Even after seven years the Big Bash still fails to deliver

I lazed on the couch last Sunday, surfing the TV to find something that would allay my boredom. After much flicking and stirring I settled on the WBBL final.

There was curiosity in the fixture, which had been bumped down to the primetime of midday – a fascination mostly borne of a lack of familiarity with the female game, the standard of which I quickly found myself pleasantly surprised by.

What brought the match back into focus after a while was the atmosphere – or the fact that it remained strikingly absent. Due to the scheduling the players sat bathed in an empty Adelaide Oval, an assembly of media and support staff making up most of those in attendance.

Also gracing the stands was the troupe of dancers that seemed to follow the competition around the country, a form of entertainment that no-one asked for. It was an odd sight to see these performers deliver their act to an empty arena, and it was what reminded why I’ve never taken to this form of the game.

This disaffection for the shortest version of cricket is nothing new. It is a format that has always failed to capture my imagination, like a shirt that has never felt snug or comfortable. Perhaps the feeling is derived from the initial offerings of this revolution when the triviality of the game was on full display.

(AAP Image/David Moir)

I came across this just the other night during the rain delay between New Zealand and Australia, when Channel Nine showed old vision of a primitive version of the format. It was a match against the English in which the Australians were decked out in that horrid all-grey jersey with nicknames like ‘Punter’ and ‘Church’ on the back.

Those with an earpiece to the commentary joked about which direction they would pummel the next delivery. It was a while ago now and not many would have predicted the extent to which T20 has grown into its own entity, but that feeling of joviality always remained with me – a sense that this interpretation of cricket didn’t matter and that there was no point giving it my full attention.

It contrasts with Test cricket, which has always held this air of authenticity. There is a sense with each Test match that, no matter the context, something worthwhile hinges on the result. That even no result carries a weight of significance because at least there is an acknowledgement that those entwined in the contest have toiled for five days, their skill and application continually examined.

There is always a constant battle between bat and ball taking place, a determination of willpower and patience that provides far more excitement and fascination than a batsman constantly flaying his bat at each delivery hoping that it will somehow find its way to the boundary.

(AAP Image/David Mariuz)

The recent contest between India and South Africa, for instance, where ball continually bettered bat on a series of tortuous pitches, brought as much excitement to me as cricket can possibly provide.

Of course the benefits that T20 have brought to cricket are hard to ignore. It has clearly delivered a new and younger audience to the sport. Cricket has existed in a state of life support in certain parts of the world at times, but T20 has helped to rectify that, albeit at the expense of the traditional format.

It is riveting at times to see Glenn Maxwell whack the ball back over the bowler’s head or a team chasing 20 runs off the last over. Its prime focus is entertainment, and it does a terrific job of meeting that brief.

But I can count on one hand the times I sat this season and watched the BBL for more than 20 minutes, and never once did I feel engaged with what was taking place. Mostly the fixtures remain finite in our memory. There is always another game waiting the next night, or an ODI or a tennis match, and many fans would not be able to tell you who had won the night before.

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There were many players who performed strongly in this summer’s rendition – such as a D’Arcy Short, who made countless runs – but unlike the recent Ashes success, many will promptly forget such feats.

I wasn’t drawn to watching the final and I wasn’t all that interested in who won. As Adelaide held the cup aloft and Jake Weatherald made what I’m sure was a wonderful hundred, I was watching repeats of Married at First Sight with my girlfriend, unperturbed by the absurdity of it all.

There may be joy or disappointment still lingering from their side’s performance for those invested in its theatre, but for most the end of this campaign will represent the end of another offering of sport within our crowded sporting schedule, another competition that appears and then suddenly disappears in a flash.

I wonder if in a month’s time anyone will remember who won the whole thing at all.