It Takes All Sorts - Celebrating Crickets Colourful Characters [Peter Roebuck]

IT TAKES ALL SORTS

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It Takes all Sorts 31/5/05 1:02 PM Page ii

PETERROEBUCK

IT TAKES ALL SORTSCelebrating cricket’s colourful characters

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First published in 2005

Copyright © Peter Roebuck, 2005

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in anyform or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher. The Australian Copyright Act 1968 (the Act) allows amaximum of one chapter or 10 per cent of this book, whichever is the greater, to bephotocopied by any educational institution for its educational purposes provided thatthe educational institution (or body that administers it) has given a remunerationnotice to Copyright Agency Limited (CAL) under the Act.

Allen & Unwin83 Alexander StreetCrows Nest NSW 2065 AustraliaPhone: (61 2) 8425 0100Fax: (61 2) 9906 2218Email: [email protected]: www.allenandunwin.com

National Library of AustraliaCataloguing-in-Publication entry:

Roebuck, Peter, 1956- .It takes all sorts : celebrating cricket’s colourfulcharacters.

Includes index.ISBN 1 74114 542 2.

1. Roebuck, Peter, 1956- . 2. Cricket players - Anecdotes.3. Cricket - Anecdotes. I. Title.

796.358

Typeset in 12/16 pt Galliard by Midland TypesettersPrinted by Griffin Press, South Australia

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

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CONTENTS

Dedication viPreface vii

1 Arrivals 12 Champions and their deeds 223 Soaring subcontinentals 414 Breaking barriers 625 To be an Englishman 726 Shafts of lightning 927 From the Caribbean 1028 From various angles 1189 From the Dark Continent 133

10 Salt of the earth 15011 Australians at work 15912 Reputations 18213 Leaving the stage 19514 Retirements 20615 Dealing with life 22016 Departures 231

Afterword 247Index 250

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This book is dedicated to:

Mohandas GandhiMartin Luther King, Jnr

Lech WalesaEdmund Dene Morel

Muhammad AliSeve Ballesteros

And my new family members,Diamond and Tonderai,

and my dogs, Mozart, Dylan and Tina

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Preface

Seinfeld says that research indicates people fear public speakingmore than death and points out that this means they wouldrather be in a casket at a funeral than giving the oration. My

own life has been not so much private as independent. My interest insport rests largely upon its revelation of character.

This book contains a selection of character studies in the form ofreports of men in action, constructed in the hurly-burly of a press boxwith deadlines looming, and contemplations written in the moretranquil atmosphere of a hotel room or a desk at home. They havebeen arranged to reflect the passage of life, both in terms of time andgeography. So the book starts with birth, more or less, and ends withdeath. Likewise, it begins with Sobers, or at any rate his mother, andfinishes with Bradman. If not quite as accomplished as these greatplayers, most of those in between are just as interesting.

It Takes All Sorts was chosen as a title because it was manifestlytrue, but against the wishes of the Melbourne intellectuals whoplayed a significant part in selecting the material. Matthew Klugmanand Alex McDermott might not care for their description, becauseit better reflects their role in the book than their devotion to mattersof the mind. Encountered during the course of the only print inter-view I have given (or been asked to give) in the last decade, theyhave subsequently spent much time trying to persuade your authorto write with greater profundity. Of course, the cause was long agolost! My erudition is not worn lightly. It does not exist.

Although thwarted in this regard, Matthew and Alex continued tospend many hours in libraries, digging out articles that might beworth revisiting. Insofar as this book provides satisfaction, a lot of thecredit must go to them.

Likewise, I have been fortunate in my editor. In his infinitewisdom, Patrick Gallagher, the senior man at Allen & Unwin, askedEmma Cotter to oversee the project, a task she carried out with theblend of patience, persistence and perception found in all the best

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practitioners of this problematic craft. That she afterwards fled toFrance was not taken personally.

I also wish to thank the newspapers and magazines that have givenpermission for articles to be reproduced. Changes have been made asseemed appropriate. For example, the line ‘Warne is a goose andcould not dismiss my Aunt Sally’ was removed on the grounds thatreaders might conclude that the author was not, after all, infallibleand promptly put the book aside. Most of the articles started life inThe Sydney Morning Herald and The Age, but some first saw the lightof day in The Cricketer, Wisden, Wisden Asia Cricketer and the English Sunday Times.

Finally, I would like to thank readers of my various columns andbooks, without whom a fellow might have to stop spending his timeat cricket matches and go to work!

PETER ROEBUCK

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1

Arrivals

Cricket is a game played in the mind. Give a man confidence andhe will walk among kings. Drag him down and he will scurry

among crabs.

Nothing is more stimulating in cricket reporting than theopportunity to investigate the forces that combined toproduce the player. Inevitably, sports coverage concentrates

upon the careers of those involved in an ever-changing scene, yet theperiods before and after are just as compelling, for then the sports-man lies naked before the examiner.

Nowadays, the best time to talk to a sportsman is before fame hasentered his life, with its agents, advisers and answers, or after thecircus has left town, for then voice can more easily be given to the thoughts and emotions subdued in the search for acceptability.

An interest in education and social history lies behind the articlesincluded in this chapter. Most particularly, the desire arose to showthat sportsmen emerge from all manner of nooks and crannies.Complacency persuades us that a blueprint can be produced outlin-ing the correct way of raising children. Parents straying from thatpath are condemned and the success and evident comfort of theirprogeny is dismissed as the exception that proves the rule. And soevery driving father is scorned and every indulgent mother is praised.

History indicates that humanity is not so easily contained. Ourworld is full of magazines and advertisements portraying a contented

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world, diverting our eyes from the struggles that take place every-where, even within those same walls once the illusion has beenremoved. In each study here the aim was simply to convey the truthwithout preconception. Bear in mind that these young men made thegrade. Sometimes it is a tale of triumph over adversity, sometimes acontinuation of an upbringing untouched by insecurity. Always thestories reflect the richness and variety to be found in life and the wayin which the determined and gifted child can overcome.

From Garry Sobers to Dewald Pretorius, from Tatenda Taibu toBas Zuiderent, from Waddington Mwayenga to Hansie Cronje, fromSachin Tendulkar to Shivnarine Chanderpaul, the range and richnessof the backgrounds detailed here is vast. From daily beatings to amother’s love, from a thin mattress to a feathered duvet, from a back-water to the mainstream, from a village to a bustling city, the varietybears testimony to the possibilities of the human spirit.

By chance, most of the youngsters mentioned in this chapter areAfrican or Indian. But, then, that is where rawness endures, wherethe challenge is sharpest. Repeatedly, Western writers impose theirown standards, yet their world too is full of desperation. All of theyoungsters included in this section survived their raisings. The abusedAfrikaner had a miserable time, while the spoilt Dutch boy is notexactly full of cheer, but the rest made their way from family to thefraternity of sport.

Apart from Dewald Pretorius, none of the boys thought they hadovercome any serious hardship. Poverty was a shared experience andnot peculiar to them. Moreover, their expectations of life had notbeen raised by those convinced that constant happiness is no merepipedream.

Garry Sobers’s mother was wonderful, while Chanderpaul’s rela-tions were obliging and proud. Both continued to lead lives of highsimplicity. The Ricky Ponting interview was a bit of luck. Uponreturning to Australia after six months overseas, I rang KerryO’Keeffe in an attempt to catch up. Kerry mentioned a lad fromTasmania who was worth watching and, as it happened, was playingat North Sydney Oval that very day. My newspapers were surprisedthat their correspondent’s first story of the summer concerned anobscure 17-year-old from Launceston, but published it anyhow.

Most of the rest of these articles were the result of relationships

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built during coaching trips to Africa and were, like many of myarticles, as much about injustice as sport. But, then, cricket is a meanswhereby youngsters can explore their talent and express theircourage, while older observers remaining within its precincts use it toexplore the wider interests that sooner or later enter the minds ofeven the most single-minded kicker of leather or hitter of catgut.

Sir Garry’s mum

It was, in some respects, a pilgrimage. A visit to Sir Garfield’s mum.A phone call had been enough. ‘Mrs Thelma Sobers?’ . . . ‘Dat’sright.’ . . . ‘Sir Garry’s mum?’ . . . ‘So they say.’ ‘Come tomorrow,’she said, ‘any time at all.’

And so we did, our knock being answered by a tall, thin, chuck-ling, energetic, hospitable lady, a little dotty perhaps, and worriedabout the camera. ‘I don’t photograph too well,’ she said. It was, wewere to discover, her only vanity. There was no other sign that shehad raised the greatest cricketer ever to set foot on this earth.

Thelma lives in a simple home with her granddaughter and great-granddaughter, spends her time listening to the races, laughing andwatching television. Until recently, she lived on her own, but she’sgetting on a bit, 86 years young, and the family wanted to take careof her. Not that she’s ill or aching or anything of that sort. Forget-ful, perhaps, but that’s about it. Full of fun, though humble, and asgentle as can be.

Sitting down to talk was not easy for her. Like a bird, she wantedto twitter around, and her eyes and hands were restless even as shesettled. She had raised Garry and five other children (a sixth died inchildbirth) on her own, more or less, helped a little by her motherand by a small pension paid after her husband’s death. He had diedduring the war, a torpedo sinking his ship as it took sugar andbananas to Britain.

