The answer to the question you are mulling this morning about Tendulkar ... yes he is!
Yes, he is the best batsman you have ever seen and yes, he is likely to be the best player the world has ever seen. He has bettered the stars of his long era - Ponting, Lara, Dravid, Kallis, Border, Waugh, Jayasuriya (ODI) and Inzamann (ODI) - and as his career extends into its twenty first year, he continues to set new marks on the high jump bar he will leave as a legacy.
This record breaking first ODI double century is his 46th in that form of the game and he has 47 of similar, if not better quality, in Test matches. Who could have believed any player would score 93 international hundreds when Allan Border retired as the highest run scorer in Test cricket just over fifteen years ago? It used to be that the mark of greatness - or was it longevity - was a hundred hundreds in first class cricket and now this small lad from Mumbai threatens to chalk the cue on a much greater milestone.
Of course the old timers will talk of his exposure and longevity and muse on if-onlys about the champions of yesteryear. What might Bradman's record have been given the same length of time? To be fair, Bradman retired at age 47 and yes he did lose eight years to WWII. Tendulkar is nudging 37 but surely part of his genius has been to keep himself fit and mentally fresh, something that Bradman clearly failed to do in just the number of games he was confronted with, let alone the dramatically increased schedule of the modern player.
Tendulkar is a genius. It showed when I saw him score his first hundred against Australia in Sydney as a mere stripling aged 18, already in his 14th Test and coming into the match with only one previous hundred and an average of 35. Lots of promise they said but where was the bang for the buck? Another kid with lots of promise made his debut for the Aussies in that game but Tendulkar and Shastri carved him to all parts of the SCG, sending him to the dressing sheds with lots to do and 1-150.
Fast forward a decade and Tendulkar returned to the SCG with 82 runs in five digs in a series where others had provided the get up and go and he had three times wafted and sent Gilchrist jumping and twice walked across the crease to be struck, fatally, on the pads. Tendulkar was done. The maestro was myth. In heavy air and a turning deck, he was easy pickings for a side without the dynamic duo of McGrath and Warne. I scored the innings. He made no scoring stokes outside the off stump till 100 and then the bowlers tired of his raised bat out there and bowled at his legs. Hello? 241 and 60, both not out - the first was technically the best innings I have ever seen. To cap it all, he caught Steve Waugh's last slog-sweep in Test cricket and ended any chance of a long shot victory. It was though the responsibility for carrying the spirit of the game flew through the air from Waugh to Tendulkar and was gracefully accepted. The little bloke ran to Waugh to offer his thanks and just maybe to reward his trust.
The next time he visited Sydney, he made another big unbeaten hundred, averaging 221 in seven innings there. Haven't we had all the favours in the home of the Blues?
It is, of course, possible to sum up all of the above descriptions of his batting ability into one, concise statement. Warne never bettered him. Ever. Both worked very hard to come up with tactics to defeat the other. Warne never won.
In the end, figures will only sum part of Tendulkar - the part that marketing gurus still like to use as promotion along side his still boyish looks. In the words of Yoda, "there is another". It is his generosity and humility and grace under pressure that the game should be even more grateful for. He is, without exception, the only player I have heard (except maybe for Gilchrist) who talks up his team and deflects the focus away from his own performances and does so believably. We all know the cove who milks extended compliments by first feeding the media cows some rich pasture. Dean Jones and Shane Warne come to mind and Greg Matthews absolutely screams to be included in my examples. If you look in your cricket dictionary under humble, it will say "see Tendulkar ... twice". Under the most extreme pressure, on the field and off, it was Tendulkar who added credibility to the sordid events of the disgraceful Aust and India clash at the SCG in January 2008.
Since the late sixties, this Cricket Tragic has seen and read and talked about many "greats" of the game. The term is over-used and over-rated. Every generation thinks their crop greater than the previous. Brett Lee, for instance, was very good but he was never great. The same could be said of Dean Jones or Justin Langer or Matthew Hayden or Merv Hughes or Stuart MacGill. Very good but not great.
If Dennis Lillee is my greatest bowler (yes, in a coin toss between he and Warne, the WACA Wacker get my vote) and Sobers the greatest allrounder and either Symonds or Simpson the greatest fielder, then Tendulkar is the greatest batsman (decided with the same coin, this time with Bradman's head on the other side).
What a pity he is coming to the end. Still, when the real thing fades, such memories as his will suffice.
Thursday, February 25, 2010
Monday, February 22, 2010
An Interesting Weekend of Cricket
As much as I don't often comment on the "hit & giggle" cricket played when mummy isn't looking in those mad hours before bedtime, there are several things to be said about it and a weekend of very interesting domestic cricket.
