cricket with balls

No one wants to play in the Ashes more than Brett Lee.

NO ONE.

All of his hairs (even the pubic ones) stand end on end at the very prospect of steaming in with a red nut glimmering in the sunlight at Cardiff. When his mind thinks of Freddie he conjures up visions of past battles won and lost, the friendship, the rivalry and the secret love affair. The thought of Geoffrey Boycott saying his name makes him hum with excitement.  He smiles uncontrollably when he anticipates the polite applause he will receive when trotting down to fine leg. He feels giddy when the Lord’s slope is mentioned. Thinking of taking guard for the first time gets him all warm and sticky.

But, that damned earnestness, the one that made him fly all round the world hoping Australia would declare him fit, has struck him again.

Now on the eve of the eve of the Ashes, Lee is injured.

A rib injury, which is biblical in almost every sense as Lee and the former Mrs Lee have now separated.

Lee is not merely trying too hard; he is trying so hard that every sinew in his body is pushed to the edge. Every orifice is wide open. Every gland is strained. His body is heaved to the limit of its performance by this earnest Ashes loving man.

Finally something had to give.

A rib, a humble protector of that loveable heart of his.

It has happened before, elite athletes pushing themselves so far they break down.

It happened to me before the second Matrix film.

I had geared myself up for it so much, that a few hours before the first showing I pulled an eye muscle.

But I soldiered on, I used the other eye, and I walked out of the theatre proud that I had watched the second matrix film with one eye down.

Lee is in a similar situation; he will play.

I cannot imagine a rib injury will stop this man.

If somehow he doesn’t play, that will mean certain death for Brett Lee.

All that furious earnest energy bubbling around his veins needs to come out, and I fear that if Brett doesn’t play, he may well just explode.