Jarrod Kimber's Blog, page 73
May 29, 2011
May 28, 2011
May 27, 2011
Prasanna Jayawardene is not a test batsman
His hands are too soft, he can barely hold the bat. He basically has fairy floss on the end of his arms.
Instead of doing everything he can do to ensure his average raises above it's modest forms he gives it away when trying to help his team win a test.
His eyes are rather soft and deep, he has the innocence of someone who hasn't had to be relied upon for runs as his main profession.
He's never really made any runs before today, other than two charity hundreds.
He seems kind and thoughtful, liked he'd be really interested in how your nan is.
His test average is lower than Lou Vincent's.
He's rarely asked to bat twice in a test.
He isn't seen as the new Gilly, Kumar, Alec, Dhoni or even Haddin, when people say he's a wicket keeper, they don't mean a shaved monkey with gloves stuck on his hands.
In no way does he seem self involved or like his shit doesn't stink.
He's never going to be captain.
But in this test he was thrust up the order, against the odds, while better players were dismissed or hit, he just batted.
His first real hundred, in style, first innings in the UK, nice fucking work you soft handed wicket keeping gun.
It was an innings that a real test batsman would be proud of, so Prasanna should be even more proud because I doubt anything thought he had an innings like that in him.
Jayawardene still isn't a test batsman, but today he played like he wanted to be one.
And sometimes, that's enough.
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The Chuck Fleetwood-Smiths go to Cardiff
We've sold out (occasionally I like to make money from this shit) and gone all ESPNcricinfo (I'm contractually obliged to say ESPN before Cricinfo) with our videos.
But I promise there is no Disney product placement in this episode.
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May 26, 2011
Paranavitana knows what's happening
Tharanga Paranavitana is 29 and averages 37 in test cricket, as far as sexy numbers in cricket go, Pranavitana is nowhere close.
Paranavitana is also not a smasher, or a stylist, or even flamboyant in any way.
He should be a not that easy to remember how to spell punchline on a site like this.
The thing is, he seems to have a bit of something about him.
He has the look of the man who knows his way around a city.
It's 7 at night, he needs some cough medicine to mix in his vodka, and he knows which shop sells more than one per customer and which technician to get a couple of OxyContin on the sly few a few bucks more.
A limited issue zero issue batman comic is out, he doesn't line up, he knows the store to call so they'll have one bagged and boarded for him.
It's 9am and his favourite titty bars aren't open, but he knows which café will have the mammaries he needs to kick start his day.
And if he finds himself naked in a field at dawn, he knows which bus will be driven by an alcoholic bus driver that won't care that he has wrapped up his groin with a local newspaper.
Not that Paranavitana does all this, he's probably fully clothed when on public transport.
For him it just looks like a cricket composure, a touch of, I got this.
It's probably just test match composure, that elusive component that all those with potential want to convert to.
He just seems to know what's happening, it's only a new thing, but few learn it straight away. He just doesn't seem to get too flustered and plays his game no matter what goes on around him.
Paranavitana's composure makes me feel less anxious watching him. If it's 3am, and we don't know where the nearest pub is, I'd like to be out with him.
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May 20, 2011
India are world champions for eternity: even American Christians love India
The world will end tomorrow, or today, or a few days ago depending on when you read this (that's a trick line, because you'll already be dead).
It's rapture time. Or as these particular weird fucked up group of bible masturbators say, "Blow the trumpet, warn the people!" Which sounds like you are warning people before you fellate them.
The nut in charge has predicted the coming of a second Jesus before, and got it wrong. So he's due.
And what does this mean?
The Christian Fundamentalist God loves India.
Perhaps because of Sachin, or even Sehwagology. Perhaps God was holding off hoping Americans would stop fighting over birth certificates and creating laugh track TV shows long enough to become the best team in the world, and when he saw that wouldn't happen, he merely picked the new America, India.
We'll never know for sure, as we aint going upstairs to get a meeting with the Male Homophobic Christian Fundamentalist God. We're all dirty sinners here; you're probably masturbating right now, or applying peanut butter and calling your dog.
While you do that, God has chosen the first time in human history that India are the best side in cricket to end the world. Perhaps Sehwag's batting really did cause the apocalypse?
After May 21 they may not be. Players retire, get injured, lose form or sleep with the coach's wife, but right now India are the best, and they're going out as number one.
Sure, we may be able to play cricket in hell, but you just know they'll be nothing in the pitches for bowlers. And can cricket really survive with a fourth version of cricket, Dante cricket?
Ofcourse, cricket (and less so the world) ending now is not all good news.
We'll never Simon Katich knife Michael Clarke after he runs him out.
The Hashim Amla sex tapes will remain unwatched.
Runako Morton will never scream can you dig it at a baying crowd of street thugs in matching outfits in his unofficial role as king of the gangs.
The leader of the UN will never be Kumar Sangakkara, and he'll never be rich enough to own the rights to the back catalogue of Billy Ocean or Hank Williams.
The cyborg that Martin Crowe created (just because he had a spare Sunday afternoon) to hold his brain will never get a chance to take 5000 test wickets.
