Night Owls: The perils of watching sport in the wee hours

Some Sunday fun from new writer Oscar Ratcliffe. I’m sure we all know exactly what he means …

At that time of night, it was a killer – the sort of session you dread when gorging cricket in the wee hours. Roped in at 10pm on the promise of hard drinking and a riotous first session, your fellow passenger has nearly jumped ship.

Cheteshwar Pujara blocks a rising delivery from Stuart Broad. No run. Not that he need say so. By now it’s pretty obvious. He hasn’t taken one for the last 40 minutes.

“Another beer?”, you ask hesitantly, knowing full well that Peronis are all out and by “beer” what you really mean is a strawberry IPA you couldn’t stomach left over from that festive ale selection a kindly relative, bereft of ideas (or instruction), gifted you for Christmas.

A nod.

Good. That locks him in for another half hour at least.

Dot ball. The flock of England slip fielders are bleating, vowels elongating with each volley of encouragement.

“It will get good in a sec, the spinner’s about to come on”, you assert with unconvincing confidence en route to the kitchen. It’s not that you dislike a test match’s slow sessions, you’re no philistine, but you’re only human. You’ve both got work in the morning and it took some greasy salesmanship to get your co-spectator to go all in on this late-night venture. It has to be worth it.

As you open the store cupboard applause ripples from the TV. Too loud for just a maiden, you surmise, must be the end of a spell. Moeen will be on soon. Some action impending, surely?

The strawberry IPA is staring you in the face. Nestled behind it, smug in its surprise but not entirely unwelcome appearance, like an old flame at a drinks party, sits a lukewarm Peroni. Your fellow night owl (who also happens to be your father) will prefer and, indeed, deserves the latter – Christmas doesn’t pay for itself and your yuletide ledger is decidedly rouge. But it’s late. He probably won’t notice the fruity grog. Hell, a tepid Peroni is a 4/10 beverage at best and the June 2020 expiration date knocks this one down a tier or two. It’s marginal gains and you’re feeling selfish. You plump for the lager, your inebriation sufficient to paper over this minor patricide.

You carefully place the sweet abomination in front of your progenitor, ensuring the inculpatory label isn’t apparent.

“Did I miss anything?”, you ask, employing some pound-shop misdirection.

“Rahane hit Leach for four. Lovely cover drive”.

Sod’s law. Leave the room for one over, the interminable Pujara is finally off strike and you miss the action. Watching the replay your father’s assessment is spot on. It’s the kind of shot you cling to when you’re skirting the witching hour: weight perfectly balanced, no more than a push. Manna that keeps you venturing into the night on the promise of more. It would have been good to have seen it live, you think, and instantly feel better about the inequitable beverage situation.

Several are the reasons you admire Rahane. He’s easy on the eye and doesn’t just cash in at home, scoring tough runs in tricky conditions. It wasn’t long ago that he hit a match winning Boxing Day century at the MCG whilst shouldering the added responsibility of captaining the side in Virat Kohli’s absence. But today, cover drive apart, like his batting partner he’s been shotless. Perhaps the advent of spin will spark some proactivity, you hope.

Moeen’s now twirling and Rahane prods forward. The commentator is ruminating on the “aesthetics” of the Indian skipper’s defence against spin. Yesterday he wheeled out a tired gag about how he’d been so bored at home during the pandemic that he spoke to this woman who turned out to be his wife. David Hume, he is not.

Rahane reaches again. This time there’s turn. The ball takes the edge, glances his front pad and now Ollie Pope is wheeling back from short leg. The ball falls just out of his reach.

A chance.

Thank God, you think. Your promises of action were not as hollow as you thought. Your father hasn’t even mentioned the irregular tang of the “beer” he is currently imbibing. Times are good and you are both getting into the spirit of this. Who knows, this may yet become an opportunity for some bonding.

What happens next is nirvana. Vindication for wrecking your internal clock to watch two sides you don’t support duke it out. Out of nowhere Rahane, dances out of his bunker and lofts a soaring 6.

“What a shot”, your father purrs, “that’s what Test cricket is all about – it’s a game of chess”.

You seize your moment. The longest form of the game is ripe for fetishization and you are an all too willing, if slightly dribbling, arbiter. Your well-rehearsed lecture now ready for launch, you swiftly revise that hour of inactivity for all to hear. Where it was stale it now sizzles as part of “the broader narrative”, you profess to your audience of one. The cultured prologue to a doughty first act. You’re emotional. It’s uncomfortable.

The air is now thick with guff, and not just from your pontificating – the terrier, having nabbed the remainder of the weekend roast, is majoring in a kind of gastric orchestra. Your father senses it’s time for bed, your strange catharsis to be filed along with the stonewalling and your canine’s putrid symphony as ‘Suboptimal Things that Happen after 1am’. He departs. The bonding will have to wait.

You wonder whether your time has come too, a morning of reviewing documents a Sword of Damocles hanging over you. You try and remember that stat about circadian rhythms. Of people who stayed up late, was it ten percent who died young, or twenty? Is another session worth it?

‘Are you still watching? There hasn’t been any activity for a while’, the pop-up on the TV reads. ‘Go to bed, you loser’, it seems to be saying. Your finger hovers over the remote.

“Got him! A wicket at last”

You hit Yes. ‘Just another hour’, you promise yourself, as you cross the Rubicon into the night.

Oscar Ratcliffe

@oscar_cricket

For more of Oscar’s writing, you can check out his blog here.

4 comments

  • After years of working in the entertainment business, where you become a habitual night owl, it was good to finally get a perk from terrestrial cricket coverage, as I would not trust myself with Sky, where all year round test cricket could be a ruinous temptation. A bit like an unlimited credit card.
    There’s something dreamlike about watching cricket on the other side of the world in the dark. It’s like you’re an alien peeping tom becoming hooked on the strange habits of another race from afar. Over this last 12 live cricket starved months TV coverage has become important to cricket lovers well being.

  • Worst night-viewing decision….

    March 2002: NZ’s 9th wicket falls and the comms had been saying Chris Cairns wouldn’t bat. I don’t bother to wait and see if he appears, bung a VHS in (for the post-match chatter I thought) and turned in. Looked at the score the next morning….

    I watched the recording of course but it’s never the same when you know what’s going to happen.

    • Is this where I talk about sitting in the stands that day in Chch (scored free tix through work) drinking beer & singing “100* more 4s to go” as my club teammate Nathan smacked it to all parts? 😉

      *99 more, 98 more, etc – the barmy army joined in mid afternoon..

    • I always try to keep away from the score before the highlights, not easy when people know what you’re doing, as it’s human nature for mates to spill the beans.

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