The Ring Of Truth
South Australia Cricket Association, ever genial hosts, dredged the river and found my Nokia 1100 wicket taker (3 for 8 at The Gabba, 1 for 0 at Adelaide – beat that, Shane McGrath.)
“It’s here for you to pick up,” said the fax to My Place Backpackers. “We’ve sent you a cab.”
Screetch at the door.
‘Jump in. Are you the pom poet that drop-kicks mobile phones into the Torrens? Can I have your autograph?’ I take the portable tattoo set to add my moniker below Shane loves Shane. ‘It’s for the kids.’
‘Here’s your phone, Mr Fine,’ says the SACA staff. ‘Sign here. It’s for the kids.’
‘No worries. Mind if I look around?’
Not a soul in the ground. The scoreboard remains untouched. The enormity of yesterday’s debacle turns incandescent ire into cold fury.
Straight into the Torrens again, this time on the full. Like wit, timing is everything.
The SACA pedalo and the blokes with the fish-net swing into operation.
‘Sign here. It’s for charity – and can we just say, right foot next time, onto the South Bank. The pedalo boat doesn’t come cheap.’
Virgin mobile, which sounds like hotel room service for tired politicans, say it’ll take about three days for the Sim Card to dry out. (Tired politicans generally take longer, even if left hung out to dry) It rings.
‘Skid Nokia here.’
‘Skid - ?’
‘The Skid Nokia, son. Sports Guru to Sports Gurus.’
It was the sort of voice with Rayban Wrap-rounds wrapped round its tonsils.
‘Forget ABC only ringing when the Green Baggies are at crease. You blokes need a miracle.’
Astound yourself with facts you already know; another staggering glimpse into the obvious.
‘You need to become Australian.’