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A
few months back, Andy rescued a spectacularly kitsch fruit bowl from the dump.
He bought it, for a pound, washed it (I hope), filled it with fruit and brought
it to the game for some light refreshments while we batted.
It
was so unlovable, we took something of a shine to it, and it’s now taken up
permanent residence as our man of the match award. It seemed fittingly silly.
So
whoever stars with runs, wickets, catches or whatever, even in a losing cause,
has to take this ludicrous fruit bowl home and explain it to their family.
The
reason I bring this up now is that the other week, we were so awful, so utterly
devoid of merit, that we were forced to award the bowl to our top scorer.
Extras.
We
shook our heads at our own ineptitude, baffled at how every single one of us
could be that simultaneously dreadful, lamenting aloud how you don’t see that level
of abject collective failure in proper cricket.
Except
of course we just did. Our scorebook that day was remarkably similar to
Australia’s titanic collapse at Trent Bridge. We were all out for 59. Only one of
us staggered into double figures, as opposed to their two. Our extras did one better
than theirs though: we managed 15. And we lasted 25.2 overs, 6.5 more than
them.
Even
though we wanted to, and might as well have done, we couldn’t just get changed
and go home, any more than Australia could.
There
are always examples of stunning wins from unlikely positions, of victory
snatched from the jaws of defeat. Early this season we defended 88. Somebody
somewhere in one of the leagues defended forty-something. There are Test
examples too: Headingly 81 (obviously), and Laxman and Dravid’s 376 run fifth
wicket stand following-on against Australia in Calcutta to secure a wildly
unlikely win.
And
that’s the point, isn’t it? Unlikely. We celebrate these rare examples
precisely because they’re so unusual.
99%
of the time, if you get yourself into that bad a position, you’re going to
lose, and you deserve to. One of the great old clichés cricket has in such
bounty is that though you can’t win a game in the first hour, you can lose it.
But
you have to work yourself up into believing that it’s not a lost cause. You
have to absorb that psychological hammerblow of building your own mountain to
climb, and construct the preposterous self-delusion that you can still win it.
The fantasy of false hope.
There’s
something a little bit soul crushing about communally pretending you believe
you have a hope in hell pursuing a lost cause. An unspoken mutual confidence
mirage, wilfully deceiving each other with chirpy optimism. “Where there’s tea
there’s hope, eh lads?” All hope is lost. “Come on boys, we’re in this!” We’re
really not.
We’ve
all been there. So well batted, Aussie extras. There’s a fruit bowl here with
your name on it.
-
ends 494 words -
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