Mitchell Johnson Still Searching For His Brain, Callum Finds A Loogie

Mitchell Johnson checks to see if it's still there.

Mitchell Johnson is a hack.

If I was a betting man (I am a betting man) I would have had my house, children’s university fund, three legged dog and a Michael Jordan retirement card on England winning Game 6 of the never ending ODI series. Like a scene from Clockwork Orange, half lucid, with eyes pried open, I strapped myself in for another evening of mindless goopie-da-doop. Instead, in the hours to follow I regained faith in a cricket team I had forgotten how to love; and now loved to hate.

As I was away-from-cricket working at my 9 – 5, I missed the Australian bowling effort; not that it bothered me much. Given the scoreline (England 333 off 50 overs) I could only assume it bordered somewhere between dismal, piss-poor and regulation. I had visions of the days play starring Mitchell Johnson, spraying them left right and center like a juiced-up, water cannon wielding roadie at a death metal concert. The batting on the other hand presented an optimistic nights play; a decent run chase by a team with nothing to lose,  a contest required given the foul stench of caution plaguing the series so far. To my delight, the Australians were indeed trying a positive approach with Watson ultra-violent, in a brutally entertaining opening 10.

Not everything changed, however. Shane Watson still went out for 51 playing an ass-clown shot as per usual (‘Yes, Watto! F*c|<, Watto!’, has become a catch-cry for the Australian summer) and Haddin still looked to be in amazing touch before adding to his curriculum vitae  of could-have-been-knocks.

Again, I cursed this bloody team. That is, until they broke the bore of number 4 (Clarke) and out walked Mitchell. Fully attentive my interest was perked, arousing me from an otherwise painful circumcision. Two months ago, I discussed this very circumstance with a colleague and fellow cricket head known only as “The Schlob”. We both agreed that Mitchell was underused as a pinch hitter and it was high time the cricketing world caught on. The plan was simple; When in doubt, elevate Mitch. When in need, elevate Mitch. Pretty much in any extraordinary situation, elevate Mitch. What’s the worst that could happen? He goes out cheap and avoids doing a similar asshat impersonation down the order, where he often feels like he has to be an asshat because he is a bowler and that’s what asshat bowlers do. But Mitchell Johnson is so thick that you can trick his simple mind by pushing him up the order, telling him he is a batsmen, giving him a good butt-slap as he passes the gate and viola! He’s batting like Tendulkar.

My second highlight of the night and possibly the winner of the Schlob Award goes to the gum-nut starlet, human boggle head Callum Ferguson. Don’t get me wrong, I like Callum, and unlike most Aussies I actually like Adelaide too. But, Callum – what in the hell, were you thinking? If you want to have a grolly (spit for un-enlightened) and you are on 45 not out, save yourself the embarrassment of a saliva face plant and lift your grill up – or better yet, wait til you pass 50 and pretend you just made a hundred. Again, Callum – I know it wasn’t your fault, you didn’t know the cameras were on you at the time, but seeing  you traipse around in an attempt to remove a hovering loogie (grolly for those in the know) from your helmet grill, took the shine off a solid innings, as did getting run out on 46 a few balls later.

Oh, and Clarke finally made runs. Good boy. Good night.