Cricket is in peril. Its very soul has gone missing. Desperate times call for desperate measures. Sports detective Mill Pharlowe takes up the story, which begins in a private room of Ceasar’s Palace in Las Vegas.
It was a card game like no other. The man fidgeting after every deal was Derek Randall from England. South Africa’s Graham Pollock had played a sublime game, playing each card on its merits.
Michael Holding from the West Indies drew his cards languidly but slammed his chips down like lightning. Arjuna Ranatunga from Sri Lanka, Bishan Bedi from India, New Zealand’s Sir Richard Hadlee and Pakistan’s Imran Khan were there as well.
When I went all in the pot was huge. The dealer, Australia’s Doug Walters, began a commentary as he placed each card. “Cricket’s soul has disappeared,” he said. “We believe that you and Miss Danno are the only people who can get it back.”
“I’m not sure Douggie,” I replied. “My fee for a job like this would be huge. Where could you get the money?”
Doug winked at me and drew the final card to complete my royal flush. As I raked in the chips the whole room burst into laughter. I had no choice but to accept. Before I left, the group provided me with a map, a key and the services of Merv Hughes, who was to accompany us as an expert guide. I gave the map to Miss Danno to study, the key to Merv for safe-keeping while I volunteered to cash the poker chips.
Two days later in the dark of night Merv, Miss Danno and myself were in a back alley outside the ICC Dubai headquarters dressed head to toe in Spandex, only our eyes and mouths showing. Miss Danno looked positively feline in her tight black outfit. Merv also cut quite a figure although I couldn’t say what figure it was.
“Merv you are supposed to be inconspicuous, why is your suit canary yellow?” whispered Miss Danno.
“I couldn’t resist the Aussie ODI commemorative Spandex,” Merv replied.
“And as for you Mill,” Miss Danno teased, “is that a gun in your pocket or are you pleased to see me?”
“We both know it’s a gun. Now lead the way.”
“The drain is over here. Help me lift the grate boys.”
“Is there a bigger drain?” Merv asked hopefully.
We dropped down from the vent into a corridor near the bathrooms.
“Follow me,” said Miss Danno after a briefly checking the map. As we passed the first bathroom I caught a glimpse of marble and gold taps. The sign on the door read – First-class Bathrooms for use of India, England and Australia only. No riff-raff allowed.
We continued past a dilapidated looking bathroom with the sign – Second-class Bathrooms, for use of New Zealand, Sri Lanka, South Africa and Pakistan.
Further on was a couple of fly-blown dunnies with a hand written sign that read – Minnows and Women. Miss Danno gave the corrugated iron door a kick.
After navigating a few more corridors Miss Danno stopped in front of a thick wooden door with the words ‘Inner Sanctum’ marked on it. Merv produced the key and we were inside.
By the light of Miss Danno’s torch we stood awestruck. This was what Carter must have felt like when first entering Tutankhamun’s tomb. There was gold everywhere. Bags of loot, Indian rupees, English pounds and Australian dollars.
We stood there for a minute before Merv broke the silence, “Come on we need to concentrate on the task at hand. See those three cabinets over there? Take one each and look.”
Miss Danno called out excitedly from her cabinet which contained files in hardcopy. “Look at this stuff, it’s fantastic” she enthused, “there’s files here called ‘Growing the game internationally’, ‘the future of West Indies cricket’, ‘improving the women’s game’, ‘assisting the minnows’, and ‘an even contest between bat and ball’.”
“I hate to spoil it Miss Danno,” said Merv, “but the sign on top of the cabinet you are looking at says ‘for the shredder’.”
“Merv, what’s all this?” I called out. “A world Test championship featuring just three teams, how flatter pitches increases TV revenue, paying lip service to developing nations, a new bat that can smash unplayable deliveries, how far we can move in the boundaries before people will notice, a proposal for a 365-day a year IPL. Is this where the game is heading?”
“I am afraid so,” said Merv who was opening a drawer marked: ‘For TV execs and self interested ICC members only’.
Pushing aside a bunch of pink cricket balls, he pulled out a box, opened it and inside was the lost soul of cricket. The room went silent for a few seconds. As I pocketed cricket’s soul we caught the faint sound of whirring engines then closer to hand some noises at the end of the corridor.
“Quick! They’re onto us! Get over to the window ledge,” I yelled as the sounds in the corridor and the whirring engines grew louder. I opened the door and exchanged a few shots with the guards. I then joined Merv and Miss Danno on the window ledge.
“Miss Danno, do you trust me?” I asked. For a minute her almond eyes momentarily betrayed a vulnerability that I had never seen before. Taking her hand we both jumped – and managed to catch hold of the rope dangling from the helicopter whose engines where whirring loudly now.
We called out to Merv but he seemed hesitant to jump. The guards had taken to the door with axes and they would be through any minute. Thinking back to the poker game I played my trump card – I gently lobbed cricket’s lost soul skywards. Merv instinctively dived through the air and caught it one handed while we managed to grab hold of him. With the three of us dangling from the rope the helicopter pulled away at high speed with the sounds of the guards’ curses ringing in our ears.
As the helicopter set us down on the deck of a luxury yacht off the coast Miss Danno said, “Mill! There’s something wrong.”
“What do you mean?” I asked as a couple of goons armed with Uzis marched us into the cabin.
“They are taking us to someone who desperately wants the soul of cricket.”
I nudged Miss Danno, “Wow, who would have thought Mariah Carey would want cricket’s soul.”
“It’s not her that wants it you imbecile,” Miss Danno hissed, the vulnerability in her eyes long gone, “it’s him!”
The large man she pointed to said in a distinctive Australian drawl, “Mill Pharlowe, Miss Danno, Merv, I have been expecting you. I believe you have something I want.”
“If it’s not the Bondi street brawler himself, James Packer,” I answered. “What do you want cricket’s soul for?”
“Let’s just say it’s a family heirloom that I want back”
Merv appealed to him: “Mr Packer, will you promise to look after cricket’s soul?”
“Merv. I would love to say yes but if the price is right, I would sell it to the highest bidder. I am a man of business after all.”
The guards who had set us adrift in the small lifeboat laughed as they threw a few buckets of fish-heads into the ocean just to work the circling sharks into even more of a frenzy.
Miss Danno turned to me with a resigned look and asked, “Mill, who did you book that chopper through?”
“Uber!”
Author’s note: I had fun with the Mill Pharlowe and Miss Danno characters but it’s probably a good time to kill them off and move on. If you did want to read more of their adventures you can find them here, here, and here.
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