By the end of the 7th inning, it was clear to everyone that Gavin Floyd was pitching a no-hitter. A no-hitter with a run, no less.

At the top of the ninth, he took the mound to a standing ovation. And stood there, alone, throwing pitches.

See, earlier that day, I had wanted to go to my first ball game of this season. So, I emailed the usual suspects and lo and behold raver comes up with these awesome free tickets. Providence, you know. It was utterly beautiful at the park. The sky cleared up – the breeze – the game. After months in the darkness of Chicago’s coldest winter, I felt as if I had lungs to breathe.

And suddenly this good, nay pretty great night, was about to enter legendary status. I could witness a no-hitter.

The human mind is a funny thing. Well, mine is. I stood there, clapping and hollering, and wishing, wishing more than anything I have wished for, that Gavin would get this no-hitter. I wanted it for him. I wanted it because if it happened, it would be a sign. A clear indication that the impossibilities amassed on my shoulders could dissipate. Hope, right.

That moment, at the top of the ninth, with one out – that was a great moment. That’s what sports can do for you – give you air for your lungs.

About the departing Derbyshire batsman Hassan Adnan: “It’s never nice informing players they have to go, especially when it is such a loyal servant and great team man,” Derbyshire chief John Morris said.

‘A loyal Servant’ musta have different connotation in the UK sports arena … but I was kinda jarred on my first read.

“Athleticism has never been associated with Indian cricket, nor with Indians in general, and that has been a chip on the shoulder of Indian manhood.” Somini Sengupta, If It’s Hip, Fast and Furious, Is It Cricket?, 2007

“Through the same passes from time immemorial warlike races had swept down on the sun-steeped plains of the Five Rivers
and rich alluvial tracts of the Ganges and Jumna to conquer the effete dwellers therein and subdue them to their will. In India history repeats itself with monotonous sameness. In its enervating plains, far removed from the invigorating sea-breeze and the bracing cold of the mountain ranges, the keen eye, undaunted heart, and relentless arm of the successive hardy northern immigrants slowly but surely tend to change to the placid look, folded hands and brooding mind of the Eastern Sage, who, content to dream his dream of life, wearily turns from the conflict and dire struggle for existence, time after time introduced by the more warlike northern conquerors ever coming and going like the monsoon storms.” W. D. Frazer, British India, 1896.

Coach Woolmer not murdered (possibly not even dead but hiking with Elvis in Tashkent?). Now, I feel for poor Inzi.

This does confirm that WC 2007 was the biggest cockup in history of World Cups.

David Hopps is absolutely right.

In the past weeks of watching this World Cup, it is very clear that Cricket is undergoing a deep crisis – the game is in trouble. The commercialization and superstardom of the last decade has robbed it of the pure pleasures of the game. Is it the dour professionalism and dominance of the Aussies? Or the in-fighting of Cricket Boards in India and Pakistan? The thing about these young Bangladeshi is not just that they can play … but that they are enjoying every single minute of being out there. That same glee is in the NewZealanders and in the Irish teams. It is curtains for many of the Pakistani, and perhaps Indian, players. Is there any hope for a rejuvenation there?

The World Cup of Cricket is currently underway. Those of you who care, already know this and I am informing the rest now. The concept is beguilingly similar to other ‘World Cup’s – a bunch of teams from across the world gather every 4 years and find out how bad they suck compared to Australia (at least, that has been the script for the last decade though things are far more fluid this time around). And while they let Bermuda play, Americans are shut out of this international tournament. Also Iranians, Iraqis and North Koreans. Make of that what you will. Incidentally, no one can find the Bermuda team.

My favorite WC memory – and yes, the fans will cringe – was the semi-final defeat of Pakistan by Australia in 1987 at Ghaddafi Stadium, Lahore. Pakistan had a glorious team. Experienced, hungry and proud co-hosts of the Cup. Imran Khan, the captain, the leader of men, the demi-god, had promised greatness from his team. But, then the brash youth of Steve Waugh brought us all crashing to the ground. Boy, did that hurt. But it taught me the valuable, life-long, lesson to expect my home team to turn to shite at the perfect moment. Bitter, no? True, though.

