I love cricket.
Over the past two days I've spent a couple of nice hours reclined on the grass bank of Dunedin's University Oval under unusually cloudless skies, watching Ross Taylor compile a near flawless double century.
I've watched the West Indians toil hopelessly at the bowling crease, but remained full of admiration for Tino Best who, because of an injury to Darren Sammy and the struggles of Shannon Gabriel, became a virtual one-man pace attack.
At the same time I was making and taking calls, seeking confirmation for the story that most New Zealand cricket fans would have read, and hated, today. Not for the first time in my life I wondered: "How could you cheat this magnificent sport?"
All too easily as it turns out.