David Warner is out of some cricket fairytale. He should be dressed like a Hobbit in big red shoes. The shoes should have little white wings that flap as he gallops from long off to long on to mid off to mid on. Where all does he field? Then again, how big is the field? Too bad the ropes are in, they just rein in Warner – that catch he referred, he would have walloped it with his mouth.
Yes, he can catch with his mouth. He has a tail tucked into his pants, he can catch with that too. And his hands, and his feet, he can catch them with his smile; with that twinkle in his eye.
Warner is a kid. His delight is kidlike, watch him. If you’ve grown too old for the game, watch him raise the catch, raise the ball – to you Delhi, to you Daredevils, to you NSW, to you Australia, to you cricket.
He can bat too. He can wait on the spinners, late, watch him play late. Watch him hurl bat on ball, ball into outer space, some extra terrestrial bound object.
And the first scene at short cover, snatch ball, smash stumps, run out. When you run out of reasons to watch the game, watch Warner. He’ll pull you in, like the runaway ball down long on.
On Bored: Does Warner warrant a song