In this WC, I didn’t really expect Pakistan to do much. The top-bowlers were doped-up at home. The batting lineup is old, cranky, fat and bearded [say what you will but unless the sport in question is World's Fastest Growing Hair Follicles - shave]. And yet, one still did not expect the #4 ODI side in the world to lose to Ireland. IRELAND! Who don’t even have a cricket team. These are injured rugby players on their physiotherapy routine, people! And those Irish beat, nay thrashed, nay smacked the jama’at out, nay drove the snakes out of our glorious team. Today, on St. Patrick’s Day, Pakistan was sent packing by Ireland. Kinya belev’t?

Except I didn’t watch that match. I watched, instead, Bangladesh’s amazing chase of India’s measely 191. The three bats who carried Bangladesh, with scores of 51, 56* and 53, were aged 17, 18 and 19 years old respectively. The inning of the youngest, Tamim Iqbal, was especially awe-inspiring. That slightly, sprightly, left-hander charged every single Indian bowler with defiance and confidence that made me remember the young Saeed Anwar or Sachin Tendulkar. The composure of all the young batsmen was just solid and their grins infectious. India, on the other hand, played like over-paid, over-endorsed, over-burdened paper tigers with horrid fielding, lackluster bowling and complete lack of imagination in the captainship. You are bowling to kids, yo! Come on! I am certain there is much glee in Dhaka and much sorrow in Calcutta tonight. Oh, how the times have changed. I will remark, though, that at least Pakistan got some money to famously lose to Bangladesh in 1999. Just saying.

Hopefully, Pakistan will go home and every one on the team will be fired. And we will find some 17 year olds to get out there. Luckily for the Pakistani cricket team, our nation is burning cars over the Supreme Court firing, our press is under direct assault and The General is about to go Franco on us. The nation may be too distracted to notice that the tablighis came home early and empty handed.

In other WC news, H. Gibbs did what no batsmen had done in the history of international cricket – he smacked 6 sixes in an over against Netherlands (that’s akin to hitting a grand slam at your every at-bat – plus 2). The best I ever did was 4. So, he wins that head-to-head, I guess.

Looking ahead, I think Sri Lanka, New Zealand, South Africa, Australia might be the Semifinal 4. With maybe West Indies in play for the NZ spot. Good chance that Sri Lanka takes it all.

update: Shocking news that Bob Woolmer, the Pakistani coach died suddenly. Truly shocking.

Alright! I gotta say that was an nicely intense game made all the more glorious by the constant Joe Kitnafication of Rex Grossman. We missed pdcs’ commentary and recall of stats for all players. But, I am sure he will land in Oakland soon to the good news that his Bears are going to Miami.

Brett Lee duets with Asha Bhosle in one of the more bizarre things I have seen in a while. I do commend Lee on his rolled R’s.

A little over an year ago, I wrote about Mohammad Yousuf ne√© Yousuf Youhana’s conversion to Islam. In the post, I was a bit ambivalent about the symbolic force of that personal decision. A few months later, by happenstance, I ended up chatting with Yousuf over IM. He seemed geniunely excited and happy. And said that he felt a greater peace than ever before.

Well, that greater peace has enabled him to score more runs in any one calendar year in the history of cricket – at the astounding rate of 99.33 runs. Greater even than the great Viv Richards. The spin, in news stories everywhere, is that it is his faith that has enabled him this record-shattering run. God has helped me break this record, he says. Islam has helped him focus his skills and shaped the way he trains, supports his coach, Bob Wollmer.

Those who follow American football – or basketball etc. – are familiar with such stories of new-found religiosity impacting on-field performance. Kurt Warner, the rags-to-jesus quarterback for the St. Louis Rams* comes to mind. But, I cannot think of any other example from Cricket.

