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In a blow for Xanax sales and my psychiatrist’s mortgage, I have officially decoupled my sense of self-worth from the performance of our national cricket side.
Their repeated occurrences of Buster Keaton cricket have finally taken an irreversible toll on my soul. It has displaced decades of hard-earned hubris in exchange for a calm acceptance of piss poor performance.
While breathing exercises and rum were able to carry me through the Sri Lankan tour, being spanked on various surfaces by South Africa has rendered our arrangement untenable.
As such, I feel the time is right we consciously divorce.
Making this decision to find an alternative source of well-being has been a difficult one, but I felt I had no other choice.
However, my ego would like to take this opportunity to thank Australian cricket for years of making me feel something.
Riding with Australia as they swashbuckled around the universe produced emotions that conventional family moments or workplace achievement can only dream about.
I am forever grateful for witnessing a dominance that was a constant like breakfast cartoons, and if I had the money, I would cosmetically alter my visage to attain the Steve Waugh ‘glint’.
But witnessing the baggy green’s slow decay has dragged me through enough anxiety, concern and bewilderment, causing me too many nights simultaneously crying in bed for answers while shovelling cake in to my mouth.
However, with this decision today, I feel I have emerged out the other side in to some kind of numb freedom.
I can’t pinpoint exactly when it dawned on me to look elsewhere for endorphins, but it may have occurred sometime around the moment when I realised we could no longer beat teams on our own soil when they were missing their best batsman and best bowler.
In saying this, it also could’ve happened when we began to yield to T20 cash printing, or when we started restricting our bowlers to 15 overs and 1.7538 lunchtime sandwiches in Shield matches.
Then again, maybe it was when our ‘safe as houses’ batting began to resemble a favela, or when public standards had nosedived to the point we’d applaud the side for almost stretching a match to tea on day five.
Frankly, there’s an endless well of crap that can be blamed.
So while I will always love Australian cricket, we have undoubtedly fallen out of love.
Despite this, I can confirm the team is firmly entrenched in the friend zone. Because you can never have too many funny pals.
Although continuing to slowly die inside with every passing demoralisation, I will cherish the enjoyment Australia gives me with its newfound talent for record-breaking surrender.
While not underplaying the new era’s elite ability for divisionism, individualism and soft tissue injuries, I will remain endeared by the side’s double-figure totals and triple-figure deficits, and what long-standing mark it could potentially break at any time.
Some may question the timing of my decision to selfishly abandon a corroding ship to get my kicks elsewhere. Unfortunately, we tour in India in February, and I don’t think I could’ve spent another six weeks in a thousand yard stare.
For those wondering where I will now be sourcing gratification to bolster my flailing self-sufficiency, I have decided to upgrade to the Wallabies.
This will also be supplemented by beers, kebabs and air hockey, plus I just bought an Oled.
I also reserve the right to immediately reattach to the bandwagon should the team ever roar back to Waugh era-esque times, which could happen if relieved of T20, crowded schedules, Pat Howard, Gen Y and the BCCI.