five bells

Cathedralists,

Well, well, well.
What to make of MJ Clarke being undefeated in Test series since becoming Strayan Skipper?
The word on the street is that he has scored five tons, two of them very heavy, since assuming the top job, including the well documented triple in Sydney, backed up with the double on a six-lane highway masquerading as a pitch against a dispirited attack in Adelbrain, that was there for all to see.
All the shots, the trademark strokes.
Never mind the 27 boundaries and the elegant cover driving and the straight hitting, you'd have to wonder if there has been a better exponent of such stylish leg side play in the modern game?
Seems to have largely put the pull and the cut shots away, as he doesn't need them, which is a pity, as anything he hits through point is invariably pretty to watch.
Don't see it as much these days.
But MJ Clarke, still, has a credibility problem, despite scoring 594 test runs in not much more than a fortnight of cricket, and captaining the team in an exemplary fashion, which has been widely commented on by purists.
Why is it so?
Surely he can now be forgiven for being a precociously talented idiot buffoon in his yoof?
How long does that take for people to forget about it?
Let's face it, when the deposed Captain was asked before the last test about his relationship with the current Captain, Punter replied "I think we are both grown-ups".
You'd hope that the general public would realise this at some some stage of proceedings.
You only have to take the Siddler on the Roof picking up the Man of the Match Award for taking six wickets in the match and scoring two runs in Flat City; never mind Pup's 210, and the fact that Cockhead's 221 was quite likely a better knock altogether on the whole.
What the???
They begrudgingly gave Pup the Man of the Series Award, which was reportedly a small cream cake that you could barely cut into 12 pieces.
Big whoop.
My spy at the ground - who seemed to spend much of his time in the finest bar in world cricket - the salubrious air-conditioned Col Egar Bar [named after the late, good local Malvern boy, who became a famous test umpire and a legendary massive pisstank] - right down there at the River Torrens End with a perfect view of the ground through port-hole windows almost right behind the bowler's arm - was taken with some big-time Curry Munchers' fan who appeared at the ground dressed in the full Indian ODI kit, with "Match Fixer" in the name space on the back.
Nice touch.
Disturbingly, it appears the Col Egar is earmarked for demolition, in another appalling error of judgement.
If it's not broke, why fix it?
Everyday, some underpinning slips away...
Not here to say that the Indians were weak & feeble.
They had plenty of excuses; comprehensively outplayed for starters, the chai was obviously all wrong, and served in inappropriate china, the curried egg sandwiches at lunch just didn't cut the mustard, they weren't being taken to the right restaurants, the girls were fat and ugly, and they liked to whinge about each other behind each other's backs etc.
Not to mention the fact that they probably decided amongst themselves to throw the series completely from the outset and take the narrow margins on a Strayan clean-sweep on offer at the books.
However it was done, at 4-nil, 4-nil, 4-nil, 4-nil, some gloating is in order, especially after the Ashes Disaster a mere 12 months ago.
Pulled the tickertape off of the last cable that chattered in on the bush telegraph in the corner of the loungeroom from the sceret agent at the Oval, and it read: "STOP PRESS: Indian team seeks political asylum in Australia. Tendulkar honoured to drive your cab, when next in Adelaide".

