My last visit to South Africa was thematically inseparable
from the global sporting spectacle that was attracting the attention of billions
of humanoids and psychic cephalopods worldwide.
This time around, there is no World Cup to dominate and occupy
conversations, newspaper column-inches, online photo galleries, twitter feeds,
and waking nightmares. That being said,
it find it odd how various sports seem to form a metronomic foundation of my
life on the road around the southern tip of Africa.
Like Sands Through the Hourglass
While everyone else here has to work and toil and do all of
those sorts of things that people do to make ends meet, I’ve been drifting
through the African scenescape like some sort of diaphanous transient. It’s very easy to lose track to the days of
the week when the only real milestones are the previous and the next
flights. That’s where UEFA comes
in. I just need to think back to the
last match that I watched, since all UEFA competitions are broadcast
everywhere, and I can navigate my way through the murky temporal waters that
way. Only one German team has qualified
for the Champions’ League Final? It must
be Wednesday. Barcelona just been
humiliated for the second time on the trot?
Thursday. Fernando Torres scored
a goal last night? Friday.
I am Ozymandias, King of (the Sport of) Kings
Horse racing form books are filled with a nigh-hieroglyphic
set of condensed information. It took me
a while to reckon up what all of the numbers, letters, and symbols represent,
and what meaning they hold in relation to one another. Eventually, these little discrete crumbs of
data form elaborate mosaics of pixelated reference points, like a Magic Eye
picture. Adjusting your perspective so
that those virtual pixels can be seen in the context of a larger graphic
narrative gives a series of patterns and trends that can be used to predict the
outcome of each race.
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| Twenty-to-one odds? No big deal. |
So I’ve got a working hypothesis that allowed me to pick the
winners of two races from three. I didn’t
even try with one because the data set was scrawny and the field was
inordinately skewed upon first inspection.
So I made a bit of money, and earned dark, vile stares from everyone in
the bookie’s parlour. There were an
awful lot of aging and bitter blokes hiding behind ramparts of cigarette butts
and conjuring permutations of inordinate proportions that might possibly turn
six rand into ten. I just pick the
winners and take the money.
I’ll be just like Buddy Holly
I always liked cricket a bit. The fifth Doctor wore a cricket get-up most
of the time. Of course, he also had that
celery thing going, presumably so that he’d be prepared for any Bloody Marys
that came his way down the pub. That being
said, I rarely had the time or the patience to watch a five-day test match in
its entirety, or even keep track of the proceedings using whatever media
coverage was available. I essentially
knew the rules, watched a few extended lengths of the stuff when at John’s pub
in Blantyre, and could even drop the odd name, like Brian Lara or Shane Warne.
Then I discovered the wonder and the glory that is T20 cricket. My oath.
It’s gripping stuff. It’s like concentrated
cricket highlights pumped full of electric juju and fired from an orbital ion
cannon. If anyone knows what that
drug-rehab recreational activity known as baseball is, this is like telling
each team that they get 120 pitches at the other team, and that one team’s
batting order goes through before the other does. No alternating innings or any of that
rubbish. Every thrown ball counts for
something, and no movement is extraneous.
Just this week, a lad named Chris Gayle shattered a cricket
record that now seems likely to remain shattered for any time in the foreseeable
future. He smashed 100 runs out of 30
balls thrown at him. The baseball equivalent
would be mind-liquifying. American
stattos get all moist when they think about batters with a season average of
0.400 or over. Well, imagine if the
average wasn’t per at-bat, but per pitch, and then imagine someone that belts
the ball out of the park 70% of the time, and you might start to understand.
The big T20 cricket league is (unsurprisingly) in India, and
it’s a big production. There are
terribly fit cheerleaders, a stadium DJ spinning tunes, fireworks,
mega-jumbotron graphic displays, internationally-renowned commentators, several
different hats analogous to the Tour de France peloton, television advertising
timeouts, fanatical stadium-packing crowds, and bonkers corporate sponsorships.
To my amazement, it works. NFL games are a bunch of potty-breaks and
naptimes interrupted by the odd 2-yard run play. People at baseball games long for the
seventh-inning stretch to break the monotony of watching pitchers throw to
first base idly between conferences on the mound. NBA fans have long ago forgotten what “travelling”
is, and are so jaded that slam dunks receive as much attention as the colour of
the popcorn vendors’ socks.
Cricket manages to incorporate the chess-like strategies and
machinations of the NFL with the pop of an unexpected superstar highlight-reel
bit of action, as well as some beautifully orchestrated teamwork and
coordination. It just took me a while to
find a format of cricket that really brings all of those elements to the fore
and distills them to their essence.
I would recommend that all sports fans check out some of the
action here: http://www.iplt20.com/
I’ve been fortunate to see matches every afternoon for the past
week, and they’re always entertaining, particularly for a neutral. If this sport ever makes it big in North
America, I’ve got dibs on being the hipster who liked it before it was cool.
More news as it becomes available.
Cheers and good night England and the colonies.
—mARKUS
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