Bazeball Then Dishes

Every summer I sit on my couch, ready for the summer cricket, doubly so for the Ashes.

I set up like it is a five-day festival.
Snacks in range.
Phone on silent.
Chores on hold.
Plans cancelled with pride.

Then England turned up and stole the summer.
Not with runs.
Not with grit.
Not with any interest in staying past Day Two.

Perth lasted two days.
Two days.
The whole thing took 847 balls.

I had a full week of cricket in my head.
I had Thursday afternoons mapped.
I wanted long spells.
I wanted the slow burn.

England looked like they packed a plan, then left it at Heathrow.
The first ball jagged, and England chased it like a toddler after bubbles.
That is the theme.
Chasing.
Fishing.
A noble hobby, not a Test method.

I tried to keep it calm.
I did the Benaud voice.
“Marvellous leave.”
Then they nicked.
“Marvellous nick.”
Then another.
I ran out of marvellous.

Australia did not play perfect cricket.
They did enough cricket.
England did extra theatre.

The souvenir shop was selling “Day 3 Highlights” DVDs.
They were blank.
I laughed, then checked my ticket, then laughed again.

The internet kicked off fast.
One group called it rigged.
Another group blamed Snicko.
A third group blamed the pitch, the umpires, the moon, and a bloke named Baz.

Who flies across the planet for the Ashes and forgets the basics?
England did.
And the answer is still on my couch.

Fast loss has no story.
It has no middle.
Fast loss leaves a man alone with his own chores.

I did not ask for free afternoons.
I asked for cricket that eats the day.

So, I am left with the true villain of this Ashes.
The villain is empty time.

I sat there on Day Three, remote in hand, staring at sport that was not there.
I refreshed the score like it owed me rent.
I opened the fridge twice and learned nothing both times.

England, you stole our summer cricket.
You left me with silence, and a sink full of dishes.

F.S.F