I broke Marcus Trescothick

It was Thursday morning when I decided to travel to Canberra for Friday's Prime Minister's XI match against the English Cricket team. Tickets for the game had long ago sold out, so I turned to the dark side to avoid missing the tour opener. Ebay's reputation has taken a battering recently regarding ticket scalping, and it was with no small guilt that I placed my bid. I justified it by reasoning that if I didn't buy the ticket, it would probably go to a member of the Barmy Army instead. I owed it to my country to buy that scalped ticket!

The auction wasn't due to finish until Thursday night, so without tickets, or even a clear idea of exactly where the game would be played, I left Newcastle to travel the six or seven hundred kilometres to Canberra. My only hope was that whoever I was bidding against wasn't as dedicated as me. With this in mind, I left for Australia's Capital Territory. The drive from Newcastle to Canberra is a good one, as far as Australian journeys go. The silky smooth roads are at least four lanes wide the entire way, everything is clearly signposted, and the last stretch from Sydney to Canberra (about 300 clicks) seemed almost deserted of cars.

I arrived just before 6pm on Thursday, less than thirty minutes before the ticket auction ended. Checking quickly into my room, I then rushed down the street to an internet cafe` to find that the forty dollar ticket I had bid on was now up to nearly twice that amount. After consultation with my credit card, it was decided that no matter what the cost, I had to win this auction! Ninety bucks, and a large amount of frantic clicking later, the ticket was mine.

A phone call from the seller organised a time to pick up the ticket, and shortly thereafter I was in possesion of what promised to be a piece of Australian Cricket History. Returning to my hotel room, I clutched my prize to my chest and drifted off to sleep, enjoying sweet dreams of what the morning might bring. Maybe Marcus Trescothick would field near me...

The alarm I had set to go off at eight o'clock must have been near sick of the sound of it's own beeping by the time I woke up at nine. This left me with very little time to get to the game, and it was with alacrity that I ran down to my car, barely washed and completely unshaven, and raced toward the game.

With the capital's landmarks quickly flashing past me, I noticed two guys waiting at a rapidly approaching bus stop, both wearing Australian Cricket Team shirts and sombreros. With screeching tires and accompanying smoke, I slid to a halt right in front of them.

"Get in boys, we're going to the cricket!"

They jumped in and I took off again, this time armed with two locals who knew where Manuka Oval was. In less than five minutes we'd arrived, parked the car, and joined the excited throng of people waiting to gain entry into the tour opener. Wishing my impromptu guides well, we parted ways and I went to find my seat.

I was sitting in Bay 4. Having not been to Manuka Oval before, I don't know what every area is like. What I *can* tell you is that Bay 4 in Canberra shares a lot in common with Bay 13 at the MCG; it's inhabitants are loud, passionate, and generally quite funny. I was home. Settling in, I was greeted traditionally by those who'd already taken up what was a prime position.

"G'day, hows it goin'?"

To my left were a group of guys in white singlets with "52 Boon" written accross their backs, in homage to the great Tasmanian's drinking exploits. To my right were a pair of blokes in blue singlets and corked hats. Everyone was in good spirits, and we all seemed to be here to see the same things.

"I hope Monty fields near us," was one man's wish.

"I hope Marcus Trescothick fields near us," was my reply. "I'd like an opportunity to ask him if he's recovered from the mysterious stress ailment he's been suffering from".

"I hope Flintoff gets bugger all runs," came from another direction.

This was one we all agreed on. For this day to go well for Australian supporters - or the biased ones at least - Flintoff would need to be controlled. In fact, so would Pietersen, Trescothick, Strauss... it didn't warrant thinking about.

The game started off slowly and with an early wicket to the English, before Cosgrove joined Jaques at the crease, and runs started to flow, and with the flowing of the runs came the flowing of the alcohol and festivities. Attention from the crowd seemed equally torn between commentating on the rising run rate, and commentating on passers by.

"Boonie! Boonie!" was the cry as a portly gentleman with a moustache wandered past with a puzzled look on his face. The same confused expression was worn by a gentleman wearing a turban who was greeted with cheers of "Monty! Monty!".

"Is she even here to watch the game?" demanded one spectator. The girl in question had been spotted wandering back and forth past our bay all day apparently oblivious to the game, a cardinal sin to some. The irony of his question appeared lost on him, as he finished his beer and stood to return to the bar.

