Contemporary cricket's 7 most talked-about body parts

Doosra gets physical. Well, make it anatomical. That would not only pre-empt dirty connotations but also lend the piece a rather serious tone.

Much like Stephen Fleming talking about blockhole. Or is it Stephen Hawking talking about blackhole?

Whatever.

Gone off the rails a bit? Well, let me put the record straight.

Doosra goes anatomical. Mind you, that is what we had agreed on. And a bit metaphorical as well.

You'll agree, any blogger worth his salt, sugar and jaggery would do everything to bring Lalit Modi and John Buchanan into the picture and hence the detour.

So here goes the list of contemporary cricket's 7 most talked-about body parts, both figurally and figuratively.

1. Spine: The vertebral column that Virender Sehwag, fed up of the invertebrates, insists on in every Delhi selector.

2. Nose: The Olfactory System belonging to John Buchanan, cricket's own Pinocchio, which has a mind of its own and a tendency to poke itself at the slightest opportunity.

3. Forefinger: The erratic appendix in Rudy Koertzen’s body. Some batsmen are ready to bear the expenses if Rudy agrees to get it surgically removed.

4. Toe: An average cricket administrator's most endangered part when Lalit Modi is around.

5. Ear: The portion of Sachin Tendulkar that the latent Mike Tyson in Phillip Hughes wants to 'chew off'.

6. Heel: The posterior end of the foot that actually belongs to Kevin Pietersen but medics insist on calling Achilles'.

7. Knee: The joint of Andrew Flintoff's right leg, a definitive testimonial of how dud NASA is.

Cricket loses masculinity!

Somewhere something extraordinary has happened.

And it's graver than allowing George W Bush to formulate English grammar or asking Paris Hilton to head the next NASA project.

Cricket has just become less masculine!

Of course you had the omens in Alastair Cook's mascara, RP Singh's eyeliner and Nathan Bracken's hairband but here comes the definitive confirmation.

A bunch of eunuchs has beaten their male counterparts. And lest there is any confusion, let me make it clear that I'm not talking about Ashes.

After third man and third umpire, the third sex made its debut in cricket somewhere in Sindh, Pakistan.

A BBC report claims the eunuchs chased down a 66-run target from eight overs with such aplomb that some of the ICC Full Members are lucky that they were not there.

Chasing down those cars on the traffic signal was finally of some use, the winning captain later revealed.

Teams that tend to choke in their chase can give it a try, he...err...she...or... whatever said.

While most coaches dismissed it as a madcap idea, John Buchanan is rumoured to have found some logic in it and is looking for a team where he can put it in practice.

Pix: BBC News

Just not cricket!

Gilchrist flays Tendulkar in his autobiography.

Graeme Smith lashes out at his ex-boss Norman Arendse in his diary.

Hadlee rips into Stephen Fleming in his memoir.

Buchanan bashes Tendulkar, Dravid, Ganguly and Ganguly’s cocky cocker spaniel in his book.

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Now where have all those players gone?

As you took guard, revenge would gleam in the bowler's eyes. Merely the wicket won't do. They wanted to see blood on turf.

They were veritable demons who would snarl, bark and holler inside your eardrum at the end of their follow through. Giving you glare and a piece of their mind till you start trembling in your boots and show signs of shrinking.

From the slip cordon will emanate a barrage of ceaseless unflattering allusions to certain members of your family till you blush and cringe enough to miss the line.

But at the end of the day, hostilities would stay behind when they walked off the field to share a banter and beer, hands around each other's shoulders.

More importantly, they bore no grudge. If they had to settle a score, they did it head-on, not hiding behind the jacket of a book.

They did not take mental note of each and every innuendo and returned to the hotel room to dip their nib in poison and then rush to the publisher to market the malice.

Let's admit, they were not peddler of the poison.

Where have all those players gone?

7 Reasons Why England Can’t Win Ashes

1. The John Buchanan miasma. This should be the cinch;

2. By scheduling the opener in Cardiff, England essentially and inadvertently opted for an away match and lost the home advantage;

3. Keeping with his form book, Andrew Flintoff is destined to miss the bus to the ground on the most crucial day of the series;

4. By placing Matt Prior behind the stumps, England has made the prior announcement that they are taking Caught Behind and Stumping out of the equation. While this is very chivalrous of them, England’s bowling does not look good enough to get 20 Australian wickets sans these two crucial modes of dismissals,

5. Kevin Peter Pietersen, Order of the British Empire (OBE), would deliberately under-perform, fearing another Ashes triumph would invariably incur a similar mile-long obnoxious title which no 21st century man in his senses would fancy;

6. Cricket Australia’s threat of bringing back Buchanan, in case of an Ashes loss, ringing in ears, Ricky Ponting and his men would settle for nothing less than a win;

7. Leaving no stone unturned in their preparation, Australia had no less than F1 driver Mark Webber telling them how to run faster between wickets. Sadly, neither Lewis Hamilton nor Jenson Button displayed as much patriotism and bothered to turn up at the Poms practice.

