A nice way to watch the cricket

The first one-day international of the season. A healthy rivalry between the Australian and South African teams. A sunny day that’s not too hot. A relaxing train trip into the MCG and a pocket full of free entry to the Cricket Victoria room in the Olympic stand with seats looking over the bowler’s arm. What could spoil THAT?

Well, if you are Dr Lager and you are moving house in a week and your wife is a chronic ‘de-clutterer’ at the best of times and she is also moving house in a week then ...

Dr Lager stands puzzled in front of his open wardrobe;
“Hey, Mrs Lager (not her real name) I have to wear a suit to the cricket, where is it?”
Mrs Lager;
“In that box.”
“What box?” (He appears more puzzled.)
“THE box.”
“WHAT box?!” (More puzzled and a little annoyed.)
“The box that I put all those other clothes in for the move.”
“The box that you packed clothes in that’s here in the wardrobe?” (Less puzzled, more annoyed simmering dread.)
“No. In the box that I put all those clothes in and that I got you to take to the storage garage which is half an hours drive away from here and which I asked you to label but I don’t think you did and so it would look the same as the twenty other boxes which are also in the storage garage. Why?”

*SCENE MISSING*

So I’m sitting on the train with Dr Lager and I’m admiring the suit jacket that ALMOST matched his semi-casual pants and I casually comment on the nice suit jacket. “That looks a lot like a suit jacket from the formal hire shop that we used to work in together, Dr Lager.”

“Yes, yes it is exactly like a suit jacket from the formal hire shop that we used to work in together, only back then I didn’t have to fork out SEVENTY #%ING BUCKS to hire it!!!!”

The Cricket Victoria room is a lovely spot from which to watch the cricket and the company includes many faces familiar to sports fans and cricket tragic alike. The beer is served with a smile from friendly staff and the meals and snacks are several standards above the over-priced fare on offer to the huddled masses. You can choose to sit inside and watch through the full length windows or make your way outside to the reserved-seating-very-nice-viewing area and contemplate just how lucky you are to be there.

Two things struck me that I will share with you. It is slightly unnerving, and at he same time oddly warming, to have the ordinary cricket fan (and some are very ordinary) look at you through squinted eyes from the other side of the glass wondering what sort of ‘suits’ are in there living it up large with the rich and famous. My eyes met one bloke who turned his nose slightly as if to say; ‘Cricket snobs’ and I returned a look that said; ‘Mate, I’m normally out there with you and I feel just a little like I’m a ‘cricket class traitor’, but, hey, free beer is free beer, so, you know, one-nil, mate.’

The second thing is; it is a really funny feeling to be served a light or mid-strength beer in a plastic cup from a suited bar attendant who calls you sir because that’s the only way to get a beer into the ‘outside’. And there is more than just a little Beer Karma returning when the same ordinary cricket fan walks past again and smirks to see the ‘suits’ drinking mid-strength from a plastic cup just the same as he has to. ‘Fair enough, I think to myself. One-all. What did you pay for yours? Hmmm. Two-One.’

At exactly that time, Beer Karma showed up again as the suited bloke next to us managed to let a full plastic cup of light beer drop dead-straight to the deck at his feet eliciting a crisp ’thunk’ akin to leather on willow but with the addition of aspirated lager showering his Armani trousers and those of his assembled guests. Now I know why they don’t let glass out of the room. Two-All.

A huge thank-you to Chris and Lazz for the invite as the day will hold many fond memories for many different reasons. From laughing at ‘over-refreshed’ ex test cricketers attempting to cough up a lung and launch a ‘ground strike’ from the other end at the same time in the gents toilets, to the almost surreal sight of seeing ex English test off spinner, John Emburey, graciously holding court with a large bloke called Scotty who plays in the fourths for a Geelong based team. The wily old bowler was so generous with his time for Scotty and his well-oiled mates and the scene was almost surreal with John offering advice on team success and Scotty following up with “A bloke once asked me what me ‘wagon wheel’ looks like and I told ‘im I ate it!! HAH!!”