At first blows, bravo to Cricket Australia for the backyard cricket - oh, they call it Twenty20 but we all know what it is - promotion in Hobart on Sunday. A combined bill which showcased the Australian women and men's teams was not only clever marking but also provided a great opportunity for the women to play before a big crowd and gain some additional exposure. Don't get me wrong - unlike certain luminaries of the game as I played it who now reside in Brisbane and are Wally's through and through, I have no beef with women's cricket. One of Australia's current best, Erin Osbourne is a Tamworth girl and any reasonable follower of the great game would recognise that talent is talent regardless of how it fills a protector.
The women's game was a nail biter ... I was down to my toe nails in the end ... and despite losing to the Sheep Shaggers, it was a terrific game in it's own right, let alone as a curtain raiser to Michael Clarke's mob.
Shaun Tait was fast, furious, reasonably straight and bowled three corkers for wickets. One can't help but think he was a resource wasted in misunderstanding and an unwillingness to accept that not all illness presents a physical manifestation and that mental illness = weakness is a bad equation. Interesting that a softer, more personable man is at the helm in this form or cricket, whilst the Professor of Tough saves himself for longer hundreds.
In a slightly longer format at the Gabba a day earlier, The Bushrangers won through to the final of the Ford Ranger Cup, despite missing four players attending to their higher calling, despite playing away from home and despite playing against echoes of former Test men, McDermott and Laughlin, who were both spanked for their inaccuracy and youth by Brad Hodge. Raising his bat in a century of adulation for the sixteen time in domestic one day games, Hodge is an exclamation mark Cricket Australia just can't erase. He was truly magnificent again on Saturday and if Tait has been talent squandered through poor management the Hodge can claim higher honours in that regard. Hodge has been one of the stand out batsmen of his generation. Forget the Lehmann hard luck stories or the Stuart Law coodabeen stories, Brad Hodge has given and given and given, in all forms of the game, even the most truncated and yet, he has been ignored, no shunned, by our national selectors for reasons only they would know. Merv Hughes, a fellow Victorian, should in particular be ashamed.
Well played Mr Hodge and in the short time left son, rub that certain Adelaide solicitor's snooty nose in it.
In the west, the home side are no certainty to pick up outright points against Tasmania, with three innings around the 250 mark so far and the Tigers scoring the highest of them. With two wickets down and still another 230 odd to get, the boys from across the Bass are a fare chance to get the major points.
A bit closer to home - only a bit - NSW have finally stood up. Tired of being the cellar dwellers in the Sheffield shield, several of the names have put some effort into their game in Adelaide and have the South Australians eating crow. Phil Hughes blasted an impertinent near double century and Forest, Roher and Nevill (who the hell are they) put more than enough on the old Adelaide scoreboard ... more than enough for SA to chase, apparently. Pity there are no bonus points because NSW will claim a huge victory today after Tamworth's own, Josh Hazelwood shook off a side injury for impressive second innings scalps, including going straight through General C with blistering pace. This boy is one to keep.
All in all, a great weekend of cricket although locally, City United's one win from four could be described economically as being consistent with the law of diminishing returns!
At first blows, bravo to Cricket Australia for the backyard cricket - oh, they call it Twenty20 but we all know what it is - promotion in Hobart on Sunday. A combined bill which showcased the Australian women and men's teams was not only clever marking but also provided a great opportunity for the women to play before a big crowd and gain some additional exposure. Don't get me wrong - unlike certain luminaries of the game as I played it who now reside in Brisbane and are Wally's through and through, I have no beef with women's cricket. One of Australia's current best, Erin Osbourne is a Tamworth girl and any reasonable follower of the great game would recognise that talent is talent regardless of how it fills a protector.
The women's game was a nail biter ... I was down to my toe nails in the end ... and despite losing to the Sheep Shaggers, it was a terrific game in it's own right, let alone as a curtain raiser to Michael Clarke's mob.
Shaun Tait was fast, furious, reasonably straight and bowled three corkers for wickets. One can't help but think he was a resource wasted in misunderstanding and an unwillingness to accept that not all illness presents a physical manifestation and that mental illness = weakness is a bad equation. Interesting that a softer, more personable man is at the helm in this form or cricket, whilst the Professor of Tough saves himself for longer hundreds.
