… almost the width of Gatting
And there they were, all in that dodgy green colour, huddled on the edge of a Sri Lankan cliff with cricket bats and balls in their hands. Were they frightened? Pretty much. Was it over yet? Hell no.
Davo Warner had tried to be a hero, but was stopped in his tracks; Wade carried the weight of expectation (and generally being Victorian)** on his shoulders, but was stunned while trying to pronounce Kulasekara; Ponting stepped up to save the day, but was rudely reminded by Malinga’s hair that he has reached his getting-more-than-ten quota for the year.
Harris was all sexy with stubble and Starc showed promise, but they had to admit that all was nearly lost when it became clear that X might be the best man out there with a ball. It was enough to make a weak man cry. Or possibly just me.
And so there they were, pushed back to the edge of the cliff; clinging on one handed and ducking beneath the threat from Angelo’s bat … when in the distance, something appeared. It grew and grew until it blotted out the sun and made Chandimal cower. Dilshan put a hat on Malinga’s unruly mop and Ponting got to his knees and wept with shame … for the shadow in the sky was none other than Captain Pup.
He swooped down, his cape all flowy and his hair thick with product, and pushed them all from the edge to safety … he did dangle Ponting over the chasm for a minute or so, but he took pity on the old bastard and let him stay*
And how they worshipped him from thence. They humbled themselves at his feet, gave him all their towels, showered him with gifts of gold, frankincense and hair gel and told all the Aussie nay-sayers to finally shut the fuck up. For he is Captain Pup and he doth stand on the nice grassy patch there at the WACA, with much majesty and pride, and shout “No prisoners!”
Or he might take the team aside and just tell them it wasn’t bloody good enough. That would probably do it, to be honest.
*might have been a wet dream
**kind of. In the sense that Dussey is a Victorian.