A day at the cricket

vivianimbriotis | Jan. 22, 2025, 5:17 p.m.

Foolishly, I agree to go to the cricket. I am a bit sleep deprived; not quite hallucinating, but in emergency department parlance, certainly "altered".

As I step out into the stadium, the first thing that penetrates the hypnogogia is the stink of gunpowder.

I see the Tasmanian mascot, an oversized mock-man in a superhero costume, his plasticine face locked in ricus grin as he turns the handle of a smoke machine steadily, methodically. His unmoving eyes stare out across the field. I am frightened that he is going to spot me. I wonder what would happen if he did.

The players emerge. My cricket-inclined friends tell me tidbits about them from my right. This is better. This is what I expected. The batters are holding bats. The bowler is holding a ball. It is honestly not too loud. I feel secure. I feel safe.

Then the game starts. Tasmania scores a four. Fire erupts from flamethrowers spaced around the stadium. A complex, attention-demanding 3d animation plays on screens scattered around the space. Suddenly, I feel much less safe.

Cricket is a game of stops and starts, so to avoid any rest for the senses, tiktokified noiseboard stings sound at regular intervals. "Cooee!" shouts the mechanical voice. "COOEE", reply endless throats around me, toneless, thoughtless, a croud of automata.

KFC pictograms are scattered across the ground, painted in black and crimson: an extended human finger, an open mouth in explicit detail, an extended thumb. "Finger Licking Good", some intern thought, but the detailed gesture is obscene, sexual, and occult. An abjuration or summining. Sealing us in? Sealing something in with us?

The noiseboard operator presses some buttons at algorithmic intervals and the crowd complies.

"Yeah!" "YEAH!"

"Okay!" "OKAY!"

I realize the stadium is named for a brand of blender. Already it has chopped us up, soon we will all be a slurry, boundaries gone, here together. The blender company's motto, "You can make it," is plastered around the place. Make it what? Out? Home?

It is time to Bring the Energy with the Aurora Energy Cam. Children, mostly around six, cheer and jump and wave, wearing Woolworths Cricket Blast shirts.

One team activates their "power surge." A lightning animation plays on every screen. We are asked via WordArt text to Make Some Noise. "Bonkers" plays. The crowd erups in bacchanalian chorus.

Mario coin noise, Wii music, mario yahoo noise, cooee ("COOEE!"), mario coin noise again.

This wicket brought to you by BKT agricultural tires, this six brought to you by Weber store, this four brought to you by RedZed ("loans for the self-employed").

A chromatic scale ascends. After each note, tension growing and unresolved, there is a CLAP CLAP CLAPCLAPCLAP. I feel uneasy.

I try to retreat to the bathroom but there is no escape. This urine brought to you by Optus. This stinking fearsweat brought to you by Alinta. I run back to the stands.

The Bluey themesong plays. Adults cheer Bluey's name. My muscles lock up. The SpongeBob Squarepants theme plays. Adults cheer SpongeBob Squarepants' name. I can't move.

A boisterous bloke with a large moustache has a tattoo that says "Born with bones". He screams encouragement at the players, spittle flying. He jumps up and down. He begs one player to wave at him.

The players take a short break. Now is the time to win an esky made by the blender company. The Aurora Energy camera zooms in on children and teenagers in turn; "Show us how you keep cool in the summer!" A fourteen year old smearing himself with ice beams as he wins an object he will never use.

Now it is back to the cricket.

Truth in advertising - I do feel like I've been subject to a Big Bash; I ache all over. The actual cricket part is quite fun, though. I get into it. I cheer when the Sixers get caught out. I start using some exciting new words like "wicket" and "required run rate". I am grateful to my girlfriend for explaining how cricket works to me a few days prior, and to my dear friend for telling me it is an "innings" not an "inning", and for warning me that today would be a bit commercialised.

The day fades and enormous spotlights illuminate the Blender Stadium ("you can make it!"). Immediately, I see this confuse the birds. They fly about the stadium, ducking and weaving. Convinced it is day time. I look around - no one else is worrying about the birds. Eyes are fixed variously on the players or the Aurora Energy Cam. Why is no one worried about the birds?

I get a bit lost in the cricket again. Sydney is attempting valiantly to catch up. They start doing riskier plays, which is exciting. I feel excited. They activate their power surge. Obediently, I Make Some Noise.

"If you're happy and you know it clap your hands!" the soundboard cries, apropos of nothing. Claps all round.

I notice that the KFC runes have started to spread. At first they were limited to the smaller screens, now almost every screen is full of them. A raised index finger. An obscenely protruding tongue, with lips retracted from pictographic teeth. A hand with thumb extended. I feel a sense of foreboding. Reality suddenly feels membranous, diaphenous, terribly fragile.

The kids in front of us are wearing KFC buckets on their heads. I look behind me and so are the adults above us. Unnerved, I whip my gaze around - everywhere I look, bucket after bucket.

"This is good!" cries the announcer. Others assume he is talking about the score, but I'm not so sure. Lots seems to be happening. A cooee sounds again, and everyone echos it - as though to cry for help; as though to say "Yes, I am still here."

It is the last over (it is at last almost over). A blender advertisment plays. "You can make it," I whisper to myself. Sydney gets a four on the last ball, a good effort but they would need a miracle 17 runs. The Tasmanian team embraces. The bloke with the "born with bones" tattoo embraces his friend, jumping up, legs around waist. I feel a brief flush at the garish homoeroticism of it all.

Maybe I do like sport.