backyard cricket at gate G in a thunderstorm

Bleacherites,

Last Sunday evening, found myself at the Olympic Stadium for the Twenty20 match Sydney Thunder v Sydney Sixers, whoever they are, with me ol' mate Trev in the company of his two young lads aged ten and 15.
After the third and final, fatal, rain delay, a most extraordinary thing happened.
We went out to the smoking lounge near the toilets out the back of Bay 115.
Trev fished out a cricket bat about a third the size of a regulation willow from his bag, and a ball that was a touch heavier and bouncier than a tennis ball, and chucked to his two boys.
After they'd been hitting about aimlessly for a bit, caught the sight of three boys about 11 or 12 out of the corner of my eye, who were standing around taking a keen interest in the proceedings.
Suggested to Trev that he go over to his boys and suggest to them they ask the lads watching if they'd like hit.
The thing then took on a life of its own and went completely viral.
Soon there were half a dozen more boys playing, and it wasn't long before a couple of adults had cottoned on to it, and had set up some stumps using those tall witches hats, the ones with 'caution wet floor' on them, and organised a rudimentary field.
Then it was on; serious overam bowling.
More boys joined in, and then a wicketkeeper appeared in the form of a bearded hipster in his early twenties, who played very well with his bare hands.
He soon put in a slips cordon with his mates and it was on for young and old.
Boisterous play with the boys given their head to bowl and bat how they liked.
As if it was the most natural thing in the world, a chorus of older men had gathered behind the bowlers arm and became a vocal Umpire's Chorus, turning down most leg before appeals and stumpings and bump ball catches; but if you were out, they made sure that you knew you were out, and the bat was quickly passed to the kid bowler.
The Umpires Chorus were referred to the DRS once, when a particularly good stumping was given out by general acclamation.
A few of the young lads could play, and were smacking the ball all over the shop at pace, to the point where the rubber ball started to become a problem, as more younger boys became involved in the game, and they changed to a regulation tennis ball.
In the end there would have been more than a dozen batters and bowlers, but there were also more than 30 active fielders - so no one lasted at the crease very long - and in excess of 300 spectators, who had gathered around after being attracted by the loud noise and the cheering, with the match going on in the entry/exit chute next to the closed Gate G.
After about half an hour of observing this frenetic action, with real live thunderbolts and lightning all about, and the rain bucketing down big time on the stadium awning under which the game was being played, which was booming with the constant raucus appealing, security closed it down, saying there were too many people in such a confined space - and although they were called names and accused of being wankers - they were quite right for a change, and besides the main match had been declared dead and buried, and they were trying to close the ground.
In reality, it was in danger of getting out of hand, if it hadn't already,
Early on, me and Trev stepped out of the loop and just let it go, surveying the scene and looking at each other in astonishment saying "what have we started!!??"
In the dénouement, Trev boldly chested a security guard, so had to step in and subtly pull him off the bloke before there was any kind of fracas, and tell him in a quiet and sociable way to go get his bat and ball and go home.
Which we did, after the storm had moved off to the north-east and the rain had all but stopped.
The exuberant spontaneity was 100% politically incorrect in this day and age of absurd rules and over-regulation and public liabily etc etc - but jeez, just for that snap shot in time, it was so much illegal fun.
There was enough cricket played on the main arena to see Fidel Edwards off his long run -- funny to watch as he started his run up a few yards in from the insanely short boundary rope and the ball flew through to the keeper who was standing an equivalent number of yards in from the boundary at the other end!
Any bat that happened to connect with that sort of stuff would be guaranteed to send the ball twenty rows back.
Watching Chris Gale bowling off a three step run up was simply hilarious.
Bing Lee proved he can still play at his age by sending down a couple of overs at full pelt [then again, Bingers always did chuck his really quick short ball, so he's ideal for the format].
MA Starc took three wickets in four balls to have the Thunderbirds in all sorts of doggy do before the final deluge came, and yet the home side was still not saved by rain.
What the?
With the Pattinson Kiddie gorn for the season, you'd pick Starkers straight up for Perth, wouldn't you?
The only disappointment was that TSC MacGill failed to get out of his Zimmer frame at any stage, and didn't bat or bowl.
None of the other superstars involved in the match did much.
Think: Dunk, Floros, Coyte, Abbott, Mora, Nevill, and two Smiths among other household names.
The size of the crowd surprised - having seen plenty a Swans games at the ground thought it was more than 25K, so the offical attendance figure of 31,262 was just about right on the money, and there would have been more in, no doubt, if there hadn't been the threat of dodgy weather about.
Guessing that the people know what they want, and it aint outrageously overpriced test cricket.
Twenty20 is very keenly priced at just over $10 a ticket for a four game package deal and $20 for walk up general admission, so why not?
Cheap, fun, simple entertainment for the bread and circuses crowd.
Another interesting phenomenon was observed; at least two different groups of well dressed young folk who would have been in their mid 20's, who had with them one of those classic Tupperware circular trays with the compartments in it, you know the sort of thing, one holding the cabanossi, the next the cheese cubes on toothpicks, the next the gerkins and pickled onions, the next the olives, the next the crackers and french onion dip, the next the tinned asparagas spears wrapped in ham and devils an horseback etc etc.
Thinking that this was either a seriously retro statement, or that they had just been taught well about the finer things in life when it comes to finger foods by their Western Suburbs parents.
Who knows?
After it was all said and done, found an abandoned incandescent fluoro lime green wig that some bloke had thrown down on the Olympic Sprinter platform at Lidcombe station in an desultory fashion, and stomped on.
He was obviously unhinged by lunatic soup, and made filthy by the rain delays and the fact that the Thunderbirds were officially declared the losers under the Duckworth-McIntyre-Hare-Clarke-Lewis system.
How anyone could possibly conjour up a winner out of that mess has got me and Trev beat.
Somehow, the laughable toupée ended up on my bonce.
Enough to do your head in.

