The Greek Goddess, Artemis, the most fearsome hunter of them all, roaming, rampaging, stalking her prey. Shortness of breath for a foe, rally upon rally from side to side, the darkness of the underworld gesticulating, the art of a miss did send Persephone to the depths of winter.

Hee-haw, hee-haw, the saw did cut by one. As time did pass, hee-haw, hee-haw, a mass did see with glee the free to shackle. O, hee-haw, hee-haw, the time has come to hackle and heckle the speckled cinder bypassing the once great. The reams - hee-haw, hee-haw – did seem to gleam with ever-expanding vacuity – hee-haw, hee-haw.

 An Agastopia within a bibbling Adynamia beneath the Apricity set in stone the tone whereby these wearied distrusting defensive guardians had their cerebral fortitude tested beyond the uniformity of armourised equalities.

The striated muscle of swing and seam working a parallel universe paying deference to humidities arc and side-splitting transmutations on many a tufts verdure foliage. Having arrested and gaoled three rogue, nomadic wanderers dangling outside off-stump amid the morning session, the second session’s assembly commanded a bisser . . . For which it duly generated. Another quad, rip it up swing and seam, strip a nerve wrecked fibrous stream’s dignity.

 Imagine Brendan McCullum if he were a general in the British army back in World War two. It wouldn’t be bazball, more bazwar. The hell with the consequences of his approach and decisions. All out attack in war. If it’s good enough on the Cricket fields of the world, it’s good enough on the shell holed fields of western France. Three hundred thousand men standing on the beaches awaiting evacuation, and, yep, you guessed it, general drivel decides to order the men off the beach and fight the German’s well stocked heavy artillery with the British soldiers few remaining poorly loaded pop guns. Hey, you’ve got to lose some wars to win other wars, never mind World War two spiraling down the drain for the allies, attack is where it is at. And never mind the chance to evacuate and draw this battle of the war and live to fight another day. Oh no, that is not his way. No need to be flexible and adjust to the circumstances offered up in this moment. Simply plough on and blame anyone and everyone for the carnage his egotistical mind has conjured up. Alack, alack, alack, it’s attack, attack, attack. Curse the flack, the media, the public, they are oh so slack minded. For he doth not his cap to the paying seat warmers . . . And particularly not defense. Oh sure, that war machine may overrun some meagre colonial outpost yet when the Germans come along with their rigid eyed malevolence, pop goes the serum of substance. An approach imagined and an approach better off consigned to the sewer.

Melbourne v Parramatta - Two things we learnt. 

The hatter is in the huyzen 

Ryan Papenhuyzen is mad. Ryan Papenhuyzen is insane. Ryan Papenhuyzen is utterly bonkers. To recap: Ryan Papenhuyzen is more mental than the mad hatter himself. Watch eighty minutes of Papenhuyzen plying his trade and you see a madman twisting and contorting his body as he smashes himself yet again into three defenders. Such a hammering does he take the lad might like to find himself a woman very soon, for if he keeps soaking this punishment up for another couple of years, he will be not more than a busted flush on so many different levels. He sure will not be the Fonz in the front of a mirror going “Heyyyy”. Brilliant he may be. A try scoring messiah he is. And a consummate team man always at hand to aide his forwards on their mission to escape their own half he is. But an indestructible object he will not be for all eternity. His being may be malleable enough at this young stage of his career but keep this up and eventually limbs may be torn asunder and scattered upon the many territories of NRL stadiums. 

A sickly height 

With four minutes of the match to play and the scores level at twelve a piece, Parramatta put a high kick up, landing some twenty metres from the Storm’s goal line on their right edge. Or, at least, it would have landed had Parramatta winger Maika Sivo not outjumped all and sundry, caught said shiny little diamond and sprinted twenty metres to dive over and score the match winning try. And what did we learn from this? Well, maybe, that one of those sundry, George Jennings, may like to take Van Halen’s advice and jump instead of keeping his feet firmly planted to Terra Firma. Jennings may be wise to change his accent to ascent and climb the nodes of rare air and contest this heightened malaise of altitude sickness. Even if Jennings drops the pill, he has made it less likely for Sivo to have his way with the encounter. And one of Jennings teammates might then have been able to tidy the loose ball up and save the day – Or in this case, night. He didn’t, they couldn’t, Sivo made a star of himself.

