Canine Fanciers,
You could read the writing on the wall as clear as day.
The day before MJ Clarke left for England he announced that he and his broad were expecting a wee bairn.
The fact that he'd retire from Test Cricket at the end of the Ashes tour, win lose or draw, was stating the bleedin' obvious.
He'll be too busy changing nappies in the seaside mansions and sheep stations that he owns, to do much else [let's face it - Pup has now been reduced to selling toothbrushes] while his "beautiful wife" goes about her business, [whatever that is].
The immediate thought was "about time, Pup".
He's coming to fatherhood fairly late in the piece - he'll be 55 by the time the kid is 21.
And he'll probabaly be in wheelchair due to his chronlc case of Shaggers Back.
Not even importing a half-million state-of-the-art machine for the US of A, that shoots gamma rays through your back while rolfing it at the same time, or some such nonsense, did jack shit for it.
Reckons he picked up his first dose at age 18 or 19 and it steadily got worse through his early 20's before it settled down a tad as he underwent a wholesale lifestyle and image make over to make him more appealing to the public [a monumental failure].
This was back in the day, when he still drove a Ferrari, wore sharp clothes, and dined in only the finest restaurants; a surefire winner with the ladies.
Then it became chronic -- as he'll now be able to feel it for the rest of his born days.
"Oh shit, love, me back's gorn, again" - or something like that.
Didn't spend long in first class cricket until he was announced to the world as the great white hope and picked for Straya way too early, and then the wunderkid was very shabbily treated by the selectors, dropped not once, not twice, but three times before forcing his way back in though the weight of first class runs.
In the denoument The Board got sick of it, and told the selectors "Bugger you lot. We'll make the bastard captain if Ponting ever decides to retire".
He was a fine leader of men on the field [maybe not so much off the filed -- buty only the blokes in the dressing room can have a genuine opinion about that - Simon Katich has definite viwews for one - and you know what everyone said about Bradman].
His was a masterful tactician on the field, constantly on the go, never let the game drag, and was well known for a "sporting" declaration or two.
In short, he had a cricket brain the size of a watermelon.
No one in their right mind would think he was anything less than a master batsman [when in form mind you].
Had all the shots.
Although he did have the annoying habit of touching himself all the time - gloves on, gloves off, rearranging his box just to check his dick was still there, the pads had to be just so, the helmet also, and finished off with with tugging at the collar of his shirt - this, between every ball, not just between overs!
So with all the above, why was it that the Strayan public never ever liked him, never warmed to him, never captured their imgaination, never put him close to the pedestal on which national heroes sit?
Who knows?
Perhaps it was his ill-judged first engagment to what's her name -- but somehow thinking it ran deeper than an a woman with ridiculous breasts.
What it was, or what combination of factors were involved, we'll never really know now that he's gone.
Said it before, say it again, but will never forget seeing MJ Clarke play for the first time in the flesh.
He was but a pimpled yoof, not long after his debut for NSW, and well before he was considered for Strayan selection.
It was a Sheffield Shield match at Newcastle No.1 Ground.
Who NSW were playing has been lost in the mists of time.
It was a hot day, the third day if memory srves me right, with NSW looking for a big lead to set a target.
Me and me best mate were sitting in the shade offered by the huge stand of Moreton Bay figs trees, guzzling beers, and watching play from almost directly side on to the wicket.
In comes this kid no one had heard of.
He knocked the ball about a bit for a few overs, then the trade mark shots came out; the leg glance, the crisp cover drive, straight hitting par excellence.
We were struck by just how good his leg side play was, and simultaneously remarked to each other "this kid can play".
Then, out of the blue, Pup dances down the pitch to some hapless spinner who's name escapes me, and smote the ball with one almighty blow.
It sailed high over the head of mid-on, the ball was still on the up as it cleared the boundary rope, then went over the ground's perimeter fence by some distance finally landing on the netball courts out the bck, where it bounced a few times then rolled across six netball courts before quietly slipping down the embankment on plopping into Mullet Creek.
The ground ball-boys went out for a quick look, but promptly called "lost ball" [privately thinking 'we'll go back for that one later as a souvenir'].
We turned to each other and said "this kid can play".
Fell in love with the turd, then and there.
And who was batting at the other end?
Mark Waugh - in the twilight of his career.
Immediately thought Pup would be the natural replacement for MA Waugh - and so it came to pass, not so long afterwards.
With the announcement of the end of his career, people called Clarkey and his career many things ["chequered career", appeared to be the most common word used in the fishwraps].
Don't care.
Still love the the big shit.
Always will.
An enigma, it ever there was one.
Vale MJ Clarke.
We'll miss you.
Miss you bad.
But, the King is dead, long live Smiffy - "the baby-faced killer"
My Spy at The Ground sent through a telegraph message from Nottingham "First innings total 60. Clarke's Nadir".
He couldn't go lower, so by now there was no other option but to say farewell after only 46 matches as test skipper.
The Stats Guru will give you any number of numbers; not only can Pup say he scored a ton on debut [in India, of all places}, fewer still can boast they scored a triple hundred, on their home ground no less - he can dine out on free lunches for the rest of his life on the strength of that alone.
Here's a bloke who's won The Ashes [lost some too], won the World Cup [lost a few too], but in the end there is only one number that matters.
49.30.
His test batting average.
His poor form on the current tour cruelled his average, which was in the 50's before going England.
That should be restored by a big unbeaten ton at The Oval, to bookend his career.
He's due.
Anyone who averages 50, or very close to it, over a nine year career, is automatically admitted to The Pantheon of master batsmen of all time, for mine.
The day after Straya lost the Ashes and Pup announced he was giving the game away, popped my head around the front door of the Front Bar of The Local.
The denizens told me the Brown Bros. were out doing what they were meant to be doing - laying footpaths for the council - but in any case they wouldn't know, let alone care, who Michael Clarke was.
Found The Philosopher in his usual corner sipping this week's favoured tipple, a tonic and lime which a marachino cherry to top it off.
[The barmaid later told me, much to my astonishment, that he'd sworn off the drink].
He shuffled his newspaper which of course featured bold print and large photographs of that Stupid Little Urn and Pup front and back.
The Prof settled on the back page and poked it with his bony finger and said, his voice trailing away:
"Almost every day, some underpinning slips away..."
