Speaker by Various Artists

It is trite, and completely wrong, to call cricket a simple game. It is not. It is as complex a sport invented, where an individual faces an individual, each striving for a team. The contest between bowler and batsmen is distorted through the prism of what is required by the team. As interpreted by the captain. As relayed by the 12th man who has come out with gloves or drink. The contest bounces around the cranium of bowler and batsman as the former stands at his scuffed mark. Psychoses meet and greet. And then the bowler begins his run up.

The bowler’s insecurities can manifest themselves by not being able to hit the pitch. See Steve Harmison’s frisbee at the start of the Ashes. Michael Mason’s debut. Daryl Tuffey’s 14 ball over. Or Robert Kennedy’s career.

The batsman’s psyche is displayed by feet and bat. If the feet aren’t moving there is something wrong. The bat being away from the body is as basic to Freudian psychoanalysis of cricket as the Oedipus complex.

Of course this doesn’t isn’t true for every batsman. Some players have minds like a Grahame Sydney painting, all emptiness and benign hills. These players succeed because of simplicity, because their eye is good, or the swing of their bat so unalterable. One of the dumbest people I have ever met played first class cricket. Just a few times, but nevertheless, enough to suggest the Spotless Mind is a boon, not a bane. Then there are players who have balsa wood psyches, their talent wrestling with innate lack of self-belief, fear of failure, or problems beyond the oval. I think of Martin Crowe playing psychological sudoku, tying his talent in knots. The extraordinary cat-on-a-hot-tin roof footwork of Matthew Bell. The demons that haunted Blair Hartland every time he batted. South Africa displayed a collective brain fart against Sri Lanka only yesterday.

Most batsmen will tell you the best thing is to reach the zen-like state of calm where you remove the mental element from batting, and rely purely on instinct, on hundreds of hours of training. Jacques Kallis finds that regularly, but often, as against Australia the other day, at the expense of what is needed by his team. Matthew Hayden finds the zone regularly and takes up residency rent free.

The Black Caps have had a psychologist for many years. Gilbert Enoka was a crucial part of our late 1990s revival. Now we have Gary Hermansson on board. Ian Botham came out all very macho suggesting it was like having a witch doctor or water diviner in the squad – this from a man whose captaincy techniques included squirting a water pistol at his team-mates (tests won as captain - zilch).

Hermansson has work to do. Hamish “Mary-Kate” Marshall has parachuted in to replace friendly-fire victim Lou Vincent. Hamish Marshall has not hit a score exceeding 50 in international cricket since April 2005. That is 38 international innings, if you’re counting. His last test innings against South Africa had a Lions v Christians quality. He is an excellent fielder, so it is like for like, in some ways. But Lou Vincent has viral charisma, and self-belief as big as his Clutch Cargo jaw. He bounces around the crease as if heavily caffeinated, and when he goes out, looks to be in disbelief that this could have happened to him, the Hammer of the Gods. Hamish Marshall has the resigned air of someone wearing an orange jumpsuit.

I like Hamish Marshall. His name is only four letters different to mine. I met him many years ago at Lord’s. He was affable and funny. His century against Australia was as spectacular as any I had seen since, well, Lou Vincent in 2001. He created the greatest catch I have ever seen, leaping over the boundary to parry the ball for another fielder. If ever the Black Caps could use an innings of chutzpah like his maiden century, now would be it. By the time you read this we will probably know if jetlag has operated like a short-term lobotomy and he is scoring the runs his talent deserves, or if he is, as usual, flailing at balls outside off stump like my granny trying to swat flies beyond the reaches of her eyesight.

I love cricket. Not because it is simple, but because, occasionally, it is an examination of the frayed fibres of the mind.

Hamish McDouall

Language matters. Just take a look at where we have ended up on the debate on the repeal, now amendment, of Section 59 of the Crimes Act.

Early on, opponents dubbed Sue Bradford's Private Members Bill the 'banning smacking' bill. Never mind that the Bill does nothing of the sort. What it does do is remove, with some exceptions inserted by the Select Committee, from the list of justification or excuse the use of "reasonable force" for parents when hitting their children. Smacking, hitting, whatever you want to call of children is already 'banned' by law. What is now going to happen is when parents use horsewhips or hosepipes to discipline their children there will be no justification in law for doing so. But you won't hear that from opponents of the Bill. They have very successfully framed the debate in their language, and I venture to suggest much of the public outcry on the issue is based on this deliberate distortion of the Bill.