So, Brad Fitler believes Jai Arrow was being disrespectful to an injured James Tedesco, who had been knocked senseless by an unintended knee to the head from an opposing player, when attempting to pull Tedesco off the ground. Steady on there, Brad. Back the emotional blame game truck up. We all get that you lost the match, and the series and emotions can sometime boil over, ergo, possibly clouding judgement. But let us hear from Arrow first. It is entirely feasible he did not realise the New South Wales fullback was concussed. He may have legitimately thought Tedesco was staying down, playing for a penalty. After all, many a foe has tried to get one over many a match official this past hundred years. The Hundred years war between Britain and France is not the only hundred years war, you know. Though, unlike the one in the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries, this is a war that may rage for an eternity. Which suggest that maybe, just maybe, we can give Arrow a shot at the benefit of the doubt. Now, none of this is to say that a player’s health should not be utmost in the minds of all. Of course it should. It is safe to say, though, accidents occur and sometimes, with more than one performer in the tackle, there will be contestants unaware when an injury may have befallen a participant. Perhaps now is the time for Fitler and his staff to concern their selves with the physical and mental wellbeing of James Tedesco, doing all in their power - As no doubt they will be – to nurse one of the game’s great players back to health instead of picking an unnecessary fight out of the vessel of sour grapes. Because we all know that Fitler is a decent man. Surely there is no need to let a loss change that reality.

The modern World, huh. Where our sporting heroes are all new age and sensitive. Like Neil Wagner. Yes, that mammoth of bowling excellence. The first change, always there for the team, he’ll work all day. Except, that is, five days beginning this Friday when the Black Caps do battle with India in Wellington. You see, the South African born paceman has been granted leave to be at his wife’s side as she delivers their soon to be newborn. Oh, how lovey dovey. A salary of six figures, the least you might expect was a little thought as to when he stuck his in hers and blasted a three second delivery of love her way. Seriously, there’s an enormous amount of thought that goes into sport these days, yet when it comes to the two heads, it seems the little one just couldn’t wait. Despite some finding his bowling methods somewhat tedious at times, he is still one of New Zealand’s top three pacemen. A vital cog. And his side are up against Cricket’s rarified might; India. As much as Wagner obviously wishes to support his beloved, she can surely pop the little guy – Or girl – out without his input. And he can be on the plane home on Tuesday afternoon. Of course, with a bit of thought, he could have played the Test Match – The ultimate form of the game – and witnessed the birth of his child. The best of both Worlds. But, unfortunately, it is rare for anything involving the nether regions to conjure up any form of rationality.

Remarkable. Quite remarkable. Chris Gayle, that is. Remarkable, that at the age of thirty-nine, in amongst the occasional controversy involving sexism – and, as an aside, let it be said that Gayle would have been of absolutely no use playing Rugby back in the seventy’s and doing the Willy away move - and the like, he still has the optics for batsmanship. 135 in 129 balls, today, at Kensington Oval, Bridgetown, Barbados, in the initial inning of this first of a five match series, the Windies talisman accumulated his twenty-fourth One-day Century in his storied double decade career.

Give it up for the Windies. A stellar effort, it must be said. Over such lengths of time they achieve. Two Tests and one session, there is no let up. Quite what one would expect, surely. Potentially thirty-one sessions and no drop off in intensity. There you go, give it up for the Windies. And no sign of their Captain, Jason Holder, in sight. At least not in this third encounter. For suspension intervened. Slow overrates intruded. Excessively slow, the top of the pile was demonised - Quite rightly – by match officials. Stood down for the Third Test in St Lucia, Holder has been replaced by Kraigg Brathwaite as skipper. And yet, here, on Day One, we once again see the Windies deliver another tedious effort of slowly frothing drudgery. So, give it up for the Windies. Such a stellar effort. Sure, the elements played their part. Thirty minutes off the park for rain. No fault of the bowlers, that one. Though, one hour after the scheduled finish of play, play was halted for bad light . . . With seven overs still undelivered. Wow. Nothing changes. Indeed. Okay, no bowler, nor Captain, can control bad light, or any light for that matter. Had they bowled those seven overs the home side would have finished the day ninety minutes over time. New Captain, same old, same old. Even allowing for the thirty minutes lost due to precipitation, The Windies are still going over time by one hour if the full allotment of overs had arrived at one batsman’s abode, let alone all eleven. So maybe sending the Captain into purgatory isn’t the answer. Maybe it’s time the ICC began to send not only the leader, but every playing member of the team up queer street. Yep, fine the lot. Just view the velocity of thought process between skipper and bowler between overs - and during overs - take on never seen before speed. Those pale of speed will soon turn green at the sight of such speed. Because, as we all know, money can talk faster than any 150kph bumper, and it can certainly tête-à-tête quicker than even the most cerebral of Cricketers. Then this blasphemy of the senses being forced upon the paying public may cease to exist. You watch, sending the lot up queer street will straighten them out with haste. Then the rest of us can witness a decent day’s Cricket and have an hour extra after play to inhale vivacity's delicacies. That’s the best of both worlds and value for money will have been garnered. Seems fair.

