cricket with balls

I love the big son of a bitch, I do. He just has the qualities I like in a player. He sledges, he has presence, he plays through pain, he tries his asshole off, and he can win a game through personality, batting or bowling. If the aliens allow me to clone the cricket ability of any modern cricketer, he would be at the top of my list.

There are few like him out there.

But he never fucken plays, he hasn’t made runs since people used minidiscs, and he doesn’t take enough wickets.

But Freddie is gone, done, finished. Call in the cannibals, fresh meat here.

He doesn’t have it any more, there will be cameos, possibly brilliant ones, but Freddie is now more an occasional hard hitting guest star than the leading man.

There was a time when Freddie would have dominated the IPL, even if his heart wasn’t in it. He would have picked that shit up and tossed it around the bedroom like a dwarf he caught going through his underwear.

He would have destroyed everyone, and won a bunch of fans doing it, but this IPL he has played like a dentist trying to stop a fight between two warriors.

There were flashes of his genius in the Windies. Him bowling injured to try and brute strength a win as the Windes dug in for the draw was inspiring stuff, and something that Jacques Kallis would have many a wet dream over.

But Freddie couldn’t do it.

Whether he ever can again is questionable. He hasn’t been a force in a long time.

He still inspires, but he can no longer place an average English side on his back and carry them to Victory.  Someday he would struggle to carry his wallet to the shops buy them all Orange juice.

The magic has gone, and this Freddie is now big, but not strong, tough, but not hard, well hung, but not erect, and loved, but not adored.

He will still get up for the odd series, especially the Ashes, but after that his joints and his desire may have run out of super powers he once had.

He is now a mortal, and they don’t last as long as superheroes.