15 Minutes of Fame

I don’t know what you guys reckon but I think the greatest sound in the world is the enormously satisfying noise that is made when cracking open the ring pull of an ice cold beer can, preferably late on a Friday afternoon.

I was doing just that on the Friday of the 3rd Test between England and India recently and savouring my first mouthful when I was jolted out of my relaxed state but a remarkable occurrence on the box.

At ten minutes to six, after a particularly severe assault by Tendulkar and Ganguly on the by now ‘hang dog’ Poms, one John Bunton decided to get into the act with his 15 minutes of fame. John, I presume, had also been indulging in the odd amber nectar in the afternoon sun (if that is ever a reality) at Headingley.

The hapless Ashley Giles was the English bowler in action. He was already the victim of sunburn on the roof of his mouth as he watched balls disappear into the stands and he was further taunting the Indian skipper by some exaggerated flight. Ganguly took the bait, skipped down the wicket and launched.

As the ball sailed crisply and handsomely from his heavy piece of willow toward the stand in the region of long on, John Bunton had a flash back. A flash back that was to prove disastrous. John had no doubt remembered those heady days, many moons ago, when on a balmy summer Saturday afternoon he and his mates donned the flannels and challenged the neighbouring village to a game of cricket.

John had been known in his day to prematurely end a batsman’s innings with the odd catch as he lurked near the boundary ropes.

Suddenly, in his mind, he was back in that bygone era as the Ganguly propelled cherry zeroed in on him like a heat seeking missile. Up went John for the catch. Down went John with a thump. With the effects of a few additional years and the odd glass of ‘golden neck oil’ his timing was sadly amiss.

His hands were in the correct position but tragically they were about 5 seconds late. The ball went easily through his groping mitts and clattered into his totally unprotected head, be it by hat or hair. Not surprisingly the good old ‘claret’ was suddenly cascading from a gash of an inch or so wide and John, after a fearful clunk, was staggering around clasping his newly acquired wound.

The good news was that within the next hour he had been stitched up, interviewed by channel 4 and had taken up his position in his same seat with a soothing beverage in his hand. Presumably his pride and his head had been slightly dented.

My mind flooded back to a similar incident that involved me. There I was watching South Africa clash with the All Blacks at Ellis Park some 10 years ago when Naas was lining up for a conversion. He was right in line with the posts and me and suddenly my previous Australian Rules exploits flashed before my eyes. The kick was on its way.

With pinpoint accuracy it threaded the needle between the posts for full points and up I went, with about ten others, for the mark.

The full force of the Botha boot cannoned into my hand and more specifically my finger. My technique had slipped over the years and the mark was dropped. Upon closer inspection a second or two later, to my horror and I must admit embarrassment, I noticed the impact had broken and badly dislocated my second digit on my right hand. I had always been told that Naas was dangerous with his boot in front of the posts but this was ridiculous!

Who am I to point fingers at John Bunton!