It’s only a short stroll to the soulless bitumen carpark that herds up the vehicles of cricket’s VIPs at Manchester. Kevin gingerly lifts himself from his seat of privilege overlooking the perfectly manicured grounds and thinks about his lonely Mercedes 4WD, all splendid yet somber surrounded by more expensive super cars and the odd limousine.
“I hope Misbah is ok” he thinks to himself after watching Pakistan slump to a morbid end at the hands of Alistair Cook’s barbarians and Moeen Ali. Kevin asks himself what does this cricketing existence all mean? Does Misbah’s second innings half century help in any little way to console his team that they can compete at this level?
Instead of firing up the engine in that masterful piece of German engineering, perhaps Kevin could better play his part in society by offering to buy Wahab a drink. It will probably be orange juice as he hears that none of the Muslim boys touch alcohol. Perhaps Wahab would? Kevin knows how to pour a mean cocktail. He owns a bar with another Pietersen and surely Wahab is the type of guy to try something new? Not that Kevin wants to push Riaz into an unhappy space full of flux and doubt. It might just be easier just to salt his orange juice? Why do they salt their orange juice? Kevin makes a mental note to investigate further. The sound of his Qantas lounge prohibited flip flops breaks the monotony of his salted orange juice thoughts.
Kevin desperately wants his existence to have a peaceful and non threatening impact on the world. Is it too late to hug it out with the “Big Cheese”? The cosmic powers of the universe demand he at least try. He looks out the window, whistles something soothing to himself and considers that the cheese karma is not in balance. Perhaps a braai is the best way to resolve his sense of imbalanced yin and yang with his ex South African team mate. The stresses of representing a nation that isn’t yours is something only a few hundred English cricketers have endured since the beginning of time. In his heart he knows he didn’t mis-speak in regards to the Big Cheese, but he was less mature then. Compared to many, he is still less mature now. Surely the best of South African sausagery would entice him out from exile and into Kevin’s waiting arms. Hug it out. If he could just hug it out. Perhaps a little cheeky reach around?
Yasir Shah looks forlorn as he peers out from the dressing room towards number 24. Yasir has no tattoos of lions on his arm. It is this lack of connection with ink and pain that Kevin feels will hold him back. He’s not a bad bowler, but to truly be like Shane Warne, Yasir truly needs to be like Shane Warne. Kevin senses that if he could just find the time to write about it in the Telegraph, that he could get his spiritual messages across to Yasir. Date a Supermodel. It will make you happy. Ship your own tins of baked beans for Indian tours, if indeed, you ever get to tour India. Yasir should die his hair blonde, only using bleach that wasn’t tested on animals. Kevin senses he has the answers. Kevin knows he has the answers. But does the world know what questions to ask him?
The pimply kid who requested an autograph and expected Kevin to supply his own pen asked the wrong question. Although he complied, he deeply wished that 12 year old child wanted something more from him. Some insight into his being. His fatherly guidance. An opportunity missed. What should have been an encounter of enlightenment instead quickly degenerated into the worshipping of some illegible scribbling on a piece of paper. What’s the point? As the kid left, Kevin wished him well. What would he do with that free wish? Would he waste it on Pokemon or invest it wisely in the stock market of personal growth?
Kevin Peter Pietersen from Pietermaritzburg tilts his middle aged body to the south and begins the slow amble to his car. Why did he choose a silver one? It’s such a ho-hum colour. Safe isn’t his happy space. Or so he has convinced the world. Maybe he has been deceiving himself all this time. What if instead, he chose lime green or a Prius? He doesn’t even enjoy four wheel driving. It ruins the environment. All that money spent on a vehicle with triple diff locks and a low range transfer case. All those resources squandered in the name of ego. Features he will never use. Benefits he could never come to understand.
Flip flop. Flip flop. That unmistakable sound of summer echo’s in his ears as he strides towards his very expensive piece of manipulated metal. Shane calls his footwear thongs. Kevin giggles to himself. It’s a churlish response, but it causes no harm to others.
Kevin reaches into his shorts pocket and grabs his Blackberry. Old school for sure. Perhaps even vintage. Can a five year old phone be vintage? It’s cool though. He dials Alastair. The phone rings out. It’s a sound we all know and dread. That one that represents the other half of the conversation not wanting or unable to participate at that particular moment in time. What if I invited Alastair to the braai? Barbecued meat fixes everything.
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