Jem Beedoo: The road to hell is paved with good deliveries

Sir Richard Hadlee, for instance, was stressed at a test in the 70s and 80s when he entertained countless sunburned, terraced, tippled Kiwis live and in person. Photo / APN

Merry cricket and a happy new ball. That's about all you'll get from me in terms of cricket's genteel loveliness. What looks relaxing is actually passive-aggressive bullying in perfectly picturesque environs. Yes, there's a lot of shilly-shallying about in this summer game of "gentlemen", but when you're batting, mate, you're it. Talk about heat! The gentleman element isn't in existence.

The bowler ominously starts a slow run and quickly becomes a bullet truck, as he hurtles to the crease with a satanic face. And the batsman has to stand and get delivered to. And a swarm of 22 eyes are stuck on you; you've got this feeling down deep in your soul that your life you'll lose. Yes, you're on your way (to hell), to misappropriate a Lionel Richie sentiment.

Indeed. At almost 150km/h, a rock-hard red ball - not coincidentally the colour of blood and sadistically made of leather - comes gunning at you. That'd only be okay if you were wanting to die. But batsmen are desperate to have averages in the 50s. So they really have to hit some runs before they meet their own death by fast bowler.

And cricket is deadly. With all respect, the incidences of trauma are frighteningly high in cricket circles in contrast to other sports. You have to have balls for Sicily to play competitively.

And the whites they wear reinforce the game's deadliness, for this writer has the theory if death was a colour it'd be white. Ponder these morbid white things: bones, clouds, teeth, hospitals, cricket whites and bridal gowns. Need I say more?

The great dichotomy is it's so much darned fun for fans to watch live while the players afield are petrified, bored and ill-at-ease. Sir Richard Hadlee, for instance, was stressed at a test in the 70s and 80s when he entertained countless sunburned, terraced, tippled Kiwis live and in person. The fans basked in the glory when he only felt physically and mentally sore. Despite being the best, better than Dennis Lillee.

I mean, that was large-scale, big-time stuff. So the pressure must've been intense. The fear of failure enervating. I ended my career in a maudlin way, going out for five ducks in a row, and this was only 3rd form afternoon cricket. The perverse point was the worse I did, the greater number of eyes were on me. Come dismissal and they all started talking in this little town, and watched me drown. In my own tears.

You can only imagine the sensation of humiliation if you're familiar to billions as these cricketers are if you performed as terribly inadequately as I did. You'd end up all cuckoo. Like me.

But I recommend going to a five-day test. It is the only guaranteed alcoholiday away from the clutches of womanhood. Because the vast majority of the women have about as much understanding of cricket as I do of quantum physics.