Tag Archives: mcg

Mitch’s MCG redemption

To describe Mitchell Johnson as a member of a bowling unit is like calling a howitzer just a part on a tank. Ryan Harris, Peter Siddle and Nathan Lyon are parts of the unit. Quality parts, working very well. Mitchell Johnson is the bang. Forget plans and line and length, England were smashed in the mouth by Mitch. Again. It was a continuation of his summer of brutality.

It could not have been more different from this time three years ago.

“He bowls to the left, he bowls to the right, that Mitchell Johnson, his bowling is shite” was ringing out by this stage of the previous Boxing Day Ashes Test. It was well earned. Mitch’s first over went for 11. It had followed his fourth-ball duck. Later there would be wides, byes that should have been wides, plenty short outside off and full tosses down the leg side. Had he bowled the ball into his own foot, he couldn’t have done much more damage to himself.

It continued to be just that bad the next day, on the very rare occasions that Ricky Ponting gave him the ball. By lunch on the second day, he’d sent down 12 overs of the 76 bowled. He’d taken no wickets. He’d gone for 57 runs. And Brad Haddin had gone for a few byes.

The Test before, Mitch had sat beside Ponting in a sweaty gym-cum-press conference room admitting he had no idea why he had bowled so well at the WACA. Now he was bowling the very opposite, and presumably still had no idea. The Barmy Army abused him in song. The Australian fans abused him less lyrically. The only way his lunch could have been worse that day was if someone had spat in it.

By drinks today he was having a break. His job was done. England were out. Australians near the Barmy Army were probably arguing whether “his bowling’s a fright” sounded okay in the song. He could enjoy his lunch, hoping his batsmen can cash in on his carnage.

The MCG yawns louder than other grounds. When England passed 250, you could hear the entire crowd not give a hell at once. Harris might have been storming through the crease with a vicious face and a perfect seam position, but Melbourne didn’t want that. They wanted Mitch.

Tim Bresnan’s wicket was their chum. They needed to know it was the Mitch of last night, and not the Mitch of three years ago. They needed to see the first victim. Then they let loose. Anyone who had strolled in late, not knowing of the 10.30 start, would have walked a lot quicker just because of the atmosphere of the crowd. You could feel the feet pounding the concrete. The members murmured with anticipation. The public clapped their hands.

Fast bowling was made for this ground. Not the pitch; the pitch rarely gives much at all. It’s the crowd that does it. Sarfraz Nawaz’s reverse swing is still whispered about like a massacre. Merv Hughes’ fitness regime became legendary. Curtly Ambrose came around the wicket with murderous intent. Glenn McGrath was given the ground by Bill Lawry. And Dennis Lillee, well this ground is as much part of him, as he was of it. He was a champion everywhere, he was a God here.

But if it makes Gods, then it also is vicious to those who don’t make it.

It doesn’t matter if you’re an Australian cricketer or an overseas player, if you’re playing badly, this ground lets you know very well. Australian cricketers have threatened Melbourne crowds with violence on their worst days. Opposition players have been pelted with gold balls, and urine. Flags were used as weapons as poor fielders picked up a ball from the mammoth boundaries.

As England beat Australia up three years ago, Mitch was out on the boundary getting abuse from both sets of fans as a blown up condom drifted across the ground. Written on it was the simple message, “F*ck you England”. No punctuation, no subtlety.

Rather than needing the crowd to do that for him, Mitch did that himself today. His only mistake taking his wickets in front of a crowd that was leaving last night, and a crowd that hadn’t turned up today. He owed himself better. He has dominated England all summer, he should have taken all five of his wickets in the Melbourne screaming hour. That magic hour right after tea when everyone is at their drunkest, and only those who have been kicked out for anti-social behaviour have left.

His five-wicket salute to the Barmy Army shouldn’t have been polite hand gesture in front of people still climbing up to their seats. This ground humiliated him. And in this innings he smashed all that away. He should have screamed out a demon and beat it to death with a series of short balls.