You get the feeling, sometimes, that if Colin Munroe was cast in Dumb and Dumber, he could play both roles! A silly, unnecessary dismissal. At two wickets down and going at six runs an over, all that was required was some sensible batting.

If you wish to see a changing of the guard anytime soon, may I suggest The Changing of the Guard at Buckingham Palace. Because you're sure not going to see a changing of the guard in Men's Tennis in the foreseeable future. Not with Rafael Nadal playing like this, at least. 6-2,6-4,6-0 and Stefanos Tsitsipas must have wondered why he bothered beating Roger Federer in the fourth round. And the great Federer, wherever in the World he was watching this demolition, must have been secretly relieved at missing being on the end of this wanton brutality. This wasn’t some first round bunny, ranked 132 in the World, Nadal was suffocating the life from. This was a Greek, a Greek ranked number fifteen and a Greek who conquered Federer not so long ago. Yes, Federer, one of the greatest to have played the game. And, allegedly, this made Tsitipas one of the next big things. This may well be but, if that is to be the case, it’s several years down the road. The Spanish great has just proved that Tsitsipas is not yet a Greek God. And after this semi-final eradication, Nadal will now enter his twenty-sixth Grand Slam Final against the winner of Tomorrow’s Semi-final between Novak Djokovic and Lucas Pouille. Legend. That seventeen of those have served his bank balance exceedingly well in the form of victory will mean zip to the thirty-two-year-old if he were not to replicate this performance and clinch an eighteenth title. For this lefty with hefty groundstroke’s appears as focused as ever. Revered he is by many, and rightly so, for the relentless efficiency off either wing – And those wings, particularly the forehand, with one around the net post winner grasping the gasps of illusionists the World over, could do more damage to a foe’s health than anything you could purchase at your local KFC – was joined by an unusually suave service game. Not once was it broken. Not once did it look like being broken. Only once in three sets was this insanely secure point ice-breaker taken to deuce. Once. Unbelievable. Anyone perusing the World number Two’s form over the previous decade would have noticed on many an occasion the one-time Australian Open victor struggling to hold serve. Not here, not now. A serve as hot and as invincible as a comet’s fiery tail, it sped the angles out wide at clicks beyond a twenty-year old’s comprehension. Such swerve crushing with verve a foe’s delicate psyche. By the time the third set had arrived, with Nadal breaking the Greek in the first game, the rising star was fading as fast. He was lost, forlorn of hope, deep down knowing, surely, that he was staring indomitability in the face. Such was the shame. For Tsitsipas put forth a sterling account of himself in the central set. Having lost the first – after having to wait for eight minutes in the corridors of apprehension for Nadal to join his acquaintance upon entering the arena beforehand – comfortably, the lad set about attacking greatness with a clobbering forehand. Ably backed by a serve of inherent mischief, usually down the centre line, the postulant seeked to douse the comet’s conflagration. Marinate, he couldn’t. But at least he held his own. Until, at four apiece, Nadal’s instincts of visceral paunch grinding winners came to the fore. Now a break down and at the mercy of the Carlos Moya coached ace, the wannabe ace couldn’t withstand yet another domineering service game from Nadal. Two sets to nil down, it was over. Over before it was over, but over. The spice of a Spanish Patatas Bravas had, in the end, destroyed the Greek salad. A performance for the ages, and surely we’re in for an epic on Sunday. Over to you, Novak Djokovic.

Australia, since the Lunch break, have lost four wickets for six runs. Now that’s some bowling by India. Or some dud batting by the home side. Nah, not really. This pitch has taken on the persona of a 1930’s sticky wicket. You know the ones, back in the day, whereby said pitch was left uncovered for the duration of an inclement weather’s temper tantrum. Upon the resumption of play this rabble-rousing rectangle spewed forth unseemly amounts of mud. Even batting’s one true God, Don Bradman, could average not more than twenty-one on sticky wickets. Which means the South Australian was going at well over one hundred for his innings on ordinary pitches. Not the worst around, was he. Now the modern day athletes know what the old timers were going through. One moment Pat Cummins is bowled by an ankle knocker that knocked on middle stump’s welcoming door. The next you’ll see Usman Khawaja being molested by leather’s sharpness 1.7 metres or so from Terra Firma. Talk about mood swings. This pitch has it all. One minute Australia are sauntering through to 192 for 4, then, suddenly, they find themselves in a rather perilous state at 198 for 8. Mind you, they still possess a two hundred and sixty-one run lead which is currently climbing. . . Just. And India have to chase this over the last day and a half. Good luck to them on that front. They’re going to require all they can get. They could also do with Bradman. They do have Kohli. But then, as good as the Indian Captain may be, and is, he’s no Bradman. They could do with the greatest of all time right now. Because this is a rather sticky situation for the Indian batsmen.