To the pleasure of many Monty Panesar had been assigned to field near us for much of the day, and while his general ground fielding had been surprisingly good, his attempts of backing up on incoming throws brought delight to many. When he came on to bowl his three overs, he was replaced by - thank the heavens - Marcus Trescothick.

If you haven't heard about Marcus Trescothick's well documented mental problems with "stress", you're either not an avid cricket follower, or you've been living under a rock. As a person, I sympathised with him, and wished him well. As an Australian Cricket Supporter, I was champing at the bit to get an opportunity to have a little chat to him over the boundary fence.

Upon yelling his name for the first time, I noticed Trescothick flinch. Good. Though he didn't turn around, I knew he could hear me.

"Marcus! Hows you're mental health?" I yelled. Another slight flinch, but he didn't turn around.

"I hear you're suffering from mental health issues and stress Marcus, I just wanted to make sure you're ok. Are you ok?"

For the next few minutes Marcus and I chatted. That is to say, I yelled out questions about his mental health, while he initially tried to ignore them. He eventually gave me a thumbs up, which I found strangely at odds with the grim expression on his face. He seemed a little tense. When he didn't come back to field near our bay for the rest of the day, then later came out and made less than a handful of runs, I took that to mean that maybe he was still suffering from stress. Poor guy.

The break in innings provided an opportunity to wander around behind the stands and soak up some of the usual and not so usual sights of a day's cricket in Australia. There were kids playing a small chaotic game of cricket behind a drinks stand, more reserved elderly types enjoying picnics, larrakins of all descriptions, and even a random group of guys trying to get everyone to "Step up and sign the jersey! Anyone can do it, it's free! Yes, that's right, even you English can sign it! It's a piece of history!" When I asked them if they'd managed to see any cricket between getting people to sign their Australian Rugby Union jersey, they asked me who was playing. Nice.

On my way back to my seat, I passed Stephen Harmison and Ian Bell. Both were in English kit, apparently en route to training in the nets some further one hundred meters down the path.

"Its going to be a long summer Harmy..." was my comment to him.

He nodded tersely in response.

"...for you!" I quickly followed up, remembering his tendency to get homesick on long tours.

Bell just smiled when I informed him he could play for a better team than England. Not Australia mind you, but a better team than England certainly.

I decided the game could wait, but an opportunity to enjoy Harmison and Bell in the nets couldn't, so I followed them and was able to watch from about fifty meters away, without having to leave the ground. For about ten minutes I loudly applauded every missed shot, laughed when Harmison bowled wide, and intermittently cried "no-ball" when I thought Harmison had overstepped. From fifty meters away, I wasn't really able to see the crease so I erred on the side of caution, no-balling him every third delivery or so.

After enjoying this immensely, I was almost back to my seat when I was stopped by one of the English team's minders. He asked me if we could chat, and I agreed whole heartedly.

"You've been down watching the English practise in the nets," he said.

"Yep, I have." I replied.

"We'd just like you to tone it down a little bit if you could..."

Tone it down? What the hell?

"Well, I haven't sworn, I wasn't racist.. What exactly do you want from me?" I asked.

"You're having a good day aren't you?" came the question.

"Yep, I'm having a great day!" I answered honestly.

"Well... we just want everyone to have good day."

Never have those words carried so much underlying menace. With England's run chase barely underway, and apparently no way to reason with the minder (read: goon) I let it go with a "Sure mate, whatever." and went on my way.

The rest of the day passed similarly to the first. The surrounding crowd drank more, got merrier, louder, and more excited as England collapsed under the weight of a required run-rate of almost seven per over from the beginning. Things became momentarily tense when Flintoff joined Pietersen at the crease, but when the two of them were dismissed within a short time of each other, the game was over in any real sense.

As the ninth wicket fell, and Monty Panesar strode to the crease, I decided to make my way back to the hotel to sleep before the long drive home. As I left the ground, I once again passed the nets, and noticed Harmison still toiling away inside. Standing at the gate was the same minder I'd spoken to earlier in the day. I took the opportunity to ask him to show me the list of things that can and can't be said to the English team during their tour here, but he was unable to produce such a list.

Instead he just turned away, apparently satisfied that he was doing a good job. My opinion of his work was slightly different, so I shared this opinion of his choice of role in protecting the English team with a few choice words before leaving happy in the knowledge that I'd done my bit.

The Ashes start (minus Marcus Trescothick) on November 23rd. It's definately on.