Whoever planned the World Cup schedule had a demented sense of humor. Bangladesh play West Indies and Zimbabwe play New Zealand today in the most likely upsets of the tournament.
Except for anything that Ireland may be involved in.
∞
On a side note, Bangladesh actually outranks West Indies in the ICC ODI rankings.
It occurs to me (and to ducking beamers before me) that we are having the wrong argument.
The argument should not be about whether the Associate teams (e.g. Ireland, The Netherlands) should play in World Cups every four years.
It should be about what we do in the interim to make sure they are better teams in four years.
I was afraid this would happen. Someone in the Irish dressing room has taken exception with my blog.
Ireland beat England today in what eclipses the India v. England match as the best match of the World Cup so far- thereby cutting to shreds two of my recent columns:
I’m glad to be wrong, if it means we get more matches like this.
Statistician Anantha Narayanan spends some time looking back at World Cups past. But that’s not what’s interesting at that link.
In the comments section of the article, Narayanan describes the “best” format for a future World Cup:
However the best is the all-play-all and then nothing or a 3-match final.
This is a terrible idea. It’s a statistician’s idea of a perfect World Cup, wherein we would produce the most statistically perfect winner in an unacceptably dull tournament. Imagine that two teams dominated the first couple of weeks of the tournament– every other game would become irrelevant, since only two teams could get anywhere.
In other words, it would be a lot like the current World Cup– where we can safely ignore all matches until the end of March– but worse.
It’s disconcerting how many times Sharjah appears on this list:
Records | One-Day Internationals | Most runs on a single ground
Thankfully, that era is over.
The Sun has a story so ridiculous it sounds like it came out of The Onion. A British film producer and a charity worker set up the team, teaching cricket to gang members in Los Angeles as a force of good (its “civilising quality”). Every sentence in the article is jaw-dropping. You can’t make this stuff up:
Two of the original Compton Cricket Club – also known as The Homies and The Popz – have died. But that is a decent survival rate for around here.
And, since the stereotype would not be complete without hip-hop–
Isaac and Theo play in the team – and also make up a hip-hop duo who rap about the sport. The lyrics include:
The respect of cricket etiquette is how we’re hanging.
Stick it out for the long haul, Make a phone call To the President It’s evident I represent my hood with this cricket ball.
Oh and there’s more– tea at Buckingham Palace, a dude who can’t tour with the team because that would constitute a parole violation, trash cans for stumps.
(via Ducking Beamers)
On the subject of the Associate nations, Ducking Beamers makes a good point:
[O]f all the Associates, I think Ireland and Afghanistan have the most potential. I say this not to disparage the likes of Canada or Kenya or the Netherlands. No, this is simple geography: the Irish are a good team in part due to the proximity to England, and Afghanistan’s squad was born in Pakistan. These teams make sense and we’d be stupid to let them slip back into obscurity.
Now if only someone could come up with a plan to save New Zealand
Like I said, I wouldn’t mind trading NZ and WI for a couple of scrappy associates.
Image via Wikipedia
Andy Bull remembers the day One Day cricket was born:
When the match was called off on the third day, Bradman himself climbed up the steps to the press box and announced that a seventh Test had been bolted on to the back-end of the England tour. And, as a short-term sop to the sports-starved Melbourne public, a Gillette Cup style ‘limited-overs Test’ would be played between the two teams at the MCG on what would have been the fifth day.
Dear God of Cricket,
Promise me this will never happen again.
Thanks,
DM
Andy Zaltzman, on the greatest discovery of his life:
I opened the front cover. Inside was a small piece of white card, stuck down by the previous owner with some blu-tac. On it was an autograph. Clearly written, and unmistakeable. Don Bradman. I exploded with excitement. “That’s nice, dear,” said my mother, trying half-heartedly to look like she knew or cared who Don Bradman was, and wondering what she had done wrong in my formative early years.
Deep Backward Point 