The grating sound of summer
OPINION: Bill Lawry loved his cricket.
No doubt still does. Just from the comfort of the lounge room, sadly.
As much as cicadas and sizzling sausages, Lawry was the sound of summer. No-one called a play-and-miss - let alone a big six or someone being bowled ‘‘neck and crop’’ - better than Bill. Often regarded as the one-eyed Australian in apotheosis, Lawry was simply a man who loved the game and admired the people who played it with daring.
Every few years we would be lucky enough to hear him calling matches involving New Zealand.
Any catch in the cordon off Richard Hadlee’s bowling or Chris Cairns blow that went 10 rows back seemed that bit more significant when Lawry was at the microphone.
It was about more than the mere theatrics, though. There was gravitas to Lawry and company and their words of praise for visiting captains, such as Stephen Fleming, carried weight.
In Lawry and colleagues Richie Benaud, Ian Chappell and Tony Greig, you had men who were serious cricketing and broadcasting figures. They were prepared and professional and we were all better informed as a result.
Sunday’s one-day international between Australia and New Zealand, at the Sydney Cricket Ground, was a good game of cricket that gave us plenty to ponder.
From a Black Caps point of view the bowling lengths and catching, decision not to refer a leg before shout against Australia captain Steve Smith, Lockie Ferguson’s pace, Martin Guptill’s 114, the curious composition of the batting order and ultimate 68-run defeat in pursuit of 325 were among the many talking points. As was the television commentary.
You have to be pretty blind to your own faults to feel justified in pointing out the inadequacies of others.
But it’s arguable whether Lawry and company would’ve referred to Guptill as ‘‘Gooptill’’ or the team as the All Blacks or Matt Henry as Scott Henry, among other errors.
The tone and objectivity of a telecast are more a matter of taste, than fact. What’s music to some ears will be fingernails down a backboard to others. Neither sensation is right or wrong. Maybe the coverage has always been like it was on Sunday.
Maybe the new breed of Australian commentator carries just the same stature the old ones did.
Maybe we can’t hear that because we’re all a pack of thin-skinned provincial sooks in this country, who smart at the mere suggestion our boys aren’t absolute ornaments to the game.
Maybe we’re similarly insufferable when the boot’s on the other foot.
I’m pretty sure I preferred my summers the way they used to sound.