Homoerotic Fan Fiction Uncovered in Australian Dressing Rooms

Following Usman Khawaja’s salacious bum grab of Adam Zampa during the recent One Day series against New Zealand, The Public Apology can exclusively reveal an extract of erotic fan-fiction found by cleaning staff after the game.


Adam Zampa sat quietly alone, polishing his bat in the Australian changing room. He had dreamed of being amongst these lockers since he first picked up a bit of wood and started frantically playing with his balls in that Shellharbour backyard all those years ago.

He was nervous, sure, but his excitement was also palpable. The familiar scent of the oil that lubricated and hardened the willow in his hand went some way in calming his nerves as well.

“What a nice hunk of wood.”

He looked up and saw a man he had long looked up to, leaning languidly against the changing room entrance. Usman Khawaja. THE form player of international cricket.

Zampa reddened under his gaze.

“Don’t blush baby,” Khawaja smiled, “I like a man who takes care of his kit.”

Zampa smiled sheepishly back. “I saw you bat today, your stroke play was magnificent.”

Khawaja gave a careless shrug, as if to say it ain’t no thang.

He entered the room proper and sat by Zampa’s side. “I can teach you if you like?”

"It was consensual ... "
“It was consensual … “

“Teach me how to bat?”

“Yeah. I’ve learned a few things around the circuit. Do you consider yourself an all-rounder?

“Doesn’t everyone?”

Khawaja chuckled and then gently rubbed his thigh. “You’re funny. I like funny … You’ve got a fine leg too.” His hand moved up and grabbed Zampa’s middle stump. “Will you bat with me?” He asked, before getting right up in his grill to score a cheeky single on his lips.

“Uh – I suppose.” Zampa stammered. The taste of fluorescent zinc still dancing upon his lips as he hardened between Khawaja’s vice like grip.

Khawaja swiftly pulled back the covers of Zampa’s training silkies. “Let’s start with a full toss so I can see your pull shot.”

“I’m more of a hooker …”

His soft hands stopped in their tracks. “I don’t bounce that way.” He said sternly.

“Of course.” Zampa spluttered apologetically. “I’m sorry, it’s your call.”

Before he knew what was happening, Khawaja had spun him around and had his face pushed into the cold, wet cement of the floor. His posterior arched longingly in the air.

“How about I just bowl while you keep?” He whispered gruffly into his ear.

“Ok.” Zampa replied nervously. Khawaja had a tight grip of him and he was beginning to worry it was more than he could handle.

“Did you bring any gloves?”

“Always.” He slipped one on and gently slipped inside him. “Howzat?” He asked with a surprising tenderness.

“I’m a little worried about runs, I’ve got form.”

“It’s ok. I love a dusty wicket.” He reached under and gently cupped his baggy green. “No ball?”

“A childhood accident.” Zampa responded impatiently, tired of being treated like he was a maiden and keen for a powerplay. “Just shut up and fuck me, you FUCKING COWARD!”

Dramatic reenactment.

Enlivened, Khawaja started pushing the boundaries. He worked wood and ball furiously together in a symphonic harmony that had Zampa humming as he began to feel the full force of his debut. It was a rough, grinding knock and just what was needed in the context of the session.

“Are you a finisher Adam? Finish me!” Khawaja shouted at the top of his lungs.

“YES! YES! YES!” Was Zampa’s euphoric response.

With one fine straight drive, Usman shuddered and reached his milestone deep within Zampa’s player’s tunnel.

Zampa sobbed with joy beneath him. “I love you.” He whispered, as he tried to extract himself from the tangle of limbs and turn to face him.

“I’m not out yet.” Khawaja grumbled as he pushed him back down. “I like to stay in as long as I can.”

Eventually, Khawaja removed himself from both Zampa and the glove – the latter he hurled it into Davey Warner’s kit-bag with a sinister chuckle.

“Will I see you again?” Zampa asked desperately from the ground, his face awash with emotion.

Khawaja looked coldly at him as he put his thick willow away and sidled to the door. “No. That’s over.”

By Alasdair McClintock

Unleash Your Gorgeous Pink Balls

Adelaide scares the shit out of me. Being the unofficial mecca of serial killers, you can probably understand why. It doesn’t usually scare too many test batsmen however.

Known as much for being a ‘road,’ as it is for depraved acts of violence, batsmen must see a trip to Adelaide Oval as a great chance to boost the average. Who cares if the game peters out into a draw? Cricket is an individual game, after all.

But this week you can sense a nervousness in the air from batsmen from both sides of the ditch. In fact, it is probably fair to say everyone apart from the bowlers are positively shitting themselves: the coaches, Cricket Australia, Kookaburra. Will I be able to see it? Will the crowds turn up? Will the ball completely fall apart in the thirtieth over?

The bowlers, on the other hand, are likely salivating at the prospect of hurling a few down at nervous batsmen swatting at shadows. Fuck, even Nathan Lyon sounded cocky this week.

