Ne me quitte pas, Kooka

There are a few lines at the end of Jacques Brel's Ne me quitte pas that set a sort of high/low benchmark in grovelling desperation, a ne plus ultra of dirt-licking, dignity-dashing bargain-striking:

Let me become
the shadow of your shadow
the shadow of your hand
the shadow of your dog

I mean, "Let me become the shadow of your dog" – really? Wow. I'm not sure whether I'm impressed or appalled.

I do believe however that yesterday afternoon at the SCG I saw Nathan Hauritz strike that series of bargains with the ball he took off Mohammad Yousuf. And it worked! I don't think things went so well for Jacques somehow.

I mean, I love an athletic, razor-sharp display of strike-force fielding as much as the next person, and goodness me they worked hard and well in that department yesterday. But I don't think I have ever seen such raw need on the field as that displayed by Haurie wrangling that ball to the ground, with the rest of him scrambling desperately to keep up. "Don't leave me", indeed.

It was gawky, painful, doubtful… wonderful! Is this the story of Haurie all over? That's my girl!