The company was magnificent, the view of the game spectacular and the food and lager was very much appreciated.

And, as evidenced by Dr Lager’s suit jacket, there really is no such thing as a free lunch.

Cheers,
Prof. Pilsner

It's just cricket

In some previous posts I have spoken of a joyful youth and the pastimes therein, some of the more memorable being days spent at the MCG with Dr Lager in the (in)famous Bay 13 lapping up the sun, the lagers and the boobies in the frying sun. Fun times, fun times.

Tonight Dr Lager and I return to the ‘G together for the first time since those heady, beer soaked, boobie- laden golden days to watch a cricket match again. The beer will still flow and the cricket will again entertain us but I fear that the only boobies we will encounter will be contained in the good natured banter and playful ribbing of some of Melbourne’s high society business movers and/or shakers. They will be more along the lines of Lost in Spaces’ Dr Smiths’ “Bubble-headed booby!!” kind of thing. We’re dining in the MCC Members Pavilion, What!!

Thanks to a friend in Cricket Victoria, Dr Lager has procured two Willy Wonka-esque Golden Tickets to the MCC Reserve for the One Day International between Australia and South Africa and the Prof and the Doc shall be ‘living it large’ and enjoying some lunch, dinner and supper with some lovely seating arrangements overlooking the great unwashed. Of which we used to be two,too.

One hundred overs of quality international cricket, table service and complimentary bar facilities – I think we’ll cope. Not sure wether we’ll have the opportunity to start an ice fight or a Mexican wave, though. It was pretty funny last time around so it might be worth a try.

And for anyone reading this who may be there tonight and would seek to spot us in amongst the well-heeled crowd, we’ll be the ones drinking well and looking more than slightly uncomfortable in our suits and ties.

Wish us – and the MCC – all the best. Review to follow.

Cheers,
Prof. Pilsner

PS - In a deliciously beer Karma-like symmetery, this is post number 222! That's ty-ew, ty-ew, ty-ew, Richie.

Cricket and NO Beer

No sooner has the virtual ink dried on my Cricket & Beer post than virtual blood has been spilled all over the pitch separating the Australian and Indian teams mid way through their current tour.

Be warned. I am about to send down a couple of overs of short pitched, express paced and helmet-logo directed deliveries in a Beer Bloke attempt to dispel some misconceptions, correct some untruths and defend the honour of the game and it’s guardians. There will be no sooking to the third umpire. Pad up and don’t say I didn’t warn you.

First, the case details. The Indian cricket team has threatened to suspend its tour of Australia and renege on its responsibilities to the fans of the game by refusing to play scheduled games. They are doing this because one of their players has been found guilty of racial abuse of an opponent and suspended for three matches by an independent third party. In a SEPARATE issue, the quality of the umpiring during the second test match in Sydney was poor. It was probably worse than poor, but, like the players, the umpires are subject to being human and therefore subject to making mistakes.

The racist comment made by the Indian player and heard by three Australian players, was reported to the match referee by Australian captain, Ricky Ponting. He reported the incident after both teams captains were instructed before the match to report any instances of racist sledging. The taunt used was the same one used by Indian crowds during the October 07 one day series against Andrew Symonds, the same player subjected to the abuse on this occasion. The taunt used was ‘Monkey’. Australia won the test match with 7 balls or 8 minutes of play remaining to secure a record equalling 16th consecutive victory. Despite what you may learn from reading the articles written by the Indian press, these facts are not disputable.

Next, I will give you an accurate overview of the responses given by Indian cricket officials, Indian community representatives and Indian and Australian cricket fans. I will attempt to ‘hit each and every one of them for six’ as is what rubbish deserves.

I have played a bit of competitive cricket in my time and I am of the opinion that, if you are given out by the official, you go and if you have hit the ball and it is caught, you walk. I am also of the firm belief that this decision is mine and that if you believe differently then that is your right and I will back you. If an opposition player tells me that he has taken a fair catch, I accept his word. It is therefore NOT the place of the batsmen to decide what is or is not out or if a catch is fairly taken or not. So, to all the letter writers and hand-wringing whiners out there in newspaperland – this is NOT an issue at hand.

