Warner article
Posted: Mon Oct 22, 2018 12:39 pmThe sun is shining on the picturesque North Sydney Oval and the mighty North Sydney Bears are set to face off against Randwick-Petersham in Sydney Grade Cricket, boasting none other than exiled test batsman David Warner.
For this Fox Sports employee it’s a big moment. For Warner, it could be so much more.
Striding out to inspect the wicket, (flat), Warner is already on the field, visualising what’s sure to be an impressive performance. His pipes are bigger in real life and it’s already got me on the back foot.
“G’day mate,” I quip with a confidence that betrays my inner-dialogue.
No reply.
1-0 Warner.
The lads hit the dressing sheds and are back soon enough to begin the warm-up. But my mind is elsewhere.
All 170cm of David Warner strides from the spit-hole that leads to the dressing rooms, his strut is compelling, he’s sweating confidence and his stick is the size of a baobab tree. Some people say he looks like he doesn’t care, I say he looks like he doesn’t know how to care. Cool, calm, composed; the Warner we’ve come to know.
The toss goes up; we’re batting lads.
Beautiful.
Time to relax and assess what I’ll do if, and when, I bowl to one of the best batsman in the world.
Unfortunately, we begin to lose wickets at a rapid rate, and it quickly comes to the fore that this number 11 is going to have to wield the willow. 9-140. I walk to the crease.
Voices from the field echo around me.
‘Here he is lads, here he is.’ My first thought; oh god. My second; wow – these blokes know who I am. I take guard – ‘centre please’ – tried and tested, reliable.
Warner’s standing at first slip.
I hear a voice behind me.
‘It’s already marked, chump,’ – it’s a hybrid of chum and champ and it had its desired effect – I was rattled.
2-0.
There’s an anonymous bloke at point and he follows suit. He’s done his research and it shows.
‘Big move lads, big move from Manly, they didn’t want him, he’s followed a pack of cheats.’
The word strikes a chord. I look around the field.
Did he just say that?
Maybe I misheard, surely, he can read the room.
I block the first.
‘Yeah mate you had plenty of lip in 2015 didn’t you. Now you’ve followed a couple of cheats to a new club.
My first thought – I have no idea who this bloke is and he’s been rattled for three years. My second; jeez the big fella is dropping C-bombs like they’re coldies on a Sunday afternoon.
I block another.
The barrage continues.
To my right stands Warner, a big smirk on his face.
‘Leave him alone boys, he’s trying his best.’
I think ‘ah he’s actually around me, it’s not all bad.’ It’s easy to forget this bloke has been spraying cricketers across the globe for 10 years.
I play another block and I’m hit with a ‘Yuck, playing for red ink mate?’
Rattled again.
The Bears are soon all out for a below-par 143, but there’s an air of confidence that we can knock over these blokes, or the impending storm will do the work for us.
Warner takes guard, and within two minutes he has a six, a four and the crowd’s attention. This could go either way.
Standing at mid-off I try to think of my best sprays, something that will rattle this guy’s cage.
I go for the trusty – ‘no idea this bloke’. What escapes my mouth is nothing short of a whisper, it hits him like a cool summer breeze. My form is terrible, and Warner is ready to capitalise.
However, as they say, the bigger you are, the harder you fall.
Warner, confidently – maybe too confidently, tries to whack veteran seamer Jimmy Campbell through cover (everyone knows you don’t cover-drive before 20) and he finds the hands of the agile Ben Bryant.
Child’s play.
A few overs later I find myself on the fence at third-man – anything to get these hands out of the ring.
Warner is walking around the fence, bouncing a footy with the skill of Buddy Franklin. Candice Warner is sat behind me.
‘Pretend he’s not there. You’re on the same pitch. You’re equals.’
How wrong I was.
With each ball fielded I return to hear Warner in the stands, regaling wife and child alike with stories from the international scene that they’ve heard a million times. I think It had something to do with hitting 100 in a losing side.
The game eventually peters out and Randwick end up taking the cake.
There’s still one last moment this bloke can alpha me – the handshake. The biggest moment a player can have on or off the field.
Too firm and you’re a bad bloke, too soft and you’re branded a coward for life.
Warner’s in the middle.
Tactful.
With each shake my palm is sweatier.
It all weighs on this.
Bang.
I hit him hard and hit him square, we lock eyes.
Is this a small victory?
