Just after South Africa were beaten, and just before they were beaten again, Graeme Smith was interviewed by the eternally blithe Dave Papenfus on Radio 2000. Papenfus is that admirable breed of commentator who, like Parkinson, makes his guests feel utterly adored. One hesitates to say he shields his subjects from harsh questions, but in the world of sports writers — most of us Pinocchios — he is Jiminy Cricket and Tinkerbell rolled into one.
Thus cocooned in affirmation and gentle conversation, Smith relaxed into the affable young bloke he is. Ag, he said, the media had written a lot of nasty things, but those close to the team knew the real picture. If you’re watching from a distance, it’s only natural that your view would be skewed or inaccurate.
This sounded pretty lame at the time but, in retrospect, I must admit that the captain was absolutely correct. As someone who watches the Proteas from the outside, I confess that I had completely the wrong idea about the team.
My assumptions were flawed, my prognoses wildly off kilter, and the boys rubbed my nose in my predictions. It was not only wrong, but downright irresponsible of me to write three weeks ago that we could beat this Australian team. Had I bothered to get up close and personal with the people involved, I would have seen at once that we didn’t have a hope in hell.
Not when the coach’s most assertive public statement is not a congratulation to his bowlers for their brave first-innings effort at Durban, but instead a lively endorsement of Neanderthal pissing contests.
The sentient cricket watcher didn’t know where to look as the adultescent André Nel disgraced himself by abusing Adam Gilchrist, a batsman who had just helped himself to 22 runs off one over from the impotent Nel. It was as embarrassing as it was infuriating, the white-bread bully still burping threats as he is dismantled by a professional boxer. But that’s not how Mickey Arthur saw it.
On the contrary, according to Arthur, ”He always gives …”
No. Freeze the frame, with Mickey gazing at the sponsor’s tablecloth, halfway through a blink, his hands palm-up in the international sign of the excuse. Let’s make this interesting. Let’s guess what came next. Let’s play ”What Does André Nel Always Give?”
Does he always give the impression that he’s an 11-year-old playing with the nine-year-olds because the 11-year-olds find him tedious? Does he always give the production crew 50 bucks to crank up the speed gun so it says he’s bowling at 135kph instead of 125? Probably not. But let’s think like a coach. What would a coach say? What do coaches always say? What is the only rhetorical tool they use with 100% predictability? Enter the percentile.
So how much does Nel always give? 101%? Spare us the banality. 9 000%? Not likely: Arthur’s not in immediate danger of losing his job yet, so the numbers won’t be over 150 for the next few months. Could it be?
The outsider has already proved himself pathetically optimistic. He believes in common sense and repeatable results produced by repeatable methods. It seems incomprehensible to him that someone would still say ”110%”, a number rendered utterly meaningless by overuse, and now regarded as easily the most juvenile gob of half-arsed sporting propaganda dredged up by a floundering mind.
And yet, a 3-0 thrashing also seemed unlikely. Somehow, despite going to a school that wasn’t convened in an eccentric maiden aunt’s basement, and despite speaking to friends who are not imaginary, Mickey Arthur still thinks it’s okay to say ”110%”. Had he been a feral wolf-child, raised by benevolent sloths in the Amazon canopy, he still should have had it thrashed out of him by Franciscan monks.
But he said it, and then he said, ”We will back [Nel] up all the way and we will give him everything he needs to carry on delivering.” One assumes he’s talking about rabies shots.
All is not gloom, however. Indeed, the first concrete evidence of extraterrestrial life should be a cause for celebration. Of course, whichever interstellar race has kidnapped Nicky Boje and left this impostor in our midst can’t be all that bright: the faux Boje may look like our Nicky, but other than that he’s a wretched facsimile. Our Nicky chucks Free State melktert. This changeling gives the ball air, hits the rough, turns it off the straight, keeps the bat-pad fielders interested; in other words bowls quite beautifully.
Wherever Nicky is in the galaxy, and whatever probes are being introduced to his more tender parts, we wish him well. But don’t hurry home, okay?