In a slightly longer format at the Gabba a day earlier, The Bushrangers won through to the final of the Ford Ranger Cup, despite missing four players attending to their higher calling, despite playing away from home and despite playing against echoes of former Test men, McDermott and Laughlin, who were both spanked for their inaccuracy and youth by Brad Hodge. Raising his bat in a century of adulation for the sixteen time in domestic one day games, Hodge is an exclamation mark Cricket Australia just can't erase. He was truly magnificent again on Saturday and if Tait has been talent squandered through poor management the Hodge can claim higher honours in that regard. Hodge has been one of the stand out batsmen of his generation. Forget the Lehmann hard luck stories or the Stuart Law coodabeen stories, Brad Hodge has given and given and given, in all forms of the game, even the most truncated and yet, he has been ignored, no shunned, by our national selectors for reasons only they would know. Merv Hughes, a fellow Victorian, should in particular be ashamed.
Well played Mr Hodge and in the short time left son, rub that certain Adelaide solicitor's snooty nose in it.
In the west, the home side are no certainty to pick up outright points against Tasmania, with three innings around the 250 mark so far and the Tigers scoring the highest of them. With two wickets down and still another 230 odd to get, the boys from across the Bass are a fare chance to get the major points.
A bit closer to home - only a bit - NSW have finally stood up. Tired of being the cellar dwellers in the Sheffield shield, several of the names have put some effort into their game in Adelaide and have the South Australians eating crow. Phil Hughes blasted an impertinent near double century and Forest, Roher and Nevill (who the hell are they) put more than enough on the old Adelaide scoreboard ... more than enough for SA to chase, apparently. Pity there are no bonus points because NSW will claim a huge victory today after Tamworth's own, Josh Hazelwood shook off a side injury for impressive second innings scalps, including going straight through General C with blistering pace. This boy is one to keep.
All in all, a great weekend of cricket although locally, City United's one win from four could be described economically as being consistent with the law of diminishing returns!
Monday, February 15, 2010
Saturday, February 13, 2010
The Quiz
Good grief ... must have been a long time since I've been here. I can't belief there was not nibble at the Quiz?
Thursday, February 11, 2010
The Greatest All Rounder
It's one of the oldest debates in cricket and it has ranged from frothy cold beers in outback pubs when the shearings done, past suburban boundaries where young blokes claimed their current heroes and club sectretaries smiled and talked the greats ... and that's just here in the land of lithe bronzed men with steady smiles and a larrikin wit. The debate can be had among the pink gin set, it can have a calypso backbeat or be delivered with a subcontinental head wobble.
In the land of the long white cloud where men run quick and the sheep try to run quicker, there is no debate. They know their man Paddles is the King.
The world's greatest all rounder. Who is/was he?
Largely by experience, reading, trusting in the opinions of those I trust about such things and on the strength of one innings, Gary Sobers would be my man. The stats always said so - eight thousand runs, two hundred plus wickets and hundred odd catches. His versatility said so - left arm quick, left arm medium swing, left arm spin, field and take catches anywhere. He moved like a ghost - one minute there, next minute ... there.
I've long held this view.
I was flicking through the Hozstat pages in search of quiz questions and the list of allrounders the website proposes drew my attention. Criteria - 1000 runs, 50 wickets, 50 catches and the first thing that struck me was Nathan Astle's name, mid list. Must be something wrong with the criteria, especially since the name Imran Khan was absent.
Not content to accept this and in an effort to qualify what was on show, I decided to make some adjustments using a simple formula. Equating a century being potentially match winning, I allocated one point per run and twenty points per wicket, since a 5fa is as important as a century. Further, I allocated 30 points per catch, as three catches in an innings seemed to me as rare as a century.
Having sorted that, I decided that only players who had taken three catches in an innings, five wickets in an innings and scored a century (not, you understand, all in the same innings) would be included. I made the other criteria, 2000 runs, 100 wickets and 50 catches.
Realising now that players who played before the 1990's, when cricket match programs ballooned, would be disadvantaged, I divided the points tallied by the number of Tests played to give a form of match contribution average. The resultant table was ...
Batsmen who bowled miss out (the Waughs, Simpson, Hammond, Woolley, Walters, Gayle and Jayasuriya) and of course others missed their place on the 3 catches in an innings rule (Kumble, Kapil, Lindwall and even a superstar such as Astle). The three I had the hardest time leaving out were by criteria judgement were Greg Chappell, who was a bit more than a batsman who bowled, Keith Miller on shear guts and glory alone and Shane Warne, who failed by one run to score a Test century. I therefore compromised with myself and included Warne anyway, as a batting average of 25 is all rounder status at 8 or 9.
Bugger me. Look who's on top of the list!
