Anyone who knows me won’t be surprised by today’s blast of positivity. The first match of the summer cricket test series started today in Perth. If it weren’t for a certain ex-Prime Minister forever ruining the expression, I would not decline the mantle of “cricket tragic”.
I don’t like cricket. Oh no. Etc.
Oh, I know all the reasons why people might not agree with me – it takes five whole days to get no result, most of the players just stand there in the sun all day doing practically nothing, the Australian nation is often represented by a pack of arrogant, bullying man-babies, and the commentary is frequently hilariously, tediously awful.
Blah blah blah whatevs. 
I love the game.
I love that it’s a game of endurance, played in baking heat without shade.
I love that it’s a game of extraordinary technical precision, requiring highly unnatural physical positions and movements.
I love that it’s a contest of concentration, where the tedium of standing and waiting for hours on end is balanced by the need for millisecond-fast reflexes.
I love that it’s steeped in pompous traditions and finicky procedures (I don’t so much love its smacking of a disagreeable dose of British colonialism, but what doesn’t these days?).
I love the ridiculous names for fielding positions. I love the quasi-sexual ball-shining rituals. I love the game’s interminable obsession with unfathomable statistics.
I adore the ebb and flow of a match that strays into the doldrums for hours, only to come crashing back into exciting uncertainty in the course of a few balls. I love dominant batting. I love clever, testing bowling plans that unfold over the course of hours. I love athletic fielding and bold running. I love the bad luck and the cunning instincts.
I love it. So much.
 Actually I really can’t argue at all with that last one much.