fruit for the sideboard

Canine fanciers,

The Knight in Shining Armour on an impressive white steed appears on the ground with Straya at 3/37, and dismounts.
Oh, the Majesty!
The Imperious cover driving, the Right Royal square cutting, the Imperial straight hits, the Celestial leg side play...and it just seemed to go on and on and on, for day after day after day...that's perhaps because it did.
When Pup scored his hundred, found myself in the front bar of the Clovelly Hotel, ready to have a lash at the lunch menu with me ol' mate the Twisted Darkie as the Tasman Sea was over my shoulder a shimmering and a sparkling in the heat.
It was good of the bloke to work his way out of the nineties just in time so all could relax for a chow down as the sun was tempered by the sea breeze starting to kick in.
Never mind Punter on 97.
By the time he got to 200, noticed myself being gripped by a state of delirium somewhere in La La Land, but with the aid of some powerful pharmaceuticals had recovered enough by the time he made 250 to be enjoying a cheeky highball on the terrace of the Customs House Bar at Circular Quay, as if nothing had happened, with the dust and grime swirling about as a classic Sydney southerly buster swept through, like an exclamation mark on an extraordinary day.
A Fleet Foxes concert at the Opera Hoos in the company of the GLW proved to be a welcome distraction from the tumultuous events, and it all ended as a rather late night.
All of these places are within a few kilometres of the cricket ground, so kept kicking myself that of all days to be at the game, this was the one, the only one.
But.
Missed it.
Bad timing.
Pulled the wrong rein.
[Well aware that this is a Drunkard's Excuse, but there were more than a few disincentives to attend the ground; the intolerable temperature for a day in full sun in the "hot seats", the outrageous ticket prices, the exorbitant fee for the execrable light beer only and offal pies, Pup could have been out first ball on Day Two for all anyone knew, and the joint is crawling with fun police hell bent on ruining your day, et al, blah blah blah...]
If you had had a crystal ball and could have predicted how the day would pan out, you would have gladly paid the money and put up with the pain and suffering to see a slice of history in the making.
But not me.
Couldn't find mine - pretty sure there is a crystal ball somewhere down there in Dad's Shed - so it'll just go down as one of those, oh well, "much to my chagrin" days.
There've been a few.
On Day Three, awoke just in time to grogily switch on the digital radio as Pup and Mr Cricket began setting about grinding out some genuine test cricket, just nudging the ball here and there for one's and two's and incessantly running up and down, up and down, up and down between the wickets, with the Captain's eyes only occasionally lighting up at the sight of a bad ball - he duly smacked the rubbish to the boundary where it belongs - so, it seemed the only sensible place to be, on getting the act together, was in the Front Bar at The Local.
Walked in and straight away ran into The Philospher in a rare standing position as he breasted the bar to ask the barkeep for another dose of this week's favoured tipple - a Bacardi and soda with a twist of lemon - you'd have to agree, a refreshing drink on a warm summer's day.
Mainly a football fan [as you know, he takes a keen, but generally silent interest in the aussie rules and the rugby league], The Philospher shakes his head and gives a grudging nod of respect to cricket, largely due to its devilishly clever inexblicabilty and the inabilty of the players to hide their true humanity during six hours in the field - but he's certainly no ardent follower of the game.
He glanced at me sideways and put a bamboo umbrella in his glass and said "well, Craves, looks like your bloke has done alright", before resuming his seat in his usual corner.
The Usual Suspects and the Brown Bros were more boisterous than they would usually be just after one o'clock of a Thursday afternoon, and there was already clear evidence of the piss talking.
Needless to say, the Front Bar went ape shit when Pup scored 300, even the Asian punters in the TAB bar down there through the looking glass, were giving the lone telly with the cricket on it a standing ovation - as some random at the bar commented - at risk of having their citizenship revoked if they didn't.
Thinking it was more spontaneous than that.
By the look of the cables and telegraphs that came in soon after the event, it appears the vast majority of people in this metropolis who have not the slightest interest in the caper were still looking out of the corner of their eye at the outcome, fully aware that MJ Clarke was the talk of the town.
It was as if the whole city was cheering when it was all said and done, while having a collective oomph.
In a clear act of unanimity,The Maori boys purchased three jugs of draught with the small change out of their pockets, and perched them on the bar for anyone to have a drink out of.
It was a touching scene, that was deserving of high-fives.
When things settled down, and Pup continued to plough on, there was some discussion about the fact that he did it all with a nude bat.
Some wag said "I can see someone yelling down the phone in the bat maker's marketing department right now, screaming 'What were you thinking?! I don't care if he wants a head job at every drinks break. Just make it happen!!'".
Marketing blunder of the century.
Got to thinking that KD Walters has been out to lunch for his entire life, and still continues to this day to dine out, on the back of his 242 at the SCG.
Given the small matter of the 329 not out, Uncle Doug will now probably have to have a slight tinker with his well-worn endlessly-rehearsed after dinner patter.
Did like the hand painted banner that appeared at the ground on Day Three that simply read WHO WOULD HAVE THOUGHT?
Summed up the miracle perfectly.
As if the Skipper hadn't single-handedly won the match by a country mile, and then some, wasn't enough, the fact that MJ Clarke managed to deceive the Little Master on what turned out to be the last day of the match with one of his funny left-arm dibbly-dobblers and was entered in the scorebook at SR Tendulkar c.Hussey b.Clarke 80, was just fruit for the sideboard.
We'll be very lucky to see or hear of anything quite like it again in our lifetimes.