In the land of the long white cloud where men run quick and the sheep try to run quicker, there is no debate. They know their man Paddles is the King.
The world's greatest all rounder. Who is/was he?
Largely by experience, reading, trusting in the opinions of those I trust about such things and on the strength of one innings, Gary Sobers would be my man. The stats always said so - eight thousand runs, two hundred plus wickets and hundred odd catches. His versatility said so - left arm quick, left arm medium swing, left arm spin, field and take catches anywhere. He moved like a ghost - one minute there, next minute ... there.
I've long held this view.
I was flicking through the Hozstat pages in search of quiz questions and the list of allrounders the website proposes drew my attention. Criteria - 1000 runs, 50 wickets, 50 catches and the first thing that struck me was Nathan Astle's name, mid list. Must be something wrong with the criteria, especially since the name Imran Khan was absent.
Not content to accept this and in an effort to qualify what was on show, I decided to make some adjustments using a simple formula. Equating a century being potentially match winning, I allocated one point per run and twenty points per wicket, since a 5fa is as important as a century. Further, I allocated 30 points per catch, as three catches in an innings seemed to me as rare as a century.
Having sorted that, I decided that only players who had taken three catches in an innings, five wickets in an innings and scored a century (not, you understand, all in the same innings) would be included. I made the other criteria, 2000 runs, 100 wickets and 50 catches.
Realising now that players who played before the 1990's, when cricket match programs ballooned, would be disadvantaged, I divided the points tallied by the number of Tests played to give a form of match contribution average. The resultant table was ...
Batsmen who bowled miss out (the Waughs, Simpson, Hammond, Woolley, Walters, Gayle and Jayasuriya) and of course others missed their place on the 3 catches in an innings rule (Kumble, Kapil, Lindwall and even a superstar such as Astle). The three I had the hardest time leaving out were by criteria judgement were Greg Chappell, who was a bit more than a batsman who bowled, Keith Miller on shear guts and glory alone and Shane Warne, who failed by one run to score a Test century. I therefore compromised with myself and included Warne anyway, as a batting average of 25 is all rounder status at 8 or 9.
Bugger me. Look who's on top of the list!
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
Old Mates
I don't know why but I'm constantly surprised when an old mate makes contact. Invariably, these old mates are from among the cricket collection friends who despite time and aging and fading memories, can always spend hours retelling tales of days gone.
Interestingly, cricketers tell by preference the stories from beyond the boundaries edge more often than they do deeds glorious. Well, tell them in greater detail at least. Blazing centuries or superb catches or fast spells on hot days tend to be consigned to a few superlatives, a sumnative nod and then a silence whilst a beer is sipped. The longer, more animated stories take many minutes and quite a few interjections to be told well.
Perhaps it stems from long days under hot suns when opposition batsmen ground out their stays at the crease for only moderate returns, leaving fielders to their own devices but it seems to me, the best at assessing the catalogue of years and retelling the resultant stories are the slip fielders from then. Their tales are intricate, with carefully constructed details in layers to build the narrative. They had lots of practice between deliveries and talking then provided a distraction to the listener whilst the scratched and adjusted in a manner that would have them arrested in the mall.
They are also funny.
The poor old fine leg fieldsmen didn't get it then and usually contributes second hand details now - still, as he was then, on the outer and with little practise of social skills.
In the past ten years, these old comrades have come together a few times, mostly to pretend we could still posture enough across four days to outlast the aches and pains which arrived after the first game. These old mates - meaning mates over a long period - will always be young men whilst they believe it. Perhaps, whilst they can still relive the stories they tell. These have been some of my warmest days: days in which I really knew what mateship was for and about.
One of them rang the other day, chasing down the phone number of another and a few text messages was enough contact to check each other's pulse. Enough to know we are still there. Some I hear from more often and I'm always glad that I have.
After the last gathering, these words arrived at the end of my pen ...
Why Are They Laughing
Why are they laughing?
They move so slowly in splendid white and cream.
They bend with stop-motion stiffness
and roll languid returns shyly back to the action.
They bowl like grandfathers -a parody of younger selves -
but still shout with appealing passion.
Catches are spilled or missed or ignored
and they mull on what was.
But why are they laughing?
A total to chase, they go out now in pairs
whilst the remainder dissect the errors.
Pads with buckles and green-dimpled gloves
make louder statements than grey temples
but take their trusted place on sore legs and hands.
A quick single claims the first,
an impatient swing many more
but a few stand steady as memory serves
the best of them, best.
