Subject: Ten to make & the match to win....
From: Scottie Bowman (rbowman@indigo.ie)
Date: Tue Mar 07 2000 - 10:49:48 EST
'... Not sure if sports _so_ pervades the consciousness
of writers from countries other than the U.S. of A. ...'
My first reaction, as a Brit anyway, would be:
'No. Only pocket billiards or games you can play
in the pub, like darts or shove ha'penny.'
English writers - who in College were the Arties - sit around
the whole time in tweed suits & floppy bowties sneering
at Kipling's 'flanneled fools at the wicket ... the muddied
oafs at the goals' - formerly known as the Hearties.
(As you will appreciate, no more violent sneerer than myself.)
But cricket is, of course, the exception. I can never understand
the grip this unspeakably boring activity has on so many
otherwise reasonable, humorous people. There they all are,
striding from one century's pavilion out to the next:
from Sir Henry Newbolt right down to Sir Harold Pinter
& his Sycophantic Eleven.
God almighty, even Sam Beckett used to play for Trinity
(&, I believe, for Ireland on at least one occasion.) It was
presumably during all those interminable hangings-around
in deep field that he thought up all that anaesthetising
dialogue.
Scottie B.
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