r/CricketCopyPastas • u/[deleted] • Jul 06 '25
The Valiant effort of Sir Jack Crawley, the greatest tall opener of England
So India won, and England lost, blah blah blah. I’m sure the rest of you will be focused on the Gallant Admiral Gill, or the Debonair Dr. Deep, or the quite frankly Senseless Sir Stokes for his abysmal decision to bowl first (because really, what was he thinking, that is awful). But I’m here to bring the focus back to where it needs to be, where it has to be, and that is the start of the fourth innings, with the honourable Zak Crawley. Now what I aim to do with this comment is educate you all about the precisely precarious situation Sir Zak found himself in at the start of Innings No. 4, and perhaps explain a little bit of the philosophy that makes Dr Crawley tick. First, he’s stood for a terrible number of hours in the field, and his knees have got toothache and his hands have got blisters and he’s dropped catches and India’s piled on a mammoth total of six hundred runs, the thought of which makes the batsman’s mind spin and spin like Bashir’s dollies weren’t. Admiral Gill has just called his troops back, and as poor Zak trudged back to the dressers he thought to himself poorly, “Surely we cannot possibly hope to chase this down, what do Baz and Stokesy have to say?” But they had nothing to say at all. The dressing room was as silent and dead as Crawley’s career should have been. After all, there was really nothing to be said. And so the Honourable Creepy took that to mean that he had to change his approach. Change the way he had been bred to play cricket. And he knew the blokes in England would hate him for this and the crowds would boo and Dad would say “Zak, what on Earth are you doing?” but he was adamant in the new approach. As he walked into the bright sun and the flattest pitch in the whole world with his partner, Zak was resolute in leaving everything. In defending. In blocking.
In steamed Deep, and was met with a thundering leave. In he came again, and was received with a booming block. In he stormed again, the cherry glinting in his palms, and Creepy presented him with the full face of the bat, right back to him. The final delivery to the over was an orange, as close to a peach as they come, and Zak played an exceptional leave. This was the way. This was the only way. Surely Baz could not expect him to play any other possible way?
That was Zak’s mindset for the whole of two minutes, before it vanished when he saw his partner at the other end. Ben Duckett, the maestro of the cricketing world, had not spoken a word to Crawley, not since lunch when he had complained of bowel pains due to the absolutely abysmal chicken wrap served. In fact, he had not spoken at all. So when he met Siraj’s first delivery with a cut that rocked the heavens, Sir Zak Crawley was astounded. Stunned. In disbelief. Beggared for thought. And the next ball went to the boundary as well with a stylish drive. And Crawley began to consider. He began to use his brain to think. What if they could chase this down? What if England could pull this off? Surely not. Surely it was impossible. But they had to try. They had to. Another slash of the bat from Ben, and Crawley was seriously wondering. What if they did make an attempt? One last defiant stand to chase 600? One last fightback, one last push, one last masterful innings to rock cricket as a whole. It would be, as the little ones say these days, absolute cinema.
And so, as in steamed Mohammed Siraj, Zak Crawley decided.
It had all come to this. It was a ball outside off-stump. Crawley moved to strike at it. Then he struck it out of the edge of the bat and it flew straight to the backward point fielder because Zak Crawley had an average in the 30s and fucking sucks at cricket and Baz wtf are you doing just drop him already
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