I have immersed myself in reading about the finer points of cricket over the last few days.
And then this happened (psychoanalyse me, do what you will. I already know I am mad):
I turned up at the WACA and realised I was wearing sandals. Oops.
I made call after call trying to get through to my parents to ask them to bring my joggers.
But no one was answering. I managed to get through to my cousin at the same time I saw an old primary school friend with feet as big as mine, who agreed to lend me her shoes.
Then I had race back to my car, which I'd hastily parked illegally, to try and find somewhere to park it properly, but of course all the carparks were full. I really didn't want to get a parking ticket - surely Ricky Ponting didn't have this problem?
All the while I was thinking what the fuck am I doing here? Surely there was someone else, thousands of someone elses, hundreds of thousand in fact, who should be doing this.
Sure I had had some insignificant role in a couple of Twenty20 matches recently, but this was a One Dayer. Didn't they know how horribly unfit I am? I'd struggle to run from one end of the field to the other, and I was meant to stay out there all friggin day?
And why was I wearing my own One Day shirt? It wasn't the right uniform and not even the right colour. And was it ok to wear a skirt? No one had told me otherwise.
I was frantically searching the internet on my phone, looking for an official squad list, looking for confirmation that this was all a joke. But Google failed me.
I was doomed to make a complete arse of myself in front of the cricketing world.
It was worse than the dream where you turn up to school sans pants, because I didn't like most of the people I went to school with. This was a nightmare.
- ▼ February (8)