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Happy to Help, Stevo

It was a fraught afternoon, filled with rising tension and a growing sense of panic in the room. Suddenly, one man rose and walked to the phone.

"There's no-one else," he said and dialled 1800 FERAL.

I picked it up on the third ring and answered. The voice on the other end was familiar, but so twisted by pent-up stress I barely recognised it.

"Grump?" It said, "We need your help mate."

I then knew who it was - Steve Waugh, captain of the mighty Australian Test cricket team and captain of the nowhere-near-as-great one-day team. Righto, I thought, bit past my best as a quickie but I can still give the ball a good whack.

"Grump, we have to win against the Kiwis, so take your pads off and tell us what you think. Who do we drop? Mark? Gillie? Punter? Me? Bevan?"

At the mention of the last name my heart sank. Where things so desperate we'd be silly enough to drop one of the greatest one-day batsmen of all time?

"Listen, Stevo, get a grip man. You're one of the best skippers we've had. Hop back in the freezer for a second and chill out. You can't drop Bevo ... Mark and Punter should be the ones. Out of form. Tell you what, play Bevo at six that'd do the trick I reckon. Four's too high up the order."

"Thanks, Grump, gotta go. How about another back-yard Test next week? I need to improve my own batting form a bit."

"Stevo, you are the Iceman of cricket. You are a great captain. Don't let the media worry you. You are our leader, go out there and kick some arse youngster!"

He muttered his thanks and, drained by the call, I put my head down for a wee snooze. It was almost dark when I woke so I switched on ABC Radio to see what was happening.

Australia six wickets down for 82, needing to score 246 runs for a win. What?!!!! Bugga, they must've dropped Bevo after all. Hang on, he's still there.

For the next hour I sat there marvelling as Michael Bevan, left-hand batsman extraordinaire, ripped the Kiwi bowling apart with 102 runs off 95 balls.

I tell you what, that last over had me reaching for the emergency button as my pacemaker was jumping out of chest like that Alien thingy from Siggy Weaver's tum.

When Andy Bichel scored the winning runs I leapt for joy, forgetting I was still attached to the catheter, and my celebrations ended abruptly amid screams of utterly excruciating pain.

Still, as I writhed around on the cold floor I couldn't help but pat myself on the back for doing my little bit to keep Australia in the hunt for the one-day finals.

If there is something that has really got up your nose, let Grumpy Old Coot know at grumpy@webwombat.com