‘I tell him,’ Thelma says without any hint of anger, ‘if I was he Iwouldn’t go nowhere. But he like the sea. He said he had to go. Hehad to work for the chil’ren. God take him away.’

He was the churchgoer, a serious and just man, who nevergambled. She was vital, easygoing, and her famous son took after her.

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Thelma did not remarry, concentrating instead upon raising thechildren who had ‘come along one after another. My home wasalways full of them. They had me all of the time.’ Their home was litby an oil lamp and warmed by a coal pot. There was no iron or fridgeor electricity. Meat was salted and kept in an icebox. ‘It tasted realnice.’ Yams, potatoes and porridge were put upon the table. But thisis no tale of hardship. They were a happy family, lively and loving.The eldest went to sea and the youngsters played their sport.

Garry was four when his father passed away. Sometimes Dad hadbrought balls ‘back from the sea’ and the boys had played with them,in the road outside their house at first, and, when they were oldenough, in the nearby field. ‘He loved the ball when he small,’Thelma recalled. ‘He study a little, but he live for cricket. I couldn’tdo anything with him. Cricket had he all the time. He wanted to playbad. They couldn’t get he out.’

Not that she tried to drag her son away from sport. She likes cricket,enjoys listening to it on the radio. But she prefers racing. Thelma waslucky with her children. ‘They never worry me. Some chil’ren, theyfight. We had none of that. They never go against anybody at all.’

Soon enough, people began to take notice of Garry’s cricket andthe Police Club signed him up, saying he could play in their band. Noone recalls seeing Garry playing an instrument, though; only cricket.Sometimes, to get a game, he would cycle across Barbados and playunder an assumed name. He would lash the bowling all around untila friend wandered past and called, ‘Hi, Garry!’ whereupon everyonewould twig him. Then an umpire would give him out.

And Garry had lots of friends.Mrs Sobers did not interfere with her boy’s cricket, had no reason

to. This is no fierce matriarch driving her son in the absence of afather. Rather, a likeable mother, twinkling and loving, letting heroffspring loose upon the world. She has only seen him play two orthree times.

Thelma remembers Sir Frank Worrell and says he was a great man.He ‘wanted Garry to take up the captaincy, but he didn’t really wantto. He never did it.’ Daughter Sonia points out that Garry did, infact, lead the region for some time. This surprises Thelma. ‘Datright?’ she asks, and laughs again. Golly, her son had captained theWest Indies. She’s not the sort to make a fuss.

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When they wanted to fly her to London in 1975 for Garry’s ThisIs Your Life, she resisted. ‘I don’t like aeroplanes or any of that. Idon’t even like the sea much.’ Eventually they talked her into it.Moved and surprised to see her, Garry asked, ‘How did you do it?’

A picture forms of a sweet upbringing in one of the poorer partsof St Michael’s, an upbringing that produced a balanced, even-tempered son. Thelma is remarkable because she is unaffected, almostunaware. But then, of course, they say the same about Sir Garfield.‘He hasn’t changed a bit,’ they say. Sometimes they wish he had.

The fisherman’s son

As Shivnarine Chanderpaul, a waif with a pixie’s face, was stroking hisway to 62 on a Test debut made on his home pitch in Georgetown,Guyana, in 1994, a female voice cried out across the ground, ‘If thisChanderpaul think he marry a foreigner, he don think again.’

Another woman, selling biscuits and sweets by the side of apotholed road, said, ‘I like dis boy, he so young and he play all deshots.’ And it was the Afro-Caribbeans who invaded the pitch as thefrail teenager of Indian descent reached his fifty. Guyana had takenChanderpaul to its heart.

He is a local lad, born into a humble fisherman’s family in a fishingvillage, Unity, an hour’s drive along the sugar-beet coast of a countrywhose population hugs the seas, the interior being thick with forest.Unity is a subsistence village; its wooden houses are built on stilts andits hospital and leper colony closed long ago, times having been hardin Guyana. Apart from a small field, it has no sporting facilities. YetUnity has produced two Test cricketers—Colin Croft and ShivnarineChanderpaul.

The latter’s cricketing pedigree was promising, if not immaculate.Kemraj, his father, played good cricket and kept wicket to Croft, wholives a sand wedge away. Both uncles played for strong clubs andDavi, his sister, wielded a fine bat. ‘They could pelt it as hard as theylike and she stand up. But her shoulders slim and there no ladies’cricket round here,’ recalls Kemraj.

From the start, Chanderpaul was a cricketer. ‘When he in hismother’s belly she bowl to me,’ says his father, whereupon Uncle

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Martin adds, ‘When he a boy I soak de bat and he drink de oil.’Thereafter, it seems, a life in cricket was inevitable.

At the age of eight, he started practising in the local communityhall, which is not as posh as it sounds. ‘I start he inside,’ says Kemraj.‘I heard Kanhai practised on concrete. It’s the same idea. We got ourown calculations here. Finally, we had to stop because de damage tode balls got expensive. So I took he outside.’

But outside there were no nets, no pitch, just a small field of roughgrass upon which goats and cows periodically grazed. Undeterred,they rolled and cut a pitch and sewed a net from the ones Kemraj usesevery day to catch bottlefish for the overseas market. The wicketremains muddy and bumpy. ‘It’s all dis rain, and cows and peoplewalking through,’ Kemraj says.

By now Chanderpaul was batting three or four hours a day. He’dgo to school with his bags and bat and ball, throw his bags away andrun to the nets. ‘The teacher wasn’t pleased,’ Kemraj says, ‘but hepleased now.’

At thirteen, the boy left school. ‘He play cricket all de timeanyhow,’ says his father. The entire village was behind him, volunteersbowling morning, noon or night, the boy practising in rain or shine.On match days, they’d crowd around him so that he hardly had roomto breathe. Long ago, he learnt to live with pressure.

Kemraj used to talk to his son late into the night. ‘I tell he to watchthe footwork of Kallicharran. I tell he Gavaskar never go out in denineties. I tell he, if you afraid get hit, stop playing de game. Littlechildren go out and play all kinds of things. I tell he marbles nevercarry you nowhere. He concentrate on cricket since he small.’

Taking his father’s advice, Chanderpaul began to run 40 timesaround ‘de ball field’, and decided to aim for the top. His father saidhe must try to play for Guyana while still a youth and then to ‘knockdown de door of de West Indies so he can go in’.

Chanderpaul rose quickly, joined the prestigious GeorgetownCricket Club, scored 117 on debut and left saying ‘something wrongwit my batting’. He did not like club practices because he could batfor only ten minutes, compared with three hours at home. But hepersisted, and word of him soon spread.

By now we’d drunk lots of coconut water and talked for hours andit was time for a lunch of rice, chicken and roti. Then Chanderpaul

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wandered in, for it was the rest day. He had come home on one ofthe minibuses upon which all except the rich travel, but he had nothad to pay his fare.

Chanderpaul is shy but ready to smile. He was a little embarrassedthat his relatives were displaying an exercise book with cuttings gluedin. He confirmed he didn’t like getting out, saying, ‘if ball hit me,nothing wrong. Can’t out.’ He added, ‘When I get mad, I hook offde front foot.’

He sleeps in a small room with a mosquito net, a chest expanderand lots of cricket bats. He had not expected to play in the Test andthinks ‘reaching de side is one thing, staying in it is de main thing’.He had been pleased to score 62, but was extremely vexed at failingto reach three figures.

The sigh of disappointment when Chanderpaul lost his wicket toa long hop could be heard across Georgetown. The boy was furious,his father understanding.

Already, he has achieved much. Chanderpaul knew his selectionwas controversial. He also knew an entire village and half a countrywere watching, expecting him to do well, for as his father says, ‘sincehe small de whole island know he’.

The thin boy with a gentle smile had taken it all in his stride, andscored 62 in his first Test. He is a determined, level-headed young-ster and more will be heard of him.

Young man in a hurry

Ricky Ponting may be the best thing since thick-cut marmalade. Heis seventeen, wears a tiny, defiant goatee beard, a shadow of a mous-tache, has a pale face and feet that skim across the turf. Already he isa batsman of intuition, power and confidence, one with a sense ofstillness and space and a glint in his eye that belies his origins inLaunceston, the country cousin of a country cousin.

Last year, aged sixteen, he was the second highest scorer in theAustralian under-19 carnival, two runs adrift of Anthony McGuire ofWollongong, both players averaging 60. As a 12-year-old he scored100 and 70 in an under-16 carnival, at eleven he hit four hundredsin five innings during an under-13 Cricket Week. He admits all this

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in the quiet, matter-of-fact voice of a bloke who can’t stand fuss butis not afraid of his record, or of the treacherous step between promiseand fulfilment.

He can certainly bat. Colleagues call him ‘Sachin’, after Tendulkar,and one says he is ‘easily the best cricketer of his age group in thecountry’. A week ago he scored 150 as the Cricket Academytrounced Queensland’s Second XI. Runs did not flow so freely after-wards against NSW, but he did play some searing back-foot shots andstraight drives, did once move out to a spinner and, finding himselfshort, used arm and wrist not to scotch but to guide gently past mid-off to the fence. He batted with maturity in the four-day game untilbeing given out caught behind for 37, while in the 50-over contesthe forgot the old adage that ‘it is with our passions as it is with fireand water, they are good servants but bad masters’.

