Put my hat on backwards, boil me up some mystery meat and take me out to the ball game!
The cream of the Major Leagues has hit our shores to spread the bible of America’s favourite pastime and boost the sales of bootleg baseball caps at Paddy’s Markets.
Anticipation is reaching fever pitch, as Australians eagerly await this much-needed shovel of Yankee culture and chewing tobacco straight in to the national gob.
The Sydney Cricket Ground has been constructed in to a shrine of Uncle Sam fanfare and, as per the Kevin Costner mantra, it has been built and they are coming, albeit at ridiculous detriment to the wallet.
Unfortunately, the jingling levels of excitement being felt across Sydney and inside the promoter’s pockets haven’t been mirrored by all of the travelling players, with LA Dodgers pitcher Zack Greinke the worst affected as he struggles to produce froth for the special occasion.
“I would say there is absolutely zero excitement for it,” Greinke said when asked about the trip Down Under. “There just isn’t any excitement to it. I can’t think of one reason to be excited for it.”
Fair enough. I reckon if I was expecting to be whisked away from the airport in the pouch of a kangaroo before being sent for a morning tea of Vegemite and Fosters with Prime Minister Paul Hogan, I too would be circumspect about travelling halfway around the world for a hit.
However, what Greinke and his fellow Dodgers and the opposition Arizona Diamondbacks must know is our treasured SCG is exactly similar to their Land of the Free when it comes to ball sports.
Yep, the immaculate grass and dangerously firm pitch square is home to so many eerily comparable traits that these good old boys will think they have woken up under some ketchup-stained bleachers in Albuquerque!
So Greinke, set your face to amazed. This place is going to feel just like home. Let’s start with some…
Big hittin’
Contrary to some Americans’ perceptions about cricketers, they aren’t a bunch of weak-armed sissies who thrill themselves by prancing up the pitch for briskly run 1s and 2s (that’s a boring old base hit for you American sluggers), or by just burning the worms with stodgy cover drives and leg glances that lurch in to gaps before slowing up like a scooter on its last drop of gasoline.
The modern cricketing gent is now a mean Popeye-armed convict who chops down gum trees for leisure while he tattoos his forearm with a jackhammer and some road tar. Yep, he doesn’t stuff around with textbook aesthetics anymore, preferring to go long and strong with the plum when it comes to scoring runs.
Thanks to this, the SCG has seen its fair share of grand slams over the years.
See those majestic stadiums adorned with stunning period features? They are teetering after the hailstorm of big drives they’ve copped through history. From Simon O’Donnell to Joel Garner and even Keith Miller, these rooftops have more dents than your drunken uncle’s Chevy.
And if that’s not homerific enough for you, consider this: there’s even been one cannonball smoked over the roof and in to Kippax Lake outside the ground, all done laconically at the hands of a Dunhill-lunging boozehound wielding a matchstick. God bless you, Dougie Walters.
However, if the big Aussie slam doesn’t remind you of apple pie, how about some…
Rough fightin’
Just because the venue’s name contains the word ‘cricket’, you think you won’t be able to clear the benches for some knucklin’? Think again, partner!
We know it doesn’t take much for you baseballers to call for all hands on deck at the mound. It could be any trivial matter like a chatty catcher, a surly manager or just a pitcher who’s thrown a 160 km/h lightning bolt directly at the forehead of a batter – y’all will find any tiny reason to thrown down en masse.
But don’t look at us like we are a gaggle of refined tea-sipping gents in vests. We’ve fertilised the grand soil of this venue with the blood and fear-vomit of many in the past, most of the time our own.
I’m not sure if you know this, but they play footy at this place. And yep, they don’t wear pads! I’ve lost count of the amount of bodies buried here at the hands of Barry Hall, and thank the Lord they stopped playing cut-throat games of rugby league here years ago. It’s really put a stop to the amount of cut throats.
And if you think the cricketers haven’t contributed to this blood-soaked history of gore and affray, then think again. Our current Test captain was once choked in the changerooms by a shaggy wildebeest at the end of a long day’s cricket, playing on the same team… and it was over a song!
So are you still yearning for a twinkie and some grape soda? Then feel the homely nature of…
Plain cheatin’
Just look back at the history of American baseball. Organised corruption and corner-cutting in the gym is as much a part of the sport as boundless spitting and obese umpires!
From the early 1900s, where the Glenn Munsie of the big leagues was the mafia, right through to the modern day dopefests of your Alex Rodriguezes and Mark McGwires, it just seems keeping it clean is considered dirty in the Major League.
The SCG too has been witness to many bendings of the rules over the years, and I’m not talking about the questionable upkeep of the hygiene standards in the Brewongle Stand’s latrines.
Douglas Jardine flaunted the good nature of cricket in 1932 by choosing the top of the neck over the top of off, Darcy Lawler shafted the Magpies in the 1963 rugby league grand final after his cheque for thruppence from St George Leagues Club cleared on the morning of the game, while Pakistan magically crumbled on the last day of the Test against Australia in 2010 upon the verbal signal of ‘ka-ching!’ from the coach.
So does the place still feel like left-field? Hopefully you’ll feel more comfy with some…
Fat earnin’
Grienke’s bullpen buddy Clayton Kershaw has just lifted himself slightly above the minimum wage with a record-breaking $238 million contract to continue his outstanding chucking for the Dodgers. Heck, that’s a lot of chewing gum and jello!
However, the lay of the cash-flashing land here at the SCG is identical, except only on a 1:23 scale, so don’t feel like you have to hide the 24 carat cufflinks and act the pauper.
When it comes to Australia’s superabundant talents with superabundant remuneration, we’ve got Buddy Franklin as the local deep pockets. Yep, he just signed up for nine years of physical torture with the Sydney Swans for a cool $10 mill, which is probably just enough to buy him a strand of Kershaw’s locks.
If you need a loan while you’re in town or the name of a good cut-throat shaver he hasn’t seen in nine months, Franklin’s your man.
And if he doesn’t answer his phone, try Michael Clarke. I’m pretty sure he drives something red.
Dane can be found on Twitter – @eld2_0
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