I’ve never read Peter Roebuck’s book, but I have read similar efforts from ‘Norman Mailer from a posh school’ Ed Smith and ‘Dileep Premachandran without the western pop culture influences’ Aakash Chopra.
Chopra and Smith right some clever words, but they aren’t really one of us.
Cricket with balls’ Eddie Cowan is one of us.
He’s got that natural funny piss takey delivery, he’s not afraid to say something that might land him in trouble, and he is just the right kind of narcissist for this sort of book.
The other 3 are intelligent earnest individuals trying to unravel cricket through their writing, Eddie is trying to do that, but without disappearing up the giant anus of id.
If you go to buy this book on kindle, it comes up with “customers who bought this item also bought” Australian Autopsy, as the first result.
That’s pretty strong evidence that readers of here will like Eddie’s book.
Now I’m not a fan of the cover, or title, and I think Eddie will become a 10 times better writer than this book shows, but this is a quality book about a dude trying to play for his country while trapped in his own head.
If you want to know something about shield cricket, or are a tasmanian fan, there is something in here for you, it also has the best bromance since S Collins and j kimber. Ed’s relationship with George Bailey is something special, and could have only been ruined by Ed detailing the moment when they truly embraced their feelings.
So, take a look and buy it if you think it’s your bag.
Think of it as a book written by that friend of yours who you first drank absinthe with, who’s just a little too picky with women and puts you down so well you have to like him. But you know, about cricket.
If you want to amazon or kindle with it.
Aussies can find it closer to home.
Or if you can’t find it, go into a bookstore and give them the ISBN 9781742233154.
But you should get it, because it’s Eddie fucken Cowan’s book.