The German playwright Goethe once wrote “It is better to hope than to despair.” This self same German playwright never, I will guess, had the hair brained idea of commentating on the Ashes through a cold wintry night in London whilst being in thrall to the England cricket team.
It all started so well. The Test Match Sofa crew arrived in tact, sober and bursting with nervous anticipation. We had gradually convinced ourselves (well most of ourselves), that this series was finally going to result in an English victory against the most stubborn serial sporting winners, in their own backyard.
After all, Australia are ranked fifth in the world. Most of them can’t bat, their best bowler is a wayward walking mural with Oedipal issues, their spinner averages 48 in 1st class cricket, and their captain hasn’t a clue how to set a field. To compound matters and fan the flames of hope, they’d even dropped Bollinger for the unremarkable talents of Peter Siddle.
True, England have issues of their own, but following a perfect build up the time was surely nigh for a rare reversal of fortunes. And the omens were surprisingly good when skipper Andrew Strauss not only won the toss but failed to be afflicted by the need to do something bizarre, and actually elected to bat.
“Praise be,” went up the cry in the Sofa commentary box. Let’s settle in to a run drenched feast, strewn with opportunities finally to crow at our oldest nemesis.
This mood of unfettered optimism lasted approximately 116 seconds and was gilded by just two innocuous deliveries that passed harmlessly across the bows of England’s captain.
Then calamity struck. Needlessly electing to cut a delivery that was too close to his body, Strauss succeeded only in cracking the ball straight into the hands of Mike Hussey, and as one, 40,000 Australians rose in resurgent belief and every Englishman across the globe stared blankly in silent incredulity at their computers, TV sets, and, as one listener admitted, his cat.
In fact the day continued in this cruel vein. Just as England’s 2nd wicket partnership had once more proved there was nothing to fear from this powder puff Australian attack, Trott contrived his own dismissal off, of all people, the unlovable Shane Watson who was bowling with the guile of Derek Pringle and mystery of Roger Binny.
Another fine partnership began to dominate. Kevin Pieterson was more than hinting at a return to form but hey presto, Siddle induced a poor shot and he was snaffled at slip to make it 117-3, compounded shortly thereafter by Collingwood’s almost identical dismissal.
I was the first completely to abandon hope. Fellow commentators Manny, Hendo and Nigel clung to a touching faith in Alastair Cook and Ian Bell. The former was sliding around his crease so shakily that he resembled a new born giraffe struggling to evade the attentions of a pack of hyenas, while we all know about Ian Bell. Probably the most gifted English technician of his generation, Bell’s untimely dismissals exasperate more than any player since David Gower.
But as the tea interval came and went, and the Australian attack was reduced to the premature tactic of bowling wide away swingers in the not entirely unreasonable hope of inducing a loss of temperament, I began to flirt once more with that cruel mistress called Hope.
The return of Siddle, whose features uncannily resemble those of Sid from Toy Story, held no terrors for the ever more complacent Sofa team.
But I guess by now you know what happened. Sid produced a perfectly pitched delivery to find the edge of Cook’s wafer thin bat. Watson did the rest.
A straight ball immediately did for Prior. Perhaps he wasn’t expecting it. Perhaps he was still drunk from renewed hope like the rest of us. But the hangover was well and truly kicking in.
It is traditional for cricket lovers, of which we on Test Match Sofa certainly count ourselves, to relish the prospect of a hat trick whoever is the perpetrator. The beautiful rarity of its occurrence transcends all thoughts of partisanship. Usually.
But this is the Ashes. And for those of you who don’t have a vested interest in either side I feel bound to tell you that all normal feelings of sportsmanship and generosity are relegated beneath the desperate need not to gift the opponent the elixir of unbounded joy.
Australians tend never to let you forget, you see. And our commentary team is well stocked with Aussies.
As Sid came in to deliver his coup de grace the studio was engulfed with thoughts of Jarrod and Kent. How they would relive this moment in our presence until the day they finally returned to Australia to run a bar of their own.
Sure enough, even before the perfect Yorker thudded painfully into Broad’s toe, bang in front of middle and leg stumps, a chorus of despair echoed around the room. As if to secure our collective indignity for eternity, Broad even desperately referred the decision, giving Siddle and the entire nation of Australia the opportunity to enjoy the wicket for a further inevitable 2 minutes.
In truth it was a very fine hat trick. Among the best I’ve seen. In particular the wicket of Broad demonstrated magnificent control of aggression and emotion. Harmison would probably have bowled a beamer in the same circumstances. But Siddle is Australian. And Australians specialize in kicking you when you’re down.
Immediately we were tweeted by Australians enquiring as to whether this was the first hat trick to contain players whose names were actual words in English with solid meanings. “The Broad beamed Prior’s goose is Cooked” crowed one inventive gloater.
Within 30 seconds Jarrod had got in touch to let us know that Siddle’s last hat trick came when he was 13. Today was his 26th birthday. Australians even manage to conquer the pitfalls of unfavourable numerological omens. Who can hope to compete with such devilish devices?
Well there was always Swann to stick around with Bell, but he managed to play across a straight one and despite some lusty blows at the death, Bell’s 75 is unlikely to prove enough on what looks a good track.
There was even time for England’s key bowler, Swann, to be hit for successive fours from his first two balls and all illusions about the task ahead were swept away in a tide of Australian dominance.
Hope, Mr. Goethe, is the enemy of all Englishmen. After 28 hours without sleep, instead I shall embrace the familiar bedfellow of despair. And try not to hope for a better tomorrow.