Storyline: Mitchell (“Midge”) Johnson has retired from cricket. This left-hander left a huge mark on the game. His presence will be missed.
Courtesy: theguardian.com
Alright, then. If you, like me, are a fanatic of sports you might find this observation to be a bit disturbing. You might even find this agonizing–if you happen to be a pace bowler. The Fremantle Doctor has just arrived in its full swing and so did the aftermath. It came with a tag that “Mitchel Fiery Johnson” has retired from the game and will never wear the Baggy Green again.
How dismal it is! How gloomy.
“I feel now is the best time to say goodbye,” Johnson said. “But the ride has to come to an end at some point and to do so here at the Waca is very special. I’ve given the decision a lot of thought. Beyond this match, I’m just not sure that I can continue competing consistently at the level required to wear the baggy green.”
Ray Bradbury, Fahrenheit 451, once said: “Stuff your eyes with wonder, he said, live as if you’d drop dead in ten seconds. See the world. It’s more fantastic than any dream made or paid for in factories.”
Well, possessing a carefully appraising eye, he stuffed his eyes with wonder if only to bewilder the opposition and the batsmen. He has, indeed, possessed a gush of entrancing melody, which would give life to many detested and gloomy souls lying in the open corners of abject nothingness.
You might wonder if this will be a eulogy. No, for the sake of my pain at the hearing of the news to wane at the earliest, I’m not going to make it count in the epistolatory of my pen. I’ve just taken a deep breath, finding it chaotic to come to terms with the absence of another pace bowler from the field of play. As a pace bowler I have abhorred and admired many a few. But this gutsy, fiery, aggressive hero will surely rank among the finest to have ever played the game, and one of the greatest left-handers to have ever played the game, Cricket.
As I thumb over my Twitter I find many saluting the legend of his game. I am left with no words. This is word-to-word true, ‘tis getting extremely hard to write this. Ah! Jesus! Give me some energy to write a few lines.
Okay! Oops. Nooooo. Tears enter the scene. Oops. Okay.
Here I go again.
As Sylvia Plath, The Bell Jar would say,
“I took a deep breath and listened to the old brag of my heart. I am, I am, I am.” He has, indeed, a solemn utterance of destiny. Absorbed in a stream of thoughts and reminiscences, I would like to say, a wordless farewell.
For a man from a tiny hamlet who grew up playing cricket and swimming in the rivers nearby you, Mitch, are more than a timely angel who gave a reason to leave my comfort couch and allowed to breathe fire in the field of play. His big mustache, though, will be as forceful and fierce as his game. He will forever be remembered and reminisced for approaching the crease in a mendaciously menacing manner. In short, Mitch has reiterated with elegance that humans can journey beyond perfection with a leather ball in their hands.
Thank you for everything brother. God bless you. Doffing my cap in honor.