Since April, Ponting has attended the Academy in Adelaide.Leaving school early did not worry him because he was not a dedi-cated scholar. ‘It wasn’t much of a contest between homework andcricket training. I copped it a few times, but mostly got away with it.I left school as soon as I could,’ he says.

By sixteen he was working as a groundsman and as a cricketer,representing Tasmania at under-17 and under-19 carnivals. He ismindful that good and bad springs from his birthplace. ‘You getnoticed more quickly in the sticks,’ he says. ‘But we don’t play posi-tively enough in Tasmania because we don’t think we’re as good asthey are. Take our under-19 game with Victoria last year. At tea weneeded 100 with six wickets left and lost by three.’ From his neckhangs a miniature cricket bat and in his eye is a look that says ‘andthat won’t happen again’.

After his outstanding under-19 carnival, Ponting was invited to attend the Academy in Adelaide, which now runs from April toDecember, thereby allowing students to return to their clubs andstates. Ponting was picked to tour South Africa last autumn and found it ‘sensational, seeing other ways of life, seeing how theblacks are treated, which isn’t good is it? We did some coachingclinics and they’re certainly talented. If they get the opportunity.’

Then it was back to Adelaide and early mornings, swimming andtraining, and practising cricket in the afternoon. Ponting believes hisfitness has ‘picked up a lot’ and he’s also found the psychological

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instruction valuable. ‘I didn’t use to think about it a lot, about havinglittle goals through the day but feeling happy with yourself as youwalked off if it had gone well. It sounds nothing but it means some-thing to me.’

It has not all been muscle and sweat. Ian Chappell taught him toattack spin by using his feet to dominate, and Rod Marsh has alsogiven a tip or two. Not too much coaching, though, because there isno blueprint. Not all coaches agree with that. My old Somerset coachonce told a boy he was holding the bat wrong. ‘But sir,’ said the boy,‘this is how Don Bradman held it and he scored lots of runs.’ ‘Yes,lad,’ replied the coach, ‘but imagine how many he’d have scored ifhe’d held it right.’

In many respects, Ponting is a typical young Australian. He maybe just the cricketer Tasmania and Australia needs, aggressive andexciting. But it is a long and rocky road.

A young man seeking a better life

Waddington Mwayenga has taken five wickets for 21 runs forZimbabwe’s under-19 team in the tournament taking place in NewZealand, a youth World Cup no less. According to reports, he is ‘ayoung pace bowler of admirable accuracy. Always on the spot, heripped through the top order, bowling his 10 overs straight through.’Even against stronger opponents than Kenya he has held his own.

He is a promising bowler, Waddington, a tall 17-year-old with arhythmic action capable of landing the ball on his country’s shrink-ing dollar. But his achievements go beyond the matter of bowlingfigures and even the manifest qualities of the young man in question.

Waddington sleeps on the floor in a small, hot room, betweenelder brother Allan, no mean bowler himself, and young Nicky, an engaging individual currently negotiating the hurly-burly ofadolescence.

The Mwayengas live in a stone shack amid a cluster of similarabodes tucked away behind the plusher buildings of a private schoolin Harare, St John’s College, an establishment attended by MurrayGoodwin and Scott Brant. Mr Mwayenga works as head of groundsat the school that provides his home and can be seen rolling the

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wickets at dawn or playing soccer with his workers in the lunch hour.He is a grave, occasionally laughing man who has found a job, fed hisfamily and educated his sons.

Previously, Waddington and his brothers attended a state schoolseveral miles away and at first light began the journey on foot, carryingbooks and sometimes kit. It was a common experience. They are good-natured fellows, full of laughter yet with a slight hurt lingering beneaththe surface, the hurt of those who seek an explanation. Their faith isstrong and in the African way they show respect for elders and educa-tion. Their family is warm and possessed of a quiet yearning.

Soon the middle son passed a few exams and was offered a placeat the school where his father worked. Doubtless the school wantedto help a valued employee while strengthening its cricket team.Money was found for these purposes. Although Mr Mwayengainsisted that his boys attend to their studies, he realised the possibil-ities to be found in sport. From their earliest days, Waddington andhis brothers practised in the school nets, using the roughest balls and rudimentary bats, or those discarded or bestowed by wealthierchildren. Not long ago, a black school’s First XI was stunned to seean opponent changing bats mid-innings. This fellow had two bats?

Allan lacked the special talent needed to secure a place in thetraining squads. Waddington improved as he grew, and did both byleaps and bounds. He took wickets for the school, turned up in hisblazer and kept his counsel, for he does not say much. At night he’dreturn to sleep alongside his brothers. He has a dignity about himthat runs in the family.

Next, Waddington was chosen for the under-19 trials, where hisefforts were almost rewarded. A year later, he was back and this time his stamina, bounce and pace were recognised. When his inclusion in the squad was announced, a beam fell upon his father’s face. That night,Mr Mwayenga and I went back to his shack and drank Castle beer and an altogether livelier concoction contributed by the proud parent.

Sachin’s early days

Sachin Tendulkar has always had his feet upon the ground. He comesfrom a professional family and might have become a lawyer had not

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cricket claimed him. Not that he was a dedicated student, for hecould not wait to return to the fields. He was fortunate to be raisedin a close family in which learning was respected and sporting prowesskept in its place. Happily, Tendulkar’s father also had the wisdom toencourage his son to play cricket and even advised him to pursue thegame, pointing out that ‘there are thousands of lawyers and only afew truly gifted batsmen’.

From the start, Tendulkar was devoted to the game. In his earlydays, he’d join hundreds of boys for coaching at the famous nurseryin Shivaji Park, where the fundamentals of the game were drilled intogenerations of boys, including Sanjay Manjrekar, Ajit Wadekar, SunilGavaskar and Vinod Kambli. Shivaji Park was, and remains, typicallyIndian. Those arriving early for practice might find a light misthanging over a park about twice the size of a proper cricket field.They would see old-timers walking around the park on their morningexercise and were advised to take off their shoes and join thembecause walking barefoot in the dew was deemed good for the soul.Sometimes the RSS, the militant wing of the Hindu fundamentalistparty, would be completing its drills. In summer the earth was hot,baked red and full of pebbles, but after the monsoon it was lush and fresh.

Ramakant Achrekar and Das Shivalkar were the presiding coaches.Achrekar instilled the finer points in a select group of older boys andis remembered as Tendulkar’s first coach. Shivalkar has been forgot-ten but did most of the early work, coaching the boys till they reachedten, whereupon the cream of the crop were passed on to his superior.Shivalkar was a character. He would turn up in slippers and a longshirt and sometimes his students swore there was a whiff of alcoholin his breath. As David Innis, a contemporary, recalls, though, hecould ‘bowl a wicked off-cutter and ran a hard school’. As the onlyChristian in the group, Innis was often made captain. He was alsomore willing than his shy Indian friends to change and shower in therudimentary ‘pavilion’ that was Shivaji’s only building, a roughconstruction in the corner of the field where, for a small fee, the boyscould deposit their kit and school clothes till practice was over,whereupon, by way of replenishment, they could go to a little stall tobuy sweet tea, puffed rice, buttered buns and, for those with money,an omelette spiced with peppers hidden in its folds.

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Practice started at 6 a.m. as Shivalkar split the boys into pairs.Soon matches began and everyone was given a chance to bat.According to Innis, the rules were simple. ‘Whether you hit the ballor not, you had to run. If you didn’t, you were out.’ Tendulkar wasin his group, and swiftly learnt to find the gaps. About twentygames would be played at the same time and a lad fielding at thirdman had to keep his eyes open because he was also leg-slip inanother contest. Fieldsmen kept their ears open for calls of ‘Look!’,an abbreviation of ‘Lookout!!’ whereupon everyone in the areacovered their heads.

Even then Tendulkar’s dedication was legendary. Innis recallsarriving early one morning and chatting to his coach when a small,curly-haired child appeared complaining that the ‘maalis’ wouldnot put up the nets until six and could Sir Shivalkar please tell themto put them up or alternatively authorise him to erect them himself?A few years later, Tendulkar travelled through the night with ayouth team, arrived at their destination at 3 a.m., practised in thecorridors till dawn and then woke up his coach at 5.30 and said hewas ready to go to the ground as he was not happy with his batting.In those days his captains and coaches used to send him to thirdman because he was full of suggestions and it was the only way tokeep him quiet.

Shivalkar coached Tendulkar and Vinod Kambli and wonderedwhich might rise furthest. Kambli used to hop onto a lorry bringingfruit and vegetables to the markets. Shivalkar worried about Kambli,the precocious left-hander, because he came from a lower caste,might not be given the chances he deserved and might not be ableto take success in his stride.

Shivaji Park was Tendulkar’s academy. As informal matchesproduced so many West Indian cricketers, so these early mornings inBombay were a testing ground for numerous aspiring cricketers inIndia. Innis recalls Shivalkar fondly, says he ‘loved the game, instilledan aggressive attitude in his charges, brooked no nonsense and gaveof himself willingly’. Tendulkar was fortunate to meet such a man inhis formative years. Shivalkar and Achrekar were lucky to have sucha committed student. Doubtless it was a reward for all those earlymornings as the sun rose over Shivaji Park and hundreds of hopefulsarrived eager for instruction.