It's a shame because the world would have loved Mushtafiqur Rahim's novelty dub hit, "I should be so Lucky".
Salman Butt doesn't have the chance to find Jesus, become popular on a celebrity dancing show or rebuild his name by getting cancer.
England will never get a chance to see Graeme Swann hosting retro 1950s game shows.
It ends all hopes that Kevin O'Brien did of doing something that people remember him by without stupid hair.
And the UDRS will always remain shit.
What will happen is that India will remain the eternal champions of the world as we all burn in the Christian Fundamentalist Hell.
The real shame is not that we'll miss the stuff above or that India are number 1 for ever (which isn't a shame if you're Indian, although you'll be in hell, so hard to celebrate too much) it's that we all know Tony Greig will be down there commenting on all our torture. Blow by blow. Getting the details wrong, calling Sri Lankans little, talking about the broad shoulders of some blonde 19 year old, and generally making hell, hell.
Sehwagology saves.
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May 18, 2011
What a big day in cricket
There was a time when I tried to cover all the issues in cricket in my own way.
It's good I don't anymore as I think today would have killed me.
Warne being fined 50,000 benjamins for knocking an official who on his profile claims to have won a title on his own once is worth a post just so you can talk about how the lost 50Gs might mean some of his face goes back into a normal human facial structure. Although it could stop him from cricket betting to make a few extra dollars on the way out, or, it could force his hand to make the money back.
Tony Greig has come out against India ruling the world. Perhaps they didn't grovel at his feet enough when he was involved in the rebel league and made out with some fat cash from the ICL. Greig also called Lillee a bit of a fairy, which is rich from the guy who wore a postman helmet to face him.
Hansie Cronje is in the news again (I mean really, this guy gets more press than Princess Di or 2pac) now he's winning the Siyabakhumbula Tribute Award. This award means he's changed the landscape of the country, I do hope that isn't a meta joke about his plane crash. And if you're disgusted by my behaviour on that last line, the devil made me do it, and now I've found God and shit.
Stuart Clark is retiring from cricket to become a cricket administrator, but still reserves the right to play if NSWales need him. It's a very similar situation to Michael Jordan's role at the Washington BulletsWizards, except Stuart Clarke isn't cool, and won't sell many Sydney Sixers shirts. Clark also retired from international cricket in one of the least needed statements in human history.
Danish Kaneria can't play for Pakistan because of being too close to the grift Mervyn Westfield is accused of. Zulqarnain Zully Q-Dawg Haider may also not be allowed to play for Pakistan because he didn't want to be involved in a grift. "Wanna bet" is the most loaded innocent phrase you can say in the Pakistani changeroom right now. The PCB is like every coke addled bi-polar girlfriend you've ever been afraid of. I expect my lawsuit is on the way, Ijaz?
Stuart Law called England the number 1 team in the world because Sri Lanka are playing them. Managing expectations is only a press conference away.
Also, just for something different, some in the West Indies doesn't like someone else in the West Indies. It might not have been in the news, but I'm sure it's accurate.
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May 17, 2011
Mitchell Johnson's Zombocalypse
Last night I had a dream about zombies. I'm not sure why. I haven't been watching more zombie films than usual lately, just [rec] and the Walking Dead, which and both of those were over a week earlier. This was an actual dream, it's legitimately not made up. And is probably the longest dream I've ever had in that it seemed to start when I first went to bed and finish when I woke up.
I was in the middle of a zombocalypse, although the problem is you don't know their zombies until they're trying to bite you. It's like a real zombie attack would be, you start with confusion over why a bunch of junkies are trying to bite you.
Once I got the picture, I ran off from the zombies, they were the slow moving kind because even in my subconscious I like to pay homage to the originals.
In that sort of weird dream way I saw a house up a hill and made my way there. Probably because it was double story house that reminded of night of the living dead.
In the house were 8 different people who never really got implanted into my memory; this meant I knew they'd die.
We green our own food and had two permanent guards stationed outside.
One bad night we lost one person. He was eaten in front of us as we defended our house.
To stop this happening again we put tight string around the perimeter of the house at waist high, in four different rings, with bells attached So that zombies would ring four different bells before they got close. And if a guard saw or heard the zombies they could also ring the bells directly to get us all up quickly.
It worked for a while, but they must smell you, because the first attack is only two or three, but then there's 4, or 7, then 20. Before long we were having four people on patrol, then six. It didn't matter, you couldn't sleep anyway. You were more useful outside the house half asleep because you can react quicker.
We lost two more one night, and one of my fellow bleeders gets bit and I have to shoot her in the head. She's a young girl, but I do what I have to. After that night we started to fight. Everyone had their own plan, but none of them are that feasible. We just continue to get more scared and tired.
One night while I'm asleep I hear them break in into the house. I don't know what has happened to the rest of them. The only way out is to fight down the stairs past about 5 zombies.
Zombies are slow, but they're not easy to kill. Hitting them hard enough on the head to stop them is not easy and in a hall or stairway you can't get around them easy. Also, you get tired from hitting them, taking zest out of your next shot, and swinging a cricket bat straight down is not something you've learnt to do from a MCC coaching manual or a lifetime of playing cricket.
