George wrote-
Quote:Spendi's last post seemed a bit forced, lacking the twists & turns that usually accompany his prose. Is it the sting of defeat? - or something else?
Okay George- let's put it this way. Can a batter at baseball be humiliated in anyway comparable to this.
Our hero, is playing in his maiden test match for England against the main enemy which is, as everybody of enlightened delicacy of taste knows, is Australia. And in Australia, at Brisbane's famous Woolloongabba ground known colloquially as The Gabba
It is called his maiden test match because he hasn't done it before. His selection for the No4 position, a batter's slot, has been hotly debated throughout England during the previous summer here and a long-time England cricket hero has been dropped to make way for him due to his reaction times shading off a bit as he has aged and has been partaking of too much social life when on tour where his wife can't keep an eye on him.
Our hero is top of the averages in the County game and his Mom and Pop are immensly proud of him as they have been all through his career since he first showed promise at 5 as are all his relations, friends, neighbours and most of the population of his hometown apart from solitary anti-Iders and bastard traffic wardens.
It is hot at The Gabba and Australia have made 369 in their first innings after our hero had spilled a very difficult catch at backward point off the Aussie captain, Mr Ponting, before he had scored and who then went on to carry his bat to 152 not out every run of which was a red hot dagger to our hero's heart. As well they might have been as 217 is considered advantage England.
It is by now mid morning on the second day and it is England's turn to bat.
The time in England is around 1 am but all our hero's followers have not gone to bed. His Mom and Pop have a house full.
The openers (that's No 1 and No 2) manage to see off the new ball and scrape together 80 with some astute nurdling of the 92 mph fizzers, late cutters, boucers and jaffas they are facing before No 2, in trying to fend off one aimed at the chin dolls-up a catch to silly mid-off breaking a finger in the process. This brings No3 to the wicket and he, with No 1, moves the score on to 210 when a blatantly obvious hometown umpire's decision halts their progress and No 3 is back in the hutch.
Mom and Pop move to the edge of their seats and out into the cauldron of baying Australian fanatics comes our hero not having slept a wink the previous night despite being knackered from six hours in the field the previous day. He looks up at the sky with wide open eyes so he can adjust them to the light, he's already sweating from sitting in the pavillion padded up and wearing his box for four hours taking good luck calls from home and the hair on the back of his neck is stood out straight. He swings his arms around and does some running on the spot as he walks towards his position to get his feet moving as any sluggish foot movement presages speedy doom in these circumstances. The bowler is, as one might expect, on fire from having removed No3 as are the other fielders. He then proceeds to take guard as slowly as he dare and marks the pitch with boot scrapes so that he can position his bat where he thinks best for his type of strokeplay. Then he survers the fielders to give him an idea of where the gaps are. During this period, 3 minutes about, the close fielders are sledging him. Subjects ranging from how useless he is, how soon he'll be gone, which ball is dangerous and the likely activities of his girlfriend or wife while he is away. As the bowler runs in to deliver the first ball an Australian in the crowd throws a crust of bread onto the outfield and a flock of seagulls in his sightline takes off and the ball after deviating six inches off the pitch from four yards from the batting crease at 90 mph catches his pads, then his glove, which is considered as part of the bat, you need slow mo to see it, loops over the stumper and is caught by short third man, who, on seeing the batsmen go for a run, aims at the stumps at the non striker's end, just in case it was a no-ball, to which our hero is running in a desperate attempt to get off the mark and with a direct hit runs him out by half an inch. He's out for a duck, first ball, the crowd are delerious, the Aussie team are laughing in a very exaggerated manner and his Mom and Pop slump bach in despair. The camera follws his dejected return to the pavillion, and it's over 100 yards, and a little yellow duck is put in the corner of the screen the quacking forlornly to accompany the picture. In the inquest he was given out lbw (that's leg before wicket) as that was the first event, but he was also out caught and if that's not bad enough he was run out for good measure.
England get to 320 after an heroic innings by a tail-ender, one of the bowlers, and Australia then go back for their second innings with a 49 run lead at the halfway stage. Slight favourites. Half an hour before tea on the third day. By the time they declare with a 550 run lead half an hour before close of play on the fourth day with the light not so good the England team are completly phewked and can only hope for a draw by batting out the remaining day and a bit.
No 1 is out with two overs to go and a nightwatchman is sent in to protect the other batsmen. He performs out of his skin and batting with No 2 and then No 3 they manage to get through to mid afternoon and England hopes are rising that they won't be going one down in the 5 match series.
When he goes to general applause, as bowlers are not batsmen, into the arena steps our hero again and he's on a "king pair". That's two first ball ducks. An ordinary pair is just two ducks. His orders are to waste as much time as possible and to take no risks. Runs are irrelevant.
At this stage of a test match there are some rough patches on both sides of the crease, a phenomena only known in one other sport, caused by the bowlers feet on their follow through and hence the spin bowlers are in operation. These are very wily characters and especially under such conditions and fielders are all around the batsmen, one of them casting a shadow just where the ball is likely to pitch. And they are sledging again. More than before. The first ball pitches right in a foothole in the shadow, keep low, turns sideways and only his pads stop it hitting the middle stump half way up. The Aussies do a war dance, the bookies revise the oidds, the commentators who wanted the other guy for No 4 are doing sarcastic variations on the "I told you" principle and Mom and Pop take the sedatives and go to bed at dawn.
We have however a happy ending as Nos 6 and 7 manage to bat out time although I don't expect dadpad or Dutchy to believe that.
Is there any baseball scenario as humiliating as that George?