If an independent body hears all the available evidence and makes a decision – regardless of how harsh it seems – you either cop it sweet (like Darren Lehmann did when he swore IN THE CHANGEROOMS after being dismissed in a match and copped a five one-day game penalty) or you appeal the decision in the board’s legislated manner. You do not piss and moan and threaten to take your bat and ball and go home, nor do you claim racism and persecution and blame the very authority which you rely on for your bread and butter. You do not demand that an official elected by the sports’ governing body be removed because YOU think he should be. That is not the way a professional outfit behaves.

The Indian who is the president of the BCCI – the sports’ Indian governing body – claimed that “the honour of the Indian team and, for that matter, every Indian was at stake” as a result of the ban on their player. Bullshit, mate. He may have copped an unfair penalty, but the process was as per the regulations and based on the available evidence. Would the ‘honour of the Indian team’ be at stake had any of the twenty players to lose their wicket managed to last eight balls more than they did? If each batsman had stopped to scratch his arse for just less than thirty seconds each the game would have ended in a draw and the Indians would not be able to use the result as a bargaining tool or a posturing weapon.

The president of the United Indian Associations said in the Melbourne Herald Sun that the Australian team was ‘largely responsible for (the) grave state of affairs in Indian-Australian sporting relations’ because the umpires made a ‘dreadful umpiring decision that allowed Andrew Symonds to continue playing after he was clearly caught behind’. How that works, I don’t know, but here’s something to think about, based on this twisted logic. Sachin Tendulkar made more than a few runs after he was given not out LBW when on 36. Most observers agree that the decision was as incorrect as Symonds’. Tendulkar went on to make 154 not out, so if, as a reader suggests he ‘deducted the extra runs Symonds made and believes India won’ when they passed the “real” total then he and his mates need to be reminded that Tendulkar’s extra 118 runs come off as well and then be reminded that Australia CHOSE to declare it’s innings closed based on the ACTUAL REAL SCORE THAT IS IN THE HISTORY BOOKS, dickhead.

I know I’m gettin’ fired up here, but stick with me; it will all make sense in a minute. The spurious claims by Indian captain Anil Kumble that only his side was playing within the spirit of the game is as delusional as it is incorrect. Both sides made errors of judgement in claiming dubious wickets, appealing for others and disputing the umpires’ decisions IN THE HEAT OF THE MOMENT and both sides would probably like to have some of these occasions to replay. Sledging has been a cornerstone of the Australian arsenal, but this is only an effective tool when the team is already well on top of the opposition, so it’s not as if you can call it cheating.

As it is also unfair to say that the term ‘monkey’ should not be deemed offensive by Andrew Symonds who is an Australian with an African background. The Indians who are claiming that they have a Hindu Monkey God and this makes this a compliment rather than a slur need to be informed that the term was used in the context of Africans being only a small step removed from our primate friends and recently descended from the trees. This is the context within which the slur was used and the user knew it based on the publicity the crowd chanting incidents drew back in October. So cross that argument off your list as well.

In addition, you cannot claim that you NEVER said it, then say that you tried to TAKE IT BACK and then claim that you were saying it to SOMEONE ELSE and keep your credibility. Cop it and move on. This issue has been made more complicated than it should be by the many and varied claims of racism that always seem to come up when successful Australian sporting teams are involved. And to all the turn coats and whingers, who have filled the letters pages with crap about being ashamed of the winning culture and the perceived arrogance of the Aussie team, piss off and find a sport that excites a little less passion and controversy in your poor little sensitivities. Lawn bowls are always looking for spectators.

Now, finally, for my take on the reason for the whole shemozzle and the solution to short circuiting future implosions and international incidents. Beer and plenty of it. A quiet couple before the match and a couple after stumps during the game could only serve to foster relations between the teams. You can’t tell me that over the five days of a test match you can’t find an hour or two to clink glasses and talk a bit of bullshit. A few well chosen words over the top of a frosty glass of beer are the difference between a giggle over some dodgy umpiring calls and a full scale Indian –Australian cultural war.