And they are still laughing
when play continues at the bar
and ales sooth unrealistic expectations
which had hoped for glory's return.
Here the past falls away, no longer of use.
They call to each other still
of businesses, relationships, marriages, lives
some ruined, some still flowering
and pain not shown on the field of green
lies about for mates to sort the pieces.
They find laughter still
among the devastation
as a chat becomes alternate shouts
and occasional interjectors with twopence to spend.
A quiet beer lasts through singing
and the antics of the clown in every circus
until the night is spent with the exhaustion
of men talking their troubles in twos and threes.
No problems solved
but aching silent hearts given voice
lightened by mates like these.
It ends.
Stiff legged, they promise return.
Strong hands, STRONG hands,
hands that will hold you up through time and distance,
tell me they love me
while their mouths swear and issue oaths.
Legends leave for that other life
which would make them myth,
their hearts pumping for brothers,
their mouths roaring like champions. ...
and they laugh and laugh and laugh
decoding years of programming
until permission only the company of mates will allow
brings anger and frustration and relief and love
closer than periscope depth.
The surface tension broken,
no murk left between hiding place and daylight,
acceptance and belonging lead them to salvation
and the real men their fathers talked of being ...
… and tears begin to fall.
Interestingly, cricketers tell by preference the stories from beyond the boundaries edge more often than they do deeds glorious. Well, tell them in greater detail at least. Blazing centuries or superb catches or fast spells on hot days tend to be consigned to a few superlatives, a sumnative nod and then a silence whilst a beer is sipped. The longer, more animated stories take many minutes and quite a few interjections to be told well.
Perhaps it stems from long days under hot suns when opposition batsmen ground out their stays at the crease for only moderate returns, leaving fielders to their own devices but it seems to me, the best at assessing the catalogue of years and retelling the resultant stories are the slip fielders from then. Their tales are intricate, with carefully constructed details in layers to build the narrative. They had lots of practice between deliveries and talking then provided a distraction to the listener whilst the scratched and adjusted in a manner that would have them arrested in the mall.
They are also funny.
The poor old fine leg fieldsmen didn't get it then and usually contributes second hand details now - still, as he was then, on the outer and with little practise of social skills.
In the past ten years, these old comrades have come together a few times, mostly to pretend we could still posture enough across four days to outlast the aches and pains which arrived after the first game. These old mates - meaning mates over a long period - will always be young men whilst they believe it. Perhaps, whilst they can still relive the stories they tell. These have been some of my warmest days: days in which I really knew what mateship was for and about.
One of them rang the other day, chasing down the phone number of another and a few text messages was enough contact to check each other's pulse. Enough to know we are still there. Some I hear from more often and I'm always glad that I have.
After the last gathering, these words arrived at the end of my pen ...
Why Are They Laughing
Why are they laughing?
They move so slowly in splendid white and cream.
They bend with stop-motion stiffness
and roll languid returns shyly back to the action.
They bowl like grandfathers -a parody of younger selves -
but still shout with appealing passion.
Catches are spilled or missed or ignored
and they mull on what was.
But why are they laughing?
A total to chase, they go out now in pairs
whilst the remainder dissect the errors.
Pads with buckles and green-dimpled gloves
make louder statements than grey temples
but take their trusted place on sore legs and hands.
A quick single claims the first,
an impatient swing many more
but a few stand steady as memory serves
the best of them, best.
And they are still laughing
when play continues at the bar
and ales sooth unrealistic expectations
which had hoped for glory's return.
Here the past falls away, no longer of use.
They call to each other still
of businesses, relationships, marriages, lives
some ruined, some still flowering
and pain not shown on the field of green
lies about for mates to sort the pieces.
They find laughter still
among the devastation
as a chat becomes alternate shouts
and occasional interjectors with twopence to spend.
A quiet beer lasts through singing
and the antics of the clown in every circus
until the night is spent with the exhaustion
of men talking their troubles in twos and threes.
No problems solved
but aching silent hearts given voice
lightened by mates like these.
It ends.
Stiff legged, they promise return.
Strong hands, STRONG hands,
hands that will hold you up through time and distance,
tell me they love me
while their mouths swear and issue oaths.
Legends leave for that other life
which would make them myth,
their hearts pumping for brothers,
their mouths roaring like champions. ...
and they laugh and laugh and laugh
decoding years of programming
until permission only the company of mates will allow
brings anger and frustration and relief and love
closer than periscope depth.
The surface tension broken,
no murk left between hiding place and daylight,
acceptance and belonging lead them to salvation
and the real men their fathers talked of being ...
… and tears begin to fall.
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