‘Game, mate’, I pause.
Nothing.
3-0 to the big fella.
https://www.foxsports.com.au/cricket/au ... reF8nEA3mE
For this Fox Sports employee it’s a big moment. For Warner, it could be so much more.
Striding out to inspect the wicket, (flat), Warner is already on the field, visualising what’s sure to be an impressive performance. His pipes are bigger in real life and it’s already got me on the back foot.
“G’day mate,” I quip with a confidence that betrays my inner-dialogue.
No reply.
1-0 Warner.
The lads hit the dressing sheds and are back soon enough to begin the warm-up. But my mind is elsewhere.
All 170cm of David Warner strides from the spit-hole that leads to the dressing rooms, his strut is compelling, he’s sweating confidence and his stick is the size of a baobab tree. Some people say he looks like he doesn’t care, I say he looks like he doesn’t know how to care. Cool, calm, composed; the Warner we’ve come to know.
The toss goes up; we’re batting lads.
Beautiful.
Time to relax and assess what I’ll do if, and when, I bowl to one of the best batsman in the world.
Unfortunately, we begin to lose wickets at a rapid rate, and it quickly comes to the fore that this number 11 is going to have to wield the willow. 9-140. I walk to the crease.
Voices from the field echo around me.
‘Here he is lads, here he is.’ My first thought; oh god. My second; wow – these blokes know who I am. I take guard – ‘centre please’ – tried and tested, reliable.
Warner’s standing at first slip.
I hear a voice behind me.
‘It’s already marked, chump,’ – it’s a hybrid of chum and champ and it had its desired effect – I was rattled.
2-0.
There’s an anonymous bloke at point and he follows suit. He’s done his research and it shows.
‘Big move lads, big move from Manly, they didn’t want him, he’s followed a pack of cheats.’
The word strikes a chord. I look around the field.
Did he just say that?
Maybe I misheard, surely, he can read the room.
I block the first.
‘Yeah mate you had plenty of lip in 2015 didn’t you. Now you’ve followed a couple of cheats to a new club.
My first thought – I have no idea who this bloke is and he’s been rattled for three years. My second; jeez the big fella is dropping C-bombs like they’re coldies on a Sunday afternoon.
I block another.
The barrage continues.
To my right stands Warner, a big smirk on his face.
‘Leave him alone boys, he’s trying his best.’
I think ‘ah he’s actually around me, it’s not all bad.’ It’s easy to forget this bloke has been spraying cricketers across the globe for 10 years.
I play another block and I’m hit with a ‘Yuck, playing for red ink mate?’
Rattled again.
The Bears are soon all out for a below-par 143, but there’s an air of confidence that we can knock over these blokes, or the impending storm will do the work for us.
Warner takes guard, and within two minutes he has a six, a four and the crowd’s attention. This could go either way.
Standing at mid-off I try to think of my best sprays, something that will rattle this guy’s cage.
I go for the trusty – ‘no idea this bloke’. What escapes my mouth is nothing short of a whisper, it hits him like a cool summer breeze. My form is terrible, and Warner is ready to capitalise.
However, as they say, the bigger you are, the harder you fall.
Warner, confidently – maybe too confidently, tries to whack veteran seamer Jimmy Campbell through cover (everyone knows you don’t cover-drive before 20) and he finds the hands of the agile Ben Bryant.
Child’s play.
A few overs later I find myself on the fence at third-man – anything to get these hands out of the ring.
Warner is walking around the fence, bouncing a footy with the skill of Buddy Franklin. Candice Warner is sat behind me.
‘Pretend he’s not there. You’re on the same pitch. You’re equals.’
How wrong I was.
With each ball fielded I return to hear Warner in the stands, regaling wife and child alike with stories from the international scene that they’ve heard a million times. I think It had something to do with hitting 100 in a losing side.
The game eventually peters out and Randwick end up taking the cake.
There’s still one last moment this bloke can alpha me – the handshake. The biggest moment a player can have on or off the field.
Too firm and you’re a bad bloke, too soft and you’re branded a coward for life.
Warner’s in the middle.
Tactful.
With each shake my palm is sweatier.
It all weighs on this.
Bang.
I hit him hard and hit him square, we lock eyes.
Is this a small victory?
‘Game, mate’, I pause.
Nothing.
3-0 to the big fella.
https://www.foxsports.com.au/cricket/au ... reF8nEA3mE
