You could smell the panic.
It hung in the Hobart air, thicker than the rain clouds that threatened to wash the whole night away. I’ve covered Big Bash finals for over a decade, sat in press boxes from Perth to the Gabba, and I’ve seen teams lose. But I’ve never seen a team disintegrate quite like the Melbourne Stars.
Let’s be real for a second. This wasn’t just a cricket match; it was a psychological case study. The Hobart Hurricanes didn’t just win this game; the Stars handed it to them, wrapped in a bow, and then tripped over their own shoelaces on the way out.
A 3-run loss in a rain-shortened sprint? That’s not bad luck. That’s a collapse.
We need to talk about what actually happened out there. Not the sterilized match report version, but the ugly, chaotic reality of a team haunted by its own shadow.
1. The “Curse” is Just a Polite Word for Mental Fragility
I’m tired of hearing about the “Stars Curse.” It implies some mystical force is at work. It’s not. It’s a habit.
Ten finals campaigns. Zero trophies.
Let that sink in.
The Stars are the only franchise in BBL history with an empty cabinet, and honestly? It’s starting to look like a self-fulfilling prophecy. When I looked at Glenn Maxwell during the rain delay, he didn’t look like a captain plotting a victory. He looked like a man waiting for the roof to cave in. And guess what? It did.
“I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t lost hours of sleep thinking about it,” Maxwell said. You could tell. The pressure didn’t just mount; it crushed them. When the chase got tight, you could physically see the belief drain out of the dugout. They weren’t playing to win; they were playing not to screw up. And that is always fatal.
2. Butterfingers in a Blitzkrieg
In a 10-over thrash, you can’t afford to blink, let alone drop straightforward catches. But the Stars? They fielded like they were wearing oven mitts.
Seeing Glenn Maxwell—usually a hawk in the field—spill a sitter? That was shocking. But Tom Curran’s drop? That was the game. Right there.
Nikhil Chaudhary skied one. It was a soda. A lollipop. Curran put it down, and I swear you could hear the groan all the way back in Melbourne. The cost was immediate and brutal. Chaudhary didn’t just survive; he made Curran pay with interest, blasting the next two rocks into the stands.
It’s simple math: You drop the catch, you lose the match. Momentum doesn’t shift in these short games; it snaps. And those drops snapped the Stars’ spine.
3. The 11-Ball Murder
While the Stars were fumbling, the Hurricanes were busy trying to knock the leather off the ball.
Sustained partnerships? Who needs them. In a format this short, you need violence.
Beau Webster (47 off 26) was clinical, but Nikhil Chaudhary was savage. His 24 runs off 11 balls felt like a mugging. He walked out, got a reprieve from Curran’s dropped catch, and decided to swing for the fences.
Then Webster took over. That final over assault on Curran—three sixes in a row—wasn’t just good batting; it was a statement. He took a competitive total and turned it into a mountain. I’ve always said T20 is a momentum game, and Webster grabbed it by the throat.
4. Tactics? What Tactics?
This is the part that genuinely baffles me.
The rain comes down. The target is revised: 86 runs off 7 overs. You need 12 an over. Logic dictates you send your biggest dogs out to eat.
So why, in the name of all that is holy, did Marcus Stoinis and Glenn Maxwell face a combined total of nine balls?
It was madness. The “retired out” call for Sam Harper (10 off 6) was a cute idea, but it was too clever by half and way too late. It felt like the leadership group was overthinking the equation instead of just playing the game. You have some of the cleanest strikers in the world sitting in the shed while the required rate climbs to the moon.
I watched the dugout frantically waving signals, but it looked less like strategy and more like panic.
The Bottom Line
The Hobart Hurricanes deserve credit. They held their nerve while the sky fell. They move on to the Challenger final against the Sixers, and frankly, they look dangerous.
But the story here isn’t the Hurricanes’ win. It’s the Stars’ refusal to win.
Until Melbourne can exorcise these demons—not the bad luck, but the bad fielding and the panicked decision-making—they are destined to remain the bridesmaids of the Big Bash. The curse isn’t in the stars; it’s in their heads.