no laurels to rest on

Critics,

Well, well, well.
What to make of MJ Clarke's third series as Captain?
Only thing that can be said for certain is that he remains undefeated, and even at 1-1 through the odd quirk of the last time they played them, still managed to retain the Trans-Tasman trophy.
After Brisbane, you could understand that the very long gap in tests played between Australia and New Zealand (1946-1973) was perhaps the right call.
After the Blicks first win on Strayan soil in 26 years in Hobart a week later, you could be forgiven for thinking otherwise.
Joisus.
Just what is going on?
Pup's big ton in Brisbane was as pretty as a picture.
He's undoubtedly the best cover driver in the game when he gets the sweet spot, and there's no better square cut around at present.
Game changer, as they say in the modern jargon.
He had every right to be filthy that he didn't get man-of-the-match.
What the??
So, isn't it strange that in match where the Skipper makes virtually no contribution at all with the blade, the Kiwi's come up and bite them on the arse, hard.
They should bear the fang marks for a while.
Not that 241 was ever going to be easy to get on that pitch at Bellerive, after making 136 in the first innings to find themselves 14 runs behind.
You'd only have to ask Clarkey what he thought about it after being bowled neck and crop while not offering a shot in the second innings for sfa.
It's just like Clarke, who constantly fidgets and fiddles with himself while he's at the crease, to be a touch hyper-active with his field changes, for mine, as he hops about in the slips, which certainly contributes to the appallingly tardy over rates.
Something else he could tidy up.
Very sad to see Ponting being a fool to himself and a burden on the community.
While he's still pretty sharp in the field, and doesn't quite yet need the old man's motorised buggy with a red flag on the back and a shopping basket out the front to run between the wickets, he seems to have lost his eye in his advancing years against honest seam bowling that's on the move, and the way he slowly shuffles across his crease, suggests that he's lost the fancy footwork as well, and that leaves him wide open to be trapped leg before, playing on, or being bowled through the gate.
Surely he must know in his heart of hearts that he should have taken the ultimate responsibilty, fallen on his sword, and retired gracefully with some dignity after the Ashes Debacle.
Why put enormous pressure on yourself and the new selectors by being a shadow of your former self?
Someone has to draw a line in the sand, and for the best accumulator of runs for Straya since Bradman, it should be him.
Thanks for all the fish Ricky, we'll see you down in the Legends Lounge at the Twilight Home.
Mr Cricket finds himself in the same predicament, at his age, with the eye and the timing all but gorn.
Time to get on the Jason Recliner and take it easy, Mike, ol' boy.
The selectors would also want to have a look at how many byes Hadds has conceded and the percentage of fumbled takes in recent games; he's looking like a slow moving bus behind the pegs of late with an erratic driver behind the wheel, notwithstanding his excellent stumping in Hobart - mind you, it was a carefully planned set play, and only the fourth of his test career.
Poor ol' PJ Hughes looks like being sent to the spelling paddock; the fact that he's been caught by the same fieldsman in the slips off the same bowler four times in a row would have to count against him, and he'd be rueing the fact that there's no first class cricket between now and Christmas, by dint of some stupidly clever work in Cricket Australia's Match Scheduling Department, who've decided to put on a Mickey Mouse two-day game and a three-day match, neither of which are first class, as the Indian tour matches, with most players tied up by good money to the Big Bash, which is yet to show if it can draw crowds, and hence gate receipts, or indeed, any interest at all.
The Token Muzzie is so full of promise and yet continues to disappoint by his apparent inablity to go on with it after making a start, but should probably be persisted with for the time being.
The Suburban Boy, who not so long ago once feared that he'd never play first class cricket, let alone test cricket, obviously looks the goods in the long form and is likely to be a big star in all three.
And he's a good, honest kid to boot - all power to his oars.
Happily, the fast bowling stocks appear to be fairly deep for a change, despite the number of young tear-aways who find themselves in Casualty Wards all over the country, and the Token South Australian [mind you, he was born in NSW] looks to be developing into a solid, efficient, if unspectactular, offie.
MJ Clarke, Mr RJ Inverarity and the faceless men have some work to do, before they can settle into the Christmas Pud with Brandy Sauce and double cream while sipping on a draft of fine tawny port.
Oh, yessiree.
Simply no laurels to rest on.

