cricket with balls

So, the international season in Australia has come to an end, and I’m drinking to it. Not because of the unbeaten Aussie summer. Thrashing two mediocre teams is hardly cause for celebration. No, because it means the end of the most annoying experiment in cricket viewing since, well, ever.

Bloody heart rate monitors.

What, I mean what, is the point of this idiocy? The whole point of introducing any sort of technology into a sport is to make it in some way better for the spectator. HawkEye, HotSpot, slo-mo cameras, they all serve this purpose. But what is the freaking point of a heart rate monitor?

It is not as if most of us are incapable of noticing that your heart rate goes up when you are running and it is no great logical feat to suss out that it might go up a bit more if you run and then hurl a small projectile 22 yards.

And it’s not even as if they put them on the interesting players, fer chrissakes. What is the use of putting a heart rate monitor on Mitchell Johnson, unless it is to give his mother heart failure of her own? How about sticking one on Chris Gayle, so that we can tell if he is really that laid back, or just clinically dead? Or on Shane Watson, to see if he actually is 98% straw? Hell, if we are being really interesting, strap it to Steve Smith and see if he’s yet mature enough to walk past a woman on the boundary without all of the blood rushing to his groin?

No, the only conceivable use for this technology is to fix it to the commentators. Watch Mark Nicholas’ bpm rise every time he passes a mirror. Measure Warne’s excitement as a tray of pies goes by. Do what the heck you like with it, just get it off my tv screen.

The Omitted went to the AB Medal:

A few things struck me as I arrived outside the crown casino’s red carpet entrance to cricket’s night of nights.

Firstly, This is the poor man’s version of the brownlow.

It has a little bit of prestige, but no one actually cares who wins (especially if its Shane Watson). No one calls ricky ponting the 4 time Allan Border Medalist. Mostly they call him a runmachine,  stylish,  or cunt-head. A very small proportion of the Cricket loving public would even know this event is on. When it’s Brownlow week the whole of Melbourne loses its shit. The Herald Sun is 3 times thicker, Eddie McGuire publicly Masturbates and the bookmakers’ phones run off the hook with more business than a condom vending machine in the toilets at the highschool ball.

Secondly, There is nowhere near as many hot birds as there is at the Brownlow. Sure Bingle, Furlong and Bracken are spank bank material, but there definitely was not the hoards of blokes walking around with a fat like i imagine to be the case on brownlow night.  Hayley Bracken’s choice of attire has definitely got all the online bitches changing their social-networking status en masse.  I can’t see what all the fuss is about. Clearly when you pay that much for a set of cans you wish for people to see them. And I did. Multiple times.

Despite the night reeking of wank, there were a few special highlights for those lucky enough to witness in the flesh (Other than the afore mentioned titty flash). It was disappointing not to see Darren Lehmann inappropriately comment on how smoking hot the Federal Minister for Sport is for a second year running. I guess the fact he had consumed about 30 less crownies when they let him up on stage this time around had something to do with it. Although he did manage to give her an honourable mention with a wry smile on his face.

Brendan Julian got through a whole night as co-host without tripping up on himself or the English language. A great feat for the big man, as those who watch Fox Sports coverage of the Australian domestic cricket will know. Well done BJ.

Standing next to a very intoxicated Michael Slater in the urinal at the after party as he pissed with his head leaning against the wall was special for me, but the number one highlight would have to be seeing Shane Watson Cry… again! Well it would have been had i not been locked outside trying to fight for a spot in the dunny with the crowds aiming to make it back to their seats before the 3 minute commercial break window was up. So I missed the big fairy crying, but it also meant I didn’t have to witness him actually winning the award. I couldn’t even hear his whinging girly voice thanking the medical staff for finally getting his glass-boned body through a full season. Shattered. I looked around all night for Tom Williams but he was nowhere in sight. It would have made my night to see big Tom dancing with Lee Furlong til late in the night. I only hope a few people understand what I’m talking about…

The Allan Border Medal is pretty new. Australia have been pretty handy since 2000 the list of players who have won the award is tasty.

McGrath, Waugh, Hayden, Gilchrist, and Ponting.

There is a name missing, SK Warne.

Warne probably would have won one had he played one-day cricket between 03 and 07. In 06 he was Australia’s best test cricketer and won an award that said that, but not the AB. Because the point system is allocated for all international games for the Allan Border medal, Ricky Ponting won was the winner that year.

I don’t agree with the system, the best test player should win the major award, even if that is Collin Miller.

This year the best test player was Simon the Krab Katich.

He was Australia’s most consistent player in the voting period. By last summer he had turned from an embarrassing eyesore to Australia’s best batting eyesore, and he kept that up for the year.

The fact that he won the award does tell the story of Australian cricket in 09. A recycled player well into his cricket twilight averaged 48 with the bat and was Australia’s best test player.

Australia’s best player in all forms of the game was Shane Watson. In one day cricket he was destructive with the bat and ok with the ball. In test cricket he was savage with the bat and handy with the ball.