Colin de Grandhomme’s pace is as threatening as the National Party’s poll ratings during a Jamie Lee Ross text flurry. Yes, he may recover somewhat in the aftermath yet during the storm lightening and thunder strike the demented soul of his plodding one hundred and twenty-five kilometre per hour arm warmers. And warm is being kind. They could barely friction air’s pulse let alone explode it into a riposte of respiration profoundly voicing its velocity. So why, why O why, does he feel the urge to bowl no-balls? How difficult could it possibly be for he to propel forth his unwieldly vista of untamed bulk toward the popping crease without overstepping the mark? Sure, accepted the Zimbabwean born allrounder does not overstep on purpose. But, really, a no ball at the clicks of lead, not warp Sci-fi. Then it happens. As only it could on a no ball. Dimuth Karunaratne hits a full toss – Yes, a full toss and a no ball, De Grandhomme has mediocrity’s market cornered – straight to extra cover for the simplest of snares. The New Zealander’s, having Sri Lanka already in trouble at three for thirty-one and now not much more than sixty, with the Opener looking untroubled in his early thirty’s, miss an opportunity to stab the heart of one of their foe’s top practitioners. Survives he does. And then proceeds to pile on a further forty-five runs until finally dismissed for seventy-nine and the visitor’s now 142 for 4. Not 60 for four. Possibly a match defining moment. Only time will tell. But all so avoidable for New Zealand. I guess they’ll just have to suck it up.

The fifth day of this first Test Match of the series, a session and a half to game's end, Australia require sixty-four runs to win, India desire two wickets. This, folks, is why we have a fifth day in Tests. And this folks is why we must keep a fifth day in Test Matches.

It occurs to One that maybe Colin Croft, the former West Indies fast bowler of the late seventies and early eighties, was a man for the times. With twenty-seven Tests and one hundred and twenty-five wickets at an average of 23.30 to his name, not only was he a speed sphering great, here was a character beholden to the fine art of the shoulder charge. In Cricket of all sports. A game whereby the only contact is, supposedly, between willow and leather, the bruising of leather upon fragile skins, and unless some fiery speedster unintentionally let’s rip with a beamer aimed at a batsman’s noggin and swells that noggin larger than said batsman’s average – not hard in some cases, admittedly – a shoulder charge is generally not an anticipated outcome within a day’s play. Even with a five-pronged attack of Roberts, Marshall, Holding, Garner and Croft engendering fear upon the mean strips of Worldly pitches the globe over, no one really expected to see shoulder on shoulder action at Christchurch’s Lancaster Park in 1980. Fred Goodall, the umpiring recipient of Croft’s unwelcome attention, certainly wasn’t expecting the unexpected. At 6ft 5”, though, Croft would surely have made a fearsome forward within the Rugby League fraternity back in an era where the shoulder charge was nothing more than the equivalent of air kissing. Having more than one string to your bow and all that. These days, air kissing – let alone the shoulder charge - would be deemed too brutal. Alas, the shoulder charge is supercharged with connotations of long-term brain damage, and has been banned – And fairly, too. So, there probably wouldn’t be much of a future for Croft in modern sport. Even Cricket, these days, take a somewhat dim view of such deity’s as sledging let alone physical harassment. But with that average of twenty-three, a fine bowler the West Indian was when he was concentrating fully on the intricacies of his craft. Best we remember Croft for the good. Because pace bowling was clearly a craft for Croft.

