Speaker by Various Artists

It would be fair to say that Sri Lankan cricket has come along way in the 25 years since they were granted test status. They rolled up in New Zealand in 1983, full of hope and exotic surnames. There were two sets of brothers- Ratnayekes and Wettimunys. Throw in Goonasakera and De Alwis and it was a challenging summer for Messers Gallaway, Sharp and co.

It was not the most successful of tours. Although Sri Lanka actually led on the first innings in the second test, they lost both tests heavily. New Zealand was at the peak of its beige powers. Glenn Maitland Turner had returned to the team after his feud with Walter Hadlee, and was setting about changing the way opening batsmen played one-day cricket. He also had a very unfortunate moustache. In Auckland he blazed 140 at a time when hundreds, let along big hundreds, were a rarity in the shortened form of the game. New Zealand made 304, and in reply the Sri Lankans made 188/6 off their 50 overs. I guess they were happy playing for the draw. Turner actually bowled a maiden towards the end of the innings- along with those well known net bowlers John Wright and Jeff Crowe.

Obviously Sri Lanka’s greatest moment until now was winning the 1996 World Cup, but they have not stopped getting better. We have not seen the best of them in NZ until this summer when they humiliated the Black Caps in Auckland.

They are now a very well balanced side. Despite their capitulation to the Aussies this morning, I think the Cup is theirs for the taking. Bowling is the undoubted strength and with Vaas, Malinga and Murali in the line-up they can take any team. Especially the Black Caps. We just look plain uncomfortable. Not only against the three strike bowlers, but we also seem unable to use our feet to get to Jayasuriya or Dilshan. I am not saying it is easy. I once played against a guy with an action just like Malinga (where are you now John Guytonbeck?) and I never saw the ball, and he probably bowled half the pace.

So, given that we are all but certain to play Sri Lanka in the semis, how do we go about beating them? Well to start with, even on a low slow wicket, you have to put them in. If there is any weakness it is at the top of the order. Other than Jayasuriya they can look vulnerable if placed under pressure. It is getting harder, Jayawardene is coming into some form, but it is the only way.

And in reply we need to do our best to milk Murali for 30-40, and score heavily off the others. Hit Vaas off his line early, and get down the wicket to the spinners. As for Malinga- I recommend closing your eyes and swinging. It worked against Guytonbeck.

Biggest game of the tournament tomorrow. Poms v South Africans. I just have a little feeling the wheels are falling off the Proteas, but I can’t stand the thought of Paul Nixon celebrating a win. On balance I have to say it will go to South Africa. As Deaks would say, your thoughts?

Grant Robertson

Malcolm sped into the kitchen in his jeans and pink rubber gloves. 'What do they DO in the bathroom?' he wondered. He dropped his flatmate's magazines into the bin, stashed his bottle of disinfectant, checked his reflection in the teapot and grabbed his list. They would be here soon. His first party of the new decade. Vacuuming – check. Straightening the furniture – good. Artwork – check. He'd taken down the tatty band posters and put up some new space travel ones he borrowed from the physics department, as well as the one with the close-up of the bikini bottoms and the message 'Hang loose!'. The scene was set.

Soon they'd be here, he'd greet them at the door, they'd pay the cover charge (correct change, please) and pick up a paper cup of punch, and start talking to each other about whatever people talk about at these things. Their studies, things happening in the news, Vietnam, cricket. The list again. Music. Music! Where was the band? Don't they wear watches? It was a simple arrangement, surely – book them, and they will come. He'd made a simple request that they clean their instruments first. Had he missed something? People seemed to like music at parties. He dusted off Frank Sinatra's 'Watertown' and put it on the record player. Good. Groovy, most likely.

Where was everyone? Weren't they aware he was destined for great things? Didn't they notice how easily he influenced people? He could shape big things. His skills were legendary in the department. He could head off any speculation with accurate precedent, he'd illuminate political gossip with legal anecdote. At his birthday party he'd had those guys from commerce eating out of his hand. The sociology girls from next door were always complicating these affairs with quite strange ideas that made some of the guests uncomfortable. Malcolm had tried to explain the simple transactional nature of social gatherings. He'd tried to explain that fundamental market forces apply – his supply creates a demand. Talk and they will listen.

He looked at the clock and frowned. They will come.

Bermuda shorts

As I write, Antarctica is knocking at the door, the shadows are long on the television and Bryan Waddle is delivering one of his dire verdicts that sound like a homily from a hungover coach. Sri Lanka, that flighty mountain goat of a cricket team, are capering past our paltry score. Which bleak clichés will you enjoy today? A dose of reality. Stumbling toward a semi. I turn on the TV and Ian Smith is gruff. I turn the radio back on. Smithy is there also. I hope he's careful, this world cup seems to have a high rate of attrition. Rigor has gone missing. Jerry Coney is still astray. Has it been that bad?