Other than his occasional moments of monumental stupidity, which we all have (I once shaved my head but left my fringe), he has been a force.

It hasn’t always been pretty, during the year he has traded metrosexual insults with Jimmy Anderson, made missing a test hundred an artform, abused Gayle like a 3 year old would, and stalked Phil Hughes spot like a CIA assassin.

But the big bastard is the best-performed Australian cricketer in all 3 formats of the game (had he played in more tests he probably would have won the test award too).

They give you the medal for that sort of hi-jinx.

He deserves it, doesn’t mean the whole world will suddenly warm to him.

Ofcourse the real winner of the night was Haley Rich Bracken (whose name I had to look up when writing this) for wearing a mermaid costume that should help her singing career.

Another post from the Omitted. A new omitted as well, I am building an army of omitted volunteers now.
For the last couple of summers, the only thing I have enjoyed more than Mango Weis Bars in the bath has been been hurling abuse at Shane Watson and wishing every move he made resulted in another broken toe nail that would rule him out of the next series.  Not because I knew he couldn’t play – I have always been a huge fan of his batting – but there has been so much to dislike the way he carries himself that overshadows all of his (then) underperforming skills. And then he found himself in South Africa and Abu Dhabi and my abuse turned into applause.

I needed a new target. I did not have to look very far. I have disliked Cameron White for years. The fact his name rhymed with Shitey reminded me there is in fact a (cricket) God. I am not alone it is fair to be said.
Hatred is too harsh a word. I hate warm beer, I don’t hate Cameron White. I just thoroughly disliked him. Part jealousy of the ride the has been given, part arrogant demeanour he gives off – I have yet to see him come in for a beer after a game, he never uses anyone’s name when saying hello, I even played in a game when he captained the great Shane Warne and set his fields for him. Warney responded by ensuring that the ball went everywhere the fielders weren’t just to prove a point.

In the same game I looked up at the scoreboard when he came out to bat and his List A average was 16. How could this bloke be captaining the strongest domestic team averaging 16, pulling facial expressions of a retarded Labrador and bowling more slop than is thrown onto plates of homeless shelters around the country. He could catch, and is the still best slipper in the country. But how does this push you through the national selection set up? Was he giving hand trolleys to Big Merv?

He was the laughing stock of the professional cricketing circuit in Australia. He would bully them in the winter at Taunton to prop up his floundering first class average that in itself was propped up by batting behind Hodge and Hussey on the slow wickets of the MCG.

There was the Indian Test tour debacle that had people closing one eye to avoid seeing such a demeaning act of the sacred baggy green and one open to not miss a second of laughter. Even Sachin felt sorry for him.  This however proved to be  a turning point – it was as though he too realised he could not bowl and to comfort himself he decided to become the most kick arse one day batsman in the world.
It is fair to say I am now a convert. His hundred at the ‘Gabba was as good as I have ever witnessed. Not just the stroke play, but how he timed his run, the eased of how he dealt with pressure. It was nothing short of world class. I still secretly harbour desires to kick him hard in the shins, twice, but in his form, he would probably wind up and slog sweep me over mid wicket for six.

He always has been.

But like most dicks he is constantly changing.

For years he was the limp lifeless spaghetti dick that everyone pointed at and laughed.

There was also that time when he was the unclean uncircumcised dick that no one wanted to play with.

He spent some time as the dick that popped up inappropriately and made people laugh at him.

Then he became the dick that prematurely ejaculated making a mess and ruining everything.

For a time he was the dick he couldn’t ejaculate at all.

Eventually he was the dick that no one thought could satisfy the opening slot.

Right now he is a different kind of dick, the big swinging dick, or to be precise, Australia’s big swinging dick.

In his last 8 tests since readmission he has a batting average of 56 and a bowling average of 27.

That is a big dick.

It goes deeper than that though, his wicket is now so seemingly important in the side that when he goes out there is almost a Sehwag type effect where the rest of the batsmen go out as well.  Plus he has made all these runs with this obvious flaw with his front pad.

His bowling, which now looks more innocuous than Mark Butcher bowling to you from 40 yards with a tennis ball, gets crucial wickets at a good rate.  It doesn’t make cricket sense, but it does make Paul Harris sense.

As a man he has not seemed to improve his likeability, as Andrew noticed.

Not that he seems to care, there must be a point where he just goes, “fuck you all and suck on this big swinging dick”.

There has never been a real doubt over Watson’s general level of talent, just his personality, temperament and jelly bean body.

His temperament can still get him in trouble, and the many failures getting to a hundred seem to prove that.

His body seems to be holding together, barely.  Perhaps because he is coming in to bowl like a senior citizen.

And his personality hasn’t really changed, but no body is perfect, I once drank pepsi max.

He is good though, and right now, probably Australia’s gun player.

How weird is that.

Pretty weird.

True story.

Watson isn’t Steven Seagal, but he is going pretty good for a dick.

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