Three years ago Mitch ended with 2 for 139 from 29 overs. But it might as well have been none for a billion. Today it was 5 for 63. On both occasions the MCG was noisy. This time it was for explosions that Mitch created. The humiliation had moved on.

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Sobers’ 254 and my dad’s 252 at the G

Even though my dad and I rarely agree on anything cricket-related, he is the reason why I love cricket. When I was young he’d bowl at me in the backyard. That lasted as long as his cartilage-less knees did. Then we moved onto cricket theory – watching on TV, or at the ground – and for years after that he coached me in junior cricket.

It wasn’t just him. My whole family were cricket fundamentalists. Everyone had an opinion. Everyone played. Very few could bat. Everyone, though, had their own cricketing origin story. My grandpa had jumped the fence at the ‘G to see Bradman (only for the little Army Lieutenant of fitness to fail). My cousin Joel and I had backpacked across South Africa to see Australia win a World Cup, and got robbed in Durban along the way. And my father was paid to work in a bar at a match that wasn’t even a Test match.

It was 1972 and my dad was 25. He had a flock of hair, a nasty eye condition that kept him out of the army, an outswinger to die for, a suspect goatee, no high-school certificate, and a love of cricket. At school he was the fast-bowling athlete others wanted to be. He was also a rubbish student, so rubbish that he was asked to leave school, which partly explains why on the third day of that January he wasn’t relaxing on holidays but was instead working a second job: as a barman at the MCG, on the mezzanine level between the Olympic and Members’ stands.

When you ask my dad how it was to be a barman at the MCG, he only ever talks about this one day. It can’t, though, have been the very worst job he ever had. It got him free entry into one of the greatest meeting places on earth and, knowing my dad, the odd free drink. On the day my dad talks about, he was pouring the beers at a largely pointless match between the Australians, who were supposed to be playing South Africa before they were turfed out of official cricket, and a chucked-together World XI. How much the spectators cared for this match can be guessed by the gate attendance. On no day did more than 38,000 turn up.

As a cricket fan I find it strange that a contest boasting Gavaskar, two Pollocks, Zaheer, Bedi and Garry Sobers could not pull a bigger crowd. As a Melburnian I get it. This wasn’t a Test. It was a hastily added fixture featuring a few bonafide stars and a few John Benaud-types. Melbourne fans like their sport a bit gladiatorial. This was a beer match; it wasn’t life or death like MCG-goers want it. For the MCG is nothing if not Melbourne’s a***hole. People talk about Melbourne being the smart left-wing city with the cool art and the alternative vibe that makes it oh-so-liveable, but all that shit needs to be blown out somewhere and the ‘G is where it happens. The ‘G pulsates through big contests, yawns at small ones, rips people to shreds and makes heroes out of those who treat them to a show.

A non-Test match involving such names as Hylton Ackerman and Norman Gifford was never going to bring out that cauldron nature. It was far more likely that only the true cricket fans would turn out. For my dad this was a good thing. The fewer punters there were, the less beer he’d have to serve and the more time he’d have to watch the cricketers he loved.

Coming out to bat at the start of that day, day three, was Zaheer Abbas, and with him was Sunil Gavaskar. My dad always admired batsmen like Gavaskar and Geoff Boycott. When I was growing up, people would ask him if he wanted me to bat like Viv Richards. And instead of grinning and going along with them, he’d say: “No. I want him to put a price on his wicket like Boycott.”

So there might have been a bit of sadness in my dad when Gavaskar got out to Terry Jenner, who back then was just another Australian legspinner yet to taste the slammer or fly around the world trying to create another Shane Warne – although maybe my dad enjoyed the wicket anyway, because he also loved spinners and was forever going on about hacks no one had heard of, people like Peter Sleep and Ashley Mallett and Trevor Hohns. When I was nine my dad decided that since I was only average at wicketkeeping and bowled slower than any other kid my age, he’d make me into a spin bowler.