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More young men in a hurry

Dewald PretoriusThis is the story of a young man named Dewald, a battered whitechild who opened the bowling for his country on 8 March 2002.

Dewald Pretorius’s troubles began before he was born, because hisfather had a child by another woman and ran off with her. Even now,Dewald only knows scraps about him. His mother remarried and thestepfather was a brute who belted his stepsons every night, grabbingthem and thumping them with a plank. ‘We lived in fear,’ Dewaldrecalls. ‘We hated it when 5 p.m. came, because he was on his wayhome.’ They could not bring any friends back, and no one visited.‘We tried to run away, but they always brought us back.’ The boysran wild and were hungry, bruised and in rags.

For ten years this wretchedness continued, the mother cowering,the boys angry and despairing. And then the stepfather did notcome home one night. Dewald and his brother, three years older,waited with trepidation and then relief as they went to bed unpun-ished. Next morning, he still wasn’t back so they went to school.‘After two or three lessons, the headmaster called us in,’ Pretoriusremembers, ‘and told us he’d been murdered. It was hard not to behappy.’ He pauses and adds, almost reluctantly, ‘We hated him.There is no other word.’

Care became an issue and counsellors appeared. Fearing separationfrom their mother, the boys refused to see the doctors so the policewere called and they were taken away, passing their mother andscreaming as she slumped on the pavement. The boys were taken toa ‘place of safety’ and stayed there for seven months till their case washeard. It was a violent place. Every Sunday, the lads were made tofight till one bled and then the victor fought till he bled and so on,seniors urging them on, supervisors turning a blind eye and nocomplaints allowed, for they brought retribution.

Next the Afrikaner youngsters were put in a hostel in Kroonstaad,their home town in the Free State, where Dewald stayed till he wasthirteen. Officials decided they could not live with their motherbecause they ‘looked hungry’, though Dewald says this was thehostel’s fault. Their mother decided her boys would be happier at anorphanage in Bloemfontein.

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Dewald had known no warmth or met anyone who believed inhim. Both at the orphanage and at Dr Viljeon’s School, he foundconcerned adults who provided love and encouragement.

They told Dewald, ‘You can make something of your life’, and hecommitted himself to passing his exams and leaving the orphanage asits outstanding product, and achieved both. His brother was not solucky. He was sent to a reformatory and came back ‘worse’ andnowadays tramps the country in rags. Dewald found him a job, but itdid not last. He says, ‘You can only help those who help themselves.’

At thirteen, Dewald discovered cricket and ‘my whole life startedthen’. Friends were playing and he joined in, not wanting to returnearly to the orphanage. He found he could bowl faster than anyoneelse and was immediately put in a team, an enormous boost to hisconfidence.

Bloemfontein is a small town and word spread about his pace andenthusiasm. Corrie van Zyl, then the provincial coach, took aninterest, as did Hansie Cronje and Allan Donald, who providedguidance and help, saying, ‘You just keep going.’ Pretorius regardsCronje as the best man he has met.

Pretorius took a job at Free State’s ground and practised everynight, determined to play for his country. Last week he made it.Things did not go so well, but he says, ‘I promise you I’ll be back.’Afterwards, he saw his girlfriend and then visited the orphans.

Pretorius has come a long way. He worked for three years as ahostel father at the orphanage and tells the children, ‘You just keepgoing. You can make something of your life.’ And then he goes backto the nets, utterly determined to fight his way back into the Testteam.

Tatenda Taibu and Stuart MatsikenyeriIn 1995, two primary school boys went to watch their country playPakistan at Harare’s main cricket ground. Accompanied by their friendsfrom the poorer parts of town, the boys cheered as Zimbabwe recordedtheir first victory in Test cricket. Tatenda Taibu, the youngest of thepair by eleven days, turned to his friend Stuart Matsikenyeri and said,‘One day we must play together for Zimbabwe.’

Taibu has kept his part of the bargain and nowadays serves as hiscountry’s vice-captain and wicket-keeper, a task he performs so

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skilfully that an umpiring mistake alone prevented him breaking aworld record of his own in Perth. The only byes conceded in Austra-lia’s massive innings came from an inside edge. Matsikenyeri hasbatted gamely for Zimbabwe in one-day cricket and is pressing for aplace in the Test side. Taibu has thrown so many balls to him, he says,that ‘his arm must be falling off’.

Taibu and his comrade grew up together in Highfields, a heavilypopulated suburb in the nation’s capital that contains both stonehouses and tin shacks. Taibu says that it is a ‘good place’, and that hedid not suffer any particular hardship. His father owned a barber’sshop, but passed away when the boy was thirteen. His mother diedin 2001, leaving the teenager to take care of himself and his youngerbrothers.

Cricket came into Taibu’s life in his junior school days. SteveMangongo and other coaches appointed by the Zimbabwe CricketUnion were trying to spread the game in the high-density areas andTaibu liked the look of it. Mangongo, he says, ‘taught us to view lifein a tough way. We had to be brave.’ His father was pleased with hisnewfound enthusiasm because it would help him avoid ‘drugs,alcohol and other mischief’.

Meanwhile, Matsikenyeri was growing up with his parents in apolice camp, where he lived until his father passed away. Soccer washis strong point, and they called him ‘Maradona’, but he was smalland did not want to get roughed up by the big boys. He saw a bunchof fellows playing cricket and decided to join them. He has beenplaying cricket ever since, even surviving the calamity of breaking awindow in his house. ‘He did not want to go home that day!’ Taiburecalls. His mother wanted him to concentrate on his books, but hisfather knew the game was keeping him out of trouble.

Soon the lads joined forces. Helped by their friends, the boysdeveloped their own ground. The council decided to plant trees ontheir version of Lord’s, a turn of events that displeased them. ‘It wasnot good news,’ Matsikenyeri chuckles. ‘We didn’t approve at all.’The solution was simple. Every day, the boys surreptitiously removeda tree until the area was flat again, a strategy that resulted innumerous hidings and a satisfactory cricket arena. Thereafter, theboys would rush home from school to practise. ‘It was cricket,cricket, cricket,’ Taibu says in his well-modulated voice. Next came a

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scholarship to Churchill School, which has become a cricketingstronghold. Cricket, not money, was on their minds, Taibu confirms.‘We had not even thought about the education that came our way.’He rose to be Zimbabwean captain and man of the tournamentduring the under-19 World Cup. Taibu believes that better days lieahead for him. ‘Just watch,’ he says, with a smile.

He is likewise confident that Hamilton Masakadza will succeedonce he returns from university. Matsikenyeri remembers their firstever practice on grass. Masakadza was hit on the eye and forced toretire. ‘Some of the boys were hurt and did not come back,’ saysMatsikenyeri. ‘Hamilton was hit hardest, and he returned next week.’

No sooner had the Perth Test finished than these young men wereback in the nets. Matsikenyeri is searching for a balance betweentechnique and aggression. He knows that sometimes he gets carriedaway, but believes that ‘everyone has his own style. Fighting againstit can bring you down.’ His foundations are strong and now it is amatter of fighting for his place.

These days, Taibu and Matsikenyeri share a house in Harare andlaugh when cooking is mentioned. Taibu reminds his pal of thepromise made all those years ago and points out that it is ‘still to bedone’. Matsikenyeri says Zimbabwe must win. He wants ‘moresuccesses for our country because then people go around with smileson their faces’.

Bas ZuiderentBas Zuiderent is the youngest cricketer at the 1996 World Cup. The18-year-old Dutchman played against New Zealand on Saturday and kept his wicket intact, as well as taking two boundary catches andgenerally looking like a cricketer.

Next month he returns to school in the Netherlands to launch hissecond assault on his leaving papers. Examiners found fault with hisprevious attempt and said he thought too much about cricket and toolittle about Latin. In June it will be cricket again. He can play, too.Single-minded, passionate, raw and skilful, it had taken him only amonth of practising on grass to start scoring runs in good company.

Zuiderent, a tall, strong lad, had not wanted to play cricket inearlier days. ‘At twelve, I didn’t like the game,’ he says. ‘None of my friends played. Soccer and hockey were our games. Then one day

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my mother took me to a practice. I was so angry I almost cried. Shesaid, “Just try it.”’ He can remember every minute of that firstpractice. ‘I took some catches, tried to bat and bowl. It was so enjoy-able. I have some ball sense, but it wasn’t that, it was the game.Soccer is so straightforward. It’s always the same: there is the field,there is the ball. In cricket you can rise so high and fall so low.’

An intelligent boy had found a game that suited him. He sees‘cricket as a box. Every time you play, you put something into it, butthe box is never full.’ Once Zuiderent started playing, he ‘could thinkof nothing else’. He practised with older players, and friends thoughthim odd. Disregarding their opinions, he followed his calling withthe utmost dedication.

‘Until I was sixteen, I was so focused, didn’t drink, wasn’t inter-ested in girls, didn’t go out. At fourteen, everyone is drinking beerin Holland. I just wanted to do well at cricket. I was a dull boy, I suppose.’

Nor was it easy for him. His standards were higher than hiscontemporaries were capable of conceiving, let alone delivering. ‘I was captain of a team. It was not nice. Mothers kept asking whywasn’t their son batting, why was I bowling? They were really angry.’