But why are we all so scared? Why do we suddenly care if the fieldsman square of the wicket mightn’t get a good scope on the ball between 5pm and 5.45pm? Since when have punters appreciated good visibility square of the wicket?

Where the fuck is it?
Where the fuck is it?

Does the fear mongering about the pink ball say more about Australia’s inherent fear of anything new or different? In a way, the pink ball is a little like ‘the boat people.’

The reality is, come 8pm on Friday night and 3 beers in, we will all like day/night test cricket and our new neighbour, Ahmed. Really like them. We will wonder why we ever erred.

And the ball is the same for both sides, so equality is not an issue. It does seem incredibly odd that the colour of a ball somehow gives it different behavioural properties, as though the fundamental material of the red ball is not possible in pink, but I have no idea how cricket balls are made and quite frankly, I don’t want to. I know enough useless shit already.

They'll be singing when these balls are swinging.
Apparently they just spray paint mushrooms

As a fan, I am looking forward to the game. I’ve always enjoyed being able to watch WACA tests in prime time. Coming home from work and zoning out on the couch to a session of Test cricket is pure bliss. It doesn’t bother me too much if the players feel less comfortable. It adds a new dimension to the contest which, if it’s the same for both sides, isn’t fundamentally unfair.

And if it plays out like a usual Adelaide Test and comes down to a tense final session, I will be fucking ecstatic.

The general consensus is that it won’t though. People are talking about declaring after sixty overs! I can’t see it happening, but it has definitely brought an excitement to a summer that would otherwise be as relevant as Amanda Vanstone.

New Zealand have done nothing but brought the game into disrepute with their nice guy attitudes. They have successfully sucked all the rivalry and interest out of an otherwise competitive series. Well done.

The West Indies, on the other hand, might come full of fire, but given they are completely shithouse it’s difficult to get too excited.

While I am a traditionalist in many things, especially when it comes to sport, there is nothing wrong with a bit of experimentation every now and then. Like an exploratory finger, you won’t know if it’s worth your while unless you try it.

But if it doesn’t work, you can’t just keep jamming it up there in the hope you will eventually enjoy it, because you won’t. You will only get used to it and that’s not necessarily a good thing.

By Alasdair McClintock with Sam Perry

This is Why I Don’t Owe Glenn Maxwell A Public Apology

Glenn Maxwell is hitting runs. Good for him. It’s about time he put all that talent to good use.

Funnily enough, a number of people have written to The Public Apology overnight, wondering whether we will be apologising for our recent article that highlighted Glenn Maxwell’s arrogance and complete obliviousness to test match values.

To refresh your memory, the article in question referred to a series of quotes that Maxwell made after the second test against Pakistan in the UAE.

“[The selectors] back me to play that reverse sweep no matter what the situation of the game. They understand for me that it’s no different from a cover drive for any other batter. They have instilled confidence in me to play that shot and they have seen it come off time and again. They accept the fact that for me it’s a normal shot, it’s no different from someone else getting beaten in defence. My best form of defence is attack anyway, so they would much rather me go out playing my natural game than defending and getting caught at bat pad,” Maxwell said.

However, I must clarify something that is already quite obvious: the piece I wrote regarding Maxwell had nothing to do with his talent. It also had nothing to do with his prowess in the short forms of the game. He can hit balls hard and far. And that’s good.

Hitting the ball: a good thing for any young cricketer.
Hitting the ball: a good tip for any aspiring cricketer.

It had everything to do with his selection in test match cricket (at number 3), and his complete disregard for “batting time”.

As such, The Public Apology will not be issuing a public apology to Glenn Maxwell just because he’s now struck a bit of form.

Nothing frustrates viewers more than wasted talent. Maxwell has all the shots – and he clearly wants you to know that – but there are still valid question marks over his application, mental strength and technique.

Australia obviously loves a Big Show. Whether it’s the Sydney Olympics, the Vivid Festival or Future Music, we are easily seduced by the big, the brash and the bold. The World Cup is a Big Show. T20 Cricket is a Big Show. And therefore Maxwell’s brand of explosive cricket is on-brand in these scenarios.

Vivid Sydney: A great, big show for the whole family.
Vivid Sydney: A great, big show for the whole family.

But test cricket is not a Big Show. Test cricket is pure and wholesome. Test cricket is a nine-month exhibition at the Melbourne Museum celebrating Tutankhamun and the Golden Age of the Pharaohs.

So here’s the deal: TPA will offer a sincere public apology to Glenn Maxwell once he has scored a test match century in a situation where it is needed.

We might even extend this olive branch to a situation in this World Cup, where he is forced to display conventional test match-esque values (patience, defence, application, strategy) in digging Australia out of a hole. A gritty 47 off 65 in a difficult run chase against South Africa, perhaps.

But until then, there will be no apology.

By Dave Edwards