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#sports – @aeolianblues on Tumblr
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aeolianblues

@aeolianblues / aeolianblues.tumblr.com

Amateur writer and cartoonist, trash poetry specialist, musician, punk radio host, computer science student and enthusiast. Muser, hi hello! Museblogging at @sunburnacoustic. Disastrously cooking at @vengefulcooking
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I’m only into football for my Scottish friends when they’re clearly enjoying an English team in agony. I’m only into football when my Welsh friends are experiencing untold euphoria seeing Wales qualify for their first major international tournament since 1958 (Euro 16). I’m only into football when I’m arm-in-arm with Canadian MNT fans in tears watching a team and community build around us in realtime. I’m a football fan when I’m on a plane back from New York watching a sea of red jerseys say, we never had a chance against Argentina, but I admire the way they hung on (Copa 24). I am into football when we see decades of advocacy finally give women a half shot at equal footing and create fans out of little girls and heroes out of the women on the field. I am only a football fan in the way Carlos O’Connell went on telly in the UK wearing his native España jersey the day after England lost the Euros. Icon and legend.

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one of my highlights of the T20 World Cup has been hearing the North American accents in a cricket setting. Come. Join us. Come over to the dark side, we relish in the anguish and the beauty ;) ❤️

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I love cricket. I love sport. I love commentators that describe a bowled ball as a 'beauty'. I love sporting rivalries. I love the patterns and the narratives that build: favourite grounds, decades-old curses and chokers, overcoming history; people lounging in the sun, decked out in paint and flags, holding homemade signs forming friendships with people they'd never have otherwise met. I love how long cricket runs. I love that you can genuinely escape all reality for a whole day.

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I'm being so serious when I say that the US' understanding of international geography, culture and politics would increase tenfold if they as a nation were more exposed to or interested in world sport. If US Americans paid attention to international football (soccer) they'd 100% know where Ecuador is. If they were keen on watching pre/post match interviews and analyses they'd know that Brazilians speak Portuguese. If they went/had friends who travelled for away games to Chile they'd know more about Chilean politics and would even be sympathetic to events happening outside the US.

"World champions" = 10 US cities + Toronto; "we only watch HOCKEY because it's a MAN'S sport and sahccer players are WEAK" nah. Bullshit narrative. Your people in power probably know the power of sports in connecting and educating people, bringing them together in solidarity over shared powerful moments of sporting emotion.

"I'm sorry but most Americans aren't ever able to leave their state or travel" —international sport. I know an ungodly amount about New Zealand and it's not because I've ever been there, it's because I'm obsessed with their cricket team

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gracklesong

My boyfriend is trying to explain cricket to me again. “He’s only got two balls to make 48 runs”, he says. The camera focuses on a man. Underneath him it says LEFT ARM FAST MEDIUM. A ball flies into the stands and presumably fractures someone’s skull. “There’s a free six”, my boyfriend says. 348 SIXES says the screen. A child in the audience waves a sign referencing Weet-Bix

The first time he showed me this I assumed he was pranking me

if people haven’t been exposed to cricket before, here is the experience. The person who likes cricket turns on a radio with an air of happy expectation. “We’ll just catch up with the cricket,” they say. 

An elderly British man with an accent - you can picture exactly what he looks like and what he is wearing, somehow, and you know that he will explain the important concept of Yorkshire to you at length if you make eye contact - is saying “And w’ four snickets t’ wicket, Umbleby dives under the covers and romps home for a sticky bicket.”

There is a deep and satisfied silence. Weather happens over the radio. This lasts for three minutes.

A gentle young gentleman with an Indian accent, whose perfect and beautiful clear voice makes him sound like a poet sipping from a cup of honeyed drink always, says mildly “Of course we cannot forget that when Pakistan last had the biscuit under the covers, they were thrown out of bed. In 1957, I believe.”

You mouth “what the fucking fuck.”

A morally ambiguous villain from a superhero movie says off-microphone, “Crumbs everywhere.”

Apparently continuing a previous conversation, the villain asks, “Do seagulls eat tacos?”

“I’m sure someone will tell us eventually,” the poet says. His voice is so beautiful that it should be familiar; he should be the only announcer on the radio, the only reader of audiobooks.

The villain says with sudden interest, “Oh, a leg over straight and under the covers, Peterson and Singh are rumping along with a straight fine leg and good pumping action. Thanks to his powerful thighs, Peterson is an excellent legspinner, apart from being rude on Twitter.”