Zuiderent was bewildered by this fury. He just wanted to winmatches. And then came some comfort from Stephen Lubbers, theLowlanders’ experienced captain. Lubbers heard his story and said,‘We have a saying in Holland, “Big trees catch wind”.’ Zuiderentkept playing and improving. He grew in confidence, on the field andoff it. ‘At sixteen, I started growing and started seeing girls. Now I love going out. My friends don’t recognise me.’

It did not affect his cricket. At sixteen, he represented his countryin the under-19s, and last year scored 100 against Canada, pulling amuscle along the way. ‘We were playing England next day and it wasour big match. I so much wanted to play, so I showed no pain in thewarm-up, even did some sprints. Then the manager asked, “Are youfit?” I said, “What do you think!” He said, “You’re not playing.” Wetalked for thirty minutes and I was crying. I didn’t want to give in.’

He is made of the right stuff. Last week he played against Kenyain a friendly. Scored 47 and lost his wicket trying to chase the sevenruns an over needed for victory. Colleagues said he should have prac-tised his batting. It didn’t sound right to Zuiderent. He wants to win.

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Team-mates tell him he thinks too much, but it isn’t possible to thinktoo much, only too badly. Zuiderent played a poor shot in the netsand thought about it all day and all night, finally awakening with anunderstanding of his mistake.

More will be heard of this young man. After his exams, he’s off toplay cricket in England (he thinks his girlfriend will understand). Hewants to give his cricket and himself the chance both crave.

Hansie Cronje’s dad

Ewie Cronje, the father, sits in his office at the university where hehas worked for 34 years, one meeting completed, another awaitingand in between a chance for cigarettes, chips and conversation. Ewiehas not talked to journalists for 22 months because everything seemsto get turned around. He has been burning, though, and sooner orlater the longest fuse runs out.

First he talks about the start of it all, Piers and Estion Cronje,setting sail from Normandy and arriving in Cape Town on 3 Septem-ber 1698, French Huguenots searching for freedom. And then hethinks about another pair of brothers, Frans and Hansie, the elderorganising a walk for Jesus and ringing his mother to ask howeveryone can sleep after a hundred miles when they cannot carrysleeping bags, the younger down in George and trying to rebuild his life.

Ewie puffs on a cigarette, wrestling with himself, wanting to talkand not to talk. Again he thinks back to those brothers arriving inSouth Africa 305 years ago. Estion died before marrying and Piers isthe forefather of all the South African Cronjes, eleven generationsnow that Frans has produced children. Piers was granted land nearPaarl on the south coast and the Cronjes were farmers for 250 yearsuntil Ewie took up a position as sports administrator at the univer-sity. ‘I couldn’t farm because I played too much sport. Even now, I am an outdoor teacher.’

Gradually the Cronjes moved north, to Swellendon and then toColeburg and, in 1819, Ewie’s great-great grandfather startedhunting in the Southern Free State. Ewie’s father studied sheep andwool at the technical college in Sydney in 1925–26 and was the first

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South African to be asked to judge sheep and wool at the SydneyRoyal Easter Show.

Ewie discovered cricket as a 6-year-old. When the hotel managerin nearby Bethulie raised a team to play against Brenfontein, 25 milesaway, he went along for the trip. ‘I saw the game and loved it,’ hesays. ‘We started playing with a tennis ball with the black labourerson the farm and later we came to Bloem to buy a cricket bat.’

He saw the Australians in 1949, went to high school in 1951 andended up playing for the province. Naturally, his sons took up thegame, and Hansie started as Free State captain when he was twentyyears and 30 days old (Ewie has a head for figures).

Muleleki Nkala’s ambitions

Luke Nkala has an uproarious laugh, fourteen children, a couple ofwives and a son regarded as the most promising black cricketer inZimbabwe. Muleleki, the aforementioned offspring, will not playagainst Australia this time because he is busy studying Shakespeareand the mysteries of higher mathematics by way of satisfying hisexaminers. Afterwards, though, he will return to the game he loves,a game whose books and magazines and ways he has devoured, agame his father came to know only by the sound of breakingwindows. Already, the boy has played once for his country, taking thewicket of Sachin Tendulkar.

Muleleki is a Matabele raised in a cosmopolitan style by a fatherwho ‘brought me up to cope with white society. He didn’t want to shut me off.’ His life is a mixture of traditional customs andmodern ways. His father makes his own beer and the sons wear orna-ments and clothes signifying their tribe. But they also listen to ravemusic and took immediately to the white games, playing themendlessly in the garden, especially cricket, which they liked because‘it’s different and, anyhow, the ground was too hard for rugby’.

Nkala senior owns shops in the rural areas where his grindingmachines were popular. Now he is pursuing ‘one of his schemes’.Obviously, he could not afford to educate his entire collectionprivately, but their talent was spotted and sponsors stepped forwardto send the boys to Falcon College, alongside half the Zimbabwean

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team. Muleleki says attending a private school was important becausehis cricket could not have developed otherwise. He says cricket isn’ta game you can learn overnight because it involves the spirit and themind. ‘It’s a way of thinking,’ he says. ‘It isn’t just a matter of findingtalented boys and lobbing them onto the field. You need to see thingsthe right way.’

Muleleki studied the game and practised endlessly. He watchedvideos, especially the film of Ian Botham demolishing the Australiansin 1981. Taking his chances, he rose through the ranks and captainedZimbabwe’s under-19 side a year ahead of time. He is an all-rounderwith a purposeful off-side game and a bowling action reflecting hisprowess at athletics and football. His main weakness is that he isprone to injuries. Recently a luggage trolley rolled over his foot,thereby incapacitating him. Team-mates tease him about this habit ofbreaking down.

Naturally, Muleleki realises the importance of black cricketersemerging in his country. But he doesn’t ever want to be a token. ‘Itis vital that indigenous players do well, but it’s more important thatthe team does well. Heath Streak is a hero amongst my people. Still,it’d be good to have a few of our boys doing well because it showspeople what is possible.’

Muleleki believes that the quota system has a part to play becauseit encourages the boys who are struggling upwards. ‘It can help inyouth teams, but it’s different with first-class cricket. Then the playersmust be good enough. If they aren’t, they will know it. These fellowsaren’t fools—choosing them ahead of better players puts them underpressure. It hurts everyone.’

He argues that the main handicap for young cricketers inZimbabwe is a lack of exposure, and he is pleased to hear thatdomestic cricket is being widened to include five teams. Last year heattended the Australian academy and thoroughly enjoyed himself.Nor can rumours that he left his heart in Adelaide be entirelydiscounted. In January he will captain the Zimbabwean under-19team at its World Cup in Sri Lanka. After that, he wants to attend thecricket academy in Harare and challenge for a place in the Test team.

He thinks South Africa can learn from the Zimbabwean experi-ence. ‘We’ve been independent a lot longer,’ he says, ‘and it took along time for black cricketers to get into the team. You need to be

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patient.’ His uncle was in Mugabe’s first cabinet, but he keeps quietabout that.

Muleleki is a determined cricketer capable of realising his ownambitions and the hopes of his people. He wants to play for hiscountry again next year. After that, he will get married. One wife willbe enough, he thinks, and just a handful of children.

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2

Champions andtheir deeds

At the highest level, sport is not a matter of moments but ahardening of mind and body in a concerted effort to reach a peak.

Only the fancy talkers think otherwise.

Sport conveys greatness in action. Whereas in the fields ofacademe, science and statesmanship, greatness indicates asuperior intellect, with sport the matter is altogether more

complicated. Not that even the greatest statesman lacks vanity, calcu-lation and the other foibles detected in the rest of mankind. Often heseems a mightier figure in history books than in contemporary news-papers, let alone around the breakfast table.

Nevertheless, sport is almost disconcertingly non-judgemental inits bestowing of gifts. As Neil Marks often remarks as he watches acricket match unfold from the lofty perch of the Sydney CricketGround (SCG) press box, ‘God likes to play tricks on us—he givestalent to blokes without brains and nothing to those who can think.’Whether or not the film Amadeus is accurate cannot be said, but thesupposed relationship between Mozart and Salieri has many echoes insport as the intelligent mediocrity contemplates the wanton genius.

It is the aim of this chapter to show that it is not as simple as that.The characters portrayed are exceptional in many ways and not justin the execution of a particular skill. There is a lot more to sport thanmere performance. It is one thing to be born with a gift, another totake it to its fulfilment. Courage is needed, for along the way failure

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is encountered and then comes the temptation to cut losses and tosettle for something less. Only the most remarkable competitors keepchasing the end of the rainbow. Most of the rest reach a point andthen settle for something less. A man’s self-esteem can only absorbso many blows.

Moreover, cricket champions come in all shapes and sizes. There is no formula, except a certain hand and eye coordination and birthin a country where the game is popular. In the assessment of thesuccessful individual, a lot depends upon interpretation. Nor is it fairto expect full maturity from a brilliant young man when it is sportitself that has removed him from everyday life and thrown him intothe honey pot.

Steve Waugh can be viewed in various lights, as single-minded orselfish, as generous or mean, open-minded or cantankerous, as anattacking captain or as a ruthless destroyer. Even his most fiercecritics, though, concede that he had extraordinary determination.Nor was this a mere gift from the gods. Rather, it was a creation ofhis mind, a choice he took never to take a backward step, never tothink a cause lost. Now and then, many of us rise to these heights,only to fall back next day as something goes wrong or doubt entersthe mind.

