Guess who just got back today? Those wild-eyed boys that had been away. This was a day of brittle, over-caffeinated cricket, on an MCG pitch streaked with faint green ridges. But it was also a day when the boys were, however briefly, back in town.
Ben Duckett and Jacob Bethell have been the two protagonists in the grainy, Zapruder-style footage from England’s six-day, mid-series jig-about by the sea. True to apparent recent form, both were here for a good time not a long time as England were bowled out for 110 in 29.5 overs. Both batted like men groping for the light switch in the dark against a new ball that seamed the width of the bat at times.
But it is also necessary to keep some perspective here, even as this Ashes tour continues its ongoing real-time collapse. The Boxing Day Test was preceded by two significant events. One was the emergence of apparent evidence that a slurry Duckett didn’t know how to get back to his hotel late one night in the resort town England insisted he visit at 2-0 down in the series.
The other was Rob Key’s pre‑match state-of-the-nation address in the bowels of the MCG, a rambling performance that seemed to fall apart even as the words emerged, with a sense by the end of an international sports team being managed by a stack of cardboard boxes with a hat on top, a complex two-month tour planned by the administrative equivalent of a well-meaning jar of marmalade.
One of these things is a genuine macro-level failing that must now be called to account. The other, Duckett, Bethell dancing in a club, is shrapnel, fallout, the bits that show in public. But both were related to England’s batting failure here.
Key talked this week about “creating an environment” for players such as Bethell to succeed. Oh yeah? With this in mind you wondered here how different an environment designed specifically for him to fail would look? Blindfold him? Replace his bat with a sourdough baguette? Send him out covered in ants?
No rational judge could seriously expect Bethell to succeed here, batting at No 3 on the pitch from hell, having been confined on management orders to three proper red-ball games in the last 12 months. Apart, it seems, from Key, who seemed bullishly convinced Bethell was prepped and ready to go in front of more than 90,000 people at the MCG. Melbourne is a place of festive barbecues right now. This was surely the king of them all.
First up was Duckett, star of Lost in Noosa. England’s openers came out to bat in mid-afternoon after the bowling attack had bowled Australia out for 152, very much a case of the party after the after‑party. Scrooge is at the door with a giant turkey. Unfortunately, however, it’s Boxing Day. And Tiny Tim is already dead.
There was a vague, omen-based hope Duckett was due a score. His collapse in form has coincided with being told to stop saying things in press conferences about energy and feelings. In the process the magic dust has gone. They’ve shaved Aslan’s mane. Who knows, pressing the unmute button might actually be good for him.
There was a pause at the boundary, a look to the heavens, that determined, indomitable strike, the walk of some agreeably feisty woodland creature who wears a waistcoat, drives a car that looks like a shoe and drinks tea out of a thimble. He lasted five balls. The dismissal was odd, a full ball from Mitchell Starc spooned to mid-on in a slow mocking arc. Openers getting out in weird ways often tends to be a sign of something scrambled.
It brought Bethell to the crease. He looked good, balanced, confident, collar up, good lines, one of those athletes where even the kit just seems to fit properly. An inside edge got him off the mark. But he was out next over edging Michael Neser behind. England were eight for two and already crumbling again, sustained only by a wild 41 from Harry Brook.
But there are still two things worth remembering. First, Duckett didn’t really do much wrong in Noosa. He seemed drunk. He was apparently lost. It’s not a good look. Weak, debauched sports person is the easiest of targets. But it is also just a symptom of the basic slackness of this setup, the lack of guidance, care, boundaries. Why did Duckett not feel under more pressure to avoid this situation? Where was the beefed-up security at this point? Why, come to think of it, did Key choose to take his own break somewhere else entirely? What better, more pressing thing does he have to do on this trip?
The same goes for Bethell, who was previously warned in New Zealand, but who is also 22 and being waltzed around the world like a cosseted cabin boy. What is he expected to do with himself in this environment? Dancing with a happy and willing woman: frankly, this page fully endorses this lifestyle choice. Given the world of murk available to young men, any evidence of social skills, leaving your room, the ability to connect agreeably with other humans, well, this is all fine.
Bethell’s problems are instead terrible husbandry, the basic weirdness of what he has been asked to do this year. The same goes for Duckett, who was in world-XI form at the end of the Test summer, but who has since played a series of random games, lost his rhythm, and averages 14 in his last 21 innings against white ball, Hundred ball, pink ball and elite Aussie opening attack.
Bethell has been more obviously dangled out to dry. It is absurd that looking good in New Zealand last winter should be followed by 34 T20 games and almost zero red ball. This isn’t just a lack of practice. It’s talent-vandalism, a stop on his progress.
This Test may now settle down. The MCG was a chilly place at start of play, bruised skies overhead, the outfield a melancholic, mulchy green. The pitch will improve, by most accounts. All of England’s batters have another shot to come. But here there was a sense again of a team sent stumbling into battle by a regime that has confused tearing up the rule book with just not doing your homework.
