When Freddie Became Jesus

The problem with cricket is that far too many cricketers are involved. The problem is journalism is that it is shot through with journalists. Cricket journalism often is the worst of both words.

Ex-pros spew out retrospective platitudes; hacks shower us with irrelevant gossip and group-think rhetoric.

Jarrod Kimber, the industrious author of cricketwithballs.com, is a writer. His writing is liberated from the ingratiating brown-nosing of hacks, and the hackneyed brow-beating of former pros. His voice is unique, and sings out sharply from the melee.

On the soul-trembling closeness of the first Ashes Test, he writes: “Note to all future Ashes series: start like this, or fuck off.”

The grey-beards of the printed press would not, and could not, entertain even the most fanatic fan for nearer 300 pages as JRod.

Although rip-roaringly fast, the book is well-paced. And we rattle around JRod’s mind throughout the course of the Ashes, bumping into travels in England, piss ups with the journos and battling beds with wheels on.

JRod’s reflects back to the fans with their experiences. Cricket is a demanding game, and often interest wanes. Do we really care about cricket when we are recovering from a massive cooked breakfast?

But, it is the depiction of cricket that the book excels. Episodes of violent intensity, are analysed with a perspective, independent eye. Unfairly, JRod’s style has become characterised as hard-hitting, but it is his lightness of touch when engaging easily into the maelstrom of cricket debate as he compels the reader along a narrative of cricketing drama.

The quality of writing, sharpness of view and the wit will delight Balls fans. The book will satisfy any cricket, and will stand as a enjoyable read for many years to come.

Atherton unpicks seam of Vaughan enigma

I have been vaguely aware of Michael Atherton’s ascent through the journalistic ranks. It hasn’t been full-on, consciousness, just a steady, distant understanding: like the catholic view of the Trinity.

Today he has an interview in The Times.

Now, just to set the scene, my view on interviews in papers is strong: especially when the hack attempts to set the scene. These pieces usually begin with the word “As” and then brutally followed by a “I walked into the strangely dark café…” Thereupon you are treated to ten full paragraphs of this failed novelist’s desperate musings as he gropes for some literary merit in an apparently cruel world where useless journos are excluded from excreting their clichéd, half-thought out piffle onto hard-back.

Sadly, this just system does not extend its regime into the world of newspapers. Any over-optimistically coined phrase is acceptable so long as it meets the deadline.

So, it was in this context that I met Atherton’s recent interview with some reservation.

These qualms were hastily confirmed when he began with:

“Nonna’s is a clean, well-lighted place on Sheffield’s…”

Oh no. Athers broke my rule. I only had one, you bastard, and you bloody broke it. Not only that, but references to Earnest Hemmingway in cricket pieces are a bit too university – don’t you think?

I would normally, at this point, throw my head back in disgust, yodel angrily and assail the random passenger to my right.

However, seeing as Athers, like an aortic tumour, has a soft spot in my heart, I gave him a second chance and continued reading.

Although he waits another four paragraphs before he reaches the point of the piece, he spends his acres of room wisely: he insinuates some insider property trading by the England captain and gratuitously insults Yorkshire folk as “pathetically self-absorbed”.

The Times needs to produce more of these cheap shots; I approve of them greatly.

Troublingly, the piece repeatedly points out its origins in Sheffield. Yet, the previous page has Michael Vaughan in Leeds. Surely, Schrödinger couldn’t have accidentally placed Michael Vaughan in his box? More likely: it took the recipient of a first class degree from Cambridge about a fortnight to toss off this piece.

Probably too busy down the pub. Or the bookies.

The actual interview part is rather plastic, so I would avoid reading the middle bits, if I were you. Just skim along to the final sentence, nay paragraph.

“Summer has arrived, and England’s captain bounces out into the sunlight in optimistic mood.”

I recommend re-reading that sentence. There is a lot of depth to it. It is a sentence laden with sunny metaphors. We asked by the author to imagine the England captain as if he were a beach ball, leaping into the salty air above a crowded beach in July. The sun beamishly leers the bouncing objects with warmth and approval. All is well.

It is a celebration of the ever-sizzling English weather. A climate which never disappoints us with constant, numbing drizzle or tamely knocking a catch to second slip after an attractive thirty.

So, Atherton’s not quite a heavy handed hack yet, but he’s getting there. We, in AYALAC, shall scrutinise his blossoming career with great attention.

Literature and cricket

Cricking, much like farting in a swimming pool, is all about timing.

As with writing a book. You have to wait a sufficient time before unleashing a self-indulgent attack on the universe.

After some recent dodgy comments, the rugby union community is considering a “cooling off period”, which would ban media statements by players until a certain time after an event. It may be worth thinking about for the cricket world, but one wonders whether any period of time would be enough to prevent Duncan Fletcher making a fool of himself.

The problem, here, as far as I can see, is that cricketers lack creativity. Sure, there are loads of dubious books out there with titles like “Playing a straight bat”, “Time to Declare” and Phil Tufnell’s new book “Bowling into the Rough”. But lets face, these are like chess books. You feel you should read them, but you never will. In fact, they’re nothing like chess books. No one should read those bastards.

These titles are all self-obsessing autobiographies, or stating-the-obvious books on cricket tactics. They never try their hand at poetry. Which may explain why cricketers seems to hate each other.

The point is this: cricketers should use literature to defuse their repressed selves. Fletcher should have turned his experiences into a spy novel or something. Look, it’s easy, I’ll do it:

James Fletcher stalked through the corridors of the enemy’s lair with a careful, but deliberate tread. Who would have guess, Fletcher thought to himself, that the baddies would base their HQ here at Fleet Street. Suddenly, but not entirely unexpectantly, Fletcher heard the tedious grating of a Yorkshire accent, and was seized by the need to hunt down the source of this racket and beat to death its producer.

Thereupon, a behatted bloke in a ridiculous suit appeared, and continued with its Northern moan,
“Oh no. You’re bloody useless you”
“Ha. Cotboyc. We meet again.”
“Ei. Not that it’s much good.”
“It’s time for you to retire hurt.” Fletcher raised his trusty PP-class Grey Nichols aloft and dispatched his interlocutor with a well-timed hook shot. Before the head had chance to hit the ground, it had time to emit one last whine, “Oh no, lad, you’re technique’s all wrong.”
“You’ve dropped your last dolly.”

The path was now clear for Fletcher to penetrate into the heart of Fleet Street, and finish off the head honcho. He burst through the doors of the Media’s most powerful mogul. The most feared, mighty and ancient of commentators. Fletcher, whilst trying to catch his wheezing breath, confronted his old enemy,
“So, Blofeld we…”
“Fuck off.”
“Er well, actually I…”
“Fuck off.”
“Right you are then.”