And in the same vein of controlling language, we see the attempt of the conservative, christian fundamentalist based Maxim Institute to re-brand itself as the promoters of Social Justice.

For those who have not been paying attention, Maxim has had a difficult couple of years, with their intellectual power-house, Bruce Logan 'retiring' in late 2005 after he was exposed as having plagiarised many of his writings for the Institute. He said it was just sloppy citation - others saw much more of a pattern. Maxim was also very active in the allegedly non-partisan "NZ Votes" campaign in 2005. As exposed in Nicky Hager's, The Hollow Men this campaign was far from non-partisan and Maxim in fact stayed in close contact with the National Party over its development.

Maxim has been relatively quiet since then, but today they are holding a conference and launching a book on the theme of Social Justice.

Even the good folk at Maxim would have to admit that the concept of Social Justice is one that has been long associated with the left of the political spectrum and derided by the right. In their own 'research report' on the subject they acknowledge that Hayek said the concept was "intellectually disreputable".

The term social justice has generally been built around key concepts like income redistribution, egalitarianism and fair treatment of minorities. As such it has a key role for the state at its core. It has been the rallying cry of many politicians and political groups on the left- including in the maiden speech of our own Prime Minister, and as recognised by the Financial Times in a recent article on her.

Not concepts or people that politically conservative, fundamentalist Christian organisations like Maxim would generally be seen to be supporting. But this is what neo-conservative groups have become very good at: using language to frame debates and issues in their terms. In the US the take-over of "family" and "family values" by groups pushing a conservative, religious agenda has been almost complete. The aim is to claim a piece of language as their own, and define all debate in the area on their terms.

What Maxim is trying to do with social justice is something more as well. From last year they have launched a careful campaign to take the concept away from the left of politics. I have no doubt their polling told them that New Zealanders liked the notion of social justice. They invented the proposition that the meaning of social justice in New Zealand was 'hotly debated' and undertook an internet based campaign (under the guise of 'research') to get views on social justice, and are now using their seemingly very deep pockets to produce a book on the subject.

The re-framing of the issue has focused around pushing the place of the individual in achieving social justice, or a "responsibility form" of social justice. Convenient, when that, the rights of the individual over the collective, is the core your own political philosophy. Hilarious, when in the summary of the issue on the Maxim site they claim that the greatest unanimity on the issue was 'about the contribution individuals can make to a just society'. Perhaps that is because one of the seven questions they asked was specifically about how an individual can promote social justice? Its all about framing you see.

No doubt Maxim will tell you they are simply opening up debate on this issue. Rubbish. They are attempting to alter its meaning. From my perspective, the Maxim Institute is most certainly not about social justice. Any organisation that has undertaken campaigns to stop same-sex couples getting equality under the law, reduce the rights of workers and lower benefits or which promotes elitist and failed concepts like education vouchers is simply not in the realm of traditional concepts of social justice.

This is all simply a matter of re-branding for a discredited lobbying organisation, but it represents a warning sign that we must be ever-vigilant about attempts from the right to colonise a successful catch phrase for the kind of politics I care about - collective action for the sake of fairness, tolerance and equality.

In the bygone days of cricket journalism in New Zealand, hyperbole was saved for geometry class. DJ Cameron in the NZ Herald and Dick Brittenden in the Christchurch Press gave us thoughtful, measured and occasionally gruff analysis of the swings and roundabouts of NZ Cricket.

On the radio their contemporary Iain Galloway's voice only quivered with emotion when someone dropped off a box of cherries to the commentary caravan at Molyneux Park in Alexandra.

There were exceptions of course - Brent Edwards, the long time Sports Editor of the Otago Daily Times, could make a dour draw between "an under-strength Otago" (always under-strength for some reason) and the touring Malawi B side in Antarctic conditions in Invercargill sound like edge-of-the-seat stuff. But Brent was a rarity.