Waugh was different because he was always like that. His heroestold the story. Early in his career, he wanted to be Doug Walters.Later, he preferred the explorer Lord Shackleton. If he was great, itwas because he chose to be, dared to be. Of course, he had also beenblessed with lots of ability, much more than was generally admitted.After all, the Waugh caricature did not tolerate unusual ability. Hisinnings at Old Trafford in 1989 contained all the elements that madehim such a force in the game.

Brian Lara is another case, yet his greatness as a batsman has beenconfirmed time and again. At his best he can achieve wondrous featswith the bat, at his worst he can seem surly and self-indulgent.Whereas Waugh’s greatest performances came in adversity, Lara wasinclined to lead from the front. His match-winning innings inBarbados is recorded in this chapter alongside a colder reflectionupon his character.

Sachin Tendulkar and Glenn McGrath are the other playersmentioned in this section. McGrath has bowled so many beautiful

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spells, yet his famous catch could not be allowed to pass forgotteninto time. Tendulkar has long been a particular favourite and his longand careful innings in Sydney seemed to signify more than the endingof a bad patch and the silencing of his most demanding critics. Heseemed to be moving from the playfulness of youth and entering acautious world in which less reliance is placed on instinct and moreupon method.

Brian Lara

Brian Lara is the batting genius of the age, the third to appear sincethe Second World War. He has followed in the footsteps of GarrySobers and Graeme Pollock and has much in common with them, notleast a spirit that defies containment. Lara and his predecessorsemerged in precocious youth and unleashed upon a game thatseemed to course through their veins. Scintillating and sporting, theycompiled huge scores at pace and made it appear effortless. Theyplayed strokes and innings beyond the conception of the commonman. Off the field, they could not quite sustain their reputations.Admired for their cricketing feats, they have been unable to find thewords and deeds to command the same attention elsewhere. It is the fate of genius to be patronised, for it discovers not the wisdom ofthe ages but the glories of youth.

Lara has been the most frustrating of these extraordinary left-handers because something more than genius was needed from him.West Indian cricket yearned for a man of stature and found instead abatsman of brilliance. Unwilling to trust the passing of time, clingingto youth as if it contained his precious talent, the Trinidadian resistedhis maturity. No day, though, can be judged till night has fallen. Lararemains a wonderful batsman and talks more often these days andwith apparent sincerity about his desire to bring West Indian cricketback from the brink.

His batting remains formidable. At the ripe old age of 34, Laracontinues to dazzle and occasionally to crash. Awaken his spirit andhe will bat as few men have ever batted. He continues to play inningsthat demand the concentration and eyes of a younger man. In 1994,Lara broke the batting record at 24, and a decade later broke it again.

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Between times, he infuriated and delighted. Perhaps his mammotheffort in Antigua heralded the end of his personal journey and thestart of his emergence as a man. After all, he has nothing more toprove, as a batsman anyhow.

Lara’s career has been characterised by the contrasting forces ofcommitment and capriciousness. His inconsistency has mystifiedthose incapable of batting as he can, like a bird soaring through theskies. For an unconscionable time he was held back by a fitfulness thatdelayed the development of the man even as it periodically toleratedthe performance of the genius. Since his return from a retreat moreemotional than cricketing, the Trinidadian has belatedly started toaccept his responsibilities. On the way up, a man thinks only of him-self and his place in the rankings. Eventually, he looks around andrealises that there is more to life than runs on the board. Finally, Larais starting to think about his legacy.

Of course, he was not solely to blame for the unsatisfactory natureof his early years. His first misfortune is that he has played his cricketin the age of scrutiny, so that his lifestyle has been subjected tounsympathetic examination. Bradman’s idiosyncrasies were notmentioned. His country needed to establish itself and soften theblows of depression. Lara has played in a time of prurience and Puri-tanism.

Lara’s second stroke of bad luck lies in the mediocrity that hassurrounded him, indulging him because it depended upon his excep-tional abilities. West Indian cricket lacked the strength of purposerequired to absorb its prodigal son. Exquisite at the crease, Lara’stiming has let him down off the field.

Self-absorption is often detected in those blessed with exceptionaltalent. Lara craved the freedom of youth, wanted to follow his whimsas so many of the legends of Caribbean cricket had done before him.He had heard the stories. None of them were saints. In Lara the friv-olous existed alongside the brilliant, as a counterpoint to it. He wasa star, the only one in the West Indian firmament. Could he not actas he pleased?

During his wonderful innings in Antigua in 2004, Lara seemed tobe reaching beyond himself in an attempt to restore not merely hisreputation but the pride of West Indian cricket. Afterwards, hepointed out that the series had been lost 3/0. Naturally, he was

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determined to recapture the record, yet he seemed to set about thetask as much to lift his team as re-establish his supremacy.

Lara has always been capable of extraordinary feats. Not evenBradman could have batted better in a series than Lara did in SriLanka and against Australia in the Caribbean. Yet there has been afragility about him, a wilfulness that can produce magnificence uponthe field and foolishness off it. Whatever happens hereafter, Lara willgo into the books as one of the greatest batsmen the game hasknown. As far as epitaphs go, it is fine but insufficient. The restdepends upon the resolution of the internal conflict between theeternal child and the reluctant adult.

The greatest chaseBrian Lara’s unbeaten 153 against the Australians in Bridgetown in1999 is widely and justifiably regarded as the greatest chasing inningsthat Test cricket has known. Throughout this epic performance, theTrinidadian knew that he could not afford to make a single mistake.Throughout, the Australians fought for his wicket like mongrels overa bone, but Lara refused to oblige. Instead, he constructed a master-piece of batting that turned impending defeat into sudden and unexpected victory.

As ever, the innings is illuminated by its context. Before the seriesbegan, Lara had been as close to disgrace as any cricketer who has notoffended a steward at Lord’s. West Indies had lost heavily in SouthAfrica in 1999, hardly putting up a fight. There was worse to come,as his team was trounced by the Australians in the first match of thisseries. Lara appeared incapable of stopping the slide. At last heresponded by scoring 213 in Jamaica, an innings that caught theAustralians off guard and allowed the hosts to square the series. It wasthe start of an astonishing sequence of innings from Lara. His rangewas extraordinary, like an actor who plays drama, tragedy and comedyin successive performances and triumphs in them all.

Australia dominated the opening three days of the Third Test.Steve Waugh set the tone with a rugged 199 as Australia scored 490.West Indies subsided to 98/6 before the fightback began with a part-nership of 153 between Sherwin Campbell and Ridley Jacobs. Thenext day, West Indies continued its resurgence by bowling theAustralians out for 146, leaving the hosts needing 308 runs to secure

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an incredible victory. When three early wickets fell on the fourthnight, it seemed the cause was lost. Overnight Lara was 2 not out.

West Indies’ position continued to deteriorate on the finalmorning till the scoreboard read 5/105. Now Lara made his move,slipping through the gears, pressing hard upon the accelerator, takingthe corners as fast as he dared and hoping that colleagues couldsurvive in his slipstream. Jimmy Adams obliged, defending ob-durately for 170 minutes as the score mounted. Meanwhile, theground was filling as news spread that West Indies was putting up afight and that Lara was still batting.

Gradually the tension mounted and the noise rose as spectatorslived and died with every ball. West Indies suffered further setbacksand Curtly Ambrose arrived at the crease with 60 runs needed andonly two wickets remaining. Ambrose rose to the occasion, defend-ing doggedly for 82 minutes.

Meanwhile, Lara drove and swept and pulled and calculated, avibrant figure, a flashing blade and a ticking brain. Australia surgedagain, fighting to save the day. Lara edged and his head recoiled inrelief as the ball eluded Ian Healy’s gloves. Ambrose fell andCourtney Walsh appeared, a lanky, improbable figure and not at all areassuring sight for thousands of supporters, let alone an exhaustedcaptain needing a further seven runs for victory—so near and so veryfar! Somehow, Walsh kept out a searing inswinging yorker, the ballof the series, and then the Australians must have suspected the gamewas up. A wide followed, and a no-ball as the bowlers strained mindand muscle. Walsh endured, Lara took strike and smashed thewinning runs through cover. Only in this moment of victory did heshow any emotion, not that he had much choice as team-mateshugged him. As Wisden put it, he had ‘guided his team to victory asthough leading the infirm through a maze’.

Steve Waugh

Stephen Rodger Waugh starts his last match for his country as thegame’s most respected player. Wherever cricket is played, his nameevokes the image of a man refusing to give in, a man who will not beintimidated by any opponent or daunted by any situation. His deeds

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have been recorded in the books and Waugh has taken care that thefigures confirm his standing, because they alone walk unmolestedinto history. More important, though, have been the defiant inningssummoned at the critical hour and the bold interventions when amatch has hung in the balance. Only in these hard times can theAustralian captain be properly appreciated and he has needed themas his side has needed him. Waugh is released in a crisis, drawn fromhimself and his insecurities so that he becomes an extrovert, a match-player, an actor upon a stage. In a tight spot he becomes a betterperson and usually prevails. Captaincy has had the same effect uponhim, letting loose parts of his character that might otherwise haveremained dormant.