Not long after Gavaskar got out, Graeme Pollock followed. This brought Garry Sobers to the crease.

It was 13 years since Sobers had made his 365, and quite a few years since his six sixes in an over. It is probably harsh to say he was over the hill; even now he’d be a better batsman for the Windies than Kirk Edwards. But he hadn’t made a Test century in 23 months. Not that he was under pressure. This was a glorified exhibition match and he was Garry f***** Sobers. He was coming to the end of a special career and giving the ‘G one of its last glimpses of his magic.

When I ask my dad who else played in that World XI, he has no idea. He has no real memory of who was on either side. He thinks Dennis Lillee was there for Australia, along with Jenner or maybe Kerry O’Keeffe (actually they both played). He’s not sure if Barry Richards was in the World XI or not. Part of this is down to age. My old man is past 60. Partly it’s to do with the way Sobers has taken over that game in the memory of anyone who was there.

The first thing my dad tells you about that day is the effect Sobers had on the bar. He emptied it, instantly, the moment he entered the ground. That was not so surprising. This was Sobers, world record-holder, suave strokemaker, ladies man, one of the finest cricketers ever. His charisma alone was probably worth 70 runs. You would leave your beer behind to watch him. Even if you only see a few balls, you’ve seen Sobers, perhaps for the last time, perhaps not, but why risk it?

Myself and Joel once had a similar experience at the ‘G. India were playing on Boxing Day and we hadn’t caught up in ages, so we decided to do something we never really did, which was to have a few drinks while the Test was underway. Early on it was easy, as Rahul Dravid and Wasim Jaffer played two of the most defensive innings of all time. Jaffer made 4 off 27. He looked like a man waiting to cross a busy road. Dravid was going through a career-defining crisis – namely, he’d forgotten how to score. His 5 off 66 balls (which oddly led to me getting married) was more painful than it sounds. He was dropped, mocked and booed. It was too much for Joel and me so we kept on drinking.

Dravid was out on lunch, a mercy kill, and we were humming. Three beers in the first session, a couple more that lunch break and we were off to the sort of flyer Rahul Dravid would have paid good money for. There was no doubt this was going to be a huge drinking day.

After lunch, Sachin changed that. We gave him a standing ovation and I nursed my next beer. Joel drank his straightaway, then didn’t ask for another, which wasn’t like him. All the talk went to Sachin. Randomly we struck up a conversation with a young Indian father who had brought his children along just so they could say they’d seen Sachin bat. That was the moment things changed for us. We realised that we had to focus on this innings. That this might be the last we’d see.

Sachin started scratchy, not scratchy like Dravid or Jaffer, but nervous-scratchy, as if even he knew he may not play again in Melbourne. He was not exactly out of form, or in any actual danger of being dropped, but his tennis elbow and his struggles to make consistently huge runs had him looking human, and this was the closest his career ever came to fading out. A few brave people were whispering retirement.

Sachin’s batting sobered us up. From a medical or blood-alcohol point of view I cannot explain it. But while Sachin was out there I noticed every tug of his pads, every ruffle of his gloves and readjustment of his helmet. Every little thing was important to me. I could not look away. Suddenly he began playing a shot a ball. His innings went from nervous-scratchy to frantic-nervous. Boundaries were coming. He was treating the spinner Brad Hogg like Hogg was something stuck in his teeth. For a second we thought we were about to see a Sachin hundred. Then Stuart Clark bowled and Sachin played on to his stumps. From that moment we got as drunk as we could.

So I understand why, on the day Sobers took hold of the ‘G, no one came in asking for a beer – although I always push my dad on this point. Surely, I say, someone came in? I mean, I understand cricket religious reverence, but it’s the ‘G. Also, this bar was just about right behind the bowler’s arm, up a few levels. And it had a balcony. If you are going to see Sobers, why not choose that outstanding location? And when you do push my dad on this, there was, it turns out, the odd person who came into that bar. Not many, though – because the barman was out on the balcony watching the game.

