Windies cricket like a fast train heading for disaster

Soon, the English  will be in the Caribbean to play cricket, and once more the region’s televisions will be full of cricket, pure and unadulterated cricket. Rubbish! Rubbish! Dancing Brave is a little upset, nothing serious. Just a deep and powerful loathing for all cricket in 2004. That is caused by the South African trauma and more still the knowledge that the public will have to again suffer the  subjected bias of the overseas television crew that broadcast the series in the Caribbean. To all people who work on television, all people who travel to the islands and all humanity besides, the Brave says “Rubbish”. To the ticketman who will sell you the supposed chance to win one million US dollars, “Rubbish!” To the buffet attendant in the increased price hotels, “Rubbish!!”
 
West Indies cricket is like a fast train, going nowhere, except heading for disaster and one can expect  the Australian express of Test match cricket to roar into Port-of-Spain. The West Indian performance has suffered from leaves on the line and the wrong sort of snow, but just when you think things could get no worse, we will  probably get Michael Holding, Tony Greig and maybe even Michael Atherton telling us about it. “Rubbish!” I shout at the screen. “Rubbish!” at the West Indian cricketers. “Rubbish!” at the commentators. “Rubbish!” at the Trini Posse — I’m all for tolerant acceptance of other people’s pleasures, but really, what is the point of standing in the sun for six hours consuming 12 bottles of beer and singing words of joy many times, when your team is losing and losing and losing? “Rubbish!” And the adverts — the adverts. There is a gentlemanly convention among people who write about television that the advertisements are exempted from discussion; not really part of the experience. But we cannot avoid them. We even miss the odd ball to see them. “Rubbish!” at the cologne advert. “Rubbish!” at the latest television company promo — has any television network ever spent so many hours selling itself? “Rubbish!” at the car  advert. “Rubbish!” and “Rubbish!” again at the rum adverts.

Television needs athletes who cannot help but communicate their joys and their anguish. Vivian Richards had this gift when he played. What a pity he is  not  a commentator. We can expect a pretty drab team, and Greig is the Sky-borne emperor of banality. “Rubbish!” Sometimes, watching sport on television is like watching a play with two people in the seats behind you talking about the price of soapflakes. We can only hope that the West Indies cricket team will not quite be collapsing in their usual melodramatic way,  instead maybe just subsiding like a souffle, the high hopes of Brian Lara slowly whiffing down into a plate of soggy bake and shark. There are two kinds of cricket captain, and two kinds of commentators. The best ones are a step ahead of the action, anticipating, questioning trying things. The second raters are the ones who follow the ball, reacting, going through the motions, making a stock response to a stock situation. Brian Lara,  is of the latter kind. So are most of the probable commentary team.
It would be remiss of the Brave, to depart the week before Carnival without a Carnival tune, with borrowed chorus lyrics:
“Playing for the West Indies
Involves looking at lovely bun-sees
You got to have great fun
And score no runs

CHORUS:
Try it too, you go, go like it:
 If you are a bowler for the West Indies
Do not expect to win a Test series
Just put up with it, do your job,
As much as can sit and  claim you were robbed

CHORUS:
 I smelling it,  I am smelling it
 If you are batsman for the West Indies
Do not expect any support for the rest of the series
Just play as many shots as possible
While thinking of a night out to flex your under used muscle

CHORUS:
 I smelling it,  I am smelling it
 New West Indies batsman, please try to concentrate hard
And play with pride and spirit
Not becoming of your previous kindred spirit

 CHORUS:
I smelling it,  I am smelling it
 Tony Cozier’s the stop gap writing king
He’s quite the handy writing boss
Though these days rarely in a job for long
He’s never at a loss
Maybe should become overall cricket boss

CHORUS: I smelling it,  I am smelling it
Marlon’s baffled half the brains of sport,
How does he to this trick?
First choice, yet his wicket is always up for grabs,
It makes the other sick
People beg them every year
To give him the sack and a cold stare

CHORUS:
 I smelling it,  I am smelling it
The TTFA have a coach
He rents his skills for money
But we hope he does not flit off like a bee

Beause when the boss club comes unstuck
The coach may no longer be free

CHORUS:
I smelling it,  I am smelling it:
Trinidad, Tobago, Blackburn
(Says Dwight) “are History
Bertille  is calling now
I’ll check my diary
So many blondes woo me every year
It’s such a laugh (tee hee)
Their cry goes out:  I cup my ear
I mean, I am single and free,”

CHORUS:
 I smelling it, I am smelling it etc.

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