There is only one team in town.
The Captain declared when Sarah (from Marketing) confirmed at the start of play that the bowlers were singing Edelweiss (the Christopher Plummer, Sound of Music version) on the players’ balcony.
He hates Edelweiss almost as much as The Lonely Goatherd (the Julie Andrews original). Anyway, Shaun (Junior) was out and the only reason for batting on was to help him to 50.
The game ended in the first hour after tea as it began before lunch. The top order crumbled like a lump of old sandstone. Resistance flared momentarily, only to be snuffed out just as quickly, oddments in a junkyard fire sale.
No one was interested. The chattering classes and commentators glasses passed the hours until the 10th wicket fell batting an eyelid towards the lounging beauties bathing under the Centurion sun, and a lengthening beer snake. The capacity weekend crowd had better things to do than watch the cricket.
Mitch’s (Tatts) 12-wicket mauling of South Africa’s finest earned him the man of the match for the fourth time in the last six Tests. Peerless and transcendent.
We invited the South Africans to our post-match celebration. Tatts was in his element. He apologised for terrorising the batsmen, badging the Castle emblem on their chests, breaking helmets and the odd bat. He said he didn’t mean to scare anyone.
It is just business. No offence.
The Saffers merely smiled. They couldn’t laugh. Their ribs hurt too much. Alex Doolan (Apples) said he had only seen more purple patches on a plum tree. Tatts and his doppelgänger were very apologetic all evening.
“That looks really sore mate.”
“Yah. There are a few overlapping bruises maaartee where the deep purple circles are.”
‘Looks like you have been hit with a jackhammer.”
“No, sorry maarrttee. That one is not yours. I slipped in the shower.”
“You really know how to get behind my chest balls. Sorry.”
“Sorry, maarrttee. Ishant gave me that one. Sorry.”
Tatts complained to The Captain that everyone felt sorry for him. The Captain told him to ask Smithy if he or his team knew how to bat. Smithy said AB did. Tatts told him he was sorry he felt that way.
In the end Tatts felt so confused he gave an impromptu speech saying he was sorry he was causing so much heartache. He didn’t mean to. Cricket is not about breaking hands, ribs or helmets – we all have families.
No one wants to be disgraced. He said he was working on ways to dismiss batsmen more efficiently at Port Elizabeth. He wanted to impose defeat more painlessly for players and spectators.
There is only one show in town.
There is only one bowler, one snaking, sinewed, spirited, strangling, splendid, ink-stained sleeve that can print wickets faster than the Federal Reserve can print a greenback. Only Tatts can discombobulate a top order batsman faster than Gordon Ramsay can char grill an apprentice chef.
Tatts is a walking nightmare. He terrorises the hippocampus* more completely at 22 yards than a parent’s instinctive premonition of a child’s untimely death.
Sidds (The Freak) says he is a moving Bermuda Triangle, a black hole of black arts. He is cricket’s grim reaper, the Undertaker whose very presence makes a batsman’s veins run cold and casts his feet in concrete boots, a son of Sam, a murder of teams, a Minister of the dead, dying, and about to die.
He is the sower of defeat, a harbinger of doom, a pencil of pain, a wrecking ball of dreams, divisor of averages and a purveyor of panic. Ryno (The Natural) says he is a meat-eater.
He is the rumour of retirement and the doppler effect of cricket. He is more noisy than a passing freight train, and less amusing to an opposition coach than spot farts in a crowded dressing room.
The Captain says Tatts may not break your f*#andamp;@ing arm but he will ransack your soul with a single stare and rape your body with a maiden. Coach2.0 says Tatts makes his job easy. The Captain says his job is easy.
The Prof (the team Banker on tour) says if you ever find yourself discombobulated, disoriented, or slightly out of control, or if you come face to face with Tatts’ doppelgänger in the mirror in the quiet of the dressing-room as others collapse around you, remember four things: don’t harbour unreasonable match winning expectations, write down what matters, your net worth and insurances (some call this a Will), put your bible in your breast pocket, and take a deep slug of brandy.
It all helps to tighten your resolve when the crowd roars and the whistle sounds.
There is only one show in one team in town.
* The hippocampus controls the consolidation of new memories, emotional responses, navigation, and spatial orientation. I can understand why it goes off balance when facing Tatts fiery balls of trouble.
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