Maybe… I dunno. But… But maybe… Maybe cricketers shouldn’t write books.
I know, I know. I can hear you now, crying, “Ben you are mad, what would such a proposal do to the economy?” And it’s true, banning cricketers from publishing their hot takes on the game and their careers and the wacky shenanigans of the dressing room would put a lot of people out of work in the publishing industry.
But it could be that the collateral damage would be worth it, when you consider that preventing cricketers from penning memoirs would prevent the kind of unseemly public spats we’ve seen lately.
Look, it’s terribly fascinating to find out just what Michael Clarke thinks about himself, his time in cricket, and the upheavals of his time at the top. Truly, it is. If we could be sure that when a man like Clarke publishes his life story, everyone could read it, nod with satisfaction at having increased their net knowledge of the world, and then move on with their lives, everything would be dandy.
But obviously we can’t do that. What we must do instead is read the book, then rush to ask every single person mentioned in it for an entertaining quote regarding their continued deep hatred for the author. Let’s go see what Shane Watson thinks of Michael Clarke! Oh, he still thinks what we already knew he thought? Fascinating! What does Simon Katich think? Same again? Wow!
I suppose we should be grateful that Clarke wrote a book capable of provoking argument and controversy at all. To be willing to make a target of oneself is an admirable quality, and a cricketing memoir that reopens old wounds is at least more interesting than a cricketing memoir that simply takes a tame trot through career highlights, gives pats on the back to all the author’s old teammates, reinforces the importance of hard work and perseverance, and never features anything more provocative than a joke about Damien Fleming’s taste in music.
I mean, good on Clarke for giving the Australian public another chance to explain why they think Simon Katich is an awesome bloke because of his willingness to physically assault his teammates during post-match celebrations.
But it’s still a good rule of thumb that the best cricket books tend to be the ones written by non-cricketers – or if you want to get technical, the ones written by non-cricketers that they weren’t hired to write on behalf of an ex-player.
For a start the actual writing tends to be better, and the story isn’t tainted by locker-room loyalties or long-standing grudges. The really great cricket books – and cricket happens to be a sport particularly well-supplied with quality literature – remain those written by people outside the inner circle.
However, what sells books is a big name on the cover, so we’ve little hope of seeing an end to cricketing autobiographies any time soon. We’ve got Clarke’s story, we’ve got Mitchell Johnson’s. Shane Watson wrote his back in 2011, which is a shame because all the juicy stuff hadn’t happened yet.
Chris Rogers wrote one too, and Brad Haddin. David Warner hasn’t done his memoir yet, but he has put his name to a series of kids’ books about some little brat called “the Kaboom Kid”, and for all I know that’s just a thinly-veiled autobiography itself.
They’ll keep coming, don’t worry about that. Mitch Starc will come out with Starc Contrast and Peter Siddle will write Siddle Me This and Nathan Lyon will top the bestseller lists with How I Became Australia’s Greatest Offspinner With No Muscle Tone.
And readers across the country will rejoice in their ability to read twenty slightly differing accounts of the same events in the same places involving the same people. If we’re lucky, we might learn something we didn’t already know. If we’re really lucky, someone will come out as gay.
But what’s more likely is just a continuing stream of mild anecdote, tepid self-justification, and continual sitting down over beers to sort things out. And should the odd bit of honesty slip through, another round of what-happens-in-the-dressing-room-stays-in-the-dressing-room and not-a-good-blokeing from the testosteronariat.
So all in all…
How about they not write books anymore?
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