Somehow, mostly with luck, I get past them all and once I'm in the open I manage to slip away.
For weeks I roam around barely keeping alive, killing the odd zombie, eating whatever food I can find. Quite often it was raw dead birds.
One day I see what appears to be a young couple stacking up zombie corpses out the front of a house.
I go over, but when I get close the guy takes out a gun and points it at me. Soon I realise why, I'm skinny as fuck, probably look like a psycho, have some zombie's guts on me and am holding a samurai sword in one hand and an old Duncan Fearnley in the other. Not sure what it was a Duncan Fearnley, I've never used one.
Eventually they trust me and I help them with the bodies that they are building up to mask their smell. It's a good theory. And for a couple of weeks we live pretty comfortably.
Then one day a zombie just turns up, and over the following days more come. We kill them, but once 7 turn up at once, I know this place isn't safe, I try to convince the couple, but they don't believe me.
Now I'm walking down a train track and I think almost look enough like a zombie to get by. Until I pass a bunch zombies eating a dead dog, and they smell me.
They come over and I attack them. It's not as easy as it first was. I have to hit them three or four times to get them to re-die. I can no longer run around, I'm barely quicker than they are, so I end up with one on top of me inches away from biting me. I mange to roll him over and then break his jaw with the handle and smash him over and over again with the bat, even long after he's stopped moving.
I don't even hear the helicopter suddenly I'm being whisked away to a safe haven by the government. They ask me what I do, I tell them I'm a cricket writer that leads them to sitting me next to someone I recognise. I might look like shit, but this guy looks fresh as a daisy, he even smells like he's showered and he looks very refreshed.
"Hi, I'm Mitchell"
Jarrod.
"Nice to meet you.
How the fuck did you manage to survive?
"Don't know really, I just did".
You don't have a scratch on you, did you even run into a zombie.
"No, managed to avoid them, lucky, huh?"
Fucken cunt.
And then I woke up.
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May 16, 2011
A terrible pitch in Guyana
According to some reports the pitch in Guyana was the worst PR for Guyana since the Jonestown massacres.
People start lining up to drink the koolaid.
"Yes, it was a close match, but what a disgusting pitch"
"Low and filthy, the curator should be gunned down on an airplane."
"Batsmen just didn't get a fair go, it's disgusting to think this was a test match pitch".
You know, and other bollocks like that.
Fuck all that. The Guyana pitch was a proper test pitch, it was tough to get runs on, you had to earn everything, and even wickets didn't always come easy.
Tailenders were the hardest to get out in this match, the Windies had a 50 run partnership for the tenth wicket in the third innings. That's not a terrible pitch, that's a tricky pitch.
Two teams with limited talent and questionable professionalism just slogged it out.
It wasn't a heavy weight contest, it was two fat guys mud wrestling after a night on the piss.
It was a contest. On the last day of the test both teams could have won. It was low down and dirty right until Umar Akmal went out.
Both teams were scrappy, it was a test you try and survive as much as win.
It wasn't always pretty, and there were few maximums or breath taking cover drives, but it had spirit this test.
And some of that has to go to this gutter crawling bastard of a pitch, who may look like an ugly bastard you wouldn't wanna cross at midnight, but was actually the kind of salt of the earth kind of pitch that other pitches should try and emulate.
Test cricket should be hard, and not just on bowlers.
The ICC shouldn't send any congressmen to check on this pitch, the bastard is tough, but fine.
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May 13, 2011
Liking Lendl
Yesterday I watched Lendl Simmons bat.
He hit his first boundary so far into his innings that everyone watching was asleep and missed it.
Then he was retired hurt for a while.
Before coming back and going out.
That was pretty much his day.
There are many reasons I shouldn't like Lendl.
His technical flaws are quite obvious. He plays across the line for no good reason, and he reaches across like a desperate kid trying to get to the back of his dad's special draw. To short of a length balls on off stump, his bat flies in from an gully and cuts across it to that his chance of middling the ball is limited.
He bats in two speeds, casual disaster and handbreak.
And yesterday he went off the ground retired hurt after getting hit in the pad.
The ball thudded into his knee roll and he went down like an assassinated politician in a spy film. He tried to bat on from this completely unforeseen ball hitting the pad incident, but he couldn't and had to go off the field. He then didn't come back onto the ground until the Windies were guaranteed a low total.
Yet, I still like him.
Even as he rolled around the pitch like he'd been kneecapped, his comedy bling necklace getting dirty and his slightly too big for his neck head thrashing against the turf, I still liked him.
I'm not sure why I really like him, I just do.
When his overly confident leg side flicks happen, I see them like a computer game, where his bat moves so quickly and in such a perfect arc that I can see the swoosh behind it. And as he stands upright with his bat pointing towards the sky I smile.
I don't need to like him, or know why I like him, but Lendl is just one of those players that I get joy from and years from now when he is only brought up as nothing more than some callous bastards punchline, I'll be upset.
You don't choose the players you like, if you did, you may never pick the Lendls.
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