I thought the undefeated New Zealand and the undefeated
India might be destined to meet in a finals joust, but we put an end to that.
It was pointed out to me that although India had won every one of their last 10
(or something) games, they’d lost all of their last 10 (or something) games
against Australia. We are their Kryptonite. Or their banana skin (as our colour
suggests).
I was at that game:
This was taken a moment before the shot I posted on Twitter, and I post the
vision again because it is pretty but also because I can’t work out who the
Australian cricketer is on the big screen. I would have said Bailey at a
glance, but he’s not in the side. I can’t work it out, suggestions welcome (click on pic for hi-res view).
I was very excited to go to the game, it all happened at the
last minute when Mr Batsy’s sister had a spare. It was a mixed and generally
jovial crowd, lots of “Shucks, we CAN all just get along” and “Awww, we so
multicultural” moments. My favourite was the group of men all in India shirts
and the small boy sitting in the middle of them in all his Australia gear. When
Kohli got out, the India supporters went quiet, when Dhoni got out, they left –
immediately. The sea of blue shirts became a sea of blue seats. They are a
tough love crowd.
Indian fans might have a reputation for being noisy, but
there is nothing like a certain type of Australian fan for being vocal. We sat
in front of a row of blokes I will call the “Slips Cordon” who conducted a loud
running commentary of the game, cracked funnies and sledged all and sundry.
They had some good ones - suggesting Watson was playing for a draw, for example
- some bad ones - a conversation about delivering a lady of their acquaintance
“balls from both ends” - and they were basically fun, but it is a sort of
figurative version of spreading your legs across a bus seat, casually
commandeering the game experience of all within a certain radius. I’ve had
experiences where the guys commandeering were not so entertaining and the
feeling of being trapped and powerless is hellish.
It’s funny when you see a game live and "unpackaged", the
logical highlights of the game can be overlooked and random aspects stand out.
I have almost no memory of Smith reaching his 100. It snuck up very quickly -
he got from 90 to 100 with a 6 and a 4 - and I was probably focused on
something like finding the lime wedges in the cooler bag to put into the
special lemonade, and then saw everyone jumping up and got with the program a
bit late. On the other hand, Johnson’s 23 off 9 at the end of our innings,
elbowing out Haddin, stands out as a great feat.
One of the reasons I probably missed Smith’s 100 is because
for all that I love Dame Judi and am glad to see Finch make some runs, I have
totally jumped on the “who cares, bring on Mad Dog Maxwell” train with Faulkner
as its caboose. It seems to me that these two have supplanted Warner and Finch
as Australia’s batting sweethearts. This is partly because Warner & Finch
have not really fired in this World cup and they’ll get love back when they do.
The ones who really suffer in this scenario are the someone someones between
the openers and the Big Show & Finisher acts.
Things are getting a bit out of hand with me and James
Faulkner. James “F**k Off” Faulkner initially had a very different meaning, but
things have now come round beyond full circle into serious overcompensation
territory. I titter on the inside like a schoolgirl when I see his picture come
up and I believe I blew him a kiss on Thursday night. Not the one-handed
kiss-and-blow-the-fairy-dust type, a two-handed suction-based Italian-style
jobbie, like Pavarotti thanking his audience or an olde-timey mobster with a
napkin tucked into his collar expressing appreciation to the restaurant owner
for the linguine with clams. Know what kind I mean? Which is a bit weird. Cue
Carrie Bradshaw voice-over: “I couldn’t
help but wonder... when it came to James and me, were we just two crazy kids,
or was I a fat Italian mafioso and he a plate of pasta?”
I suspect there’ll be words on Monday about New Zealand and
the Spirit of the Game regardless of who wins. Who did the Knights of the Round
Table fight? In one astonishing synopsis of the tale of Knight Daniel von demblühenden Tal on Wikipedia, a “much-neglected Arthurian epic”, he has to
contend with an evil dwarf and a “horde of bellyless monsters” (?) against a
background of screaming mechanical dragons and war elephants. It’s not Mists of Avalon. I will take any kind of epic tomorrow, tasteful or not.
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