Waugh has seemed like a cricketing machine, coldly calculatingevery move, but it has been an illusion. Failure has only ever been amistake away. Cricket is not a game of bat and ball. It is an internalstruggle, a war waged between a man and himself. The opposition ismerely a convenience. Spectators have sensed Waugh’s vulnerabilityand have accompanied him on his journey. Former cricketers havebeen harder markers because they know the darkness to be foundnear the heart of every player and see it nakedly exposed in Waugh.Throughout his career, Waugh has been condemned and praised to adegree beyond reason and bewildering to outsiders. Throughout hiscareer, he has been fighting the white-anters who have been nibblingat him since he first appeared as another golden boy from Sydney.

But, then, Waugh has been a cricketer of paradox. Far more thanhis manner suggests, he has been guided by his spirit. Although hegives the impression that ice flows through his veins, his career tellsa different tale. Repeatedly, he has started badly and prospered onlyonce the nerves have settled. He has not been a Botham joviallystorming the barricades, but a shy, gifted young man overcomingobstacles. Waugh has never stopped fighting, for runs, wickets andcredibility. He has never trusted the game enough to lower his guard.At once he has been the warrior walking into the furnace and the waiftaking guard amid a mass of hostile mankind. At once he appearsimpregnable and fragile.

Of course, Waugh’s background and early experiences have influ-enced the shaping of his character. Like so many young Australiancricketers, Waugh began in a backyard, hitting a ball dangling from

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string or else engaged in cutthroat contests with his brothers. Atheart he has remained a backyard cricketer obliged by the times andan emerging worldliness to make concessions to correct conduct.When people think of Waugh, they forget about the family: the hard-talking, fiercely competitive parents, the twin brother whosevagueness has been a quiet protest, another brother known for hisbatting, smoking and impersonations and a fourth whose cannyspinners helped secure a first-grade title last year. Steve Waugh is theproduct of a remarkable family whose strengths he expressed andwhose boundaries he expanded. Of course, the same could be said ofhis contribution to Australian cricket.

Waugh has been an astonishing cricketer whose teams win most oftheir matches. From schooldays onwards, he was committed to thegame, and dedicated his entire character to succeeding within itsconfines. In many respects, his life has been typical in that youthfuldrive has been slowly supplanted by maturity’s widening as thevarious attractions of the world came into view. Waugh has beendifferent only in the intensity of his focus. In adulthood he hasmanaged to be both single-minded and broad-minded.

Not until the captaincy of Australian cricket was entrusted to himdid Waugh finally let himself loose, whereupon he emerged as anindependent and radical thinker able to penetrate to the core of thegame in search of its essential truths. Waugh’s captaincy has not beengiven its just desserts, not least by the cricketing crowd. Indeed, therehas been a curious reluctance to praise his performance as a leader.But the facts speak for themselves. He has been the most successfulTest captain in the history of the game. Moreover, his team hasscored its runs faster than any predecessor. Waugh challengedorthodox thinking by regularly forcing opponents to bat first and byallowing players to relax both before and during matches. Attackingfields were set in one-day cricket, the green cap was worn on the firstmorning of matches and bowlers held aloft the ball upon taking fivewickets in an innings.

Nor has it merely been a matter of cricket. Waugh has welcomedfamilies, so that team hotels resemble creches. His teams have touredwith an open mind, and trips to India have been regarded not asburdens to be endured but as opportunities to play in front of wildlyappreciative crowds. All this from a backyard in Bankstown.

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Most particularly, Waugh has been able to identify and unleashthe cricket in previously unsung competitors like Matthew Hayden,Justin Langer and Andrew Bichel. It is easily forgotten thatHayden, especially, owes his career to the faith shown by a captaincapable of detecting strong points in a player otherwise regarded asordinary.

Waugh has made another contribution that has been neglected,though he mentioned it at his press conference announcing his retire-ment and is clearly proud of it. He played a strong role in the disputethat arose between the Australian Cricket Board (ACB) and theplayers at the turn of the century. Of course, he was condemned asselfish and stirring. Documents were leaked showing how much hestood to gain, an old trick played by most dismal employers. In fact,Waugh risked losing sponsorship, popularity and the captaincy, andpursued the claim because he could and the cause was right. Alwayshis outlook has been the same. If not me, whom? If not now, when?

Waugh goes into retirement as a happily married and wealthy manwith an outstanding record as player and captain and with a charac-ter stubborn with flaws and blessed with strong points. His career incricket is almost over, but he has a lot more to contribute. Waugh hasdone his bit by the boy in the backyard and is now the master of hisown destiny.

Waugh at Old TraffordSteve Waugh’s century upon a demanding Old Trafford pitch in1997 must count among the finest of his career. Certainly, it was hisbest effort in English conditions. He had to fight for it, every inch ofthe way, because this was not the old profligate, distracted, disheart-ened England but a host nation focused upon its task and confidentof its accomplishment. At times it seemed the pie-chuckers werethrowing grenades.

This was an innings embracing all of Waugh’s familiar traits: stub-bornness, defiance, chiselled defence, drives punched down theground without fuss or apparent effort, a scurrying between wicketsand an occasional flamboyance outside off-stump with ears pinnedback in the way of his more dramatic youth.

It was a pinched, capable innings, a Victorian innings entirelywithout the colour of the Georgian age or the showmanship of current

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times. In other words, it was Waugh at his absolute peak, a discrimi-nating appearance against which opponents hurl themselves with allthe lowly expectation of a spaniel barking at a Rottweiler.

Waugh’s innings could not have been more timely. Had he failed,Australia might have fallen with him, putting the Ashes upon Englishplates. Wickets had tumbled again as the home bowlers put to enthu-siastic use a pitch livelier than had seemed likely. Throughout, Englandbowled with movement and hostility and only a remarkable batsmancould have stood firm against this onslaught. Only a batsman of theutmost accomplishment and formidable mental powers could haveprotected his wicket so long with his team in such dire straits.

Somehow it seemed inevitable that Waugh would score runs. Hehad been having a quiet time, a circumstance for which he does notgreatly care, besides which Australia needed him, a call that rings loudin his ears.

It’s hard to recall an appeal or a moment of serious inconven-ience during those long hours of occupation. His technique wasadmirable. From first to last, he moved into line and drove the ballwith the full face of the blade. Colleagues are more inclined tostretch forward or to angle their bats, an approach that mightsucceed upon a hard pitch but is powerless on such a testing surfaceas Old Trafford provided.

Long before Waugh’s innings was completed, England must havebeen thoroughly fed up with the sight of that wide and unyielding batand an opponent that gave away nothing, not even a hint of concernor fallibility. Why wouldn’t the blessed fellow lose his head just for amoment? Why couldn’t England shake his concentration? The Ashesdepended upon it. And there’s the answer.

Seldom have Waugh’s powers been so starkly in evidence. Heappears to anticipate every ball as he walks to the crease, so that hecan seem a robotic cricketer whose movements are tuned and trained.Nothing is left to chance, nothing is taken for granted. It seems astraightforward matter, but no one else can do it because no one elsehas such absolute control over his emotions or such a meticulouslymatured game. Waugh is a master craftsman with the mind of aruthless killer. He scorns indulgence, scorns excess, refuses to strayfrom his own game. He sings his lines, does the job and leaves thestage the better for his withering presence.

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England hurled itself at this steadfast figure and repeatedly waspushed back. The bowlers searched for a crack and could find not themerest hint. Waugh was a sphinx-like batsman, a wraith with a bat,moving relentlessly behind the ball, stifling the good ones andpouncing upon anything erratic.

Unerringly, he moved to 50 and, in the twilight of another chillyafternoon, he scored another hundred, pocketing the runs in themanner of a materialist putting dollars into his wallet against a rainyday that will not come.

And so the performance continued, Waugh against himself,Waugh against the bowlers, Waugh upon England. The scoreboardrecorded the gradual victory of the great resister. As he has done sooften, Waugh gave heart to his colleagues, renewed hope in a causethat had hung in the balance.

Glenn McGrath

Glenn McGrath looks like a monk, periodically behaves like anenraged chook and bowls like a Swiss clock. His idea of entertain-ment is to reduce the wild pig population pottering around outsideNarromine, NSW. His bumper is lame, he sends down a yorker aboutonce a week and cannot swing the ball in either direction. He has notscared anyone since his last Christmas pantomime. He is so slow thathe reckons the measuring machines are crook. He cannot bat andfields as far from the action as possible. Keith Miller he is not. Oh,yes, and he is about to play his 100th Test match.

On paper he is a basket case. On the field he is the best pacebowler of his generation, among the finest to appear since the SecondWorld War. Ask any modern batsman to name the bowlers he leastlikes facing and chances are that McGrath will be mentioned early inproceedings. Some bowlers can strike terror in the heart. Others candazzle. This blighter just gets you out cheaply.

Of course, he has had a few things going for him, not least longlimbs that allow him to make his deliveries jump like surprised cats. His wristwork, too, was outstanding even in those distant dayswhen he was more concerned about opening cans of Spam and knocking the heads off batsmen than removing the off-bail, the

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days before he realised that he had been blessed with skill and notbrute force.