Pix: Mike Egerton/EMPICS Sport

Buchanan's boot camp beans spilled!

Adam Gilchrist does not say whether Warne alluded to the female members in John Buchanan's family when he badmouthed the coach.

Gilly, however, does say that spin rivals Warne and Stuart McGill buried their hatchets and turned comrade-in-arms against Buchanan's boot camp idea.

Asked to strip down to the bare minimum, Gilchrist does not disclose his own brand but he 'reveals' Warne's uses 'Playboy' undies, memorably depicted in a UK tabloid.

Gilly tells when asked to deposit 'dependent medication', Mike Hussey handed over asthma inhaler, while Warne reluctantly submitted five packets of Benson & Hedges!

Gilly reveals their media manager, also put through the drill, threw up in a bush but survived to tell the tale.

Gilly divulges three guys had to share "a tin of chunky soup" and "half a loaf of bread" in dinner and there was neither cellphone nor any plump British nurse for Warne.

A grenade went off outside their camp and the cricketers had to run 5 km in pitch dark. While others started unpacking, Warne was busy with his "dependent medication" i.e. Benson & Hedges.

Now, don't tell me you need further reasons to buy "True Colours: My Life" by Adam Gilchrist.

Brace for the virtual pandemonium!

When BCC! members come together, miracle happens.

Geometrically speaking, it’s the diagonally opposite case of Shah Rukh Khan, Sourav Ganguly and John Buchanan coming together, when it needs miracle to make things happen.

As the race for the ugly trophy enters the last leg, the crème-de-la-crème of cricket blogosphere – and that naturally excludes yours truly – would go into a virtual huddle to give the Sambit Bals and Arun Lals a good run for their money.

So the Ankits, the Siamese twins from Mumbai, would pitch in, shoulder-to-virtual shoulder with Gaurav. And when I say Gaurav, I’m not necessarily alluding to the anorexic ape jumping up and down at the Sony Max studio.

John would be on hand and to clear the air, he has a surname which is not Buchanan. Ottayan, Achettup and Raja too would be lurking around in the corner but mind you, they can’t be cornered easily.

Pankaj would be insisting that his points are straight, while Nikhil, battered and bruised by Gilchrist’s semifinal knock, would moan about Jatman’s demise.

Q would be in the queue as well, exporting loads of T20 fundas, interrupted by the shy smile that apparently floored a certain Mayanti Langer in the recent past.

So you know, Bored Quickie is the place to be this evening, from 1930 IST to…sorry, can’t really predict the end.

Behind the KKR wall

A deathly silence greets you as you cross the unmanned gate. Inside the premises, umpteen tents dot the place and you feel you have strayed into a field of giant mushrooms.

Fortunately, they have plastered the inmate’s name on each of those tents and I decided to follow the protocol and start with the skipper.

The Baz seemed buzzing inside but lo! He was not roaring but actually snoring! Poor guy. Caught napping, always.

Considering how his and the team’s form have given him sleepless nights, only a man with a boulder for a heart would wake him up. But as I’m about to step out, Baz sprung on his bed and moaned “Stop the Lappie, I’ll go for the toss.”

I offer him water but poor Baz dropped the sitter. I offered him again and this time he fumbled and spilled half the content before finally latching on to it. In a state of trance, he drained the glass, tossed it back and then murmured, “I’m still the skipper, John. Let me go for the toss.”

My heart bled for him but I left him to his state and entered Ajantha Mendis’ tent, to see something that gave me goosebumps.

Stripped down to bare minimum, Mendis was lying prone on the cot with one guy shaving his head and another applying some sticky stuff on his skull.

I nudged the third in the tent and whispered “what’s the matter?”

“Poor fish. He had just overcome the trauma of the Lahore attack but Yusuf Pathan’s Super-Over terrorism probably left indelible scars on his psyche. So much so, he wants to quit cricket and wants to open a kiribath stall in Moratua,” he whispered back.

“By the way...”

Before he could finish, I found myself in the tiger’s lair. But instead of Ganguly, a gang of four was inside, engaged in intriguing activities.

Arindam Ghosh and Wriddhiman Saha, having swapped tracks for batik lungi and netted vests, looked agitated over a game of ludo while Ashok Dinda was looking at the mirror, admiring the headband, which, I’m told, can only be surgically removed.

I cleared my throat to draw attention and asked if Dada was around.

