I’d stopped following cricket during the madness that followed the match fixing scandal. But somewhere over the last few years – I’ve been drawn back to the game. I can’t help but root for England in the Ashes. As such I will root for any team playing against the Aussies.
Around the workplace – the internet is stretched to its limits with half the junta listening to BBC 5 live commentary or sneaking up on the live streams. Every time an Aussie wicket is taken, a mild roar of joy runs through the floor. It’s almost midnight, and am listening to a wonderful show on BBC 4 about cricket and cricket related poetry and literature.
Last night, entering “Don Bradman” as the search string on Youtube resulted in this wonderful video, where the Don demonstrates various strokes. It’s utterly perfect, somehow perfect, and yet stylish.
Rediscovering cricket in this country somehow makes me less homesick on certain days. And on other days, makes me think of the glimpses of cricket caught when traveling by train – through towns that are so small that their names barely feature anywhere. An uneven field, with a few bricks for stumps.
BBC 4 has someone reading out this wonderful poem called Brahma by Andrew Lang.
If the wild bowler thinks he bowls,
Or if the batsman thinks he’s bowled,
They know not, poor misguided souls,
They too shall perish unconsoled.
I am the batsman and the bat,
I am the bowler and the ball,
The umpire, the pavilion cat,
The roller, pitch, and stumps, and all.
Which is a wicked play on the original poem by RW Emerson.