To my uninitiated mind, Muhammad Yousuf had a straight bat even before he found the straight path. Either way, it really is a remarkable feat and my heartiest congratulations to him.

update: dk pointed out Rob’s brilliant comment to my last post. I just re-read it and must now reproduce it here for all.

My friend Gerry emailed:

“Every so often I like to read up on what’s happening in the world of cricket. And, every so often, I’m struck by how impenetrable cricket lingo is to the uninitiated.” He then linked to this news post at BBC: Windies Destroy Tigers to qualify, with a quote: “Marlon Samuels missed a straightforward chance at deep backward square-leg off Jerome Taylor and the talented 20-year-old recovered to heave Taylor down to fine-leg and clip Ian Bradshaw off his pads for sixes as he raced to his seventh ODI fifty off only 40 balls. And commented further, “I get some of this, but by no means all. Is baseball this hard to decipher?”

Now, normally, I would link to Patience Propels Tigers and ask him to explain:

The first 12 Detroit batters took the first pitch until Magglio Ordonez hit a bases-loaded infield single off the glove of third baseman Eric Chavez. Ordonez’s hit came during a two-run third in which the Tigers made Zito throw 38 pitches and raise his pitch count to 69.

The Tigers were extremely effective in forcing Zito to throw his knee-buckling curve for strikes, Placido Polanco laid off a curve near the outside corner for a walk, and Sean Casey took the next two pitches before working Zito for another walk that preceded Ordonez’s RBI single.

But. This is the new and improved CM. The helpful CM. So, gentle readers, what follows is a decoding of the BBC article for those interested in penetrating the dense fog of cricket jargon – with some helpful commentary.

First thing first. The Tigers are _not_ the Detroit Tigers – because last I checked there were no Tigers in Detroit; or jungles; or trees; or inhabitants. The Tigers are the Bangladesh Tigers – which does have Tigers [Bengal Tigers, no less.]. Ok. Similarly, the Windies are not a team afflicted with severe gastrointestinal distress. Or yatchsmen with claims on gods. They are the collective cricket team of the West Indies Islands. They used to be pretty good; and are middling now [think Atlanta Braves - pitching analogy is strongest]. The Tigers suck. The two teams are playing in a tournament called Champion’s Trophy. We don’t really care about it.

The confounding report:

Chris Gayle’s century helped West Indies crush Bangladesh by 10 wickets to send themselves and Sri Lanka into the main Champions Trophy group stage. Any time you see 10 wickets, that means one team whupped the other so bad that there is no dignity left in defeat. None. Might as well just start playing baseball.

Dwayne Bravo (3-14) helped dismiss the Tigers for 161 after Aftab Ahmed (59) put on 85 with Shahriar Nafees (38). The braket ‘(3-14)’ tells us that Mr. Bravo is a bowler [pitcher] who claimed the fur of three tigers for just 14 runs. While the bracket after Mr. Ahmed ‘(59)’ that he is a batsmen who scored 59. Lesson: Dashes go to the bowler. Other lesson: Dwayne Bravo is the coolest name, ever.

Gayle (104) smashed three sixes and Shivnarine Chanderpaul hit 52 as the Windies won with 13.3 overs to spare. A ‘six’ is a home-run in cricket. More like a grandslam plus 2 runs, actually. Three ‘smashed’ in an inning is quite good. In cricket lingo, one always SMASHES the six. Also fours. One cannot smash a single. One would look very foolish.

The losers of their game with Sri Lanka will join England in Group A, while Bangladesh finish by playing Zimbabwe. They had put up a fight against Sri Lanka in the first game but were soundly beaten by the holders after failing to make the most of good batting conditions.This cements our impression from the 10-wicket info – that the Tigers are not having a good day. The ‘holders’ is Windies – the title holders. Don’t bother.

