After months of nights of going to bed when there was still hope or when all hope was gone. Months of waking in the morning to discover just how fickle cricket is. All hope dashed or resurfacing. Now there is an 18 month night to endure. All there is to hope for is good dreams. Resurgences of forms from the day in strange series and aberrant patterns. Ha, things won’t be so different.
Ashes / Urn
the players, the pitches, the poetry …
Is that faecal or fickle?
um… definitely fickle. Though you may have seen an earlier comment, from way back before the tests began, where a rather avid English cricket fan was suggesting that his boys were going to rip the Australian’s heads off and shit down their throats.
Only came to your excellent blog after the series began, courtesy of Rick Eyre’s site so I missed that one.
Watching the Windies fold like day old laundry today, it almost seems like the Ashes never happened. Can you feel homseick for a sporting event?
lovesick, i think.