68. Sixty eight. Sixty bloody not quite sixty nine eight.
And I felt nothing but guilt piking out on watching the first session of the fourth day of the Lord's test. I'd diligently watched the first session of the first three days - on occasion flirting with the second session when common sense was pounded into submission by the sadistic twist that anyone that watches test cricket is familiar with. I shant be making that mistake again. Guilt is best reserved for nicking your wife's last chocolate from the fridge or throwing away your kid's favourite toy when you accidently stand on and break it at 3am, certainly not for missing sixty f*cking eight runs.
Tim Southee, the man who has done more for hooking into stewardesses... sorry... flight crew in skirts than any other sporting figure, what does he get for his efforts? Going to the home of England (and Wales), looking them in the eye, giving the home team 10 of the best, sweating blood for his country. What does he get? Sixty eight.
Now, to be fair, before the England (and Wales) cricket team arrived in New Zealand in the summer for the test series, sixty oh my God eight would have seemed a par score. It is perhaps a back handed compliment to the progress that eighth ranked New Zealand (how do we sleep at night?!?) has made that failing so badly in the face of glory at the hands of the might that is England (and Wales) hurt as much as it does. But frankly, falling apart like we're the last brick removed from the Jenga tower is embarrassing. It's embarrassing when it happens when there's nothing on the line. It's worse than that when history beckons. And it is definitely worse than falling just short of that 69...
