Satiricus was not feeling so hot. His favourite team, the Warriors — on whom, not so incidentally, he had made quite a bit of pocket change — had been knocked out of the tournament. He didn’t go in for those professional betting services, and his circle didn’t care enough for the “outside” teams to bet on them. He was headed to the Back Street Bar for the inevitable post-mortem on the Warriors’ season.
“Well, it’s not whether you win or lose,” Satiricus ventured as he took his seat and took a refreshing swig of his beer. “It’s how you play the game. And our boys played well.”
“Wha’ yuh na haul yuh rass!” retorted Bungi. “Whe’ yuh come fram?”
“Yeah Sato! Where?” chimed in Hari. “Even English players whom they say believe that crap don’t practise it! Did you see Broad carry on in the Test at Lords?”
“I was just testing you fellas,” grinned Satiricus. “So why did you criticise Polly for his wide no ball?”
“Yuh still play yuh rass, Sato,” retorted Bungi. “Yuh know, an’ Pollard know, and de worl’ know dem Bajan na cou’d win de game; ‘e jus’ mean!”
“And more than that: if Walton had scored the second fastest century,” complained Hari, “every time commentators mentioned that, CPL woulda get a mention!”
“An’ a CPL does sign Pollard check!” butted in Bungi. “Dem should dock ‘e pay!”
“OK…OK fellas, I get it!” grinned Satiricus, as he waved for another beer. “So who you backing tonight?”
“Me na back nobady,” said Bungi firmly. “Me jus’ na want dem Trini fuh win!”
“So what did the Trinis do to you?” asked Hari slyly.
“Well dem just like fuh t’row aroun’ dem money,” said Bungi. “Look how dem buy de final and none a dem come out fuh wa’ch de final.”
“Let’s drink to the Patriots then,” said Satiricus as he clinked beer bottle tops all around.
