Commentary on Clarke

-


Let's play a straight bat. There's something not right about Michael Clarke commentating on cricket while he his still an integral part of the Aussie side.

Binga does it for the Sixers and so does KP for his team in the KFC Big Basheroo, so what's the problem with Clarke voicing his opinions on the men in white? Everything I rekon. Cos this is Test cricket, the sacred cow of the Aussie Summer. We can't have 'our' skipper batting for the other side, the media. Can we?

Clarke looks immaculate and has fitted in seamlessly into the Channel 9 commentary lineup. It's no mean feat to crack it into Chapelli's domain and that of other past legendary Captains.

But should the current Australian skipper be moonlighting high in the stands and sharing insight into the team he is still padded to? No.

Early form suggests Clarke has done enough to cement his spot in Gyngell's squad and has positioned himself perfectly for life after playing cricket. If it wasn’t for the World Cup, the dodgy hammy, a degenerative back condition and a certain Steve Smith making runs faster than a vindaloo, he'd surely have called stumps on his playing career weeks ago.

There's no denying Pup has media talent and you can't teach this dog new tricks. He's taken to the microphone as if it were a bone. Retrieving it from him will be alot harder than relinquishing his captaincy.

But for the moment, it's all a bit too cutesy. Clarke has been an instant hit and a refreshing addition to a stale monologue on TV that is parochial, matey and one-eyed. Objectivity, what's that? It went ages ago when we lost Arlott, McGilvray, Trueman and other brilliant commentators.

Retire Clarkey because you can’t have a foot in both creases. Ditch the flannels for the new bag of fruit courtesy of Channel nine and enjoy all the trappings that will keep you on the front foot for good.


Is Clarke the man for both jobs or should he pull the pin on one, or both now?

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Le Tour D'amour

-
Momentarily stunned, I stood in the middle of the carriage like a rabbit caught in the headlights of Le Metro , unable to move, transfixed by the beauty of the French belle. The sound of a siren alerting passengers of the imminent closure of carriage doors awoke me from my love-struck stupor. Caught on the hop, I struggled to haul my baggage from the train in time. The doors closed, trapping one arm inside attached to a suitcase. In the seconds that it took to untangle my language, get help from bemused Parisians and pull myself back together, mon dieu , she was gone. Striding out like Carla Bruni at Art et Metiers station, she was lost in a sea of frogs exiting the underground. Desperate to catch sight of her again, I climbed stair-by-stair, escalator-by-escalator, dragging my wheely bag along the tiled labyrinth of tunnels. “ Allez allez ” I exclaimed in faultless French until finally reaching the street above, breathless and bereaved. Accepting my loss, and with the ke...
Read more

Just add Water

-
Image
A fastidious farming friend invited an enquiring mind and my traditional self to enjoy a 'boys weekend' on his property. Wives and girlfriend were otherwise engaged, so we locked in the opportunity to enjoy some male bonding time. Add water to this all-bloke recipe for mateship and you'd leave  Farmer Wants a Wife  in the shade. There might be a scarcity of H20 in the bush but this did little to dampen our spirits. A menu plan of toast on tap, cereal for dinner and mini magnums at midnight was supplemented by a barbecue of sizzling sausages and a visit to a pub nearby. Four chooks with streamlined cloacas kept us in eggs and a verdant vege garden on site provided a health dose of greens.   For two days and nights we sliced, diced and iced a plethora of issues both current and past. The genuine interest in one another's lives and cerebral interplay of viewpoints was as stimulating as it was insightful. Here we were, mid 50s, balding, greying, flossing, fartin...
Read more

"KPow"

-
Image
“KPow!” Not a scene from Batman but the sound of a KFC Big Bash bucket of dirty flannels being tipped on teammates by a Safrican Pom. What a load of twoddle from Kevin Pietersen, who is soon to take part in the Aussie summer of cricket. Yet another tell-all autobiographical expose, this one apparently full of cheesy moments, is available at all good bookstores. Cricketers are always chewing gum and eating their hands, particularly in the slips cordon, but what is it about people who feel the need to bight off the hand that feeds them? Knowing when to declare, up stumps and book a permanent seat in the grandstand is a moment of genius. Just ask Rabbitoh’s legend George Piggins. He fought a good fight, respectfully retreated when he knew his end was nigh, only to return last week and be welcomed back into the burrow with open paws. Throughout the process Piggins played a straight bat. Well played George. I haven’t read KP’s book, nor do I intend too. If someone s...
Read more