For cricketing enlightenment in difficult times, you must try 'Ganesha Speaks', where you can view, among other things, Daniel Vettori's biorhythm report. Scroll down to view the head to head strength charts, with our Dan taking on Ricky Ponting. Superb.

Humour ought to help. Who said sports fans don't deal in satire? Unfortunately at this site they have to spell it out, but they've wholesome mirth aplenty. The team in the studio here particularly Malcolm Speed's announcement of the 'Super Surprise' round, featuring NZ v France, and the mid-Super 8 "Vicars and Hoes" [sic] fancy dress party.
Macca has been quiet lately, since the moratorium on players blogging. And the tour diaries of the Black Caps have been consistently artful, with James Franklin emerging as the new Barry Crump.

Having assiduously side-stepped all political affiliations for many years, I am almost ready to tale off my culottes, grab my musket, put on my C.D. of Les Miserables and stand atop the barricades I’ve made behind my house using fruit boxes and disposable nappies. Treat this as a clarion call. Join me in the revolution. Let us resist the attempt by the I.C.C. and Sky to make us watch this lumpen tournament. It is the sports version of the longest Russian movie ever made - endless and mostly boring, with occasional moments of drama that only to serve to confuse us further. And it’s on television at an obscene hour.

Everybody else is happy. The players are happy. Ross Taylor has had weeks to recover from his hamstring pull. Mark Gillespie has got feeling in his shoulder. Hamish Marshall has played himself into form. Stephen Fleming has had time for people to forget that he called the game against Ireland a “tricky match”. Craig McMillan said this morning that the amount of cricket was wearing him out. Six games in over a month. That’s what a club cricketer manages.

The journalists are happy. One patsy interview a day and the newspapers feel justified in giving their man in Antigua an expense account. That’s just one tired metaphor a day. Money for condiment.

Everybody in the West Indies is happy. It is almost impossible not to be. Trinidad has the greatest beach I have ever seen; Grenada the most beautiful capital. The national currency of Barbados is Mount Gay rum. Antigua has a beach for every day of the year, or so they claim. St Lucia has a pair of mountains that look like breasts. I saw a friend of mine on telly at one of the matches wearing a cowboy hat and not much else. She was indubitably happy.

Everybody is happy except the poor sorry viewer on the other side of the world. Any momentum this tournament may have had has sunk like a pedalo. Games have been rationed at one per day for the entirety of the Super 8 series, no doubt to feed content-hungry broadcasters. Good Friday our time, the organisers had enough contempt for us that they didn’t even bother to schedule a game. Or the next day. The broadcasters are happy.

I however am not. New Zealand is in the semi-finals, barring a disaster which I wouldn’t want to watch anyway. We have played with the cold efficiency of Aeroflot stewardesses. There have been only three exciting games this entire round – England finally finding some backbone against Sri Lanka, South Africa almost choking before their tail-enders performed a team Heimlich manoeuvre. And Bangla Tigers mauling the Proteas and providing the smallest of hopes for England or the Windies. Three out of 12 is a bad strike rate even for Michael Vaughan. And you have to remember, I love cricket. I can consume it all day, like bar peanuts.

Admittedly this round hasn’t been helped by the absence of Pakistan and India but they were the necessary casualties of the bloated opening exchanges. If they hadn’t happened this entire tournament would have seemed like a chore, an ordeal, a marathon, or telethon, even. Their elimination sparked our interest. Unfortunately that interest has been extinguished by the glacial pace of the schedule. And the schedule? Designed to allow the big teams to play the most cricket, to sell the most products to line the satin pockets of the cricket’s cigar-chompers.

Of course there have been quality performances. Matthew Hayden’s batting. Baz McCullum’s all round game. Bondy. Malinga. That throw from Shane Watson. And this pitch report from the Guardian: “It looks like a Jackson Pollock reject. There are strange wavey lines all along its length.”

But really, enough. Already. I am a busy man. I can’t really be bothered setting my alarm for 5.30 a.m. yet again with the hope that something magic will happen. The I.C.C., the broadcasters and the organisers have shown a lack of concern for us, the viewer, as we sit in the wee smalls, as liverish draughts tickle our ankles and remind us that its only 20 shopping days till winter. Let us put down the remote. Let’s break the cycle. Start the revolution. Man the barricades. Turn the telly off at the wall. Eschew games where muppets are playing, including the Windies and England. Paul Nixon as Statler. Brian Lara as Waldorf.

Until 1.30 am April 13th that is. Black Caps against Sri Lanka. It’s gonna be a ripper.

Hamish McDouall

After another clinical, efficient display against less than stellar opposition, the Black Caps are rightly feeling satisfied with themselves. But a dark cloud hangs over the team. Apparently they lack charisma. No, not the need for an Olympic medal winning horse roaming the outfield, but that indefinable magic that gives cricket journos something to write about.

