So I wake up after a late New Year festival of writing, writing, and
writing — I’m a party monster, you know — and I discover that the
Beatles are officially breaking up.
By "Beatles," I mean "Australian Cricket team," which as far as I can see really is that excellent, that joyful, and that sort of collection of complementary personalities.
(That teeny trophy they’re all gathered around is the Ashes, a coveted
little cup which (a) represents the 125-year rivalry between England
and Australia, a colonial rebellion ritualized in sport, (b) almost
never actually leaves England, so is really won by Australia only in replica and inside
their heads, something the British probably secretly enjoy; (c)
contains something or other, possibly ashes, but nobody’s actually
sure, and having scientists figure it out would spoil the fun; and (d)
looks even sillier when held victoriously over your heads. The boys
are so happy in the photo because they’ve just stomped England in Perth
a couple of weeks ago, thus retaking the Ashes, which they’re not
actually holding, and which may not actually include ashes. God I love
this.)
I’m just old enough that the moment I started liking the Beatles… they broke up. Now I’ve got two good years in as an Aussie cricket fan, watching the team become the best in the world by a wide margin…
And now two of the three best bowlers in the world are suddenly leaving
test cricket. A fine batsman has left the team unexpectedly before the
Perth test. Half of an excellent opening pair (a bit
like a leadoff hitter in baseball, only it’s two guys) just announced
his retirement this morning. The Phil Jackson-like coach (who actually
once had players practice with their eyes closed) is leaving. The
wicketkeeper (like a baseball catcher) will probably be leaving soon.
And on and on.
This is roughly like the 1927 New York Yankees suddenly losing Babe
Ruth, Lou Gehrig, Tony Lazzeri, Waite Hoyt, and Miller Huggins, all at
once. It’s not a perfect analogy, but it’s also not an exaggeration.
Aaaaaaaaagggggggghhh.
I know it’s just sport. I know it’s not important, really. But I’ve spent my entire life cheering for crap teams in every
sport you can name, I finally back a winner, and they get all
retiring-with-dignity on me.
Screw dignity, I say. Dammit, McGrath, I want you bowling until your bones
creak. Gilly, you should be wearing the gloves until you’re saying "nice, Shane"
even after a full toss, just from habit. And Warney, you should keep lobbing spinners until you’re so addled you appeal to the umps for no apparent reason.
Oh, wait. I guess maybe it is time to go, then. Sigh.
It’s probably good for the game, which is the point, I suppose.
Those of you — most of you, I guess — who have no idea why I would
enjoy cricket so much, I promise: you’re missing out. At the moment I
have a one-day match between New Zealand and Sri Lanka rolling on the
DVR, just for the sound. The constant scuffing of shoes on the pitch,
that pleasant clack of leather on wood, and the periodic Wilhelm
Screaming when somebody takes a wicket — all this is as soothing and
perfect as the sound of night baseball on the radio used to be when I
was a boy in Ohio. Plus, it lasts about three times as long.
Herb Score may no longer be broadcasting terrible Indians games, but Tony Cozier,
flown in from Barbados, is doing a fine job of pretending New Zealand
doesn’t suck. Plus, he sounds just like Winnie-The-Pooh. With a West
Indies accent.
Seriously. Imagine baseball on the radio announced by a reggae version of Winnie-The-Pooh. There. That’s a big part of why I love cricket.
The bright side: now I can start convincing myself the team will be good next year. So that’s just like being a kid in Ohio again, too.
PS — and how bad can it be, cheering for Cleveland teams? Here: the Browns ended their season yesterday as the third-worst team in the NFL; since being revived from the dead in 1999, their total record is 40-88 and they haven’t won a single playoff game. This year, the quarterback was rated 26th in the league, the top wide receiver was 28th in yards, and the top running back was 30th. That’s the best they’ve got.
The Cleveland Browns have been in the NFL since 1950, but it’s the only franchise that has never once played in or at least hosted a Super Bowl. Twenty of the other 31 franchises are newer, and they’ve all managed. The Browns? Zilch. I have no idea why I would still hope. None.
And yet here’s the thing: I still watched every single game. Browns fans, don’t send me angry letters — I’m one of you. I was right there with you.
Every. Single. Goddam. Game.
There are floor-cleaning robots with a better learning curve.