Show me a Domenech in cricket!

Son of a Catalan escapee of the Spanish Civil War, Raymone Domenech was known as "Leg-Breaker" for his approach to soccer in general and the Femur, Patella, Tibia and Fibula of the rival strikers in particular.

He is a former theatre actor, fortune-teller, tarot card-reader and happens to be the manager of the French football team who once took Zinedine Zidane & Co to watch Samuel Beckett's play "Endgame" on the eve of an important match.

And he once used a post-match interview to ask his partner to marry him!

So it's probably not surprising that the manager, at 57, managed to inspire a porn actress-turned-singer to record a song -- I Fancy Raymond -- that has become a rage in France.

"And if he attacked my penalty areas I would be without defenders," cooed the cupid-struck singer.

Now sample the lady-killers cricket has to offer.

Gary Kirsten, India: Alas Persis Khambatta is no more, for only Lt Ilia could fall for such baldness. Only redeeming trait is distributing sex dossier among Indian cricketers these days;

Andy Flower, England: Has a feminine facade. Was a wicket-keeper, which means never bowled a maiden over in his entire career, forget evoking a love song from a porn star;

Intikhab Alam, Pakistan: At the young age of 68, he prefers pain-killer, than being lady-killer;

Tim Nielsen, Australia: to start with, you are never sure which way he looks at. And you can’t speak highly of someone who has no qualms about planting his bum on the same seat that has been contaminated by John Buchanan’s posterior;

Mickey Arthur, South Africa: With the name of a cartoon character and an appearance to match, he can’t even complain if a girl comes and takes the Mickey out of him;

Andy Moles, New Zealand: The surname itself speaks the story. He shakes like custard and has a face which excites only anti-obesity campaigners. In fact so fat that you can actually slice him and have two coaches, if you want.

Pix

Is it a bird? Is it a plane?

Heroes need not necessarily come with a cape and undies on the outside. Some come in borrowed shirt and hamburger-stained pullover. Had Graeme Smith done a Ganguly, only then you could know whether his vest had an S sign on it.

Mickey Arthur yesterday said he would need a chain to hold Smith back. He naturally didn’t find one.

Steyn is gone and match is in bag. At least Australia thought so before Smith emerged from the blurred sea of heads, clutching the bat and walking down as every soul and every blade of the grass at SCG bowed their head.

Ponting’s men could not believe it. Neither could those present in SCG or the ones glued to their TV sets far away in Durban and Delhi, Cape Town and Kolkata, Pretoria and Patna.

Poor Hayden. He was still in a trance when the Ntini edged slipped through his butter-fingers.

Smith survived ball after ball and his aura grew big with every delivery. An exasperated Ian Chappell screamed “I can’t believe they haven’t tried a bouncer at him…Sentiments count for a little”. You could feel he was really aghast.

But not all Australians are potential cold-blooded murderers. Surprisingly, most don’t have horns on head and a tail somewhere tucked inside! They rather come across as completely normal, even emotional, human being with a striking ability to appreciate things which are good!

I’m sorry but by and large, pretentious cricketers have been poor ambassadors of the country.

On their feet clapping for Smith, the Australian WAGs too seemed to have a rather decent understanding of the game. Way better than their English counterparts with no qualms about bouncing on the knees of a tacky Texan billionaire.

Otherwise the Grandpa of Grandiosity, Nevil Cardus’ rare moment of understatement is - scoreboard is an ass. I’m convinced, it’s an outright liar too.

Pix: PA Sports