A Mildly In-Depth Critique Of John Cena’s Poor Attempt At Playing Cricket

John Cena is an exceptional all-round athlete and an extremely competent professional wrestler. But he sure as shit ain’t no cricket player.

In case you missed it – don’t worry, literally everyone did – Cena made a flying visit to Sydney yesterday to promote the upcoming animated flick Ferdinand.

As is Australian tradition whenever someone from the Americas visits, locals forced him to participate in the weirdo colonial sports we play out here that satisfies both a) the need to be outside in the scorching heat for extended periods of time, and b) the need for horrible injury to be a hair’s breath away at any given moment.

Cena donned the tradition electric green of the Big Bash League‘s Sydney Thunder to try his hand at the beloved summer bat-and-ball sport that was thrust upon us by British Imperialists; a game that we have subsequently used to routinely humiliate England ever since.

Cena himself is a lifelong athlete: He played college football before trying his hand at wrestling, and his maternal grandfather had a long and successful career in Major League Baseball.

John Cena cannot play cricket for shit.

John Cena is a terrible cricket player.


Firstly, the pants. Pinstripes haven’t been seen on a cricket pitch ever since 1989 when Tony Grieg tried to cook a sausage in the sun on a scorching WACA day and accidentally left the grill plate on the deck while the heavy roller came out (probably).

But that form with the bat. The baseball pose. The completely flat blade, my god.

Sure, Graham Gooch used to hold the bat high, so a baseball stance isn’t exactly unprecedented. But Cena looks less likely to drill a cover drive to the face and more like he’s grabbed the axe after a few lolly waters with the boys and is trying to fell a nearby gum tree for extra firewood.

He looks like Uncle Vinnie getting cheeky on Christmas Day after three rumbos, precisely 23 seconds before the bat “mysteriously” flies through Mum’s kitchen window.

He’s swinging that bat like the bastard cat from next door just latched on after he bent down for a pat.

The footwork? It’s all over the place.

The follow through? Admittedly not bad.

And though, sure, he never once takes his eyes off the ball, that pill is going nowhere except straight down cover-point’s throat for an easy catch. You’d barely have to move. An absolute soda.

On your bike, John Cena. Back to the sheds with you. You might have 16 world championships to your name, but in Australia your batting average is a well-earned duck.

(Love your work but, m8).