The boys would all get together and talk a bit of trash about their opponents hair do or turban style and the way a bloke wears zinc cream on his mush and there would be room only for beer and cricket banter. Wankers need not apply.

And before I finish up I just want to point out that, before the introduction of the neutral umpire system, the last Indian to be out LBW on Indian soil was Mahatma Ghandi in a back yard game – and he walked. So don’t complain of ‘home town’ umpiring decisions. Play the game and accept the decisions made in the true spirit of the game. We want our kids to continue the traditions created by Bannerman and Grace and cemented by Bradman and Benaud and Worrell and left, today, in the hands of Ponting, Flintoff and Fleming. It’s the least that the game deserves.

Cheers and I hope that all your hooks are sixes,
Prof. Pilsner

Postscript; at the time of posting, the Indian team management has agreed to continue the tour ‘for the present’ but has not discounted the possibility of abandoning the trip should the ICC not kowtow to their churlish and petulant demands.

Cricket and Beer

As the summer approaches, a young man’s thoughts turn away from football and Rugby League and draft picks and salary caps and turn gently towards rolled pitches, long hot days and baggy green caps. The cricket season is upon us and the sporting landscape seems just a little flatter and dipped in more subdued tones.

That is not to say that the summer is more boring – although those who have sat through a day and a half of England batting on a glass top may say otherwise – but it is certainly more relaxed. Like Ian Botham on an Indian tour.

Cricket and beer have been partners for some time, from the sponsorships by breweries of teams, tournaments and tours to the merchandising. And, of course, a few brews made the long and sometimes tiring procedure of five days of test match cricket a little more bearable. We haven’t always had an Adam Gilchrist or Mike Hussey and others to produce sparkling displays of boom-boom cricket like today’s crowds have.

The most recent beer - cricket product gimmick has been the talking dolls series. Little famous cricketer figures that sit on your telly and are prompted by secret frequency messages to say things at certain times. Beginning in the summer of 2005-06 with the Boony Doll and continuing last season with the Boony/Botham opening combination, this year it will continue when we see the introduction of the Warnie Doll. Seems a bit odd that a bloke who has got into more shit than a Werribee duck every time he articulates thought would allow these same thoughts to be distributed around the country in the form of three and a half inches of moulded plastic. Having said that, mine is on order and I can’t wait.

Beer has also been an integral piece of the cricket landscape inside the ground. From the many and varied ways in which cunning drinkers have attempted to smuggle grog into the ground to the ritual ‘drink-until-you-chuck’ dance and finishing with the group chorus of “You’re goin’ home in the back of a divvy van”, beer and the usually unsuccessful attempts to master it, have coloured the canvas of a day at the cricket. Many have coloured the canvas of their trousers and the ground beneath their seats as well in the course of disrespecting the beer.

As part of our misspent youth, Dr. Lager and I, along with anything up to twenty mates, partners and hangers on, would trek to the G’ during the Boxing Day test match or to a One Day International. Far from being the uncontrollable delinquents who seem to have taken over the gentile confines of Australia’s greatest sporting Mecca these days, the Dr. and I were students of the craft, admirers of the skill and custodians of the history and the traditions. We also drank a bit. But we took the train and we never got silly or kicked out. By which I mean we never got caught. I did say misspent.

We really did study the game and discuss the various merits of the tactics and field placements but this didn’t mean we couldn’t enjoy ourselves as well. We also learned that there was much to be learned from observing the tactics and movements of those inside the hallowed stands of the MCG and in particular, Bay 13. Like the blokes in front of us, one sunny day, who sat down, settled in, popped the lid off the Esky and turned to us young uns’ saying; “Youse blokes wanna few drinks?” Now, we were as poor as a pensioner in the pokies car park at this time and not too proud to accept freebies – even if they were only softies. After all, even back in 1980 a Coke at the cricket cost about the same as a train ride to the ground and back. “Cheers mate.”

