Chris Gayle’s screwy stoned look will haunt me for a long time.
Never mind that the Windies lost a match thanks to the Dyson Lewd method.
It was Gayle who had the bummer trip.
His head whirled, twirled, he saw all them D/L score-sheet numbers collide with each other.
Oh maan, like burning fire in his soul.
Had Bob Marley been alive, he would have done a rendition of “No woman, No cry” for Gayle.
Aptly sung as “No man, No cry”
Gayle sat there, sprawled, legs apart in limbo, as if each one of those D/L equations were taking him, one after the other.
But Gayle didn’t move, Gayle didn’t cry.
He just sat there, as the world went by.
And then an age past by him, and the Poms were in for the salt-on-the-open wounds shake-hand.
It was remarkable that Gayle moved.
Even more remarkable that he stood up, almost half expected him to crumble to dust.
And then they shook his hands, but ask the Englishman and they will tell you:
It was like shaking a dead man’s hand.
So when Gayle later said that he won’t Kill Dyson, you had to believe him.
That was not anger he felt, just a deep pain at being raped by numbers.