My dad’s favourite quote about that day is: “If my boss had come in I would’ve been in strife, but I would’ve said sack me, I’m watching the cricket.”

I am never sure whether to believe this or not. My old man might have been a big cricket fan but to give up guaranteed income from a second job is not in line with his devout working-class ethic. Still, he believes it, and he was the one watching Sobers and the one telling this story.

When you prod my dad for details of the innings, he finds that hard as well. It’s not so much because of his failing memory this time – it’s because of how much Sobers gave him. “Forwards, backwards, front foot, back foot, he had every shot in the book, he was just a genius, over the top, along the ground, he just did it. With grace.” He is not a man for detail at the best of times, my dad.

Yet when you really drill him on it, especially if he is sober in the retelling, he remembers cover drives off the leggie, and how Sobers played Lillee, the way he dismissed balls on his pads and the way the ground lifted every time he played a shot. Mostly my dad talks about how the bowlers looked like they were coming in to feed Sobers. It didn’t matter what they tried, Sobers could see what they were trying to do. He always had the answer before they’d finished working out the question.

In my dad’s story, Sobers isn’t Sobers but Batman with Superman’s powers.

And of course once I’ve got those few details out of him, I can’t help myself: I mention to my dad that some people reckon Jacques Kallis to be the better allrounder. I don’t believe it myself. But I know it will get him upset. “Jacques Kallis,” says my dad, ‘is a great allrounder, but he wouldn’t even look up Sobers’ bum.”

Dad does not tell the story in chronological order. He does not fill in the gaps, such as whether Sobers started off strong and then consolidated before attacking the spinners later, or whether it happened the other way round. He doesn’t even distinguish between the two days, the one where Sobers made 139 and the other where he took it to 254 (or 252 as my dad tells it). He explains it more the way a born-again Christian describes their moment of conversion, as if the ground they were playing on was a pitch made of clouds.

It’s not anything like a match report, it’s all personal, like Sobers was there for his pleasure, all the stars aligned. My dad was at his ground, watching his favourite player, in an empty bar with a balcony just perfect for viewing. That’s why the detail is not important: he wants you to know how it feels.

My dad is not a big talker. I know nothing about the moment he met my mother or how he proposed. The story of my birth takes him only a few seconds. If you want to know something about him you have to get him drunk, or wait till he uses the information in a separate argument. Yet this Sobers story has been told to me a hundred times. Occasionally I prompt it, just because it’s been a while since I’ve heard it, and other times he segues into it like he’s moving into his comfy clothes before watching the Pies play on a Sunday afternoon. The details can change, depending on how drunk he is or the point he is trying to make, but he always tells it the same way, like he saw God.

The other thing that stays the same is the ending: “I got paid to watch one of the best innings of all time.”

And then he goes a bit quiet. You can see he is reliving it. But he looks frustrated, too, that he cannot articulate it better, as if the story is too much for him to ever get out. That’s he’s let me down by being vague and ethereal. He’s wrong, though. I know everything I need to know about that innings simply by looking at his face and listening to his voice.

Recently my dad found footage of the innings. He was desperate to show it to me. I held off for as long as I could, hoping he’d accidentally delete it from his DVR. I didn’t want to see it, because I thought it might ruin the memories that I had of him telling it to me. But one day, before I realised, he put it on. Even with the camera set up at one end of the ground, grainy footage, and a lack commenters telling you how special each shot was, Sobers’ 254 was one of the most amazing innings to watch. The innings that Bradman said was “probably the greatest exhibition of batting ever seen in Australia”. No matter how good he was through mid-on, or slashing through point, or the way he played every single ball from the spinners, it wasn’t the innings I remember hearing from my dad. This was Sobers’ 254.

The innings I’ll always remember was the Sobers’ 252, the one that belongs to my dad.