It looked promising enough when Aftab made light of Mohammad Ashraful’s early dismissal by launching a succession of crunching drives and pulls. Besides smashing, we cricket folks also crunch our drives and pulls. A drive and a pull are fancy ways of saying, the dude hit the little ball with the big paddle, while making some crunching noises.

Marlon Samuels missed a straightforward chance at deep backward square-leg off Jerome Taylor and the talented 20-year-old recovered to heave Taylor down to fine-leg and clip Ian Bradshaw off his pads for sixes as he raced to his seventh ODI fifty off only 40 balls. Oh boy. The ‘straightforward chance’ is an easy catch according to our nameless beat-reporter. Basically Mr. Samuels had an error in fielding. Where was Mr. Samuels standing when he dropped the ball? At ‘deep backward square-leg’. If you find yourself standing at deep backward square-leg, know that you are the least interesting part of the game. Unless you drop a straightforward chance. Then, you also suck. Also, the square-leg is the distance equal to the square root of the combined length of the two legs of the batsmen. The measurement is taken before the game starts by an international referee. And I am talking about in-seam measurement. IF you know what I mean. Those kinky brits. Some of these legs are also classified ‘fine’ – which while a subjective category is highly coveted. Another thing to note is that sometimes our ‘sixes’ are not smashed; they are ‘heaved’.

His confidence was starting to transfer to Nafees when the latter cut Samuels straight to Gayle at slip and, from 95-1, the innings declined alarmingly. Cricket is very concerned with confidence. How much does one have? How will it be measured? etc. ‘Slip’ is an interesting fielding position. Mostly because if you are standing there and you let an incoming catch ‘slip’ through your fingers, than you are shite. So, why did they call the position ‘Slip’? Is that challenging fate? God? Thats like N. Korea labeling their nuclear program FAIL.

Saqibul Hasan drove loosely at Corey Collymore and got an inside edge on to his stumps, while Habibul Bashar – who lasted two balls against Sri Lanka – went for a golden duck when trapped leg-before next ball. ‘Stumps’ are the left-over bits after the fine leg of a golden, roasted duck is consumed. Oh, I forgot you have to trap the duck before you get to consume it. That usually takes 2 or less balls.

Aftab holed out to long-on, Farhad Reza played on to Bravo after being dropped by keeper Carlton Baugh and Mohammad Rafique was lbw sweeping at Gayle to complete a spell of six wickets for 16 in 40 deliveries. I have to say. These Windies don’t really know how to catch a ball, do they? Anyways. ‘LBW’ stands for ‘leg before wicket’. Cricket is a game of legs. Who has the nicest one. Where to put one’s legs. It is, simply, all about the legs. Know that.

Khaled Mashud – only the third man to make it into double figures – helped boost the total beyond 150 but despite an encouraging spell from Mashrafe Mortaza it was never likely to prove taxing. Gayle, struggling to shake off the effects of a viral infection which had laid low Fidel Edwards and Dwayne Smith, started off cautiously before launching an array of blistering strokes. Why was Mr. Gayle sick? Will we ever know? In any case, the ‘spell’ you keep seeing, refers to the bowler and his pitching of the balls. He casts a spell. Or he hopes to. Mostly, he gets his balls scattered around the ground due to some blistering strokes. Smash. Crunch. Heave. Blister. Know these adjectives.

He crashed Mortaza past point and punched Syed Rasel down the ground with some authority before launching an emphatic cover drive off Abdur Razzak. Whoa. Crashed. Punched. Hulk Smash. Army Strong.

Chanderpaul also mixed caution with authoritative shots, a cover drive off Rasel and blistering cut when Mortaza dropped short among the highlights as he ground out a half century off 97 balls. Another meme in cricket, alongside ‘confidence’, is ‘authoritative’. People do things _ with authority_.