Fast forward to 2007, and Wellington readers are treated to the thoughts of former Wellington and, er, New Zealand bowler Jonathan Millmow. Some readers will struggle to remember the gangly Millmow pulling on the national strip, but like the legendary Robert Kennedy, Brian Barrett and Kerry Walmsley he played his walk-on role in our search for pace bowlers.

Millmow, it appears, has finally made it to the Caribbean for the Super Eight stage, after Fairfax hedged their bets on the Black Caps making it this far. JM's first contribution on tour in the Dom today continues his well trodden path of talking about himself (apparently about to expire from dehydration).Before long there will be a perceived slight from the management directed at him, and recollection of his heady days playing in Sharjah.

No chance of conflict between Richard Boock from the NZ Herald and the Black Caps on this tour. Boock does have some form with the current team hierarchy, but the apparent poverty at APN in Auckland means that Boocky is in the Caribbean courtesy of NZ Cricket. Our very own 'embedded reporter'.

However odd this might seem, The Herald as found a way of sinking even lower. Chris Rattue's column on 'the sham of the World Cup' is a bizarre piece. In summary, all world sporting tournaments are flawed, the Cricket World Cup is especially buggered, and Chris has not watched a game since Bob Woolmer's untimely passing. Eh?

Rattue has decided, with absolutely no proof or evidence, to go all Safraz Nazwaz on us and claim the whole tournament is a jack-up. Apparently, the Cricket World Cup can not claim that the best team won. Chris might not have been following closely but neither India nor Pakistan (the major teams out of the competition) figured in anyone outside of Mumbai or Karachi's picks for the semis.

By not watching any games since Woolmer's passing, Chris may not know that Matt Hayden has played a couple of the finest one day innings that you are ever likely to see, or that the Black Caps are actually looking half organised, or that Murali and Malinga all but pulled off the impossible against South Africa this morning.

Of course the World Cup is not beyond reproach. It is undoubtedly too drawn out, the quality of the pitches is having an impact on some of the games, and of course there is corruption in the global game. We all mourn Bob Woolmer.

But Chris, there is also tension, drama and quality. It is a spectacle, on an international scale, where New Zealand is right up there. On the bright side, I guess we won't have to hear from Ratatouille again since he is not watching any more games. Stick to the league mate.

Grant Robertson

There's been a kerfuffle in the local media lately about stereotyping. The Otago Daily Times stands accused of stereotyping students as howling amoral scum. Critic stands accused of stereotyping Dunedinites as fatuous, scapegoating killjoys.

It's the kind of debate that's been cropping up in university towns since 1355, when the good people of Oxford got sick of irresponsible student carousing and pitchforked 63 of them to death, acting on much the same uncharitable thoughts that have occurred to anyone who's ever had to hold a mate's hair back over a toilet. I'd be a fool not to throw my two cents in.

I've been at university for a while now, mostly studying intellectual and cultural history - that is, relating what people did to what the hell they thought they were doing. This often involves taking stereotypes and figuring out if there's any truth to them. It's an interesting field.

I've also done a lot of partying. I've partied with anti-authoritarian punk-rockers and technocratic cyberjocks. I've partied with gibbering, dope-addled hippies and shrieking, bondage-corseted Goths. I've partied with freshers celebrating the arrival at Unicol and postgrads celebrating the completion of their PhDs. I've partied with ISO footsoldiers and ACT list candidates, unconscionable teenage skanks and steel-willed moralists suspicious of mixed flats, mummy's boys born within sight of campus and international students from Norway, Mexico and Mongolia. I've never met a student who fell into only one of those categories. I fall into three or four of them myself. We're a diverse bunch.

At least superficially. The common denominator is that students are, more or less, divorced from genuine adult responsibilities. Students are overwhelmingly in their teens or twenties. They rarely have mortgages. Flirtations, hook-ups and shagging are rampant, but few students are in relationships they couldn't (and, let's be honest, wouldn't) pike on tomorrow if the mood struck them. And mixing study with parenting, although possible, is difficult enough to be tellingly uncommon. The vast majority of students are, it seems, too busy partying to have lives.