a mix of yoof and experience

Spectators,

Trundled my vintage Toyota Camry [just re-registered at 21 years old] along Driver Ave on Sunday morning and parked right out the front of the Members Gate [jeez, don't the crowds flock in for the Shield? They were beating back the unruly mob trying to get in with rattan canes] at the advertised start time and wandered into the SCG without anyone noticing, only to find that they had been playing for an hour already, with NSW very well placed for the first innings lead.
What with the first two days being seriously affected by heavy rain and the way they are mucking about with the lunch and tea breaks in the Shield this year [they are now half an hour each, so lunch is now too short, and tea is too long. Progress, apparently. Can't see it, for mine. If it's not broke, why fix it?], no one really had any idea if or when any cricket would be played on the day.
As it turned out it was a picture postcard perfect day in the Emerald City; 25 degrees, a pleasant breeze and fluffy white clouds across the sky.
Me ol' mate Trev ambled in later with his tow lads in tow, and we got to talking why Katich wasn't picked in the current test team, just as we started to have a look at The Kat go about making a very good hundred, along with the 18 year old debutant Kurtis Patterson, batting at No.6 [who went onto to make 157 - the highest score by the youngest player on debut in Strayan first class cricket, no less] and put on a 200+ run partnership.
Brilliant, plain & simple.
From time to time we mumbled to each other, that back in day, a mix of yoof and experience was considered an essential requirement in any winning sports team.
We wondered why The Suburban Boy had been picked to open in the first test against the Blicks, when the Kat has opened for Straya more than once or twice, and has the small matter of 56 games under the baggy green to his credit.
And he can't get a game?
Just a sorry shame that his mouth and one man - who just now happens to be a selector - who he tried to strangle at one point, stands in his way.
The Mongoloid who was sitting a couple of rows across from us kept on calling out "Where's Michael?" "Where's Michael?" "Where's Michael?", until his minders told him to shut up.
Don't quite know what he was implying, but if it was that the Australian Captain should've been playing, or at the very least, standing around in the Members Bar with his Selectors Hat on having a very good look at proceedings, then he was spot on.
MJ Clarke was in town, after all, but nowhere to be seen at the ground.
Not that we don't like Warner.
Oh No Siree.
Just a few weeks a ago we'd both been at Bankstown to see Justa put on plenty, and there is absolutely nothing wrong with the way he clean clubs the ball with that great thumping tree stump that he's got for a bat [Lance Cairns' old baseball bat has nothing on it]; the thing is, he's fine bat, but still really untried in the first class game, so to ditch him into test cricket might end up being to no one's advantage, particularly as he's just filling in for the perpetually injured FIGJAM.
All things being equal, Katich should be playing in Brisvegas, but he isn't, and that's that - another of the many iniquities to be found in the summer game.
The Kat wasn't in much of a hurry to do anything starting the day, as he knew he had all day to shuffle about on the crease.
Against a dead-set pop-gun WA attack [they used seven bowlers on the day] with nothing much more penetrating than some sharpish medium pace from a bloke called Rimmington, Simon Says was happy enough with his immaculate forward defence and to rock back and forth on the back foot and just patiently wait to smack the rubbish.
And smack it he did, smacked it good.
At one point he clocked the perfect pull shot; by the time the sound of the ball cracking off the bat reached you in the MA Noble Stand, the ball was already at the boundary and the sound of it clattering into the fence hoardings followed soon after.
The Patterson Kiddie, in contrast, was keen to get on with it.
He was nervy and edgy to start, as could be expected, putting a couple over the heads of the slips that better batsmen would have hit at head high and been caught, but soon settled in.
A tallish upright left hander with a compact stance, he's clearly in love with the cover drive, and why wouldn't you be when you can play it that well?
Some good boundaries via that stroke, but he's a bit airy fairy in his leg side play that could see him caught out there on any other day with a few too many balls played in the air.
Also pushed plenty of balls to point for singles and some two's and three's backward of point.
Looked like a pro.
Obviously, you don't make a very good hundred on debut if you can't play.
Kurtis' Mum and Dad were in the ground forming the nucleus of the cheer squad, along with his two younger sisters who were flitting around with cameras, and by the time he's notched up his half century and word had got out on the street, another fifty people had joined them, all loudly boostering the kid when he made a good shot.
Lovely.
All in all, a good day out.
Seems like they've refurbished the beer taps in Monte's Bar to pour a half-way decent, and cold, Carlton Draught as we thank the Good Lord Joisus that the execrable, warm, Toohey's New has finally been relegated to the sluice bucket where it belongs.
A welcome development, even if they are still slugging you six-fitty for a schooner.
The offal pies were the same as they've ever been down the years; allegedly delicious served piping hot out of the thermo-nuclear pie warmer with all the sauces.
As we nibbled around the burning edges, we also pondered the poor fate of Trent "The Muso" Copeland, who of course, was never called upon to do anything all day.
We both saw him on debut at the ground a year or two back, and he's done nothing wrong since.
He's already got a baggy green, so you don't have to mint a new one, having played in all the recent test matches in Ceylon, and yet he can't get a place in the first test side to play the Kiwi Kuzzins, even with so many injuries in the bowling ranks.
What the?
He must be scratching his head and wondering what he has to do and if he's now a prime candidate to become a three test wonder, and put his cap in a glass case.
Beyond belief.
It's a funny game.

