The Rat King is Dead

Six years after he lost The Ashes for Australia the first time, two years after he lost The Ashes for Australia the second time and four months after he lost The Ashes for us the third time, this time on home soil, Ricky Ponting is finally out. The Rat King is dead.

His miserable reign is over. Despite World Cup success and a tremendous run as the world’s best batsman, his time as captain will be remembered for, if nothing else, the receding of the tide, when Australian cricket fell from the grand heights of the Taylor-Waugh years to the depths of mediocrity with which it now wallows.

Australia may have always been set for a fall once the likes of Warne, Gilchrist and McGrath gave it away but the speed of that descent and the subsequent parlous state the game is currently in is all on the ticket of Ricky Ponting and now it is time to punch the card and collect the debt.

Or, at the very least, call a cheap pigfucker a cheap pigfucker and move on.

The decline of spin bowling. The disillusionment of quality players. The culture of personal favouritism. The death of tactical nous. The overuse of coaching to patch over general inadequacies. The implementation of rigid and inflexible policies and plans. The constant chopping and changing of the team.

These all happened on Ponting’s watch. There are few others to blame. The moronic selection panel and Cricket Australia have certainly been able in their assistance but, be it through action or passivity, Ricky Ponting has taken Australian cricket from the top of the pile with daylight second to the back of the pack, unable to match it with even the most average of opposition.

I have yearned for this day for so long. I have begged, grovelled, demanded and decried. And the day has finally arrived.

Yet I have found myself swept with an overwhelming sense of ambivalence.

To start with, the announcement was made in the middle of rugby league season, only serving to  highlight how far cricket has fallen behind the two major football codes in terms of relevance. Once upon a time, cricket was at the very least the equal of the football codes. These days, thanks in large part to the Ponting reign of terror, you would need pretty strong eyes to see how far the game of leather and willow has fallen behind.

And then, of course, there is the future, a future that has two bums leading the charge. I had prepared myself for Michael Clarke, though deep down hoped the wave of popular contempt for him would see him passed over. Shane Watson as his deputy though, I simply could not fathom. Not in my wildest, most drug-addled state have I ever thought such a nightmare could be heaped upon us.

That bum. That punk. That cheap imposter who does not belong anywhere near a leadership position.

These are dark days. Dark days indeed. And I am out. From here on, I no longer give a damn. Australian cricket can rot in hell.  It is dead to me. The bed has been made and there is no way the makeup is changing. Clarke to one side, Watson to the left, a big pile of shit in the middle and the Australian cricket fan underneath.

If I follow cricket at all, it will be as a neutral observer and one with a soft spot for Daniel Vettori and New Zealand. I cannot imagine lending support for a regime of such stupidity, such style, such dearth of character. So I won’t be. Good luck Clarke and Watson: you’ll both need it.

Photo by Hamish Blair/Getty Images AsiaPac