ERROL PARKER | Editor-at-large | Contact
There is no greater shame for a man, according to Widen’s lastest cricket almanack, than bowling six consecutive wides with only half of them landing on the pitch.
Therefore it leaves little wonder why there’s a platoon of Australians serving with the esteemed French Foreign Legion that have all performed that feat of athleticism rarely seen in the hallowed boards of mycricket.
All of them, at some point in their lives, found themselves walking back to fine leg with their cap still in their hands. Wondering if the ball was simply swinging too much. Perhaps a crosswind was catching the ball in flight and dragging it off down leg?
One of them explained to our reporter via telephone last night that a particularly dark thought overrode all the others – a desire to flee.
Marcel, who in his previous life as a North Betoota roofer, is now known by a different name. He said the game where he bowled the six wides that started him on the journey to bayonetting members of Al Shabaab in the Sahara Desert began like any other.
“I warmed up before the game, did my stretches and felt good. A few nerves before the first ball but who doesn’t get them? I stepped out the 16 steps of my run up and dropped the coaster. The umpire lowered his arm, the batsman thumped his pale bit County Kashmir into the astroturf and away I went,” he said.
“The first one started on about middle and leg. It bowed out down leg and landed on the line. The umpire called a wide, which was a bit much if I’m honest. It was in but whatever. First ball. Whatever.”
He let out a deep breath.
“And then the second ball just came out wrong. As soon as it left my hand, I knew it wasn’t going to hand on the pitch. The seam was all scrambled and the batsman gave it what it deserved – which was to let it bounce four times down to second slip untouched,”
“I was kicking myself. In hindsight, this is where everything went wrong. I shouldn’t just laughed it off. Funny how a few short minutes can change your life forever, huh?”
“So in I came. Trying to visualise a smooth, Michael Holding-type action. Smooth, loose. Fast. But as the crease drew nearer, the oily, silky fluidity of Whispering Death’s action was quickly invaded with visions of the knee-busting, back-twisting action of Mike Proctor. Some wires must’ve crossed in my head and all of a sudden, I found myself slinging the nut off the wrong foot,”
“It was quick, just very full and down the leg. It bounced once behind the batsman as he tried to swat it up and over fine leg and into the next postcode. If only he’d hit it, I probably wouldn’t be here. It went wide and also went for four byes.”
After a long pause in which our reporter asked if Marcel was still there two or three times, he sighed and continued.
“I decided to come in around the wicket because I thought, at least, the balls would bow down the offside. Wrong! Ball number four missed the pitch, bounced on the grass and bubbled down to gully who raced across just in time to save it before it ended up down at a vacant third man,”
“The captain jogged over from cover and asked if I was still pissed from the night before. I lied and said I was. He frowned and said I was going under the helmet next over for Mitch. Mitch is a man-boobed private schoolboy who bowls half-track pies that don’t turn. He can’t catch either. I hate Mitch. Putting me under the helmet when he’s bowling is the ultimate insult. I’d rather have a dual knee reconstruction. Anyway, back I went to my marker for ball number five,”
“It was at this point that I’d started fantasising about my escape from Australia. Where would I go? I didn’t care. I didn’t really care about anything.”
Marcel laughed and cleared his throat.
“Coming in around the wicket, ball number five. All I had running through my head was that ball Shoab Akhtar bowled to Gary Kursten that effectively removed the pull shot from his shot repertoire forever. He was never the same after that. There was blood everywhere. Seriously, look it up after this,”
“So with a grunt louder than Maria Sharapova trying to break serve, I let planted my front foot down, coiled my spine up and snapped my arm forward like an uncrinkling measuring tape,”
“The ball was short, sharp and looked like it was going to invert this smug fuck’s Adam’s apple. But it just kept rising. He played well under it and it was almost a meter over his shoulder by the time it went past him. It went over the keepers head and slammed into the square leg umpire’s Pajero on the fourth bounce behind the backstop.”
He stopped laughing and told our reporter that he doesn’t know why he finds it all so funny.
“The last ball of the over, even though I knew I had to bowl more for all the wides I’d bowled, I decided to bowl an offie. It went down leg and the batsman took a wild swing. Missed it, what a useless fuck he was. The umpire called a wide and I ripped my cap from his outstretched hand. He tried to say something but I wasn’t listening,”
“I didn’t even stay for the rest of the game. I just walked. And nobody tried to stop me. I was forced to join the French Foreign Legion after that. I didn’t have any other option.”
Marcel finished by saying his story isn’t dissimilar to any other member of his platoon, which locals have dubbed Les Perdants Australiens, which loosely translates to The Australian Warriors, he says.
“So remember to work on your action, stand upright and direct your body and action straight. My story could end up as your story. It’s easier to bowl six wides than six dots.”
More to come.
