Archive for March, 2009

Suicide leap

(From a diary entry, Wednesday, December 16, 1992)

Got up early enough this morning to continue packing for the trip and by chance  found our West Indian cricketing heroes flourishing on the TV against the might of the Australians on the other side of the world.

Lara and Richardson, purposeful and scintillating in turn, were going about the business of dismantling the Aussie bowling attack and setting us, at 2 for one hundred and something, on the road to an inevitable win.

Lara, at 74, and well in sight of a century, played across the line, and had his stumps disengaged. It turned out to be an omen, an improbable thumbs down malediction on those about to enter the fray.

Karl Hooper, a polished batsman, upgraded in the batting order, came in and tried, successfully, to disguise his talent, using mimes and histrionic swipes befitting the rankest tailender.

He got out lofting one, desperatly, after trying too many times to break through his befuddlement with extrvagant swings at balls that were unyieldingly unobliging.

Richardson himself went, unluckily perhaps, with Taylor plucking a bolt  from the blue, a mighty blow that, by rights, should have had the Australian hospitalized.

That turned out to be our last act of purposeful aggression against the Aussies. Our boys came and went, like participants in some kind of grim self-immolation ritual.

Panic, quite simply, took over: gone was poise, restraint, control — thinking itself. They ended up tripping over each other to give up their wickets, and the Aussies obliged.

Artherton, who had had the character and skill to stand up for 159 runs in the first Test, found himself immobilized by the ball swinging away from his off stumps. His discomfiture was plainly visible in close-ups which presented a picture of a fairly desperate young man — white-lipped  and  leeched of all method that would suggest his Test match status.

Eight West Windian wickets fell that morning, not so much to Australian prowess as to studied self-hypnosis on our part.

It was the most awful batting performance I’d ever seen from our heroes. It happens, though, I guess: perhaps to show that we are, after all, human.


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In a green night

Janice just proposed, and we agreed, that from 5 to 7 pm on Tuesday we’ll be at the Hondah resort and convention center celebrating Saint Patrick’s Day. The blurb in the Independent suggests all you can eat corned beef and cabbage, while it lasts, for a modest fee of $5 per person which, for us both, is all of $1 cheaper than tickets for seniors at both local cinemas.

Besides, there will be what is described as live Irish music by some people calling themselves “Celtic Traditions.”

I guess it isn’t so strange going to an Apache casino to mark St. Paddy’s day: no stranger than a Jewish friend of ours who once dyed her pubic hair green to mark the occasion.

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It took some doing to face the computer again: for the past week or so the machine having turned upon me, or, as we say in Trinidad, turned beast. It has simply decided no longer to co-operate in the photo mode, leaving my pictures stranded, unable to upload to my Photostream.

What is remarkable about this truculence is the fact that this follows my mounting nearly 100 photos from a disc which, at some expense, I had had slides from yesteryear digitalized.

I have since been going around in circles even after walk-through help from Trinidad and attempts, so far futile, by the proprietors of the photo program.

This unaccountable lapse has created  a mood, which, though short of depression, nevertheless has produced a cloud that compromises the feeling of elation with which I sit at the computer.

Surprising how much this colors the days. Flush from the morning blanket, and before the coffee, I would sit there to see what is what, to heed favorite bloggers, and get my bearings. Nor is the seat ignored at random intervals during the day. And after the news at night, and Frasier, I would undergo a brief night shift before bed.

With the computer not quite the security blanket it usually is, I shy away from the room, and this dispirited feeling most likely comes from this omission.

I imagine things will change but, right now, I can only hope to manage simpler chores like storing old stories on a huge flash drive I just acquired. And herein noting my despair.

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