Posts Tagged Virender Sehwag

The Ghost Who Rocks

I love cricket. Possibly more than is entirely healthy. But probably 80% of what there is to know about the game, I don’t.

Here are some things I know.

Chris Martin is 36 years old. Chris Martin is a punchline. Chris Martin cannot bat. Chris Martin is not Shane Bond.

Chris Martin has 187 test wickets, at an average of 34.44 and an economy rate of 3.42.

Chris Martin has a sense of humour. Chris Martin got Jesse Ryder to his maiden Test Century. Chris Martin leaps like a lanky-shaven-headed-yet-still-graceful gazelle at the end of his run-up. Chris Martin has knocked over 5 top-order Indian batsmen for 25 runs. On November 7 2010 Chris Martin scored three times as many runs as Virender Sehwag before sending Sachin Tendulkar back to the pavilion with a flick of his wrists. Chris Martin has really pretty eyes.

Pretty, pretty eyes.

So dreamy!

When Chris Martin takes a wicket, he roars his awesome badassery to the skies, and the very ground trembles beneath him.

Chris Martin is a thing of beauty and a joy forever.

They call Chris Martin The Phantom, even though he doesn’t wear a purple bodysuit and stripy Y-fronts. (That I know of. But even if he does, he probably rocks that look. Rocks it hard.)

Chris Martin is cooler than you.

No, I don’t know who you are. But I know Chris Martin’s cooler than you.


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Being Paul Harris…

…apparently means that the day after getting excoriated in print by a famous cricket blogger, you rewrite history by setting a new record for the most wides sent down by a single bowler in a Test match innings (10, to be precise) while Virender Sehwag and Sachin Tendulkar frolic past on scores of 143 and 87 respectively.

Bloody hell.  I don’t particularly like Harris, but I almost – almost – want to give him a hug.

Also: that whole, hey-we-can-just-get-DeVilliers-to-keep-wicket-and-drop-old-man-Boucher thing is working out fabulously for South Africa, isn’t it?

…oh, wait.

Damn. Who came up with that one, again?

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Desperate measures?

Well, that’s one way to stop Rahul Dravid after he’s made a hundred and looks like he will only be dislodged from the crease by the coming of the Apocalypse, or, failing that, when every last available opposition bowler has collapsed from exhaustion and a broken spirit.

I’m obviously not advocating the use of extreme force against Dravid (partially because I LOVE him, and have done since about 1998) but I’m also an ardent supporter of Bangladesh, as heartbreaking an existence as that often is. They deserved the opportunity to rub Sehwag’s dismissive attitude right back in his face, but sadly for them and us, life is never that perfect. Today’s result wasn’t quite the capitulation it looks like from the scorecard, though – both Tendulkar and Dravid had multiple lives because of dropped catches, an affliction Bangladesh have apparently caught from Pakistan, somehow. Gary Kirsten must be placing calls for full-body Hazmat suits for his boys lest the infection pass on to them (not, it must be said, that India aren’t perfectly capable of spilling sitters all on their own and while in perfect health.)

The obvious segue here is to Pakistan and their eventful week, but thinking about that makes me very depressed, so we’re not going to go there. Suffice it to say that Mohammed Yousuf, comically inept fielder as he is, doesn’t deserve this shit, any more than the lovely Younis Khan did before him. Ijaz Butt is a blustering assclown surrounded by many other blustering assclowns, and the lot of them should move to some piece of land in Larkana and spend their days playing Monopoly or firing off Kalashnikovs or whatever the hell else they need to do to keep them from screwing up a talented team even more than it’s already been screwed up (which is to say, potentially past repair.)

Oh, look, I did go there. Huh.

In other news, Australian Graham Manou has always seemed like a perfectly nice guy, famous mostly for his last-minute subbing-in for an injured Brad Haddin just moments before the start of the third ’09 Ashes test at Edgbaston. What we didn’t know, though, is that you really, seriously don’t want to fuck with Graham Manou. He will cut you.


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