Gayle should have been on his way for 33 when he feathered Razzaq to wicket-keeper Mashud and made the most of that reprieve to hurry his team to victory. ‘Feathered’ means the balls kissed-oh-so-lightly- the bat on its way to the keeper. However, on account of being blind, the umpire was unable to see this and declare Mr. Gayle out.

Reza’s one over went for four fours while two of the three maximums, off Mohammad Rafique and Aftab, landed on the roof straight down a big ground. There was just enough time for Gayle to complete his 13th ODI century off 116 balls before victory was sealed. ‘maximums’ would be the ‘sixes’ we already met – the maximum a batsman can score on one shot being 6 runs. By hitting the ball out of the boundary.

So. There you have it, gentle readers. Legs. Ducks. Smashing. Your cricket, demystified.

The word around the cricket ground was that Abdul Qadir did not have bones in his wrists – rather greased metal balls that allowed him 360Àöof motion. And then, the same is said of Shane Warne, whose Ball of the Century inspired Dr. Andy West [winner of the Stoner prize - heh heh] to create a robotic bowler that will ‚Äúmimic Warne, McGrath or the style of any other bowler.” The relationship between the tendon and the seam just got a little strained.

Here are some pictures. Now we need a batsman

In related news, the squeaky wheel just fell off.

France was my pick for a while – for all the non-soccer reasons like diversity and for soccer reasons like Zidane. Pdcs penned a wonderful ballad to Zizou, even, to hype the finals.

And then. Watch the beginning closely and Materazzi‘s hand in particular.

Well, I am staying with Zidane. And, if there is any truth to this than I will be playing this for a while [via jkottke].

ps. Did you see the Soxfest? 19 freakin’ innings worth of baseball goodness? I even had a chant going [go, go, whitesox] in my living room.

Tony Karon’s excellent post should get you started on your path to world cup madness. Next, bookmark Soccer Blog and NYT’s World Cup ’06 blog or Guardian’s World Cup blog [what? no Weekly Standard World Cup blog?] and, via moacir, World Cup Blog – one for every team! Lastly, youtube has all the highlights you will ever want. Let me know if you have a good source of online fun.

At some point in the future, I will reminisce about my world cup watching pasts [saw Sweden-Brazil in the Pontiac Dome in '94!] but for now, I would just like to point out that the lion w/ the gaping mouth football is, indisputably, the most disturbing mascot evah!

That Australia hit 434 in a ODI is amazing in itself. That South Africa successfully chased it, is mind-bongling. I can remember the first time 275 was hit in a ODI, thinking, wow, some team will crack 300! And Jayasuriya happened and ODI totals started to go up and up. Yet, the real high ones, the 350+, were still largely against bowling attacks of the Kenya and Bangladesh variety. And now we have Australia – arguably the best ODI team ever – in a heated contest against an arch-rival with words and deeds spilling over the boundary. The conduct of Aussie crowds during SA’s tour last year was shameful and the trouncing the SA team got on the field must have stung even more. That Australia went into the final 2-2 was noticable. That they lost after scoring the highest total in the game’s history is inconceivable. Mick Lewis’ 10 overs for 113 should be enough for a man to take up knitting. Read the best account so far.

• In the NYT, Lee Siegel chases down the facts [ahem] in Exodus.
• Also in NYT, Pankaj Mishra reviews DFW’s collection of essays: “Wallace’s dazzling powers of description often redeem his bloggerlike tendency to run on”. Heh.
• Andrew Bacevich, in the Boston Globe, points that “on March 7, 1906, US troops under the command of Major General Leonard Wood massacred as many as 1,000 Filipino Muslims, known as Moros, who were taking refuge at Bud Dajo” and the resistance that did not end.
• In the LRB, Charles Glass reviews a slew of UbL books – including the Bruce Lawrence’s edited translations of UbL edicts. Glass recommends UbL google Fra Girolamo Savonarola.
• In the Times Literary Supplement Denis Judd, author of the recent The Lion and the Tiger: The Rise and Fall of the British Raj 1600-1947 [um, British Raj AFTER 1857, Denis], has a review essay on three recent books on British in India. Gilmour’s book The Ruling Caste looks promising but the Judd essay is rather unimaginative.
• In the Guardian, Annie Proulx throws a fit over Brokeback’s Oscar ‘snub’. It really is a bizarre piece, for those following all this [zp?].
• Back to scary stuff, WaPo tells us that the National Security of this country is being run by the Sesame Street Generation which has the historical worldview that dates all the way back to 1991 – and they are Proud of It! These ‘kids’ suck at playing grownups. And no, I refuse to admit that I am of this generation.
• And finally, Žižek is on the NYT op-ed page talking about atheism.

