<i>Cult of the Anti-Heroes</i>

After the World Cup, where our own cup of woe had considerably runneth over, what with those scores of 58 and 78, it was time indeed to have moved on. And, did we not move on or what?
A sizeable number of masochists had gathered at the SBNCS for another dose of collective flogging of cricket sensibilities as we took on the Aussies the other day. We watched in spellbound awe the manner in which we just turned it on. For a start we won the toss and fielded. Why? I hear you ask. Because, silly, when in doubt schizophrenia is the safest refuge. Notwithstanding the early morning start to the game we could still afford to huddle under the crowded umbrella comprising of a reluctant pace bowler and three of the world's best spinners, all of the same kind. What chance there for the Aussies, ranked number one in the ODI rankings? As Shania Twain said, that don't impress me much. Certainly not, when we had in our ranks a Wisden Cricketer of the Year and the world's best all rounder!
So the wicket was meant to get slower as the day progressed, but what of it? 270 to get, was that going to be stiff? Our liking for stats depends on which of them strike our fancy. There are times when we take the dew factor seriously, as against India, and then there are times when we don't. We play our cricket differently, although there are some with no sense of humour who at times insist, we don't play cricket at all. Ah well, you can't win them all. We had an agenda, irrespective of when we had to make our move. We bat out 50 overs. We don't lose all our wickets. In this dull prosaic world where mundane outcomes of a match are considered to be of significance, we refreshingly bring a breath of fresh air with our approach and attitude. We belong of course to a new school of thought. Again, the cynics might insist it is the only such school of thought existing in the cricket world. Our theme song over the years has been, We Shall Overcome. But only our neuroses, not our insecurities. Those we carry on our sleeves, our past traumas we wear as a badge.
We love to dream. We relive Cardiff, of that distant English summer ago; we replay it ad nauseam, ad infinitum in our mind's eye till it acquires the size of Sisyphus' boulder of expectation. We forget conveniently, we had a Mohammad Ashraful then who could score runs for us. We do not have him anymore, nor anybody else who has that similar fire in the belly to take on what the best in the world could hurl at us. The subconscious mind does play tricks with our urges. The ghost of Ashraful is a silent spectre in our dressing room. Unconsciously we have submitted to the realisation that we do not have what it takes to take on the best in the world. It is a mindset which after promising so much to the contrary, is beginning to haunt us again.
There had to have been a purpose to our madness in that first match of this series. To have actually been observed to be playing for a draw in a limited over match had to mean there was a reason behind it all. To fathom what that reason was is like trying to comprehend what lies beyond outer space. Is the answer simply blowin' in the wind, or does it lie in the recesses of the mind of the one Aussie we have in our ranks? The paying public be damned, the rest of the cricket world was faced with the metaphysical question. With T20 with all its blatant vulgarity mesmerising cricket sensibilities just across the border, has Bangladesh done its bit to stab 50 over cricket in the back? The manner of cricket on display in the gloom of that Saturday afternoon was sadly the slow, slow twist of that knife.
Today, we need to turn around and stop being the prisoners of our own shadows. We need to play this game in the manner it should be played.