The unexpected charity of these erstwhile strangers was soon explained. This is brilliant. The pre-game preparation for these blokes was to load up the Esky with four layers of beer, followed by a layer of soft drinks and finished off with a single can of Vic Bitter on the top. At the turnstile, where they were checked by an aging MCC gate attendant, they would ‘own up’ to wanting to take just one VB in with their lunch – “Come on cobber, just the one, Ay?” To which old Jack would say, “Sorry fellas, appreciate your honesty, but I’ll have to take that.” “Orright, digger, no harm in trying.”
All that was left was to clear the Esky surface of the alluvial deposits of Coke and Fanta and reach the amber mother lode. Like I said, brilliant.

This was in the era before mobile phones. Had he had a phone I would have got his number early in the day so that I could ring him and thank him for his generosity and commend him on his ingenuity. I would also have been able to tell him how the last three hours of play panned out as he was escorted from the ground, along with his ingenious mates, by the local constabulary before the tea break. More on that situation later.

Of course this cloak and dagger stuff was going on all around the place. Well, probably not in the Members Stand and the old Olympic Stand which was a dry area but pretty much everywhere else. Those who couldn’t sneak cans in were resigned to queuing for long periods at the old style bars around the G’. For the younger folk, these bars were fewer in number than they are today and they didn’t have the fancy computerised multi pour conveyor belt system at their disposal. The beers were poured lovingly and painfully slowly by, I think, the same Old Jack from the turnstiles, and then you had to pay him. The crowd behind you had to wait for this theatre to conclude. Today you walk up, grab a four pack and take it to a register pay, piss off and then sit down and piss on.

The inherent danger in the old system was that one poor sod had to miss part of the action. If you waited for a break in order to miss no action you also got no beer because the queue was so long. We had the problem solved by nominating an ‘A’ Team and a ‘B’ Team. The ‘A’ team would head off and hit one or several bars, each man buying the maximum number of beers permitted and returning without missing much at all. The ‘B’ would then repeat the process later in the session. It was obligatory for the team staying in their seats to claim that the girl in the row in front had shown us her tits while the other team was buying beer.

Another method for relieving the tedium was to watch as an ‘ice fight’ broke out. Because you never knew when an ice fight would actually break out, the sensible thing to do was to start an ice fight. It was not sensible, however, to get caught starting or joining in an ice fight. Security was usually quick to react to this sort of buffoonery. Our tactic was to create a diversion; something along the lines of “Look over there, TITS!!!” would do the trick, at which point you would go with a swift, no-look lob of an ice block over the head, then sit back and watch the fun.

One day the fun went a little bit south when we started (and then got right into) a very large and energetic ice fight. Beginning with a small but steady to-and-fro of frozen fun, the trickle soon became a storm of ice. And not just front to back was this skirmish – you had a barrage coming in from both sides of our bay as well. When the ice ran out things just got hilarious. Plastic bottles, fruit, wrappers, BBQ chooks and empty cans. It was all going well and in good spirit until someone lined up a guy in the front row of the second deck with a Pie!! A PIE!!! Nailed him good, too.

Nobody actually saw the pie-chucker but as Dr Lager and I fell about laughing at this poor Kiwi supporters plight, Dr Lager turned to me and said; “Can’t believe I jobbed him from that far out!”
I should point out at this stage that in no way do I condone this sort of anti social behaviour, no matter how funny it is at the time. This stuff is inevitably funnier for some than for others.

Remember the bloke with the Esky earlier on? Well, in his lagered state he takes a while to catch up to what’s going on and just as the ammo is running out, the Police are moving in and things are starting to cool down, he turns and attempts a repeat of the hit on the now irate Kiwi supporter with the pie flavoured shirt, only to be politely escorted from the game. Karma is a funny thing sometimes.

Looking forward to sitting in front of the telly, sippin’ a couple of coldies and watchin’ the cricket while listening to Warnie carry on with some sort of guff or another and reminiscing about a gentler, more subdued era of cricket. That was around 1898. I wasn’t there. When I went to the cricket, we had real fun.

Cheers,
Prof. Pilsner