The Wrong Line

The Wrong Line

Andrew Ramsey

Language: English

Pages: 258

ISBN: B008IX5NGW

Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub


'For as long as the game of cricket has been played internationally, there have been journos "on the tour" ... Life on the road is tough. But as you are about to experience, it's bloody entertaining as well.' Adam Gilchrist

Cricket writer Andrew Ramsey's job was to be on tour with the world's greatest cricket team over a decade when it had no peer. THE WRONG LINE chronicles the privileges and pitfalls of a life spent trotting the globe, hanging out with sports stars, and being paid to watch cricket - an occupation regarded by countless cricket and travel fans alike as 'the world's best job', even when it renders you alone and in peril with only a three-thumbed taxi driver for support.

Set within the players' dressing room and on the team bus; at the bar, the breakfast table, and even in a haunted medieval castle; in England, the West Indies and India, as well as Sharjah, Bangladesh, Kenya and Hong Kong - THE WRONG LINE gives you a ringside seat at some of the most memorable cricket events, including the remarkable 1999 World Cup and Australia's chaotic 2005 Ashes campaign.

A tour diary unlike any you have ever read, it delivers a rare insight into the off-field life, character and thoughts of some of the game's all-time greats, including Stephen Waugh, Shane Warne, Ricky Ponting, Glenn McGrath, Adam Gilchrist and Brian Lara.

'This is the cricket book of the summer. You won't find an account of the game its main players told in this way anywhere else. It's a refreshing change, and one well worth the read.' - LAUNCESTON EXAMINER

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running copy from a live sporting event, when the unfolding reality diverges irreparably from any carefully prepared script. At those times, the journalist’s conundrum is whether to sit tight in the belief that it’s but an aberration, and that what once appeared likely will indeed come to pass. Or to concede you’ve got it horribly wrong and begin furiously rewriting. For me, on that loopy final morning at Edgbaston, that defining moment arrived around thirty minutes before I was to fill a gaping

for duty. And so, with his teammates transfixed as Lee and Kasprowicz once again edged their way towards unlikely success, Langer silently padded up and appeared at the rear of the dressing room, like Ned Kelly staggering out of the morning mist and gunsmoke that enshrouded the Glenrowan Inn. Like the outlaw’s, his was a purely symbolic act. The win was achieved without him, and Ponting was saved the unpleasantness of physically restraining his close mate from risking his long-term health for the

their international anonymity. Cricket season has only just emerged from dormancy, and is not yet capable of generating sufficient news or interest to assume the column space left vacant by the winter sports. And coverage of the only other show in town — Melbourne’s horse racing Spring Carnival — is hampered by the inability of its drawcards to speak. So someone had to accompany the cricketers on their return to the subcontinent. If not in deference to the game’s second-most important

outraged morals campaigners, but from the teammates and opponents who witnessed first-hand Warne taking cricket’s most complex art to never-before-seen, or even foreseen, levels. As Ricky Ponting explained with trademark economy the following day, ‘a lot of people don’t realise how difficult it is to bowl leg spin’. That was Warne’s undisputed genius. More so than infatuating or infuriating the public. It was a talent built on a remarkably powerful right wrist, fingers that resembled a brace of

completed espionage mission. Bevan studied the interloper’s aquiline features, turned quizzically to me to gauge if this was part of the interview and, accepting my confused look as confirmation it wasn’t, glanced over his left shoulder in the hope of locating a nearby staff member. Our new friend remained undaunted and unmoved. ‘Bewaan,’ he honked again. I wasn’t sure if a famous ‘Bevo attack’ would make or destroy the planned story. All I knew was it couldn’t be far away. ‘Mate, I’m doing an

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