I was reading an article some time back, I can’t remember what it was in, where the author was lamenting growing older and the fact was driven home to him when he realised all of the stars of the sporting teams he followed were now younger than he! Boy, does that hold some resonance for me.
I have always had a passion for cricket and the Australian cricket team have always been a heroic force for good in my eyes, misguided jingoism always rising to the surface whenever I get devoted to the game once again.
But recently I have been lamenting that all of my idols in the summer game are somewhat younger than me and getting younger!
To a boy growing up, sporting heroes have a status akin to gods. Dennis Lillee, Greg Chappell, Rod Marsh, Jeff Thomson, Allan Border and their ilk were always larger than life and even into my early twenties when I actually crossed paths with some of the aforementioned folk, they remained unbound by the earthly bonds by which the rest of us mere mortals are constrained and maintained their hold on my psyche and remain men who I admire to this day, even if the romantic delusions of my youth have been somewhat worn away.
I remember reading a book several years ago where the author, also a keen cricket fan, had glimpsed Bradman and several stars of his era through an open door of a train just before it departed on a journey to who knows where and his accompanying tale of what it was like for a lad to glimpse these deities was a story that I could identify with.
All heroes have feet of clay and are, alas, as human as the rest of us with all the foibles of character that disease the rest of the human race but of course from a distance that matters not a jot to those who can only dream of opening the bowling for Australia or hooking enemy fast bowlers for six. Everyone needs a hero to look up to.
Over the last few years, as life has gotten a little more complicated and I haven’t always been able to cater to my own selfish desires in regards to what I do with my private time and the pressures of work cause me to think more negatively about society in general, my love and passion for cricket seemed to fall away, especially as the once, all-conquering Australian team has hit hard times and are regularly beaten by those horrid, pasty faced beings from England and the hard men of South Africa.
But this summer, for some reason the passion has returned and although the Aussies are a long way from returning to the podium as the world’s best team, I once again find myself scouring the web, the newspapers and the local newscasts, disseminating information and piecing together my own theories on selection policy and find myself once more hero worshipping from afar.
It did occur to me recently however that such devotion was a tad juvenile and perhaps I should be looking at more mature pursuits and leave childhood attitudes behind me as it is a little bit embarrassing to those who who are within my orbit for a grown man to whoop and holler just because some son of Australia has managed to thread a cricket ball through the bat and pads of a defending Sri Lankan batsman and knock three wooden posts out of the ground!
It is also a little demeaning when I consider that most of these fellows playing cricket for Australia are now close to being twenty years younger than me! Even the recently retired Ricky Ponting and Mike Hussey are a half decade behind me!
But it is a comfort to realise that some things never change despite getting older and I have bought tickets to the first ever one day international to be played in Canberra in February and will attend with Linda, who I hope to imbue with some sort of passion and interest for the game.
So I will maintain my interest in the good old summer game, live and die on the success of the national team, reflect dourly on the results when they are not great, and lose interest when our bowling attack is being slaughtered or our batsmen are under siege.
But I doubt my passion for cricket will ever die and while time marches on the pantheon of heroes who fling leather and swing willow will remain full in my mind’s eye and transport me back to a simpler time when average men could do amazing things on the cricket field and a young boy hung on every heroic deed.
Have a nice day.
I have always had a passion for cricket and the Australian cricket team have always been a heroic force for good in my eyes, misguided jingoism always rising to the surface whenever I get devoted to the game once again.
But recently I have been lamenting that all of my idols in the summer game are somewhat younger than me and getting younger!
To a boy growing up, sporting heroes have a status akin to gods. Dennis Lillee, Greg Chappell, Rod Marsh, Jeff Thomson, Allan Border and their ilk were always larger than life and even into my early twenties when I actually crossed paths with some of the aforementioned folk, they remained unbound by the earthly bonds by which the rest of us mere mortals are constrained and maintained their hold on my psyche and remain men who I admire to this day, even if the romantic delusions of my youth have been somewhat worn away.
I remember reading a book several years ago where the author, also a keen cricket fan, had glimpsed Bradman and several stars of his era through an open door of a train just before it departed on a journey to who knows where and his accompanying tale of what it was like for a lad to glimpse these deities was a story that I could identify with.
All heroes have feet of clay and are, alas, as human as the rest of us with all the foibles of character that disease the rest of the human race but of course from a distance that matters not a jot to those who can only dream of opening the bowling for Australia or hooking enemy fast bowlers for six. Everyone needs a hero to look up to.
Over the last few years, as life has gotten a little more complicated and I haven’t always been able to cater to my own selfish desires in regards to what I do with my private time and the pressures of work cause me to think more negatively about society in general, my love and passion for cricket seemed to fall away, especially as the once, all-conquering Australian team has hit hard times and are regularly beaten by those horrid, pasty faced beings from England and the hard men of South Africa.
But this summer, for some reason the passion has returned and although the Aussies are a long way from returning to the podium as the world’s best team, I once again find myself scouring the web, the newspapers and the local newscasts, disseminating information and piecing together my own theories on selection policy and find myself once more hero worshipping from afar.
It did occur to me recently however that such devotion was a tad juvenile and perhaps I should be looking at more mature pursuits and leave childhood attitudes behind me as it is a little bit embarrassing to those who who are within my orbit for a grown man to whoop and holler just because some son of Australia has managed to thread a cricket ball through the bat and pads of a defending Sri Lankan batsman and knock three wooden posts out of the ground!
It is also a little demeaning when I consider that most of these fellows playing cricket for Australia are now close to being twenty years younger than me! Even the recently retired Ricky Ponting and Mike Hussey are a half decade behind me!
But it is a comfort to realise that some things never change despite getting older and I have bought tickets to the first ever one day international to be played in Canberra in February and will attend with Linda, who I hope to imbue with some sort of passion and interest for the game.
So I will maintain my interest in the good old summer game, live and die on the success of the national team, reflect dourly on the results when they are not great, and lose interest when our bowling attack is being slaughtered or our batsmen are under siege.
But I doubt my passion for cricket will ever die and while time marches on the pantheon of heroes who fling leather and swing willow will remain full in my mind’s eye and transport me back to a simpler time when average men could do amazing things on the cricket field and a young boy hung on every heroic deed.
Have a nice day.
Strange Notations From a Laborious Life 