“No, he has gone out sulking. You know what? He’s called Sulk Hogan these days,” Ghosh giggled.


“And gora coaches call him albatross,” Saha chipped in.

Laxmi Ratan Shukla was dipping his brush in some solution and was rubbing it ferociously on some metal scraps, which was not quite recognizable from where I stood.

Shukla cast a dismissive eye on me and deadpanned, “I heard everything. You people better come and brush dada’s chains or I’ll tell him what you said.”

I left the commotion behind and ran into Mashrafe Mortaza, who looked lost, sitting outside his tent.

“Mian bhai! Tell me, is anything wrong with me? Do I look like a scheme?”

“Scheme!”

“Yes, these guys keep saying that I’m actually an Indian scheme to revive Bangladesh’s GNP.”

“well…err…I better be going.”

Buchanan’s tent was empty too. In his absence, Andy Bichel and Matthew Mott had occupied the place and were grimly pondering future, completely oblivious of my presence.

“I heard John would be fired and they would get Jyoti Basu to do the job,” Bichel said.

“Why?”

“They said KKR is a house divided and the Basu lad has presided over a fractious coalition for some donkey’s ears,” Mott explained.

“You think we got a chance?” a worried Bichel asked.

“No mate,” said Mott.

“Only Steve Waugh has some chance. They have changed emigration rules and Tugga is the only Australian allowed in Kolkata.”

EXCLUSIVE: Chris Gayle’s parting speech at KKR camp

Let’s face it, we ah in a cool hole maan. I sniff there is a Babylon* in KKR and I donno who’s the bloody bald-head*.

I come from Jam Down* all upful* for some jamming but kiss my neck*! We dug a hole for us and we no more ah the Mr Mention*!

You Johnnie and your effing ideas! Chuck that bean maan and get a new one. I’m sure the nurse had bounced you on your bean soon afta' yoh birth and the floor cracked.

And that multiple-fathahood idea stinks too. So stay away from my dawta*.

Yu Brendon the brain-dead. Skip skipping skippie. Just nowt your mug of Tui. A Rastafarian has more dawta* than runs you scored.

And for Jah’s* sake, get rid of those vulgah tattoos. If can’t, get rid of that arm awltogetha’, maan. You can’t baat worse, can you? You can then win maatches single-handedly maan!

Awnestly, it looks awful, jus’ like graffiti in a wall in Kolkata. I wonda’ no maan came and relieved himself on it yet!

Here you Dinda. Get a life maan and chuck that Bandu*. In Jam Dung*, only women weah that. Dennis Lillee bowled with headband but thaat was in last millennium. You no Lillee and this is no 20th century. Buy a time machine with the bucks you got and join us next year, you Bhuttu*.

Murli, stop being a Bobo*. Loosen that obnoxious snake-around-neck, or you’ll asphyxiate yourself, ovastan * you Bubu*?

Finally, Um happy that the Battybwoy* boss is not around. Him a fish*! The other day he tried to kiss me in the corridoh. I collared the bugga’ and he squeaked he wanted to see if the coloh sticks!

And I-Man* don’ like when he screams Gay-le, Gay-le when he sees me. I’m fine being Chris. Jah guide * maan, may Jah bless you.

(Pix: PA)
P.S. Considering Gayle’s speech had a generous sprinkling of Rastafarian mumbo-jumbos, Doosra offers a glossary:
Babylon: Negativity of a system;
Bald-head: Person involved in Babylon;
Jam Down/Dung: Jamaica;
Upful: Positive;
Kiss my neck: Expression of wonder;
Mr Mention: Talk of the town;
Dawta: Girl friend/woman;
Jah: Lord;
Bandu: Hair band;
Bhuttu/Bobo: Fool;
Ovastan: Understand;
Battybwoy/Fish: Gay;
Jah guide: Rasta farewell;

Crystal ball gazing: Strategy Breaks in IPL II

Purists have already booked their preferred burial place but the thing ticking inside Lalit Modi’s skull can't wait to put them to sleep. Cricket luddites can go and fly a kite, Strategy Breaks are here to stay! At least till May 24.

Fuhrer Modi decrees there will be a seven-and-half minute break after every 10 overs so that Virender Sehwag can pop on your screen with a wig, MS Dhoni peddle a pesticide in bottle and Sachin Tendulkar try to convince about a bank that you just can't bank on.

Crystal ball gazing can be as much a puerile pleasure as cricket ball gazing and Doosra predicts how the following seven players would use the Strategy Breaks during IPL II:

1. Rahul Dravid: Having hit a miscued six before the break, he would shrink apologetically in his boots and shudder at the very thought of looking at himself in the mirror after this felony;

2. Harbhajan Singh: Banished to the solitude of deep third man, Bhajji would chase terrified teammates and empty his pocket to convince them that he has no hit-list this year;

3. MS Dhoni: Will rush to the coiffeur waiting just outside the rope for a new haircut resembling his wagon wheel;

4. Andrew Flintoff: Will inform Vijay Mallya about his readiness to join Bangalore Royal Challengers provided he is offered the blind-tasting job at any of his breweries for the rest of the year.