47 all out and all that

Critics,

The most contrary test series in recent memory.
The only certainty about the whole saga is that MJ Clarke got out of it undefeated as Captain in test series', but only by more than a few strokes of luck and twists of fate.
Take Cape Town as a case in point.
Perhaps Pup's finest test century to date [although his debut ton was pretty good by any account].
Leading from the front in a difficult situation, played all the shots; some of the best leg side play and straight hitting seen in the shadows of Table Mountain in quite a while, not to mention the pretty cover driving.
22 balls rolled away to the boundary in a quick smart innings of 151 with his ton coming off not too many more than a hundred balls.
Seeing it like a watermelon as time went on.
Then of course it all came to nought, when they got the Seth Efreakens on the back foot with a dead-set pop gun attack and came to within an inch or two of being able to enforce the follow on, and then found themsleves all out for 47 in the second innings, and were then thrashed piteously by plenty in the dénoument.
More than enough has been said about it, but no one can say for sure exactly how it came about.
"Inexplicable" is probably the best word to describe it, given that no one has been able to come up with a plausable explanation for it -- just like a UFO sighting.
Pup is probably still tossing and turning in his sleep wondering if any lesson can be learnt from it.
It was certainly enough to do Roebuck's head in.
Joisus.
[Got down from the bookcase the hefty tome of Wisden test scoreboards from the year dot up to 1977-78 to look up the the previous lowest total of 36. The Strayans found themselves in England in the notoriously wet summer of 1902, and were caught on a sticky wicket at Edgbaston - so at least they had something to blame - Trumper top scored with 18, and they still managed to get away with a draw in a three-day match ruined by rain].
Move the binoculars to Joburgh, and Pup makes absolutely no contribution with the bat, his field placings in the Kaffir Kickers' 2nd innings are heavily criticised in some quarters, and yet he still manages to get away with one of the most improbable victories seen on the veldt, all on the back of the The Childe Cummins.
An unbelievable fairtytale on debut.
Mind you, it puts eternal pressure on the kiddie, as he will no doubt level out in coming campaigns, and people will inevitably say "oh well, not as good as he was on debut".
And, a mere slip of a lad from the foot of the mountains, at 18 years of age or some such, he now faces the prospect of trying to play in six test matches before Australia Day.
Good luck to the lad.
Just a shame to see the old guard hoisted by their own petards for playing on too long.
Punter, of course, should have retired immediately after the Ashes debacle, Joke Johnno the same - always had a feeble cricket brain but to see him disintergrate utterly and completely to a shell of his former over-rated self is an awful thing to watch - Sidds was probably never a test class bowler for mine, and was very lucky to get the baggy in the first place let alone the number of games he got, while Hadds should have had the good sense to hang up the gloves stuffed with porterhouse steaks a while ago now.
Pleasing to see Clarkey stake his claim in the power play and insist that he be a selector in the new scheme of things.
Of all people, he should know his men.
It's always struck me as an anomaly that, in the past few decades at least, the Captain in Strayan cricket has never been a selector.
The new regime will certainly have their work cut out, but surely they can do no worse than that bunch of clowns, who at long last, have been forcibly pushed out the back door along with all their worthless baggage.

