Professionalism in the game
The problem with most of the guys here is a lack of professionalism. Nightly do I sit with my candle and wick poring over compendiums of statistics. I burn my wick to the end.
My eyes are close to popping out of my head but I will not stop my study. At about 2am my wife—as agreed—brings me a nightly mug of hot milk. I let her sleep for a few hours and then I give her a few light slaps to waken her* in order that she may prepare me a light repas. I tell her it must be oil-less and gluten free lest it hurt the tenderness of my stomach. And then again I pore, pore, pore over the statistics.
Opaque facts, dark figures which coagulate in my mind. I study everything. The stars, the sun, the tides; in which constellation the moon was when Dravid was born, the vowels in VVS’s name, why Tendulkar dyed his hair ginger..
Some time I will use my spy. I give the man his baksheesh and send him into the camp. He will lie in wait for days and procure for me vital bits of information about my own team — a lock of Ali’s hair, a teardrop from Bell’s eye, a song from Swann’s lips.
Soon the sun will rise and so I wrap myself into darkness and lie still in my room. Ah the joy’s of the dark night!
*Some have misinterpreted this– these are mere friendly slaps, nothing more.
I wake. Outside the moon is full. The world sleeps in their beds. So do the beasts. And the plants. All sleep. All except I.
Tonight I will go roaming. I will walk the dark city streets and search, search, search. Everywhere will I look, seeking to find the thing that will sate my insatiable hunger.
I climb out of my coffin. It is replete with my trinkets and tools of the trade. A bat. A cape. A pointed stick. Some Oakley shades. Ehehehehe.
I put on my old white coat. Oh no, it has dark red stains about it. And my trousers too– all around the crotch ’tis suffused with a dark red tint from the midnight crimson rambler. I asked my wife to buy some Daz to get it off but will she ever listen?
And now I soar. Into the night. Hello darkness, my old friend, I’ve come to talk with you again….Only at night do I feel alive. I glide around the great city in noiseless pursuit seeking, seeking, always seeking. My face is a deathly yellow.
Tonight I will feed. I will feed on data, compendiums of notes, volumes of scorecards. They will tell me who should open the bowling for us at Lords next week. Who should be placed at silly mid off to countersnaggle the dilscoop. At what degree I must position the man at forward silly short-short leg that he does obscure Kallis’s peripheral vision and so allow Broad to bowl him a vicious throat high bouncer.
Ehhehehahheheh. And perhaps the bouncer will hit Kallis on his fat tummy and thus will emerge a jet of crimson. Hheheueheh.
And I will feed, I will feed deep, the crimson….O God. What is this!!? A light! A light!!!
My wife has turned on the bedroom light!
Jesus woman, did I not tell you not to disturb me. I haven’t not finished of my analysis of the tactics yet.
O God it’s no use, she’s now brought me my mug of tomato soup. With some croutons floating inside. Oh well. Good night.