And so to Manuka Oval in Canberra for the big one: Bangladesh versus Afghanistan in match seven of this rather fun Cricket World Cup. And the joint is a mini Dhaka for a day.
Top cricket ground, Manuka (pronounced “Marn-ar-kar”, not slowly, but rather “Marnaka” like Ajit Agarkar). Surrounded by mighty oak, elm, cypress and poplar. Billiard table surface, white-hot batting track, Jack Singleton Scoreboard once of the MCG but brought to Canberra in bits when Melbourne went out with the old, in with computers, and lost a small portion of its soul. No they didn’t, they just got a new scoreboard. But Manuka’s classic scoreboard is best practice.
I worked in the scoreboard when I was 19 or so, waving to the umpire when he showed us a new ball, and turning the old works when the official scorers rang us to say the score was wrong. Saw Michael Bevan score a century for ACT versus NSW second XI, saw Wayne “Cracker” Holdsworth tear in like Malcolm Marshall angry at injustice, ridiculous pace. So there you go.
Six! A mighty lofted thwack over mid-wicket arches high and long over the checkerboard surface and into a sea of green and red spots, the flag of Bangladesh as worn by what must be 11,500 of the 12,000 souls who’ve crammed Manuka today. And men run about with huge flags. And there is dancing to the beat of jhorkas and korkas, the folk drums of Bangladesh.
“Bang-la-DESH!” rips out around the ground. “Bang-la-DESH!” They whack the drums. There is dancing. It’s more fun than school formal for the Children of the Corn. Not that much fun. But fun, man. Fun.
Twenty-sixth over and Bangladesh are 106-2. Afghanistan competing here, pretty good effort considering they are cricketers from Afghanistan, perennially ranked with Iraq, Somalia and the badlands of Southern Sudan on lists of war-torn nation-states.
Still, the cricket team of Afghanistan looks pretty tasty in their slinky blue suits. And they compete at every turn here. And the people know it. Every run the Bangladeshi fans get jiggy, every humble leg-bye is cheered like John Aloisi has potted the penalty that gets the Socceroos to the 2006 World Cup.
The queue at the bar is non-existent. For it’s a family day here. Heap of kids. Little kids. Even new-borns. It’s noisy but not unsafe. There isn’t the overt smell of beer and beery man, the latent “danger” of that. People eat ice creams. And remain nice. And don’t drink so much they turn into noisy nongs.
LBW? LBW! Yes indeed, quick lefty Shapoor Zadran has drawn a finger of death from umpire Steve Davis, and the heavily out-numbered Afghan fans rise from their seats and wave their flags and beat their own folk drums, their tablas. And Soumya Sarkar wanders off, gone for 28 off 25 balls, fun little knock.
Big cheer for the new batsman, which can mean the arrival of only one man (because his name has just gone up on the Jack Singleton Scoreboard): Shakib Al Hasan. Pretty good player, they reckon, indeed “the third best all-rounder in ODI cricket”, according to the Guardian’s very own Russell Jackson. Cricinfo says he is “unarguably the best cricketer that Bangladesh have ever had,” that his bowling is “accurate, consistent, and canny” and his batting contains a “wide range of strokes”. He also has “self-belief, an excellent temperament, unflustered by the big occasion and ready to do battle against the top teams.” So there you go.
My, it’s a great crowd in. Mostly green, very occasional speckles of Afghan blue, and about 10 men in Australian gold, a tour group who’ve obviously gobbled up all the tickets they could, like people do at Olympics, heading off to see archery, and kayaks, and odd little yachts. They head to the Members, such that it is, largely subdued, observers, tourists in Dhaka.
Four runs! Shakib is away, first ball, with a lusty blow. And the people chant his name “Sha-kib!” like Indians do Sachin’s. Here’s the big left-armer, Shapoor Zadran. A long man with shades of Ishant Sharma about him. Big run-up. “He’s rooted before he gets halfway,” observes a man. But the ball shoots down at appreciable speeds, and you wouldn’t get in the way of him for a bet. Or would you? How much money you would accept to stand in front of a lightning-fast bowler, like Piers Morgan did in front of Brett Lee, would say rather a lot about you.
Wicket! Mohammad Mahmudullah Riyad – known only as Mahmudullah, like Pele – is caught behind and the Bangladeshis are four down, and the Afghan supporter squadron is all up, you beauty.
And there is drumming and dancing. Flags and drums, men do laps. It’s a celebration of nations, of people, not nationalism. And yet the roving flag carriers are followed by police in leather gloves, jackboots, combat pants, great fat Glock pistols, Batman’s utility belts with all sorts of stuff that could bring down perps. The dancing flag people are also followed by a tall bald man in a purple shirt, some sort of crowd control man, a Fun Policeman with a walkie-talkie, paid to do nothing useful for anyone in the world.
Sell out? Apparently, although I bought a ticket at the gate. A lot of seats free on the sunny, eastern side. But people are wandering about all over the shop.
Bowled him! And the electric wickets flash like little broken light-sabres. And they’re all up, the crowd, from both countries, babies, toddlers, men dressed as tigers, men dressed as tigers carrying stuffed tigers, these are happy, happy days.
“Return to your seat,” says a security man, one of a posse wandering the perimeter behind the bowl seats, doing nothing useful. Moments after people move they move back in, and no-one worries. Today is about standing and dancing, because rules be damned, people are just doing their thing, they don’t need officiating.
Whack! Ball flies out to mid-wicket where Samiullah Shenwar charges in and takes a handy catch falling forward. Martin Snedden took one like it years ago at the MCG but Greg Chappell didn’t walk. Same game he instructed his brother Trevor to bowl underarm. Greg has since said he didn’t feel like playing cricket that day.
And so Afghanistan continue to play good, competitive cricket. They are clearly no mugs. It’s 247-7 in the 48th. And then: boom, four runs. And boom again! Four more, and the Bangladesh fans are up as one and dancing about with flags and Manuka Oval is a happy bazaar. Like on election day for the Canberra political party the “Party Party Party” that contested the self-government referendum in 1988, a poll eventually won by the No Self Government Party that tapped into the electorate’s mood and won, and governed. Canberra was then self-governed by the Abolish Self Government Coalition. Good times.
Big swing! Big miss! They run! Out? Out! The keeper throws down the stumps and the golden disco baubles blink like electronic disco biscuits and you are outta here, Mominul Haque, tell your story a-walkin’.
Last over. People stand about. Dancing. Bopping about. Wherever they like because rules be damned, they’re just people doing their thing, not hurting anybody, and bald blokes in purple shirts be damned. It’s fluid, it’s Asia here at Manuka, and it’s confused the Fun Cops, the damned fools.
Bowled him! Aftab Alam slings in a heater and draws a windy woof and the disco biscuits ping. Great last over, it’s gone wicket, 1, dot. bye. Run out? Another run out! Until: big screen says … no! And the party people bop about. Top bowling. And … here he comes. Last ball … BOWLED HIM! Great bowling, fast man of Afghanistan, and Bangladesh are all out for 267 in 50.0 completed overs.
To the pub across the road, over a schooner of delicious Cricketers Arms Pale Ale, one hears a huge roar from across the road. “Wicket,” says a man nearby. Manuka roars again. “Another one,” says the man. When there’s a third roar the man says to his mate, “We better get back in, this will be over soon.”
It’s over now. As a game, anyway. As a festival of national party pride by the people of Bangladesh and Afghanistan it will run all evening. Top stuff, party people. Top stuff.