the man and his dog

Canine Fanciers,

Wandered into the picturesque Bankstown Memorial Oval with me ol' mate Trev on Sunday morning without being noticed by anyone, to watch the the first spot of first class cricket for the season.
A delightful ground that is almost a perfect circle with a picket fence all the way around and then ringed, as it is, by oaks, lilli pilli's and Port Jackson figs along with four spectactular Jacaranda trees in full bloom, and a scraggy looking pine tree near the front gate that was germinated and planted from a seed that some digger brought back from Lone Pine in 1915.
If nothing else, a very nice shady place on a hot day, and a good viewing ground.
Not too big - you can hear what is being discussed out loud among the players on the ground - and some excellent sight lines from the bleachers.
After lunch, without warning, the weather suddenly turned ominous with dark clouds building out the west behind the scoreboard.
In the end, it never amounted to much more than a thundery shower, but they were off for an hour and a half.
Kids played tennis ball cricket in front of the small grandstand, while the old blokes shuffled around drinking beer and having a chat.
During the rain delay a few people we hadn't seen before wandered into the ground, followed by a small dog trotting along behind.
Said to me mate "have a look at that, Trev, the man and his dog have just arrived in the ground!"
He was a white short-haired terrier type with brown blotches who also had some Daschund in him so had a bit of an elongated body and stood on short stumpy legs, with a furiously wagging tail.
The dog siffed about a bit and went on his merry way as no one took any notice of him.
As the half a dozen council groundstaff were lazily taking off the covers, affecting a look of not being in too much of a hurry, and then banging the stumps back in, the Umpires went out for a pitch inspection.
The Bamfords left the gate open, and the dog followed them out onto the ground, trotting dutifully behind the two blokes in white lab coats and fedora's.
The dog went for a bit of a perambulate around the field of play before Trev said "hey, look at this Craves, that dog is dead set going to piss on the stumps".
As he approached the three sticks with intent, some groundsman who was out there supervising the removal of the covers gently shooed him away, before another groundsman who was near the boundary called out to the errant canine, sat on his haunches, and then beckoned the dog to come over to him, which the hound duly did.
When he arrived at the groundsman, the dog flipped onto its back look for a tummy rub.
The groundsman gave him one and picked him up and put him under his arm, gave him a pat on the head, and carried him off the ground.
We didn't see the little woofer after that.
He looked like a local, but we couldn't find out his name.
The dog probably snouted around in the bins out the back of the canteen, feasting on some tasy leftovers, before going home.
The canteen had a small blackboard at the window listing the bill of fare in blue & white chalk.
It read, in order:
"pies, sausage rolls, beer, assorted bread rolls, also, chips, drinks, icecreams".
The third in the list of priorities happened to be three types of beer in very cold stubbies; Carlton Draught, Carlton Cold, and VB, all at $4 a pop.
