Who sanitised cricket, sport?

GRIZZLED spirits of all-Aussie cricketers haunt the hallowed dressing rooms at the SCG, encapsulated in time as feathery microfilm snapshots plucked from their finest hours.

They are a fairly quiet bunch for the most part, locked in that strange plateau between real-life and imagination; their life force surviving entirely on a diet of tall yarns from fans who still remember their exploits.

Blokes like former Australian captain Harry Trott are now just flickering bulbs, with commentators’ rare mentions of his watershed 1891-92 series barely enough to keep the lights from going out completely.

Don Bradman still shines like a diamond-studded glow worm, of course, irradiating a blinding glare whenever Mark Nicholas and Ian Healy consecrate his greatness with another silver-screen montage of his batting prowess.

They go about their own business for long stretches, barely making eye contact as they replay memories of their world-class cricketing debuts and make-or-break tours of Old Blighty.

Then the Ashes roll around, and it is a suddenly different kettle of kippers entirely.

Every four years, those brave ban- shees of the stiff wicket brush away their cobwebs and convene a stoic post-Ashes conference in the stark confines of the dressing room to discuss the state of the modern game.

There they are huddled around wooden benches, impatiently waiting for 1993 ball-of-the-century-era Shane Warne to declare the meeting open with the swing of a Gray-Nicholls bat mallet.

“Where the (expletive) is that fluoro-crested cockatoo?” moans the pickled spectre of David Boon. The moustachioed, keg-on-legs phantom is deep into his 28th frothy, en route to recreating that fine moment when he guzzled 52 cans of beer on his way to the 1989 series – breaking Doug Walters and Rod Marsh’s former record of 44.

“If he’s not here in a minute, I’m gonna wallop him.”

Boon looks tetchy as he fumbles with his baggy green and glares at the door.

“Simmer down, Boonie,” mutters Andrew Symonds’ shadow-self, busy flogging down a six-pack of his own.

“The Sheikh of Tweak hasn’t missed a conference for years.”

Nineteen-seventies imprints of Marsh and Walters gurgle in agreeance, well on their way to catatonia after foolishly trying to keep pace with Boon.

The McGraths, Bradmans, Borders and Lehmanns just watch on, deeply suspicious of the chaos that will ensue, as Warnie finally materialises with a former centrefold model on either arm.

He grins through the half-stub smoke in his mouth, with a back-up durry perched behind his ear, and his magic fingers gripping a meat pie and an overflowing bottle of champers.

“I declare this meeting open,” Warnie guffaws, although he left the ceremonial bat mallet at home.

“Four-nil, what a bloody campaign!

“Now, we’re all very proud of the boys but there’s something deeply disturbing I have to show you.”

Warne puts down a bottle and pulls a sweat-stained copy of Thursday’s Daily Telegraph from the cleft in the back of his pants.

He turns to Page 11, pointing to an exposé with photos of Shaun Marsh and Jackson Bird smoking cigs in a beer garden as they celebrated their Ashes win, with no fewer than three quoted experts condemning their disgraceful behaviour.

“This is just not on,” Warnie says, his skin lit up like a blacksmith’s forge. “One of Australia’s leading social analysts here says, and I quote, ‘It’s not cool and it is not fashionable. If they have to do it, they should not be doing it in public.’ “I’m inclined to agree. “These blokes are supposed to be role models.”

Everything goes silent except for the pained squawk of a seagull that copped a stray red ball to the ribs a couple of days ago and is barely hanging on.

“Ha ha, you’re a bloody pisser, Warnie!” Boonie’s apparition is the first to break the hush. “Crack open that Esky, ya mug. “There’s a beer bong in the bottom.”