This is an edited extract of an article included in the book Australia: Story of a Cricket Country

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twas the night before boxing day…

‘Twas the night before Boxing day, when all through the house

Not a creature was stirring, not even a Strauss;

The bats were knocked in and oiled with care,

In hopes that Mark Nicholas would never be there;

The children were nestled all snug in their beds,

While visions of cover drives danced in their heads;

And Richie is his jacket, and Punter in his cap,

Had just settled down for a long summer’s nap,

When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,

Punter sprang from the bed to see what was the matter.

Away to the window he flew like a flash,

Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash.

When, what to Punter’s squinty eyes should appear,

But an Ian Chappell, and a barrel of beer,

Chappelli’s mouth was so lively and quick,

“Open up you little dick”.

Then he yelled and the others came,

And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name;

“Now, Bill! now, Steve! now, Mark and Bob!

On, Kim! on Graham! on, Greg and AB!

To the top of the porch! to the top of the wall!

Now drink away! Drink away! drink away all!”

They drank so fast it was if they flew,

Laughing and abusing Mark Nicholas too.

And then, in a twinkling, Punter heard on the roof

The prancing and pawing of each little hoof.

As Punter drew in his head, and was turning around,

Down the chimney Mark Nicholas came with a hound.

He was dressed all in trendy clothes from his head to his foot,

And his body hair had long since gone caput;

A bundle of baggage he had flung on his back,

And he looked like metro with a fresh shaved sack.

He was skinny and shady and hung like an elf,

And Punter laughed when he saw him, in spite of himself;

A wink of his eye and a twist of his head,

He let punter know he had nothing to dread;

He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,

And started tweeting platitudes like a complete jerk,

And then Chappelli punched his nose,

And the others stood around him, trying to impose;

He sprang to his car, as the blood ran out,

And young pup cried like a small scout.

But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of sight,

“Happy Boxing day to all, I’ll captain Australia out of spite.”

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one dayers in england

Melbourne is well known for its over zealous crowds at one day internationals. 

That is where i learnt to love, then hate the one day game. 

So recently i went to the oval, and saw a very different one day game, this is my story. 

I saw 2 police officers for the whole day at the Oval. In Melbourne they are everywhere, even in the members, you can see them plainly all day, and none of them look happy to be there. 

The average age of a spectator at the Oval was 52.3.The average age at the MCG is 21.

Everyone in melbourne has t shirts or singlets on, if they have a shirt at all, at the oval stripey and other patterned shirts are the way of the land.

Very little jandal/thong/flip flop action at the oval.

It costs 80 fucken quid to go to a one dayer at the oval. It costs 40 bucks in Australia.

The beer is full strength at the oval, but the ban you from drinking for 90 minutes, in Australia its weaker strength beer and everyone seems to be drunk anyway.

A woman complained because the wind knocked over beer from people behind her leaving the concrete wet. In Melbourne everything is wet, from beer, water, piss and whatever else people throw in the Mexican wave.

People actually watch the cricket in England at one day circket.

No one was thrown out.

There were no hot chicks who purposefully walked up and down their aisles all day so guys could hollar at them.

The only chants at the oval are for cricket, not you’re going home in the back of a divvy van.

No one threw anything.

The cricket is the main focus. People seem to actually care what happens in the middle.

The atmosphere is more like that of boxing day test, all except for boxing day.

No one appeared drunk before hand.

Without the crowd atmosphere you are reminded how boring one day cricket is.

And the most amazing difference between a one dayer in Melbourne and one at the Oval is….

The ball can quite easily be hit into the grand stand.

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Future PM gets it done

The MCG are fixing their pitch for next year.


Because David Hussey said so.

From what I can tell, this is how it happened.

The Future PM walked down Brunton Ave, in fact walked is not the correct term, he commandeered Brunton Ave as his excessive talent made every passer by weep.

He was resplendent in his navy blue uniform and bushranger apparel, women, and some men, had multiple orgasms at the sight of him.

When he finally arrived at the great ground, it was if the G itself bowed to him, and it owned up for him like a whore to a gunslinger.

