Phil the flauter

There are 28 days before the Aussies need draw on their pads for international cricket again and, apparently, they will spend most of those days in Leicester, a place with a history but no soul; much like the current Australia.

As for England, still in the World Twenty/20 competition, there is only the prospect of a dismal day against South Africa for whom I obtained a generous 3-1 before the tournment began and who seem to be a class ahead of the rest. I'll ignore my stupidity in expecting Holland to repeat their success against England as they faced the infinitely variable Pakistan.

India might run South Africa close but no other side has such power in batting, bowling and fielding, nor such confidence after almost unbroken achievement.

It would be good to see the Irish make sustained progress. They have discipline but they also have style and elan and gusto; it must be the Guinness.

No, rather it is the influence of the coach Phil Simmons, who was Mr. Cool before Chris Gayle grew tall. No-one walked off a field of play more slowly or more wistfully; he wore a threatening cloak around that huge body, while casually chewing on a cocktail stick, talking slowly and wearing a huge grin.

He once arrived at a charity match chewing, kissed my partner without removing the toothpick, batted ferociously still chewing, shook hands with a former Prime Minister (who was still in pain an hour later) and sauntered away, seemingly without a care in the world, still chewing of course.
Simmons tried with might and main; his best feats were five one-day centuries and an average of nearly 29 plus 43 wickets. Perhaps he was unlucky to play in the 1990s when West Indies were moving from world domination to their present state of torpor.

Just below the international level Simmons was a mighty performer. I watched at the Oval when he outwitted Surrey in one of his rare days at Leicestershire captain but I had a truer insight at a charity match in Trinidad.

We got lost and arrived a minute or two late. Simmons greeted us with an offer of a Seven Up. "When will you bat?" I asked. "I batted already," he sighed. "But it's only the second over," I protested. "Yes, just the two balls," he admitted and pointed to the scoreboard. True to himself he had hit a six and got out.

Simmons is as Irish as any man of Belfast or Dublin, the ideal leader of their mixture of pros, amateurs and part timers; wholehearted triers all. He had to work in a factory before cricket gave him a better way of life and when the cricket gets tough he remembers those days.

It's a union made in heaven. Bless.