Seldom is it that my worlds collide so drastically. But, a simple one-line email frrom desiknitter pointing me towards the photo-essay of the Chosen One in Islamabad’s embassy row playing cricket with a bunch of kids while Inzammam and other looked on, did just that. No, it wasn’t just the sight of the Chosen One engaged in the ‘pastime’ that consumes me soul, but how the photo essay stood in for all that has gone wrong for the world and right for the Chosen One. Below the fold, I read between the pixels…

	Look at Salman Butt’s face. Just look at it! You are a sad man, he is saying. One who doesn’t even know a Cricket ball from a weapon of mass destruction. They are one and same, YO!
	Is he about to play Bacci? And look at the smirk on the kid’s face; that little punk is the son of some sorry ass General, I am sure.
	I gotta say that he has excellent form. He does. Shoulder is straight, passion in the eyes. A straight shooter!
	While he is flexing, the world is picking its nose. No, really. Look.
	Contrast, if you will, the concentration on his face with the smugness of the wicket-keeping kid. A KID!! IS SMUG ON THE LEADER OF THE FREE WORLD!
	You cannot tell me that the bowler [reports say Inzi himself!] did NOT hit him on purpose. I refuse to believe it.
	There you have it folks. My next tshirt.

“Cricket as Art”. An amazing Radio 3 presentation by Darkus Howe on CLR James and Cricket. Must listen. [via CT].

There is a gorgeous paragraph in Beyond the Boundary that I can merely echo:

Our house was superbly situated, exactly behind the wicket. I doubt it for some years I knew what I was looking at in detail. But this watching from the window shaped one of my strongest early impressions of personality in society. His name was Matthew Bondman and he lived next door to us … He was generally dirty. He would not work. His eyes were fierce, his language was violent and his voice was loud. For ne’er-do-well, in fact vicious character, as he was, Matthew had one saving grace, Matthew could bat… Matthew dropped out early. But he was my first acquaintance with the genus Britannicus, a fine batsman, and the impact that he makes on all around him, non-cricketers and cricketers alike. The contrast beetween Matthew’s pitiable existence as an individual and the attitude people had towards him filled my growing mind and has occupied me to this day.

Ghafoor could bat too. He delivered milk to the colony, on his bicycle. Two canisters, weighing 40 lbs each, balanced on each side of his bicycle. He woke up at 3:30 for his round, finishing them by 8 or so. By 8:30, he would meet us at the grounds. Wrapped carefully in a jute sack were his immaculately pressed whites. He would change out of his dhoti and replace his pug with a CA cap that I had given him a while ago. To my young eyes, he was as close to a superhero as possible, transforming from a dhodi [milkman] to a cricketer with the straightest bat I had ever seen. Class and caste dissolved within the boundary. I know that he hid his cricket playing from his family. After playing a full game, he would take the pats on his back, change into his dhoti and set off on another 4 hours of milk-routes.

I wish I had time to write about CLR James’ book. But, after hearing the program, I am more than determined that my next project will be somewhere within the boundary.

Come, little Iqbal, I* will tell you about Pakistani bowlers. As a genetic anomaly, they emerged from the banks of that old river Ravi. Weaned on a diet of buffalo milk and hearty roots, they were found to have great upper body strength. This provided them with a natural advantage over the rest of the cricketers who had had to use gyms and exercises to compete.

