genuine scorcher.
The thermometer under the clubhouse next to the water tank stand read 41.8 degrees celsius at one stage during the afternoon, and the farenheit side on the thing just said "Farkin' Hot".
There was a convenient large gum tree at one end of the ground that threw a shadow over the playing arena - blokes fought with each other to field at third man down there when it came time to change ends.
One of them got there at some critical stage in the match, went troppo, leapt the white picket fence, made a bed for himself out of twigs, branches and leaves, and promptly went to sleep.
You'd never believe it happened if you hadn't seen it with yr own eyes.
Drinks breaks were taken in the rugby clubhouse every twenty minutes, which consisted of a pint of lemon squash and ice and a pint of cold beer off the tap for each man.
The Umpires, sensibly, wore ridiculously large sombreros, with brims so wide that the bowlers had to run around them to deliver the ball.
The strange thing about it was that despite the trying conditions, the match was very hard fought with disputed calls galore - the Bamfords were busy - and it turned out to be a close run thing in the end.
If memory serves me right, the radio station team was beaten by the rugby club team by a handful of runs in the denoument.
Over drinks after the game someone managed to be sober enough to work out how to switch on the airconditioning at the fuse box, so everyone cooled off, and to a man, vowed that they would never play in anything remotely like that ever again.
And never did.
Smiffy got to the point on his inaugral day in charge when he found himself with no serviceable bowlers left in the tortuous conditions; just carried on regardless, knowing that test matches go on for a long time, under all circumstances.
Cruel heat? What heat? Crisis? What crisis?
Harden up.
You'd reckon that Pup would have had a wry smile on his face and given the new bloke a nod - neatly usurped by a 25 year old - as he contemplates retirement and the comforts and delights of the Cricket Australia Twilight Lounge.
