Last night was tough. Five kiwis in a rowdy Oxford English-laden pub standing next to a crew of Frenchmen. We didn’t stick around long after full time. I think it’s the first time I’ve said yelled ‘fuck’ in front of my girlfriend’s mother. And it was the first syllable I groaned as I woke up this morning. Sorry Annette; I’m sure you understand…
There is something going on in UK sport and it has people talking. I am not talking about Tim Henman once again failing to advance through Wimbledon, or the dicey form of the English cricket team. The chatter is about the rise of Formula One driver Lewis Hamilton. For those that have not been following the motor sport racing news, Lewis Hamilton is a 22 year old from England who has debuted this season and has been on the podium at every race and currently leads the championship. He qualified fastest for the British Grand Prix – the first Brit to do so in eleven years. Oh, and he is ‘black’.
That’s what we were. Lank. We had good reason to believe that we could win the Cup, and an unofficial ranking of third represents both a creditable outcome and a fair reflection of the team’s ability. Meh.
Expectations for this New Zealand cricket side have assumed proportions not reached since the glorious World Cup summer of 1992. Fond memories of sun-drenched days at Eden Park have not dimmed in the intervening years, and cricket fans don’t have to try too hard to once again summon up a mental snapshot of Harry’s sublime throw to run out Boony from side on, or the magnificent arc of another Paddy Greatbatch six.
As a 12 year old, listening to the radio commentary of New Zealand ’s tour of the West Indies , it was like cricket from another planet. There was Greenidge and Haynes, softening up the bowling in grand style, and once we got them, IVA Richards. He smouldered to the wicket, took a minute to assert his machismo, and then blasted it everywhere.