The canteen [marvellously run by the ladies from the Bankstown District Cricket Club) didn't mention that they sold the cheapest beer of any cricket ground in the known world, no need to; there was always going to be a run on supplies at that price even with no more than 500 spectators in the ground.
When they ran out of the Draught at tea, the delivery van from the Bankstown Sports Club simply rolled up with more.
There was some first class cricket that went on as well.
Watched the Bluebags openers put on 233 for the first wicket against a Rednecks attack that contained a one-test wonder in PR George [who bowled a lot of half-way handy overs] along with the medium pacers Mennie and Christian operating on a largely flat, truly-paced, unresponsive pitch and the leg spinner CB Bailey, who didn't do much on the day except try to tie up an end, unsuccessfully.
The Maddinson Kiddie impressed; a tall straight backed bloke who plays mainly off the back foot and drives well and straight -- virtually all his boundaries were straight or square of the wicket.
Hasn't got many shots and virtually no leg side play, but that'll come with age and experience for a 19 year old from Nowra who finds himself opening for NSW for a second season.
As one wag in the crowd called out "you should be doing an apprenticeship, Nic".
Maddo might be wise to put his hooks and pull shots away until he perfects them in the nets because they were risky and not very successful.
Still, a very well made innings from one of the best of the yoof of today.
He was kicking himself when he got out to a very lazy shot for 92.
He could be something;n but at first glance you'd doubt he'd play test cricket, but might enjoy a ten year career as a first class opener.
But you never know at his age.
He reminds me a bit of Greg "Snail" Mail, who made a poultice of runs for NSW in the 00's without ever threatening to do anything spectacular.
As opposed to Dave "I'm Just A Suburban Boy" Warner.
After being in mortal fear of being pigeon holed as a T20 or 50/50 specialst pinch hitter, he's matured into an opener who, for mine, is likely to go places in all three forms of the game.
Paced the innings perfectly; blazing start, consolidation in the middle with the weather looming, and then flaying the bowling something fearsome towards the end.
Warner has got all the shots, and tremendous power through the stroke of the ball, which can ping to the boundary with that unmistakable crack of a good shot - but seemingly without effort - with that huge club of a thing that he uses to clout the nut.
The Suburban Boy decided to bring up his hundred by launching a huge on-drive that made virtually no sound at all as it hit the sweet spot.
We both saw it off the bat; it sailed over mid-on and was still on the up as it cleared the boundary rope, and then hit the very top of the huge jacaranda tree next to the groundsman's shed under which the tractor was parked, tumbled down the branches and into the massive open stormwater drain out the back of the ground.
The groundsmen rushed out of their shed and went to have a look just in time to see the ball roll down the drain to the Georges River, and waved their arms to the Umpires to indicate the thing was long gone.
Lost ball.
DA Warner 100 no [went on to make 148], standing ovation, then everyone in the ground rested on their laurels, had another drink, another chat, while a bloke in a tie and shirtsleeves conveyed a large wooden box of balls onto the ground.

NSW V SA.
Toss: NSW.
Stumps Day One:
New South Wales 1st innings 283/3 (SM Katich 13*, SPD Smith 19*, 77 ov).