The man from Yorkshire roars potently, like a bull seeing another bull. There might be words in his roar, but otherwise it is primal and sizzling.

“That isn’t straight,” the poet says. “It’s silly.”

What the fucking fuck,” you say out loud at this point.

“Shh,” says the person who likes cricket. They listen, tensely. Something in the distance makes a very small “thwack,” like a baby dropping an egg.

“Was that a doosra or a googly?” the villain asks.

“IT’S A WRONG ‘UN,” roars the Yorkshireman in his wrath. A powerful insult has been offered. They begin to scuffle.

“With that double doozy, Crumpet is baffled for three turns, Agarwal is deep in the biscuit tin and Padgett has gone to the shops undercover,” the poet says quickly, to cover the action while his companions are busy. The villain is being throttled, in a friendly companionable way.

An intern apparently brings a message scrawled on a scrap of paper like a courier sprinting across a battlefield. “Reddy has rolled a nat 20,” the poet says with barely contained excitement. “Australia is both a continent and an island. But we’re running out of time!”

“Is that true?” You ask suddenly.

“Shh!” Says the person who likes cricket. “It’s a test match.”

“About Australia.”

“We won’t know THAT until the third DAY.”

A distant “pock” noise. The sound of thirty people saying “tsk,” sorrowfully.

“And the baby’s dropped the egg. Four legs over or we’re done for, as long as it doesn’t rain.”

The villain might be dead? You begin to find yourself emotionally invested.

There are mild distant cheers. “Oh, and with twelve sticky wickets t’ over and t’ seagull’s exploded,” the man from the North says as if all of his dreams have come true. “What a beautiful day.” Your person who likes cricket relaxes. It is tea break.

The villain, apparently alive, describes the best hat in the audience as “like a funnel made of dove-colored net, but backwards, with flies trapped in it.”

This is every bit as good as that time in Australia in 1975, they all agree, drinking their tea and eating home-made cakes sent in by the fans. The poet comments favorably on the icing and sugar-preserved violets. The Yorkshire man discourses on the nature of sponge. The villain clatters his cup too hard on his saucer. To cover his embarrassment, the poet begins scrolling through Twitter on his phone, reading aloud the best memes in his enchanting milky voice. Then, with joy, he reads an @ from an ornithologist at the University of Reading: seagulls do eat tacos! A reference is cited; the poet reads it aloud. Everyone cheers.

You are honestly - against your will - kind of into it! but also: weirdly enraged.

“Was that … it?” you ask, deeming it safe to interrupt.

“No,” says the person who likes cricket, “This is second tea break on the first day. We won’t know where we really are until lunch tomorrow.”

And - because you cannot stop them - you have to accept this; if cricket teaches you anything, it is this gentle and radical acceptance.

@admirablemonster … i still think its an imaginary sport ngl

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The stupidity of sportspeople looking away when climate protesters try to disrupt games is just staggering, like cricketers are young people. The average professional sports player is young. Do they think they, unlike their 40-82 year-old higher ups, have the opportunity to just opt out of the climate crisis? Does Jonny Bairstow think he's just going to be able to opt out of it and "get on with the game" when he and his colleagues already look close to death when they have to play a routine game in the Australian summer? What are they going to do when it gets hotter? The stupidity is that they are the ones that need to go out in the sun for eight hours a day and play, whether it's 15° or 50°.

The Australian players are already intimately aware of how hard it can be in the heat. They've also personally dealt with wildfires. They aren't stupid. They know exactly where all that is coming from. And I understand that in the moment you might just want to get on with the Test, but not so much as a word after the game? Cricketers have a mic thrust in their face and the cameras and attention of the entire cricketing world trained on them every evening of this Test. As the Just Stop Oil spokesperson said, parts of the cricketing world will become uninhabitable. Yet silence from the players, who people love and would listen to.

When the outdoor temperatures get more extreme, they will either have to pretend to look the other way and act like everything is alright as they swelter and faint in record heat, or their matches will be cancelled. I can promise you the ECB isn't paying for cancelled matches. What are they going to do? It's coming for them one way or the other. It's stupid to pretend that the climate might have nothing to do with cricket. Geoff Boycott is stupid to think this conversation doesn't belong in cricket. Cricket more than any other regular job is inherently tied to the outdoors. What a stupid decision to look away and stay silent. The protesters brought an opportunity to open this discussion with players, and they threw it away.

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