Duncan asks Gary why

From: Duncan Fletcher (tyrafan@hotseatmail.com)
To: Gary Kirsten (gotitmade@whooyeahmail.com)
Subject: Why?

Dear Gary,

Why? What did I ever do to you? Did I not always extend to you a polite indifference, while maintaining at all times a safe minimum distance, the way I do with the media, the players and my family? In other words, did I treat you differently from the way I treat anybody else? Then why, Gary, why? Why am I here, in the particular situation I now find myself in?

"Just go to India already, Dunc, you can thank me later," you said, crinkling those lines around your eyes as you smiled, and I fell for it, hook, line and sinker.

Ever watch the Tyra Banks Show, Gary? Ever love it so much that you had it taped by someone you trust when you weren't around to watch it yourself? If you did, you'll know that a fab face ain't gonna make itself, sister. You're probably blissfully unaware that I've had to apply twice as much foundation as I usually do, to keep my jowls from falling out and my guard from dropping, and that I've had to watch 48 hours instead of the usual 20 of Boycott batting clips to maintain my expressionless stupor. Because I'll be goddamned, Gary, if I'm going to let Flower see me like this.

I'm losing it. To think I could be safely working a little something with Hampshire, or hell, even Zimbabwe isn't doing too badly these days. Why did I listen to you? What form of madness was I under that made me, in spite of my better judgement and instinct, go to India anyway?

I'll give you one thing, Gary: your timing couldn't have been more perfect; my humiliation could not have been better stage-managed. Let the old bugger be lulled into a false sense of confidence by going to the West Indies first, before ending up in England deliciously undercooked for the summit clash. Is that how you like your meat? Undercooked? Because that's what we are, dead meat.

You certainly knew when to get out with your skin intact, though, didn't you? That's right, let them lose their No. 1 ranking under my watch, to the one team you know, the one team you know, Gary, I can't stomach losing to right now.

But why? I loved you like a father does a long-estranged son, from a comfortable distance. And this is the thanks I get?

Wait, is all of this because I didn't invite you across the border to our annual hunt on the ranch that one time? Or are you still nursing the hurt from when England beat you guys under my watch? Were you even in the team then?

What a mess. And thanks for warning me about some of the other things I'm up against.

"Oh, you'll just love working with these boys, Dunc. They're so precious, and such commendable students of the game."

You didn't tell me Sreesanth insists on taking a full-length mirror to bed every night. And that I have to keep a constantly running inventory of his wrist bands while we're on tour. Oh, he's a student, all right. If I ever manage to find the high school he's escaped from I'll be sure to return him to the playground.

Did you know that Harbhajan comes into my room sometimes in the middle of the night, sobbing about how the "Make it Large" advertising campaign was the biggest mistake of his life, and swearing that he only thought he was doing a public service announcement for a very real male problem?

What about calls from the BCCI at odd hours of the night? Ever get those? Someone breathing heavily on the other end and asking me to whisper to him that he's still No. 1. No?

Whatever, Gary. I'm going to go cool off by watching a Tyra rerun. Have you seen the one where she teaches the world the meaning of the word "smize?" Do you know what smizing even means? It means to smile with your eyes, Gary. Pah, what do you know.

Hey, Gary? I guess what I'm trying to say with this email is thanks. Thanks a f****ing bunch.

DF