He entered gate two, because a) he was wearing a collar, and b) he is David Hussey and he can enter anything or anyone he pleases.

He sauntered towards the reception desk, the little garden gnome looking man, who never smiles, got off his stool, put down his bar code reading device thingy and licked at his sprigs as he passed, our hero did not pause.

He swiped around his battle weary GM until an MCG official, one with a special clipboard, ran over.

“Child I need not introduce myself.

Child, I grow weary of the grass you prepare me.

The grass must be changed child.

A man such as I, should not have to ply his trade on a dung heap.

A man such as I, should play on a pitch made of the finest pearls, with Diamonds for stumps and those little red stones for bails.

A man such as I, should not even have to come down here and tell you of this.

A man such as I, demands, satisfaction.

Child, you know that when I speak, it is as if the Gods themselves have spoken to you.

You shall fix the turf, you shall right the wrongs, you shall end this blight on this wonderful city.

And you shall do it now my child.

For I, am David Hussey, Future PM.”

Then a puff of smoke, the sound of manly wings flapping and he was gone.

True story.

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Knightriders want a road

Following one bad pitch, the Hasselhoffs are fuming.

They didn’t join the IPL for close games and sex scandals, they joined for orgasmic love spectaculars, with runs aplenty.

Not dirty acts involving the Viscount Linley on dodgy pitches where homosexual acts and blackmail were involved.

This is not the place for a clean cut man like SRK (Shahrukh Khan), or even a giant alien lizard like Ganugly.

So they have decided on doing what all the IPL teams seem to do in a crisis, they have turned to Australia, and are looking for a pitch specialist.

And I have just the man for the job, he has a great reputation, has worked on the most important sporting ground in the world, and Bill Lawry mentions him all the time.

Tony Ware.

He was the man responsible for taking the MCG from unplayable mud heap, to awesome cricket wicket, to unplayable drop in pitch, in only a decade or so.

That is quite an accomplishment.

And he is no longer head curator at the G.

So IPL he is all yours, if the price is righttttttttttt.

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Sri Lanka Triumphs For Living Legends

The dead rubber between Australia and Sri Lanka at the MCG has inspired me to return to the ‘Cricket With Balls’ blogging crease once again.

Adam Gilchrist’s never ending national retirement tour hogged the headlines with his final appearance at the hallowed MCG. Gilchrist didn’t fail to let down his legion of fans with a typical commanding display, which should have been match winning. He may have put aside team goals in pursuit of an Australian record for the fastest century? You be the judge?

The wicket of Hopes with the score at 107 triggered a spectacular, quite unbelievable collapse resulting in the lose of 5 wickets for 8 runs as the Sri Lankans rallied for two living legends of their own in Sanath Jayasuriya and Murali. The Aussies never recovered despite the determined effort of the lastest Allan Border medallist, Brett Lee. Murali bowled an inspired second spell following an earlier pasting from Gilchrist.

Clearly the highlight of the game came in the 49th over when Jayasuriya was thrown the ball for his first over of the innings, with Australia needing 14. Jayasuriya delivered one of his trademark darts, a little shorter than usual, that crashed into Lee’s stumps to deliver Sri Lanka with a shock come from behind win and crown his final visit to these shores. A mighty cricketing moment indeed.

Earlier, in great scenes of sportsmanship and respect, both sides formed guards of honor for each of the above mentioned players when they came out to bat. Jayasuriya and Murali have been pivotal in shaping the success of Sri Lankan cricket from minnow status to forces in both forms of the game with the obvious career highlight being the 1996 World Cup victory. Both players have changed the game forever with their individual styles of play and have raised the bar of performance to another level.

As for Gilly and the forgetten Brad Hogg, they will have another chance to leave the game on a high with the One Day series finals beginning on Sunday. Hopefully, they can both contribute to Australia going one better than they did tonight, against the Indians

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batsmen need culling

The G had grass on the wicket, so there was a different kind of one day game played last night.

