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The ball was like some flutter-freak elusive butterfly – not fast enough to whizz past but that teasing fast that fools you into thinking it’s yours for the grab; you may get your finger tips to it, but it will never be within your grasp.
Asif’s bowling, harmless, inviting, mesmerizing, it was that kind of day; I felt privileged to be awake, early by my standards on a Sunday. And once up, there was no way I could keep my eyes of the ball – the eyes danced as the ball danced, it was a slow, tricky dance, it had disguise, a deep, mysterious, almost comical disguise at that, almost Kathakali like.
There was music to it too; the ball moved to some dead master’s symphony. Mohammad Asif was Maestro. And he had the almost scruffy way of G for genius; inventing as he went along.
And as he played along, he composed a requiem for the Aussie innings.
Mohammad Asif drugs Australia.
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4 comments:
He makes it talk frequently. Punter gave him the lovely green wicket and the overhead conditions and the ball didn't talk, it sung.
Hi Lou, sing it did; surely Punter was wearing shades when he saw the pitch or contacts.
Brilliant - twas a requiem indeed, but I think I cried as much at that funeral as a mob boss when his lifelong blood-feud enemy is lowered into the ground...
Hi TMG, Another ponting fan i take it. cheers
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