And it's this freedom from actual responsibilities, I suspect, that causes the behavior the ODT complains about. As I write this in Burns CAL at 3:45pm on Tuesday 27th March, two guys are conspiring to get up to no good at the forthcoming Hyde Street party. And it will be noted that in the video for 'Frat Nation' ("Let's burn the whole cunt tree down!"), Deja Voodoo fire a missile labeled 'BEER' into a toga party, not a suburban barbeque. Students who have gotten real lives tend to behave more sensibly. The couple I knew last year who bought their flat drank in strict moderation, got to bed around ten and collected pornography primarily for comedy value. For all she likes to project an image of roaring drunken belligerence, the single mum/linguistics major I've been hanging out with lately burns few couches. She saves the matches for her ex-husband.

As for the other side of the equation - the stereotypical Dunedinite - I haven't partied with many of them. They tend to have work in the morning, not to mention a spouse to report in to, a son who's been caught wagging and a daughter who wants a tattoo. If that's a stereotype, however, I think it's one that nails the key common denominator of Dunedin society. North Dunedin may bulge with twenty thousand students for eight months a year, but all year round the suburbs of Kenmure, Green Island and Waikari are stuffed to the gunnels with about eighty thousand people leading normal, happy, exasperating, complicated, non-subversive little lives that have no particular connection to the university.

Reading Critic you could be forgiven for thinking that this constitutes some sort of terrible foolish cop-out. Which is wrong. I come from a Dunedin family more normal than some of its members might care to admit. And judging from those people I've met who didn't grow up in normal families - the girl whose facial deformity comes from when her father thumped her as a toddler, for example - it's a good place to come from. Attentive, mature parents will do you more good than the best flatwarming party you've ever been to, however nice the punch was. Parents who get drunk, shout, split, improvise priorities and cling to preposterous adolescent conceits - who behave like students - will do more damage than every irritating flatmate you'll ever have. The quiet suburban banality Critic so quickly writes off is real life. We are not.

Yet. Because there's one social stereotype that I think is completely and unqualifiedly justifiable. Student days are the good old days, but they are not real life. Though some may enroll again, no suburbanites will ever genuinely return to the student lifestyle. Students are, however, destined for suburban life in some form. And those who resist the transition, cling unduly to their youth, or foster the infantile notion that doing so is somehow noble, will be poorer indeed.

Time to take stock. After a loopy opening session, a coach is dead, and there's a media whodunnit playing out (Roy and HG are suggesting CSI Jamaica). Most of the world's fans are in mourning, since unbelievably, India and Pakistan are gone. Ireland and Bangladesh are not. They are basking by the hotel pool of dreams. But take a photo, it'll last longer: they are soon to be stampeded. And the world champions are back in some nick, bigtime.

Enough, you know all of that. Thankfully, from our distant shores, Rupert Murdoch and the curvature of the earth will ensure we don't burn out or overdose actually watching games. But history tells New Zealand fans not to save themselves for the finals. Put in the hard yards early. Secretly anticipating the worst is not only part of our national character, it's good for your mental health: samurai philosopher and cricket stalwart Yamamoto Tsunetomo recommends meditation on inevitable death be performed every day. We'd best visualise repeat flayings from the bat of Kallis, annihilation from searing Malinga bullets, hopes erased by rubbery infield contortions of Pup Clarke. And perhaps we should ponder Bondy dislodging limbs from our own boys in the nets.

Soldier on

On that note, Stephen Fleming isn't concerned about recent injuries and the shuffled lineup. Speaking from his hospital bed last night, he's confident that sending over more of the Northern Districts squad as cover should mitigate the teething problems with the new training method of wearing blindfolds in the nets. Seriously though, nobody seemed woebegone when Tuffey's arm came unstuck, but we thought Gillespie would recover more quickly from his, er, paralysis. We are plain anxious about the hammie of Ross the Boss. We're ravaged by grief at the loss of Mad Dog Vincent. However, Chopper Reid says it best: 'Harden the f**k up'. We are kiwis, by god. Number eight sodding wire. Chris Harris came out to bat at the SCG with his shoulder rotator cuff torn off. Jake Oram was willing to have a finger off for the cup. So Vincent can be fixed, his broken wrist married up, made good to go. Just a couple of titanium bolts and some magic water. Surely Hamish Marshall could donate a forearm.

Alex Gilks