5. Ashok Dinda: Will be frogmarched off the ground for scratching all four of his quibbling Knight Riders captains;

6. Sourav Ganguly: Of them all, only Dada would be strategizing. He will tell L R Shukla, Wriddhiman Saha and Debabrata Das exactly how much they would get for switching off the dressing room light and putting a sack over John Buchanan’s head so that he can bean the Aussie.

7. Shane Warne: Would fish out his cell and frantically type a series of lewd text messages for plump British nurses before pressing the wrong button and sending it instead to his estranged wife Simone.

IPL fantasy becomes a rewarding exercise!

Post-IPL, I often wondered what if Andrew Flintoff joined Kolkata Knight Riders. Would he and Sourav Ganguly relive the Lancashire dressing room drama, going shirty and possibly shirtless too? Or is it actually Shah Rukh Khan who would eventually lose his shirt in such a possibility?

Similarly, I wonder how many, if at all, teeth John Buchanan would have retained had he been the Rajasthan Royals coach and popped the multiple-captain theory to Shane Warne!

Wait before you dub me a loony. Let me tell you I’m not the only one to indulge in IPL fantasy. Evidences suggest it’s a systematic disorder which is spreading like a rash among those smitten by the T20 format of the game.

Those who goes by my track record and steadfastly refuses to believe me, sample Fantasy Cricket (FC). And no, it is in no way linked to Kentucky Fried Chicken. Fortunately at FC, you don’t need to be either a liquor baron, or a Forbes-rated magnate, or a Bollywood actor or at least her boyfriend to own a team. Just create a profile, get a budget, pick a squad and pit your brain against fellow T20 lunatics.

If winning weekly IPL team jerseys doesn’t appeal to you, the grand prize of ticket for two to the ICC T20 World Cup might. And the guys running the league apparently won’t object if your partner is Geoff Boycott’s mother, Ian Botham’s mother-in-law, the girl friend of your best friend, daughter of your landlord or even your maid servant!

And those who consider T20 as a disgrace to humanity and would rather spend the time reading about Andrew Symonds’ fishing, Kevin Pietersen’s wife or Suzie Bates’ diet, can anyway home in on Cricket News here.

Warne, take a bow!

Another Shane Warne folk lore! Einstein won’t mind if I borrow a line and say cricket generations to come will scarce believe that such a one as this ever in flesh and blood walked upon this earth.

I’m dying to know what Warne had told Rajasthan Royal teammates in his first address before the IPL started. It must be cricket’s equivalent of Winston Churchill’s “Blood, toil, tears, and sweat” speech.

Though I’m not privy to that address, I reckon it went something like this:

Guys,

Get a few things right. Firstly, I know it can get heady to see someone like Graeme Smith descend from dreams to dressing room. But awe is awful, keep that aside. Believe me, prima donnas are brittle as bone china. Guys you have set on pedestals have feet of clay. Come and topple them.

Remember, every dog has its day and more so when you are the underdog. You have nothing to lose and a whole new world to gain, pardon me if I sound like Karl Marx or Groucho.

Everyone has a role to play and it exceeds far beyond the boundary of a cricket field. It’s a way of life. A movie is not only about the hero alone. You need the director, producer, script-writer, composer, lyricist, actors…right down to spot boys. The oddjobber may not look glamorous but he is indispensable! It’s called team work, silly.

Look mate, I'm not interested in your past but in your future, which is in your hands. Let's keep it simple. See the ball and the bat, not the reputation behind. Hit the ball and beat the bat, it's as simple as that. Don't listen to what laptop-totting morons like Buchanan say. They would make it look like rocket science. Hell with him and his laptop. We made him great, and it's not other way round. I've always maintained that at this level, the only coach you need is that vehicle that takes you from hotel to ground and ground to hotel.

Cricket matches are not won on laptop, but on greentop and shirtfronts and everything in between. Had laptops guaranteed success, Bill Gates would have been the most successful coach around. I still believe coaches should wear concrete boots and be chucked into Sydney Harbour, provided it's deep enough

Allow obscurity be your strength. Let them underestimate you before you hit like a bolt from the blue. Many a complacent Goliath has been slain by the unsuspecting David and cricket is full of such lores. You have 44 days to pen your own rags-to-riches story. Make a name and win a fortune, else hobble into oblivion. The choice is yours.

Image © 2008 IPL