THEY say a week is a long time in sport.
It's a long time in anything really.
I felt like I'd lived a week, after less than two hours since Jarryd Hayne made his outstanding debut in a warm-up game against a bunch of third and fourth-string Texans.
Social media and clickbait stories have done nothing but turn us into a hyped-up, over-the-top bunch of clowns in my opinion.
Hayne hasn't made yards against the Indianapolis Colts' first-team.
He's played the equivalent of an Ashes tour match and scored a few runs against some Pommy plumber who plays a bit of cricket in between pints.
Not that I'm not supportive of him.
I'm all aboard the Hayne Train in his NFL quest.
I just think we all need to settle down a little bit.
We didn't go this crazy when Shane Watson made runs did we?
That never happened.
And with that cricket segue; I turn my attention to what has really broken my spirit.
The death of long-form, pure, beautiful test cricket.
Hit and giggle with slapshots, horror techniques, giant bats and concrete-like pitches for a few million bucks has well and truly replaced the baggy green as the ultimate and the sport is worse off for it.
What happened to dreaming of digging in on a green deck and grinding out a gritty, bloodied, bruised 50 or 100?
When did that become less rewarding than seeing those infuriating fireworks light up for a top edge that's flown 80 metres?
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