The cricket World Cup has been a bore, a dud, a drag, a sublime turkey. Fifty-overs cricket was designed to be full of thrills, close finishes where desperate pinch-hitters flail and bowlers hit their top speeds, captains use their subtlest guile. Not so these past few weeks. We’ve only seen one or two adrenalin pumpers. The first match, between the West Indies and South Africa, was one where, with his stylish century, Brian Lara set the tone for what might have followed but never did. Since that match it’s been downhill all the way.
There’s been some excitement for spectators and vast television audiences, contributed in the solo performances of a few players — who will ever forget the infectious enthusiasm of the Kenyans, the dogged slogging of the Namibians? But what true pleasure has there been in watching the juggernaut of the Australian team flatten everything in its path, the wimpish English, the disordered Pakistanis? By the second week it was pretty clear that the final would be between India and Australia, with a faintly possible challenge from the Sri Lankans.
As for the South Africans, well, talk about predictable. On that Drakensberg ‘motivational” exercise did they ever get around to discussing things like bowling rates or were they too concerned with the ‘concepts of river-rafting”, ‘moving on” and ‘dealing with challenges” or was it just hourly prayers where they all knelt down facing Bloemfontein and the precious memory of prophet Hansie — or should that be spelt profit?
If any one image said it all it was that endlessly repeated television advert where the Proteas team were draped around in what looked like a large shed, in tenebrous gloom, being confronted by imaginary members of the public. There they were, our dynamic cricketing squad, fresh from their Drakensberg psychological oil-change: slumped shoulders, mournful expressions, dead eyes. You’d find more signs of life in an after-hours abattoir. From the back Allan Donald looked a like a frail old lady with bad kyphosis. All he needed was a crocheted shawl to complete the effect.
On the field the South African batsmen walked the way Cro-Magnon men once did, slouching around dragging their clubs behind them. My lasting vision of the Proteas was the sight of Lance Klusener emerging from the grandstand in the critical Kingsmead match where the team at last got what it had earned: a pitiful exit.
As the rain started to pour down out came ‘Slogger” Klusener, ambling as slowly as he could without actually falling down, twisting to look up at the sky, taking his time. Then facing eight balls to score one run. ‘That’s our Zulu,” said one of the commentators. ‘He always likes to settle in, to bring the thing down to his own pace.” Add to that the sight of Klusener’s captain, shoulders slumped, head in hands. At least South African cricketers get the body language right.
There’s no getting away from the disappointment, but one positive thing has come out of the tedium: the obvious fact that South Africa is quite capable of hosting such events. With a few trivial exceptions the technical side has gone without a hitch, the grounds have been beautifully prepared, the safety of spectators and players alike has been managed without a hitch. True, the sponsors and their brand-protecting storm troopers were disgusting, as was the shameless political interference of the International Cricket Council and others. Does sport really need such hungry parasites?
Another unpleasant spectre was raised by recent revelations in the English press about the more than 70 secret bank accounts that the great Hansie Cronje once opened in the Caymans and other murky financial laundries. No one will ever know what this celebrated Christian sportsman actually stole because further exploration of the Cronje sewer was halted at government insistence, at a stage when the inspectors had only got as far as the first sluicegate. Ministers and their crony cricket administrators clearly didn’t want South Africa looking bad and sorry for itself right on the eve of the World Cup. Far better to wait until the matches were under way and let the national cricket side do it for us.
An article in the English press said that figures of up to R250-million are regularly wagered on one-day cricket internationals. It is simply naive to believe that backdoor manipulation of results has not been taking place during this World Cup. Believe that and you’ll believe that once Cronje had shed his two carefully rehearsed tears at the King Commission the entire corrupt substructure of dirty bookmakers, dirtier cricketers and administrators, the whole squalid bangshoot simply folded their tents and crept away. International cricket has not been sterilised of Cronje-style infections.
This World Cup has not been played behind some ethical quarantine, nor will any future ones be. The crookery hasn’t gone and this World Cup no more celebrates true sporting achievement and glory than previous tournaments prompted the need for the opening of 70 secret offshore bank accounts by one of the most burnished of cricketing icons.
You want to take a bet on that?
Archive: Previous columns by Robert Kirby