cricket with balls

My memories on the first IPL are pretty hazy. It was on late at night in Australia, one reason why it may never catch on there. At that time I was working 12-hour days, and then staying up late watching it.

Even though it went on too late, it was fairly well timed for me as I usually finished my work and then got to watch a match. I remember Marsh, Nehra, Watson and Tanvir having a good time while Rajasthan used the power of Warne.

For the second one I was in London, and the time zone was perfect for me. Sometimes I’d even watch both games in a day, but generally I’d just pick one. I remember the dog, FIP, Dirk’s beginning, commentators on a slide, Dilshan’s rebirth, Dravid doing well early and Symonds turning up with a professional hangover and helping Deccan win.

The tournament being in South Africa had little effect on me, other than a Radelaide Oval type effect where the commentators had to keep mentioning how amazing it was that the tournament had been moved late. It was an impressive thing, but saying it every 12 minutes dulls it for me.

My favourite part of the IPL is not the IPL at all; it’s the champion’s league. A tournament with teams from most of the best cricket nations in the world, what is not to like.

There are things that piss me off about the IPL, but there are things that piss me off about test cricket as well. Some of the reasons aren’t even directly the IPL’s fault, like the fact it has no place in the ICC schedule and that players from poorer countries might flee for it.

But the real reason I don’t hate it is because it entertains me.

Not always for the right reasons, but I know that for a month and a half there will be a show on the TV that I can watch.

It won’t always be a great episode.

Sometimes it will feel like a re-run.

I may not like all the characters.

The plot may mean noting to me.

And in a week I might have forgotten what I have seen.

But at the time, I’ll sit down and watch it.

Like I would for Zimbabwe Vs West Indies, except more often.

I can’t hate anything that entertains me, even if it can be shit and annoying some times.

It’s like some emmy nominated American sit com; watch it, and throw it away. Oh, and remember to groan when there is an unnecessary famous cameo.

While some people have been watching the Dirk Nannes League I’ve been watching the Bangladesh England test for test match sofa (as I will be for the rest of the test).

It may not have cheerleaders and Lionel Ritchie, but it does have Shakib Al Hasan.

I’ve been a fan of his for a while now, but in this match he has performed some amazing feats.

Winning the toss and bowling even though you have four spinners in your team.

Bowling himself for the most overs even though his best ball for two days was naked junk.

Spreading his field regardless of the situation of the game.

Fielding like it was his first experience with a cricket ball, including dropping a catch.

Then batting for stumps with aplomb until closing his eyes and skipping down the wicket to give up his wicket only for his team to use a nightfuckingwatchman for a number 7.

If you told me he finished the day by sleeping with another player’s wife or burnt down a nandos on the way home I’d believe you.

Moyo captained an awful game in Sydney, but compared to Shakib in this game Moyo is the Robocop of captains.

If I was Jamie Siddons I would rip the limbs off Imrul Kayes and beat Shakib with them.

Which is a win/win situation.

There was Lionel Ritchie singing with his microphone turned down. And other western acts.

Some drag queen dancing acts, except with the drag queens.

Bollywood stuff seemed to be happening as well.

Costumes that some people were comparing to klu klux klan on twitter.

Then Ravi yelled.

Andy Bichel did some commentary, he sounded like Danny Morrison on ketamine.

Lalit was missing most of the time, but in his place was a lady in a red dress, an obvious homage to the Matrix.

Brad Hodge looked pissed off.

Many snatch shots of the cheerleaders, none on super slow mo, maybe next year.

Angelo Mathews continues to not exist.

The Chargers song was remixed, still shit though.

Owais Shah had cut down his sleeves to show off the guns.

There were time outs, but they weren’t strategically named, but they were strategically used.

The IPL has ads between the balls, they are louder and less awkward than the Channel 9 versions.

ITV brought out Hoggard, Hick and some dude and some Indian chick for their coverage. Hoggy was ok, the rest were ordinary and only the Indian chick had done any research.

Gilly seemed to keep hitting the ball in the air and not getting caught.

I never thought I’d say this, but I wanted fake smiles from SRK.

Rohit Sharma continues to vie for Indian batsmen most likely to be assassinated.

The game fizzled out.

The Windies beat Zimbabwe.

Nap.

The IPL has started, not with a bang, not with a whimper, but with a carefully stage managed event that had shit western acts, lots of dancing, two teams making decent totals and Andy Bichel.

What could be better than waking up on a sunny spring morning to the news that England have inexplicably been asked to bat on a docile pitch and have, for once, taken advantage of their good fortune.

Mrs Skiver is looking as gorgeous as ever, Skiver Jr is being cute and mischievous, Pietersen is finding some form and Cook has even hit a boundary.

I hop into the car and turn on Test Match Special, point the front end in the direction of the office, and then it happens.

Next thing I know, I’m headed for a ditch. I wrest the steering wheel violently to the right and the next thing I know I’m a mile down the road a bus queue of local schoolgirls is about to receive an intimate internal examination courtesy of the bumper of my car.

I back up, check that the car is no more dented than usual, and set off again. I even wind down a window to keep me awake. And in moments I am halfway to work and passing through a graveyard that definitely isn’t on my usual route.

Blearily, I rub my eyes. I wasn’t this tired ten minutes ago.

And then I realise the cause. TMS have only got Mark freaking Butcher on commentary.

Mark Butcher, the man whose voice could sedate a rottweiler at 100 paces.

What, in the name of all that is holy (and several things that aren’t, including me) is he doing on the radio during the school run? Innocent lives are in danger here. You can tell the cricket fans, they are the ones weaving about the road like Paul Smith on a long walk home. Sooner or later, someone is going to take out a nursery.

It shouldn’t be allowed. Not without the emergency services being on red alert. And the whole programme should have a recorded message, with a text along the lines of the warnings you get on some medicines:

WARNING: This broadcast contains Mark Butcher. If you feel drowsy, do not attempt to drive or use heavy machinery. The BBC accepts no liability for loss or personal injury caused by the tedium of listening to Mark Butcher, including, inter alia, gnawing off your own limbs, setting fire to your children or wanting to listen to Coldplay

You know how it is with some people. Just when you think you have them, that they’ve given you a nice easy article to write about how, say, any talk of them not being able to play left arm spin is just bollocks, and what do they go and do? They go and get themselves bowled by a sodding left arm spinner, and on 99 to boot.

And then you think “Well, that’s not too bad, I can write about him butchering another hundred by slogging” and have to remind yourself that he was bowled having a tame little prod at the ball.

Heck, the guy even teased us by hammering his way from 80 to 94 in the space of five balls from Shakib Al Hasan, leading everyone to think that a skied slog to mid-off was only moments away. Instead of which he went into his shell and played with uncharacteristic caution, nurdled another five runs and then got himself out.

But that’s the thing about KP. He disappoints you in so many new and original ways. Like back at the start of his career, when every time you thought he was going to beat his Test best, he would run himself out. Or having a massive hissy fit and quitting as captain, just as he was starting to make a decent fist of it. And you don’t even have to build him up in order for him to disappoint. He’s quite capable of doing that all by himself.

And then he goes and ruins my bloody articule, too. I was all set to point out that only 12 of his Test dismissals have been to left armers and that, whilst some of those have been to purveyors of utter filth, such as Paul Harris, Ryan Hinds and Yuvraj Singh, a third of them were to Daniel Vettori at a time when he pretty much was the New Zealand bowling attack. But now he’s gone and got himself bowled by a man who, at the time, had a bowling average of 87.43.

Bastard. Evil, evil bastard.