cricket with balls

This is the final part of my job application to be the kiwi coach.

Cricket fans have always known of the link between incest and wicket keeping. It isn’t too subtle.

Incest is where you fuck a member of your family; wicketkeeping is where you catch cricket balls until your fingers look fucked up.

In both cases you have to really want to do it to get involved.  No one says, “I think I’ll try something different, I’ll fuck my mother, or I’ll catch 200 hard objects on Saturday”.

Also, quite often there are limited positions available.

Everyone knows the problems with both, incestuous babies with 2 noses and 7 toes, and a hand shake so limp you can barely feel it.

But people still do both.

Sick people.

But nowhere does incestuousness and wicketkeeping come more together than in the world of New Zealand cricket.

The kiwis love keepers.  Against Pakistan yesterday they picked another one, Watling, which brings the count to like 5 in the last 12 months.

McGlashan, Hopkins, Young, Watling, and, oh yeah, Prince fucken Brendon.

What does a team with Prince Brendon need with 4 other keepers?

To understand that you need to understand New Zealand, a country so in love with keepers they made a debutant keeper their captain. You know the guy, he wore a hat, sounded like Mike Tyson’s gay friend.

Now let us look at their playing group’s bloodlines. McCullums, Bradburns, Crowes, Cairns, Marshalls, Hadlees, the list is fucking endless.

The first prerequisite to playing for New Zealand seems to be having a family member who has already done it. Not fucking them, as that would be really sick, like being a keeper who likes to field.

If the New Zealand cricket team had a child it would have three feet, no nose, and the most fucked up set of hands you have ever seen.  It would be a character at the table in Freaks shouting one of us.

And goddammit I loves my freaks, I wanna be part of it.

Will any of the other coaching applicants of the New Zealand Coaching team understand the team the way I do?

No.

Will they love the teams for its faults the way I do?

No.

Will they give the team access to high tech media platform?

No.

The choice is clear.

Come on Justin Vaughan; give me the fucken job already.  Let me kick the Prince’s ass, put a choke chain on Dan the man, and tell the media about how New Zealand cricket can be explained via incest and wicket keeping. Call my promotion unconventional, and we’ll ride into the promised land on flightless birds with an extra toe.