A couple of weeks ago, a friend went ballistically excited on me having just met Shahid Afridi. She is easily pleased, but nevertheless I began briefly to put aside my cynicism over Afridi. All that talent, bravado and bombast contrasting with, well, his inner demons. Will it go for six or will he sky it? That, in essence, seemed to be the way he conducted his life, not just his batting.
Captaincy could have changed him; he’s no spring chicken these days, after all, and Pakistan have a lot of impressionable young players to whom Afridi must be something of a demi-god. And then he bites a cricket ball with all the cameras zoned in on him, discarding years of experience, dispensing with maturity and utterly wringing his hands of professional responsibility, personal pride and common human sense. Were it not so ludicrously stupid, it would be a beautiful thing to watch in years to come.
Of all the players to do it, it had to be Afridi. Of all the countries to be afflicted by an act of such lunacy, it just had to be Pakistan. They are taking hold of this decade and ensuring they begin it right where they left off in the noughties. The only redeeming feature from the whole escapade was (apart from the ensuing nauseous hilarity that it even took place) Mark Nicholas’s sober, yet startled, opinion. “Woops. Wwwwwwwwoops!”
Idiocy epitomised. Thank you, Afridi, and a very good night.
Afridi is hilarious. He does things on a cricket field nobody else would consider and makes utter monkeys of the law enforcers, the ICC, who then dish out such meagre punishment that we can be confident of seeing more from the great improvisor.
For goodness sake, morons in Dubai, many professional cricketers would be delighted to be banned for a couple of T20 games. They all complain of playing too much as it is. Afridi’s way of arranging a little rest is far more entertaining than Strauss’s and, seemingly, less controversial.
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