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I spent last week moping around the office stating, “we’ll lose” anytime anyone mentioned the Ashes, pretending I didn’t care and could somehow sit down and enjoy, in some ironic fashion, Australia melting like the wicked witch into another chapter of Australian sporting history.
So I was surprised by what the weekend turned up.
For the first time I can remember in years, I sat glued to and shouting at the television.
Wicket after wicket fell and run after run was piled on.
Watching Mitchell Johnson wheel away from the pitch in celebration with his villainous moustache and the way in which the Australian team seemed to just roll over the top of England felt like a dream – and cricket was alive again!
The wonderful theatre of the five-day game. Thundering along like a vast epic. Sport’s answer to the ring cycle.
I sat in my chair, laughing at it all. I felt, for the first time in a long time, confidence in the Australian cricket team.
For a country that had a cricket team before it actually had a country, that must have some sort of boring socio-cultural significance. I don’t care about that though, because we won.
I heard what Michael Clarke said to Jimmy Anderson and, like many, thought “whatever”.
One could argue it was tremendous advice. If a broken arm is coming, get ready for it; you don’t know what it could do.
Anderson seemed to take the advice and got out of there before it arrived. Fair play to him too. If a man came up to me at work in a giant hat and said “broken arm coming”, I would probably also punch my card and go home.
One could also argue it was rude. Whatever. My guess is Clarke would pay 20% of his match fee every Test if it means he gets the urn.
Then, after a day of going to work, talking about the match, talking about the sledge, reading about the sledge, trying to find a way to incorporate the sledge in to my mixed netball match (couldn’t) and then going home and eating a curry, I turned on the news.
Jonathan Trott had gone home. Stress-related illness.
The beauty of the theatre of cricket is just that, the theatre. All the men and women merely players. We are able to tune in, shout at someone because they are not on our team, clap the villainous moustache, feel better, turn it off and mow the lawn.
When we want to digest more of it we just repeat. This of course goes for all sports.
I don’t believe sports people are role models. For most kids, sports people are role models no more than Krusty the Klown is a role model. They are characters in a narrative we construct from games. Merely players.
Cricket, that rare thing, the individual team sport, carries its fair share of internal aguish.
It wasn’t long ago Peter Roebuck leapt to his death from a South African hotel window.
Marcus Trescothick left a previous Ashes series for very similar reasons to that of Trott. His description of his mental pain is difficult to read and the illusion of the theatre is shattered when the pantomime collides with real life.
For these people, cricket is their job, but at a level of scrutiny that most of us cannot comprehend.
If dealing with a ringing phone or a difficult colleague is stressful, dealing with 30,000 Queenslanders, 142 kilometre an hour deliveries, the Australian print media and your own demons would be trying.
Jonathan, it is fair to say most decent-minded people wish you all the best, and that you recover and live a happy life.
If you are willing to enter the play again, cricket will be richer for it.
Good luck.
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