Ever get the feeling that you have vomit caked somewhere on your being, but you don't know where? The hint of the scent is pervasive, yet you've checked all around and you can't find the source. It's not the shirt, or the pants. It's not the shoes. The watch? No, not the watch. Could it be the beard? Oh god, please not the beard!
That's the thought I had in my head yesterday morning, as my plane was getting ready to take off from Barbados to Kingston, Jamaica. I was hoping to write something profound as we set off, something heavy and meditative, maybe about the erosion of local identity in an era of accelerating commercial homogenisation, or about the legacy of former Barbadian legends on West Indies cricket in general, or (in honour of 4/20) about the oft-ignored relationship between weed and cricket.
Instead, all I could think about was puke on my beard. (You can blame that on an early morning flight and the policy of clubs in St. Lawrence's Gap of free drinks after a cover charge. It's hard to stay on top of your liquor when you don't have a shrinking wallet acting as a gauge.)
What the hell does any of this have to do with cricket? Not a lot, really. I wish I could focus my thoughts on matters concerning “the game of love and unity” (is anyone else sick of that corporate little anthem yet?), but it’s becoming hard to stay focused at this point. If too much of a good thing can be bad for you, how about too much of a mediocre thing?
Regarding the West Indies v. Bangladesh game we watched at Kensington Oval a couple of days ago, all I can remember was the intense sun beating down on us for the first innings, and then feeling its effects during the second innings. Both J. and I were taking turns doing the awkward “trying not to fall asleep in your seat, but having your head slowly fall away in random directions and jerking it back up” routine as Bangladeshi wickets tumbled like drunken tourists in 6-inch heels. Apart from that, not a whole lot to say.
How much longer till the semifinals, again?
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