You may remember this kind, where bowlers enjoy themselves.

The Indian bowlers enjoyed themselves immensely and the Aussies ended up 150 odd.

The Aussie bowlers were frothing at the mouth to get to the wicket, but when they got there they were too anxious, you know what I’m talking about ladies.

Most people don’t like one dayers when the bowlers dictate.

But most people are idiots.

My perfect one day game would be one team making 184, and the other making 183 and Inzy getting run out.

Perhaps I remember them fondly from my youth, or perhaps, I’m a cricket sadist.

Batsmen get it all too easy these days, how else could you explain Sourav Ganguly and Graeme Smith.

Flat decks, ropes in the outfield, hard replacement balls, and 20 over field restrictions are making batsmen look good.

Who wants to see batsmen look good all the time.

I want to see them bleed, I want them to count their bruises at the end of a match, I want them to be stumped by 4 meters and then fall over in a final act of indecency.

I want them to be publicly pantsed.

I want them to be so angry they hit the dude who opens the gate for them.

I want a batsman to go insane with rage and start a battle to the death with the bowler who has just got him out.

I want wickets with more life in them than a Mormon.

I want wickets who practice adultery, go to swingers parties, engage in public fornication and enjoy all the pleasures of anal $ex.

I want Shaun Tait to come back and literally rip the throat out of some poor helpless English opening batsmen with a ball on a good length.

I want Murali to spin the ball so far he has to land them off the cut strip.

I want a ban on elbow guards, inner thigh pads, chest guards and any other nancy boy protection.

I want Tony Greig to be publicly executed for bringing “crash helmets” into cricket.

I want tail enders to think about how much they love their family before they get in behind a Dale Steyn delivery.

I want batsmen to get hit on the first morning of a match, and to get bamboozled by spin of the last afternoon.

I want blood, carnage and wickets.

I want to know a batsmen can bat, not just watch him flay away bowlers on wickets flatter than an 8 year olds chest.

I want pain, lots and lots of pain, for batsmen and the families, mental, physical and otherwise.

I want bowlers to rule again.

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The SCG pitch

Let me start with this, the MCG pitch is horrible.

It’s a drop kick of a drop in pitch.

If it was a dog you would pay an Ice addict to kick its head in.

Everyone knows this, everyone mentions it.

But what about Sydney’s pitch, it seems to be getting worse every game.

As usual its a shocking pitch to bat on today, it almost always is, yet it doesn’t seem to get the bad press it deserves.

The channel 9 commentary team treat the ground likes its a god like place for virgins and greek gods.

I understand that there has been rain in Sydney, so that may excuse this particular pitch, but what about the last 15 times its been a (c)rap pitch, what is the excuse for that.

Let’s just cut the (c)rap gentleman, lets call a spade a weapon of grass destruction and the Scg a pitch you a shit cricket stage that you wouldn’t have your mother in law buried under.

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the night i broke my 2020 cherry

I went to my first ever 2020 game last night.

For my drunken review of the game go here.

2020 does have some things going for it. Its so damn quick, it forces you to look at it.

At the boxing day test last week, with Australia and India bowling one over an hour, sometimes I found myself looking at other things and missing a ball.

In 2020, if you stare at the action you miss something.

Last nights game was pretty dismal, the G pitch continued to he harder to bat on than a bed of nails.

But the game still had something.

As a spectator you have to be right on your game, and if you wan’t beer, you need to be an athlete just to get the beer without missing half of the game.

Even pissed, I noticed the speed in which the kids ran in, pissed, and ran out. Everything was about speed.

Ok so its just not cricket.

It’s a bit wanky at times.

And to fully enjoy, it you need to be pissed.

But I was pissed, and I did enjoy it.

It was a good birthday event.

Even the dancing bogans, giant kangaroos and retro gay anthems didn’t annoy me that much.

Perhaps cause victoria won.

And cause Cricket With Balls Own Nice Bryce got a wicket first ball, just for me.

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