Meh

I saw my doctor yesterday (coincidence, not to put my nose back into joint) and she'd been asking people what they did once they realised Australia were going to lose (by which she meant when they got to around 7-down, not several days ago), for example whether they'd turned off the telly and gone to bed at that point. Since in cricket years I am only 10-and-a-half years old, part of me is filled with round-eyed incomprehension at tales of such behaviour:

Ten-year-old: "Dad, why are those people walking away? The game's still going isn't it?"
Dad: "Judge them not harshly, my child [my Dad being… oooh, Gandalf?], it is simply that they have already seen too much, and are protecting what remains of their heathen eyeballs from the retina-searing glare of Mr Flintoff's holiness."

The doctor herself said that once she knew the cause was lost she started gunning for Freddy to get a 6-fer and "wished he was on our team", which were bold words because she knows me pretty well and I was within biting range.

Personally, I had someone bring me the cat to hold and proceeded to sledge Graeme Swann: "Oh my God you have such a BAD HAIRCUT! Not even the BALLS to be a proper MULLET!" I know, harsh.

It's been a really draining game. I'm a wreck. As Mums say, someone's a bit overtired from too many late nights and getting a bit overexcited (ewwww).

Things

Ceci n'est pas une réception

In a game of many catches that weren't, my favourite was Billy Doctrove's non-take of the new ball late on Day 4. Was the problem his use of upwardly cupped hands? Downwardly cupped hands? No: splayed arms as the ball lobbed into the middle of his chest and dropped to the ground. It was like kindy, or, to be honest, a bit like how I might try to catch a ball. And as the SBS Circus people (who have been very kind to me) said, continuing the kindy theme, when Anderson received the now-scuffed object, he looked like "a kid whose new toy is whacked with a mash hammer".

SBS Team Pt 2

When I was really only 10-and-a-half years old, my favourite book ever was The Phantom Tollbooth by Norton Juster, with illustrations by Jules Feiffer. Which is probably why Greg Matthews' craggy raucousness these past couple of days has put me in mind of this:


The figure on the right is the Awful Dynne, and the boyish figure on the left is obviously Damien Martyn, though to be fair Damien has usually looked more entertained than this by goings-on. That he has managed to do so while barely moving his face has become a source of ongoing fascination for me. It's ridiculous to suggest he's been botoxed, but he does manage to channel all the expression in his face through just his eyes, the smallest of changes to his mouth shape and maybe the odd eyebrow lift, leaving vast expanses of facial acreage smooth and pretty and untouched. It's mesmerising.

This leaves Stuart MacGill, whose boxy weirdness, all angles, means he can only be the Dodecahedron (I think I even see some of his bowling action here):


PS.

I'm firmly of the opinion that an against-all-odds result like Cardiff is way more uplifting/downcasting than a straightforward win/loss like Lord's, and that the pressure will now be on England not to get prematurely dizzy and "finish the job", while Australia, and Mitchell Johnson in particular, can take some heart from a good go in the second innings, and let the pissed-offness focus their minds. That's my story anyway.

And is it my imagination, or are Ricky Pontings' fleshier parts (figuratively speaking) taking on a certain Steve Waugh gristle? That's a good thing. Well may everyone bang on about missing Warne and McGrath (and let's be clear, it's US who miss or don't miss Warne and McGrath, not the team, I don't think sportspeople have room for things like "missing"), but the people I wanted to see coming out of the sheds to stare down that second innings were Bevan and Waugh. Yes yes, wrong form of the game for Bevan, but still. Anyhoo, bring on Edgbaston, but not before I get some sleep.