Yesterday I watched the Nottingham Outlaws take on the Durham Dynamos (apparently they get out stains in cold water).
Was a hell of a game, mostly because neither team could decided who wanted to win less.
Plus there was two great run outs involving batsman hitting the ball back to the ball back to bowlers and running.
But the real story was Lord Megachief of Gold (aka Shivnarine Chanderpaul) yet again propping up a lemming XI batting line up.
When he went out he was statistically half the team, although in essence he was Durham, and Durham, was Shiv.
Deep.
If I were Shiv, first I’d take those stupid fucking things off my face, then I’d be pretty pissed off that every side I play for needs me to pick them up and carry them.
But once I had iced down my shoulders for the millionth time, I would think, wait a minute, is it me?
Do I bring the horror?
Am I like a cricket version of Wes Craven’s Neve Campbell?
How come every battling line up I am in falls apart?
West Indies, Bangalore, Durham are all made of Sugar.
The answer Shiv is looking for is yes, it is all his fault.
By being impossible to get out without a chainsaw, he has lulled all of his team mates into a suicidal type psychosis.
They cannot stay at the crease when he is there, they do not want to steal his thunder.
They fall on their swords, put the noose on, pull the trigger and breath second hand smoke.
He is like god to them.
Except cooler, a better batsman, and he really exists.
In conclusion, for Shiv to play in cricket sides where the batsmen don’t spontaneously combust in his presence, he needs to bat like a normal batsman, and go out occasionally.
It’s not that hard Shiv, and seriously take that shit off your face.www.cricketwithballs.com... fighting the war on tony greig
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