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The news that Foxtel and Channel Nine have secured the rights to cricket’s ICC World T20 is a bitter blow for Australian cricket fans.
Until that announcement was made, there had been hope that Australians would be denied the spectacle of Steve Smith’s men spiralling to the inevitable shame of a group stage exit.
But now, every failure will be broadcast in cruel HD and, even more appallingly, commentated in gruesome detail by a no doubt incredulous Nine commentary team. Australia’s disappointing showing may even be so dire as to render Slats, Heals and Brayshaw incapable of promoting the special encore screening of Here Come The Habibs more than five or six times each innings.
It’s pretty devastating stuff. Without this senseless television broadcast being forced upon us, Australian fans could have instead enjoyed imagining their T20 squad firing on all cylinders.
How easy it would have been to envisage the brute power of Shane Watson combining with the exquisite timing of Usman Khawaja at the top of the order in a way that no opposition bowling attack could tame and no quick singles could sully.
With such a blistering foundation to build on, picturing the new three/four combination of David Warner and Steve Smith grumpily power-hitting their way through the middle overs would have been simplicity itself.
And it would have been utterly elementary to visualise the death overs, with Glenn Maxwell, Mitch Marsh and James Faulkner unleashing all their batting tricks, knowing they had nothing to lose and much more than nothing to gain. How could any other team’s bowlers stop this conceptual rampage? Answer: They couldn’t.
And then when it came time for the Australian bowlers to defend the massive total the Australian batsmen had so fantastically amassed, it would have been straightforward to see in one’s mind’s eye John ‘The Duke’ Hastings and Josh ‘of Hazzard’ Hazlewood taking the new ball and tearing the opposition top order to pieces.
Perhaps Australian fans could also have pictured Peter Nevill diving left and right, snaring catches that fully justified the selection of a specialist keeper who can barely be bothered sledging. Or maybe they’d have brainstormed scenarios in which Nevill’s lightning-quick hands stumped opposition tail-enders stranded down the pitch, baffled by the fabricated guile of young Adam Zampa.
Outstanding fielding in the ring, saving singles and causing chaotic opposition run outs? Acrobatic outfielding, preventing boundaries and plucking improbable catches? Out of the box captaincy, always two steps ahead of anything other nations could come up with? All these imaginary components could have been combined to form the perfect Australian game.
Oh, sure. Perhaps some Australian fans might have had a different preferred XI. Perhaps they’d rather imagine Aaron Finch teeing off with the field up in the opening overs. Or they’d choose to think about Andrew Tye outfoxing batsmen determined to go after him. Or whoever else one might want to picture playing their part. That’s perfectly okay. It’s a long tournament to envision, and every member of the squad would have been expected to play their illusionary role.
What a tale it would have been. The lowly Australians – currently ranked eighth, just behind Sri Lanka, England and the cast of I’m A Celebrity, Get Me Out of Here – hypothetically taking on the giants of T20 International cricket and giving them imaginary drubbings in an apocryphal run to world supremacy. What an underdog story we could have collectively invented, with fictional ticker tape parades for everybody involved.
“Remember the time India needed two runs to win and Steve Smith threw the ball to Watto, who bowled a double wicket maiden, despite having torn his bicep in half while absent-mindedly asking for an unavailable review while batting?” we’d reminisce to one another in years to come.
“That was amazing!” one another would reply to us. “And how about the time Maxwell blasted 97 off 29 balls despite arriving at the crease without his bat!”
“How did Maxi do that?” we’d rhetorically ask, still astonished at the memory we’d jointly fabricated. “And how about Zampa taking nineteen wickets for the series, all run out off his face! Who knew that was actually a skill he’d been developing?”
“Good of the ICC to change the rules to credit the bowler for those kinds of run outs,” we’d nod wisely to one another.
And so on and so forth, reminiscing happily about Australia’s greatest every mythological success in an ICC tournament.
But now? It’s all gone. Instead, we’ll be forced to confront the sober reality of an unsettled Australian squad, still unsure who their best team is, playing in the conditions that suit them least, in a format they’ve never embraced, at a tournament they’ve never understood.
Damn you, Foxtel. May you rot in hell, Channel Nine. Your selfish determination to broadcast this tournament has dashed every Australian cricket fan’s dreams. I hope you’re happy.