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.