cricket with balls

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.

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.

I don’t know how many of you have watched the Animatrix short films series.

They were made as a cheat sheet for Matrix nerds (Big daddy & I) as a filler for all the plot holes between Matrix 1 & 2.

I mention this, not because I plan on giving you a review of these short films, but because one of them has sort of (not really) become true.

There is a short film in the series called, World Record, it’s by far one of the wankier ones.

It’s about a sprinter who works out that the matrix exists by his super human performances.

This reminds me of Ashely Noffke’s recent performances.

19 wickets at 20, with three 5 wicket hauls. 393 runs with one century and a few fiddys to his name. State cricket has never seen a transformation like it.

One minute he is an average bit player who destroys Victoria from time to time, and now he is Luke freakin Skywalker.

Average players need to accept their place in life, they can’t suddenly become Keith Miller or Imran Khan.

When one breaks the shackles, if they perform so far above their station in life that they rip at the very fabric of reality, their body can surely not live up to that sort of strain.

Hence why Ashley Noffke performed such a perfect superhuman job of destroying Victoria, and then his body gave way.

There are limits to human endurance, and Ashley has learnt, he is not meant to perform at that level.

Luckily for him he hasn’t ended up in an asylum like the dude in the animatrix.

However he has learnt his lesson, so we can expect more measured performances from him, none of this superman ©rap in the future.

Monica was in the second Matrix. True Story.