Paul Lewis: Lost state of provincial cricket

The Black Caps' insistence that they have the right team and that the State Championship doesn't provide international-quality players is a sad predicament.

There is obviously some truth to the national selectors' theory. On the other hand, there is the continuing question of our worst-ever ODI run of failures against Australia and the futures of Craig McMillan, Hamish and James Marshall and James Franklin.

What earthly good can come of consigning our leading provincial series so pointedly to the "not good enough" file? Talk about a self-fulfilling prophecy.

But the news that NZ, Australia, Pakistan and India 'A' teams will play an annual series in Australia from next year may now mean a further nail in the coffin of our provincial cricket - providing another tier of cricket for those hoping to make the NZ side.

The diminished importance of our provincial game calls to mind past years, when it had more relevance to the international stage. I can remember pleasurable summer days spent covering an Auckland team, full of present, former and soon-to-be internationals and a collection of strong characters of droll wit.

In those days, matches were followed with interest by fans even if they didn't turn up to the grounds much. One important provincial match at Eden Park in the 80s saw the entire crowd, not including me, number three.

These days, the provincial championship still clings to life but the current national selectors have taken potshots at it, claiming it doesn't provide enough quality to produce international players so we'll stick to the team we've got, thanks very much.

Spectators at provincial matches still have pretty much the same status as the takahe - not quite extinct but rare birds indeed.

And yet this was the level, all through New Zealand's glory days, that provided some of the backbone for our strongest teams. They also provided the most wicked humour and comedians of the sport.

Freed from the burden of national representation and the all-seeing eye of TV cameras, our cricketers enjoyed themselves on a provincial platform which still managed to provide players for the national XI. It was a Morecambe to the Wise of international cricket - an outlet that, perhaps, our NZ cricketers of today don't have.

If the State Championship is not throwing up credible candidates for the national XI, then NZ Cricket has a big job to do - and fast. There would seem to be little other reason for the existence of the championship if it is not exciting media coverage; if it is not drawing crowds; and if it is not feeding the national team.

While never followed fully by the public, our domestic game often mixed cricket of no little skill with some biting humour. One match stuck in the mind - between Auckland and Canterbury.

The southerners fielded former New Zealand, Auckland and Howick-Pakuranga fast bowler Sean Tracy. Auckland had wheedled away at Canterbury until they had them reduced to the last pair, Tracy one of them, with only a few runs to get.

Tracy was a handful with the ball and, in his Howick-Pakuranga days, the smart batsman had his net before he arrived. Those who didn't often sported nice yellow bruises. However, he was less damaging with the bat and he dollied one up to the covers which were guarded with zeal by Peter Webb, the skilful and longstanding Auckland batsman.

I wrote in the New Zealand Herald at the time: "This was not a difficult catch. Webb would normally have taken it with one hand tied behind his back, with his hat on fire and singing German drinking songs". The dropped catch meant Canterbury stole the win.

Webb, a gentlemanly soul, read these words the next day uncomplainingly and didn't respond until the team left for Queenstown where they were due to take on Otago. It was a bumpy flight around the mountains. Scorer of about 3700 first-class runs and who might have played more for NZ, Webb was a poor flier, clutched the paper bag and, as the Australians say, blew the groceries.

I was in the seat behind him, listening uncomfortably to the noises of upheaval when Webb passed the full paper bag back to me. "There you go, Paul," he said. "Didn't drop that one." Touche.

When we arrived, the cricketers (this being the 80s) headed for the hotel bar. They found a pretty but plainly disgruntled barmaid who had not been advised 16 beefy blokes would be invading her bar close to closing time and prolonging her day.

She made her displeasure clear, wearing a face like thunder and banging glasses, bottles and kitchenware about.

The team, waiting to be served, fell silent as she continued to avoid their eye. It was a display of calculated rudeness.

Finally one of the Auckland bowlers, who shall remain nameless but who was still beer-less, broke the silence. "I suppose," he said, eyeballing the barmaid, "a blow job's out of the question, then?"