In the Guardian, the word is out:

somehow there is efficiency without charisma. Shane Bond excepted, the best fast bowler in the tournament. They conform to the sort of old stereotype that still dogs German football teams. Perhaps it is the uniform, as bible-black as Dylan Thomas's Llareggub at night, which lends a puritanical air.

It would be fair to say Thomas' fictional Welsh mining town (spell it out backwards) may not mean a lot to our lads, but we get the message. Dour, stoic, boring.

Should we be up in arms at this insult directed at our growing, but fragile sense of nationhood? Or is he right, are our cricketers a bunch of emotionally retarded automatons?

At first blush it seems wrong. The lads celebrate wickets with gusto. Lots of mistimed white boy high-fives and bottom touching/slapping. They have gone to, and over, the boundary as often as the other big names in the tournament. Brendon McCallum has been awarded the chattiest wicket-keeper award. They are multicultural, short and tall.

What do these people want? Was it charismatic when Chris Cairns had long hair? Or when the lads ensured that the smoke in South Africa wasn't just coming from the BBQ? Is it charismatic to lose, but have batsman walloping holes in the dressing room wall live on TV. (a la Ken Rutherford in South Africa)

But then maybe they are right. It is in fact our national psyche that is on show. The Black Caps are doing a good Kiwi thing. They are getting on with it. They have planned, prepared, and are executing. They are all-rounders, all as good as each other (save for Bond of course). They are as comfortable working in the office as they are doing DIY on the weekend.

There is no Brett Lee, putting out albums and still in the face of a batsman, or Freddy Flintoff, paddle boating, or Murali wide-eyed, all flailing limbs.

What there is, is Dan Vettori looking unco, but oh so effective; there is Scott Styris, last pick at school dance, but showing the finest of form. And then there is Flem - cool under pressure, movie star looks, but so far limiting his cinematic roles to ventilation systems and real estate.

I don't think the South Africans are greatly different from us in this regard, but no one accuses them of lacking charisma. I guess its because they wear green. In reality what is happening is that we are a small country, not in the same timezone as Europeans, and they had not really thought about us doing well. To try to explain it they go for some 1950s stereotype of New Zealanders.

One thing is for sure - whatever happens I will take winning over charisma any day of the week. But we could consider a CD of sing-a-long hits. Mark Gillespie does Ten Guitars? They will no doubt be queuing up for that in Mumbai.

Grant Robertson

It's the world cup, it's playing out in paradise, and there are hardly any fans at the games. Yesterday's game in Guyana was a case in point. Sri Lankans v the hosts, whose backs were firm against the wall. But sod all went to watch. Guyana is a very poor country, and tickets cost the equivalent of nearly a month's wages.

Can you pinpoint the exact moment when your favourite sport was poisoned by greedy financiers? In football this is a perennial theme. The big European clubs, for example, have apparently lost their local identity, their sponsors and oligarchs thrust squillions at chairmans and boards to supercharge their playing personnel and other investments. But it's kind of an old issue, and can blur with racist arguments when there aren't apparently enough of 'our boys' in the side. And these gripes won't go away, so long as every Saturday there are hundreds of thousands of fans ready to trudge up to the gate and shell out. Or, more likely, so long as there are many millions more paying to watch the games on the telly.

Some purists think cricket sold its soul during the Packer revolution, when very silly and colourful clothes grabbed test cricket by the trouser waist during the protracted saucy party we now call the seventies. But that's being a bit obstinate about commercial realities. And social ones. People like one-day cricket. They may continue to quite enjoy Twenty20 cricket, or they may fling it into the closet with the moths and Martin Crowe and Max.

The current malaise in one-day cricket started awhile back, and has a lot to do with pay television and exclusive rights. New Zealanders might think that Sky Television own cricket. Many submit, and pay the $35-60 per month to watch games; others boycott, and scan newspapers and websites for stories. But people adapt, and there's a new logic to the commerce. Yet too often we turn on the box and see something utterly illogical.

Empty stands. Is there anything more sad in theatre of sport? Stand up, you genius sports administrators. Where is the adherence to commercial realities here? The bureaucrats are deep in some salty dream, where hoards of locals from Guyana and Antigua and St Kitts forgo an afternoon of online stocks trading to toodle down to the cricket in their Bentleys. People are not coming to the games, so they (the West Indies Cricket Board) must lower the ticket prices, now. It really is that simple. A full house paying quarter price is better than a stadium quarter-full of people paying full price. If it's chocker, then they can sell loads of food and drink and musical instruments (particularly given people aren't allowed to bring in any of those). More importantly, we in TV-land would like some Atmosphere, that elusive quality that comes from large groups of people having fun. You can't buy that. Despite the obvious high-profile dilemmas in this world cup already, we still want our team to achieve something good in a good tournament, but not in some lame congress diminished by blind greed.

Alex Gilks