Mitchell Starc can’t stop fidgeting with his baggy green cap. “Sorry,” he says, breaking off his answer to run his finger under the rim and then tug again at the brim. It is a replica of the one awarded to every Australian player when they make their debut. The marketing team wanted him to put it on for a photoshoot, and Starc just doesn’t feel comfortable. “This one feels so wrong.” Like most Australian players, Starc has only ever had one of them. His is “a lot older, and a lot smellier”. He’s had it for 13 years, and after all that time any other just doesn’t sit quite right.
Starc, wickedly fast and armed with a yorker that’s paid for at least a couple of dozen podiatrists to buy new kitchens, has proved himself one of the great white-ball bowlers. He has been the world No 1 in 50-over cricket for long stretches of the past decade, and was the leading wicket-taker in both of the past two one-day World Cups. Given all that he could, and should, be one of the richer cricketers on the circuit. Except he hasn’t played a single game of franchise cricket, in the Indian Premier League, the Big Bash, or any other league, in more than eight years.
