Time to Declare

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When will the agony end? Never if you tune in to commercial TV.

It’s time to stop kissing helmets, looking to the heavens and painting the ground in numbers. Just play cricket.

In recent weeks, spectators and non-spectators have been told that cricket is to Australia as honey is to bees. Joined at the hip we are, or by the bottom, if you’re a bee. 

Cricket is part of every Australian’s DNA, infused into the vegemite that we smear on our toast and faces when young. That’s why we feel the loss of one of our own, so much more. Is it?

Well pass me the KFC bucket for I’m feeling bilious and ready to strip off the pads.

The commentary of late is sick making and the players’ antics are crafted for the camera. Lets move on and let the willow smash a new path to the boundary. The real boundary, the fenceline, not some poncy cushioned hemline.

It’s too easy to hark back to past cricket eras but they do look good in comparison to what’s being dished up early into summer.

Dennis Lillee gave it to Javed Miandad. Captain grumpy got on with the job and Clive Lloyd carved up the opposition. Today, player’s buffoonery and beers on the balcony have been replaced with body art and cutesy photos on the front page of the SMH. What’s going on?

Tragic accidents that end any young life should never be dismissed, but why do we dwell so much? Why do we let the media control the play. Ratings. Executive Producers of radio and TV sports presentations should stride to the crease and change the complexion of the game lost to many of my friends, whose kids would “rather be sailing” than play cricket.

So as the countdown begins to Pink day at the SCG – please God let there not be a '408', a '63', or even a '37' special day of cricket scheduled beforehand – thankfully there is some light showing on the umpire’s meter.

It's a mere glimmer in the form of the decision not to activate the DRS for the current series against India. Old school perhaps. But aint it refreshing.


What’s your view of the state of play?

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