While their hefty physiques were a boon, their short developmental cycle left them sadly bereft of analytic abilities. Dragged from the river-banks, caked in mud, they were washed and clad in whites by the Pakistan Cricket Board – a Barnum & Bailey subsidiary.

With the red, shiny new ball in their hand, their animalistic instincts immediately took over. After all, this was no dormant gene. Streaking in at blazing speed from distances of over 2 miles, they would hurl their spherical projectiles at the head of batsmen. Even supermen like Sachin Tendulkar, who had devoted their life to the intimate study of the complexities of cricketing, had some troubles dealing with the bovine-inspired madness of these bowlers.

There are signs, though, that this species is undergoing a slow evolution. Some bowlers, who used to hunt only in pairs [Sarfraz & Imran, Wasim & Waqar] are learning that they can survive on their own in the wild [Shoib]. Others, are slowly learning how to draw line-diagrams in the dirt. Evolutionary biologists are hopeful that, in time, these bowlers will evolve a frontal lobe capable of deconstructing symbols and, eventually, learn to read.

Will that distant future kill the primal joy of watching these graceful, untamed beasts in the heart of the most civilized game ever played? We don’t know. But, we shudder to contemplate that dark future.

_________

* Inspired by Siddhartha Vaidyanathan’s superlative “reporting” from Lahore [thanks to prithvi for making me seethe]. Also, see related.

There was England with six series wins in a row, including the little matter of the Ashes. There was Pakistan, with a new coach, without having won a test series in who knows how long. I certainly don’t. In 12.1 overs after lunch, eight English wickets fell and they lost the match by an innings and 100 runs. And the series went to Pakistan, 2-0.

I knew Lahore would have a result. I just didn’t think it was going to be so glorious.

On the Pakistani side, it is wonderful to see bats working for a change. Inzi _averaged_ 107. He has suddenly become the elder statesman/captain. How did that happen? Where is the goofy kid? Mohammad Yusuf’s double century was amazing. Kudos to him. Kaman Akmal was the surprise for me.

On the English side, someone please stop abusing Flintoff – he bowled 140 overs! While Giles and Udal gave up 80 and 90 on the average. That has to hurt. And next stop, India? Ouch.

All in all, great show.

Guardian‘s Richard Williams is in Multan covering the first Eng-Pak test. Multan is a city of saints and sun. It may make a mystic out of anyone but cricket and sufism proved a deadly combo for Williams. He wants to write about the use of instant replay in adjudicating a run-out [caught off-base]. But in his piece, Tradition is restored by Butt’s reprieve, that simple thing becomes an article about Tradition and Modernity, about Faith and Technology, about Material Poverty and Spiritual Wealth, about Knowing and Unknowing. Per his conclusion, “Allah’s will” dictated a sweeeeeeeeet victory for Pakistan.

What is it about Cricket [and baseball, for that matter] that it invites grown men to write silly? to become poets and bards? to find the mystic and the sublime in the crack of the ball and the flick of the wrist? I really would like to know. Now, I am not saying that the mystic is absent in cricket; not at all! I would just like to keep this an ‘oral’ tradition – with friends, over chai or beer, late night into the early morning. For when you write and publish it, you just come across as silly. And a bit of an orientalist [just imagine this article written about a test at Lord's].

I won’t say that this trumps the ’92 World Cup win by Pakistan….but it comes close. The Grand Slam and the el Duque in the 9th were the highlights for me. Seeing Bush Sr. cheering the ‘stros was also a moment. Of intense hilarity, of course.

My condolences to my peep, Rajeev, who had the misfortune of rootin’ for the ‘stros.

Harriet Miers goes back to passing memos to Bush.

Scooter Libby does not pass Go and fails to collect $200. He does succeed in collecting 5 indictments from Patrick Fitzgerald – the modern day Eliot Ness.