As the Ashes marathon completed its agonising finale, with England once again veering into carnage, I was surprised to feel relief.
I wasn’t over-ridden with euphoria that had consumed most of my compatriots in the aftermath of this memorable Ashes annihilation.
Of course, I did treat myself to a couple of quiet Sunday night beers to share in the revelry.
My detachment in fandom has been hard to grapple with. I had found England’s slaying horrific and gruesome. As awe-inspiring as Australia had suddenly become, parts of the massacre were tough to watch.
Was it unpatriotic of me to be willing for an archetypal Alastair Cook innings? And wanting Kevin Pietersen to enter a time warp and recapture his trademark belligerence during his last Test Down Under?
Pangs of guilt consumed as I hoped England could muster some belated resolve and ensure the Test entered Monday, primarily so I had a procrastination tool when the office grind re-surfaced.
It was delusional to believe the dispirited and hopeless bunch of comatose English players could muster any fight. Not after six weeks of replicating Mike Tyson’s punching bag.
England meekly crumbled after tea on day three, triggering nationwide delirium for a country where its beloved cricket team had previously been mired in the doldrums.
My own celebrations were somewhat tempered. Simply, I was glad the slow torture was over.
Sydney generally marks the Test finale during an Australian summer before the coloured clothing circus consumes, while the sports focus shifts from bat and ball to racquet and ball with the Australian Open tennis Grand Slam dominating the consciousness in the latter part of January.
I’m always left feeling sombre at the conclusion of the SCG Test, as my cricket devotion temporarily ceases until the next Test series featuring Australia (fortunately the wait isn’t long, with the South African tour imminent).
In the wake of the Ashes, my annual feeling of discontent hasn’t struck. Perhaps I’ve been stricken by lethargy after this double Ashes grind.
But perhaps my stupor stems from the bitter realisation of being duded by bathos.
In an attempt to snap out of this discontent, I’ve tried to focus on the Australian team and its plethora of redemptive narratives during a series which seemed fantastical to envision merely six weeks ago.
I’m convinced ‘the Mo’ has possessed Mitchell Johnson with superhuman powers – I’ll believe anything now after watching Australia whitewash the Ashes after previously being an international punch line for its ineptness both on-and-off field.
It was a revelation to watch Johnson finally morph into the devastating bowler Dennis Lillee predicted a decade ago.
I’ll forever cherish his Adelaide spell, which had me mimic my adolescence and literally jump for joy at every dismissal of an ashen-faced Pom.
That spell was a mixture of Curtly Ambrose’s hostile WACA spell circa 1993 and Shoaib Akhtar’s furious destruction of Australia’s batsmen in 2002 in Colombo. It was fast bowling at its most intimidating.
Michael Clarke, forever lauded for his tactical nous despite his dubious record, has his legacy cemented for eternity.
So long as the urn was unmercifully returned, Australian cricket fans can forgive, and even forget, obliteration in India (and perhaps inevitably in South Africa).
Away from bar shenanigans, David Warner started trading blows from his willow on the pitch to reinforce his credentials as a Virender Sehwag prototype.
In less than 12 months, Brad Haddin went from Test discard to performing deeds eerily reminiscent of Adam Gilchrist’s pomp.
Possibly Australia’s next Test skipper, Steve Smith continues to hone his precocious talents before our very eyes after his accelerated maturity.
Journeyman Chris Rogers iced Australia’s rich cake with dual centuries at the tail of a series he appeared unlikely to partake in a mere 12 months ago.
His Test ambitions appeared futile after being red stamped by prickly selectors six years ago. Persistence really pays dividends.
The only player who didn’t contribute was George Bailey, and even if he never plays Tests again, he has the enviable record of a perfect winning percentage and propelling the once great Jimmy Anderson into the annals of cricket infamy.
Australia won all the big moments, triggered umpteen batting collapses, took their chances in the field, always found an opportune partnership and players delivered when it mattered most.
Growing up during the Warne/McGrath era, I’ve watched plenty of touring teams depart dishevelled but I can’t remember a team being humiliated as embarrassingly as Cook’s England.
It could be a stretch of hyperbole, but England has to now be part of the ‘worst ever touring team’ discussion, right?
The whitewash may not prove to be a renaissance of Australian cricket – Ryan Harris, Rogers and Haddin are probably at the brink and the mercurial Johnson’s magical moustached powers could be fleeting – but it was a revival of their seemingly eternal Ashes supremacy.
Obliterating the Old Enemy to smithereens constitutes the perfect summer for most.
I’m envious of each and every one of them.
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