When my phone erupted moments after Mitchell Starc dismissed Zak Crawley in the first over of the Perth Ashes Test, my wife politely asked if everything was okay.
“Just the cricket,” I nonchalantly replied, trying to disguise my jubilation before texting a bunch of mates back with “Starrrrrrc”.
The opening game was barely three minutes old, yet cricketing camaraderie was forged once again, reigniting a connection and community that are often unfairly judged.
Sports atheists would find it bewildering that any meaningful relationship could be nurtured through dozens of irrational and turbulent texts about a cricket match.
Given the horrors unfolding around the globe, some might find the banality of watching a bat and ball for days strangely indulgent.
But the Ashes creates an emotional whiplash in fans that is usually reserved for fictional characters in a Dostoevsky novel. And the Australian and English rivalry can ignite a religiosity among supporters that few other sporting contests can match.
It also builds ties, sparks joy, and shapes unexpected relationships, even if outsiders find them puzzling.
The amount of fervid energy invested in the five-Test series is undoubtedly a little silly. Still, I’m not going to pretend I didn’t delight in watching Starc, Scott Boland, and co continually outsmart England’s belligerent band of Bazballers.
Or take immense pleasure in seeing Travis Head dismantle the patched-up English attack and deliver such a brutal psychological blow in the second innings in Perth that the opposition never fully recovered.
But two days after the most hysterically hyped-up contest in living memory has finished, I find myself feeling unusually unmoored. The rhythmically chaotic cycle of the Test series had abruptly ended, disrupting my cortisol levels.
I unashamedly find myself missing cricket. The ugliness of the world is again thrust before me. Texting and water-cooler moments about cricket have been replaced by Trump’s latest calamitous attempts to invade or buy parts of the planet.
Australia celebrate with the Ashes trophy. (AP Photo/Mark Baker)
Granted, there was a bit of post-game chatter that kept the embers smouldering for an extra day or so. There was footage of “Slug” (Beau Webster) delivering a back-foot no-ball to Harry Brook in the second innings when he had him trapped LBW.
Watching Head landing a monster putt in the Blitz Golf event at Kooyonga Golf Club, after being best on ground in the celebrations the night before. But I couldn’t even muster the energy to read about Brook’s nightclub tussle before he arrived in Australia, as the funk had sunk in.
The mild malady will pass, but there is no doubt that the Ashes can cultivate a sense of belonging that is surprisingly therapeutic.
Researchers at Anglia Ruskin University in the UK have found that people who watch sport experience greater well-being than those who don’t. The report revealed that people who attend a live sporting event are more satisfied with their lives and less lonely than those who don’t.
Engaging in sports viewing can positively enhance our moods. I went from struggling to sleep after day one of the Perth Test, when Australia was left teetering at 9/123, to giddily playing beer bong for the first time in my life with people more than half my age at my daughter’s birthday party after Head tore the heart out of the English bowlers late on day two.
Obviously, I would’ve derived more pleasure than the crestfallen English supporters, but the Barmy Army’s ability to foster a sense of community and engagement, whatever the score, is staggering to witness.
The Ashes stir up complex, conflicting emotions because the sporting timeline is steeped in history that has left both countries battered and embittered.
England’s Jacob Bethell celebrates after scoring his century. (AP Photo/Mark Baker)
When those colonial tourists beat the English for the first time on home soil at The Oval on 29th August 1882, the Sporting Times published a mock obituary of English cricket, concluding that “The body will be cremated and the ashes taken” to Australia.
Despite the English press’s open disdain, a torrid cricketing romance was born that made Elizabeth Taylor and Richard Burton’s tumultuous relationship look tame.
There have been some testing moments.
The Bodyline Series in 1932, when the English firebrand quick Harold Larwood was instructed by his Oxford-educated captain, Douglas Jardine, to knock Don Bradman’s block off to stop him scoring.
Alex Carey’s controversial stumping of Jonny Bairstow prompted Lord’s members to spew vile insults and confront Australian players as if Scottish rebel William Wallace himself had suddenly materialised.
But hatchets are eventually buried because nothing matters more to both teams than winning that little terracotta perfume pot with a few scribbled lines on the side, symbolising one of the fiercest rivalries in world sport.
And even though the Australians retained the Ashes after a record-equalling 11 days, despite the English’s meticulous planning over the previous four years being more thorough than the Manhattan Project, it didn’t matter.
The urn was ours again, for the time being.
While the dates for the next series in England in 2027 haven’t been released yet, in around 18 months, the banter and verbal volleys between fans will resume.
My phone will undoubtedly light up. And we might even experience a sudden injection of serotonin, because whether we want to admit it or not, watching sport is good for us.
Brendan Fosterhttps://https://ift.tt/UdPDKqB finished a few days ago but I’m already missing the unexpected joy cricket brings
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