Well, it’s better late than never, I guess. The penny has finally dropped for the England selectors, who have at last seen fit – and finally seen the bleedingly blatant, which everyone else has been able to ascertain for many months – to install Jonny Bairstow at number three. And here he is on 42 not out. Which is 39 more runs than Moeen Ali scored in two innings of the first Test. And probably as many as the spinner scored in his previous half dozen innings at number three. Sure, Bairstow may disapprove, seeing as he still pines for the protection of the gloves behind the stumps. This is a team game though. So it’s off to the gloves of number three he goes to protect this side from any form of catastrophic collapse. With Burns and Jennings already ensconced back in the pavilion for 14 and 13 respectively, a World class number three, one would surmise, is a vital backstop for these two highly fallible openers. Afterall, Bairstow claimed the other day that not all that long ago he was one of the World’s top ten ranked batsmen. So here’s his chance to prove how good he is with timber in hand. And there isn’t much better position to do that than at Number Three. Not to mention far more satisfaction garnered from contributing to this young side’s rise out on the ground than sitting as a reserve for five days. Because Bairstow has his work cut out wrestling those wicketkeeping gloves back from Ben Foakes.

There have been over two thousand Test Matches played since the first official Test between England and Australia way back in 1877. Not just by those two, certo, but also the likes of South Africa, India, New Zealand and the West Indies. Not to mention various others. In that time there have been epics, there have been crushing defeats, tedious draws, some that have ended in only three days and some that have been decided on the last ball of day five. But in all those one hundred and forty-one years there has never been a Test held between England and Virat Kohli. Until now. The game has changed in all manner of ways, from leg side theory being banned, limits on bouncers per over to the size of bats. Yet, a Test between a Team and an individual? Who knew. Novel, certainly. First, the man with averages traversing the peaks of 48.88 to 58.21 over all three forms of the game scores 149 out of 274 in India’s opening efforts with the bat on day two at Edgbaston, then, in their second inning of 110 for five, he ensnares another forty-three. And not out, at that. India, at the close of play on day three require a further eighty-four runs to win. Or, more to the point, Virat Kohli requires a further eighty-four runs to win. The monster. So, it seems the Indian Captain is the real deal. He’s sealed that deal with a reel of footage to feel the peeling of others doubt heeling beyond the range of sound.

One of sports golden tenets has forever been this: Always, and one means always, do the exact opposite to what your foe wishes. And why not? For one thing, it makes sense. And if you can’t see the sense in it, just do it to spite them anyway. Discover your inner mongrel. If the little lucifer's prefer the game to be played at speed, be lucifer and play it slow. If they concur with a slower pace, speed it up. Desire a grind, throw it wide and offload until the cows come home. Dream of becoming the globetrotters of League, serenade them with a grind. Surely you get the message by now. At least you should. The New Zealand Warriors, well . . . They don’t seem to get it. Put them up against Cronulla, as they were tonight, and one surmises they would surely avoid the grinding of bones on muscle that those from the shire have delighted in boring the Rugby League World with since 1968. Never have the beggars altered their ways and one would be fried with shock if variety invaded their heightened sense of dullness. So, surely, you attempt to open play up somewhat. Get that offloading game of yours flowing. And what did the Warriors do? Yeah, you guessed it, they grinded against the grinders and got ground down. Smart. . . Not. For the first eight to ten weeks of the season, when the Auckland based franchise impersonated a top-class side and Stephen Kearney appeared to have claimed more than a modicum of coaching ability from god knows where (Though one can have a decent guess on that count) his side were offloading with impunity. And it was often. Now, they appear a side that has gone back to the ways of 2017 under Kearney whereupon completion rates were considered to be of more importance than disabling Kim Jong Un’s nuclear arsenal. Each and all wish to witness a high percentage of sets of six completed. It helps, after all, if your side has the pill and preferably in your foe’s half. Yet, tonight, the home side appeared afraid of losing the ball more than were of playing some football. The days of the offload have gone, and Kearney is reverting to type, it seems. No wonder they lost 18-15. And no wonder they lost the ball in the tackle on numerous occasions. They appear a team, that while they will make the top eight, are on the slide, scared to play football, and are heading for a horrendous spanking come finals time. And Kearney is quite possibly entering the beginning of the end of his career as a head coach. For many, one suspects, it can’t come soon enough.

New South Wales have scored first, in the form of a penalty, in this the first game of the 2018 State of Origin. Nothing spectacular there. And they began slowly, with Queensland having slightly the better of the opening ten minutes. Yet, the Sydneysiders slowly eased their way into the encounter with Addo-Carr and Cleary numerating several halfbreaks. A young side, a fresh beginning, the guns of young looked increasingly assured as the minutes wiled away. No sooner had these pressure handling immunities gone up by two than Tedesco was put into the clear up the middle of the park to extend the lead by a further six. Eight to them, none to those, could it be that the relaxed personality of Brad Fitler, their new Coach, is the ideal foil to those inexperienced minds. Utopia for a three-match series. Keep them calm, Freddie may just be their balm.