In many respects, he is the most improbable of fast bowlers, themost unlikely of champions. Everyone could appreciate Dennis Lilleewith his moustache, scowl and thunderbolts. Jeff Thomson, MalcolmMarshall, Wasim Akram and the rest had something special evidentto the naked eye. Beside them McGrath is a medium-pacer. But theeyes deceive and the figures tell the tale. He belongs in their companyand is among the best of them. Lillee did not trouble the Pakistanibatsmen in 1979. Craig McDermott perished in the graveyard thatwas India in 1986. McGrath averages 16 on the subcontinent and 22 overall in this age of batting.

In truth he is a creation not of the body, or even the spirit, but themind. His greatest asset has been that, from the start, he understoodthat his strength lay not in the extent of his abilities but in theirprecise application. Nature prevented him bowling fast. Try as hemight, he could not get the ball down to the other end at the speedrequired to make batsmen hop around. And he did try. Pace bowlersresemble gunslingers. They like to create fear in the neighbourhood.

But the facts had to be faced. McGrath went further, turning themto his advantage. As a result, he has not needed to change his gameas he has aged. If anything, he has been a yard faster since comingback from the ankle injury that had prevented him flowing throughat the crease. In the old days, he would look at the results of the speedgun and shake his head in that puzzled way that also appears when aball somehow manages to elude his defensive bat. Now he smiles as135 km/h is flashed on the screen. Not that it is exactly electrifying.Nor is it the speed of a man on his way out. McGrath has not lost ayard of pace as time takes its toll. He did not have it in the first place.

Denied the ability to bowl fast, McGrath concentrated on master-ing his craft. He became the most subtle and sophisticated of bowlers.Considering his origins and temperament, it is a remarkable achieve-ment. It is the quality he has in common with Shane Warne, a brightspark who also grasped the need to study his calling.

McGrath is an acquired taste. Every ball needs to be seen in itscontext. Whereas the excitement of seeing Shoaib Akhtar in full flightcomes from the raw energy released, the New South Welshman offersthe pleasure to be gained from following a plan from conception to

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execution. He depends upon the careful, considered destruction ofthe cornered opponent. He is ruthless and unrelenting. He might notintimidate batsmen, but he takes their most precious possession: theirwicket. Often they do not quite know how.

Not so long ago, Michael Atherton, his most regular victim, inter-viewed McGrath and asked almost pleadingly whether his nemesishad developed some cunning plan especially for him. McGrathreplied that he had simply put the ball on the spot and kept it there.But it is not as easy as he made it sound, or the entire world could doit. After all, the spot is the size of a saucer and the ball must movearound unpredictably, bounce steeply and defy those trying to adjusttheir stroke at the last instant, the technique upon which the English-man depended. Michael Vaughan had a better idea. Stop trying tokeep him out. Start counter-attacking, particularly with the pullstroke, a strategy designed to force McGrath to change his game. Noone has played him better.

Clearly, McGrath is much more than a medium-pacer capable ofkeeping a line and length. His deliveries do not move around atrandom. Nothing is left to chance. It is not a question of hit the seamand hope. He makes the ball respond to his desires by ripping hisfingers across the stitches. It is a devilishly hard skill to execute once,let alone every ball, in both directions and at a lively pace. That is whyno one else has been able to do it. McGrath’s whole has always beengreater than his parts.

He has been the most consistent of pace bowlers. WheneverAustralia has been in trouble, the captain could throw him the ball,confident that it was in good hands. He has matched himself againstthe best batsmen around and usually has prevailed. If the method hasnot been spectacular, it has been effective. He has been, and remains,a professional attending to his duties. He takes wickets economically,leads the attack responsibly, regularly separates the openers and oftendismisses the opposition’s most dangerous player. It is not a badcombination.

If a statement of excellence is needed, then it came in the space ofthree balls during the Perth Test against West Indies in 2000. First,McGrath exploited Sherwin Campbell’s habit of shuffling across hiscrease with an outswinger pitched to a fuller length than usual. BrianLara appeared. McGrath adjusted his line, slightly reduced his length

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and cut the ball across the left-hander. Lara disappeared. JimmyAdams came next. It must have been tempting to try the same ball.After all, he was on a hat trick and it had been good enough for Lara.But Adams was a different case. McGrath knew that he squared upagainst lifting deliveries directed at his body. Pinpoint precision wasneeded. The deed was done.

McGrath’s hat trick was a statement of greatness. Every ball wassuperbly conceived and executed. It was a definitive moment, a satis-fying and conclusive demonstration of the abilities that have set himapart and brought him to this happy station in life. In Nagpur on 26 October 2004, McGrath had the honour of becoming the firstpace bowler to represent Australia in 100 Test matches. It is no morethan he deserves.

Glenn McGrath’s catchGlenn McGrath’s catch on 24 November 2002 pinpointed thecontinuing strength of this Australian outfit. England’s fifth-wicketpair had been mounting the sort of defiance expected from deter-mined men with their backs to the wall. After taking an early wicket,Steve Waugh’s team had been frustrated for 100 minutes as theclouds grew more threatening. Shane Warne had been bowlingaround the wicket to Michael Vaughan, a mark of respect for anaccomplished opponent. Clearly, the leg-spinner remembered thepunishment he had taken from this batsman in the first innings andwanted to hold him in check.

After an hour or so of stalemate, Warne went over the wicket andthe Yorkshireman seized his chance with a sweep placed into theregion forward of square. Hitherto, McGrath had been patrolling the region behind the umpire, a tranquil location where a man mightgraze without fear of interruption. Had the lofty paceman fallenasleep, he might have been forgiven. Had he missed this call to arms,even harsher critics would have understood. Instead, McGrath imme-diately sensed a chance and set off at a gallop. Hereabouts he wentinto a reverie from which he was not to emerge for several seconds.Meanwhile, time stood still in the stands as the parabola of the ballwas followed as if it were a shell. Warne stood in position, his earlyhopes fading as the distance between ball and pursuer and theidentity of the fieldsman became apparent.

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McGrath was not so easily discouraged. Upon reflection it is hardto recall him grassing a catch, but he still gets lumbered with theimage of the butter-fingered paceman with big boots. Certainly the pessimists were predominant as the fateful moment approached.Long odds were being offered against the ball being reached, letalone held. Then came a blur, a dive, a long man reaching out to graba ball an inch from the turf, a landing, a slide and then astonishmentin the stands and delight on the ground. McGrath rose, grinned anddusted himself off with the air of a man offended that his prospectshad been doubted.

Sachin Tendulkar

For fifteen of his 30 years, Sachin Tendulkar has lived with theworship of a cricket-mad public that wants him to be infallible,ruthless and destructive, supporters inclined to forget that heemerged from a womb and not from the pages of a comic book.

Fame fell upon Tendulkar at an age when most boys are eyeing upthe girls, or smoking behind a shed. As a teenager, he carted theAustralians all around in Sydney and Perth in displays that told ofmaturity and fighting spirit. Responsibility put its hand upon himbefore he had time to breathe and there has been no escape from itsexamination. Tendulkar did not have adolescence; he had a cricketmatch.

Incredibly, he has survived the pitfalls of this perilous existence toemerge as a family man with a stable life and a couple of children. Heis a more remarkable man than has been acknowledged. In manyrespects, Tendulkar has taught the next generation how to managethe scrutiny and opportunities experienced by those whose gifts takethem at a tender age into the world of luxury. Many students of thegame analyse his footwork, range of shots and the way his bat appearsas broad as an elephant’s tongue. His attitude to life also meritsconsideration.

During the course of those fifteen years, Sachin Tendulkar hasbecome and remained the outstanding sportsman of the age. Hiscontribution to his country’s cricket has been immense. Moreover, herepresents the new India—comfortable, free from the anger that

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burned inside the post-colonial generations. His quiet manner tells ofan affluent age and his confident blend of East and West speaks of anation taking its place in the world and insisting that its voice beheard. No one any longer thinks of India as a land of squalor andcurious customs. Rather, it is accepted as a distinctive member of anever-changing scene.

Whether he is aware of it or not, Tendulkar has played his part inthis change of perception. He is cosmopolitan, has no hint of rage,does not speak of politics or regard the British as saviours or devils.He has made a lot of money and does not hide or flaunt it, prefer-ring to concentrate on his cricket and to lead a settled life.

Of course, his brilliance on the field has also been important. Curi-ously, there has been a reluctance to acknowledge his contribution inhis home country, possibly because even more has been expected.Sometimes it seems everyone wants Tendulkar to be like them, areversal of the usual role of the hero who has generally been the expres-sion of our aspirations. Since no one quite knows what Tendulkar is—probably because he is simpler than we are prepared to allow—everyone seeks to put their own imprint upon him. When he fails torespond as expected, he is chastised. It is a game he cannot win.

Accordingly, frustration sits beside admiration in India’s assess-ment of its greatest batsman. Although his mastery is conceded, hisstature is questioned. Not that his batting could easily becondemned. After all, he has proven his worth often enough, withboyhood centuries in Australia in 1992 and, more than a decadelater, an assault on the Pakistani bowling in Pretoria during the 2003World Cup that counts among the most thrilling seen on a cricketfield. He has scored almost 70 international hundreds for his countryand played his part in building the strongest side India has everfielded, a side capable of reaching a World Cup Final, holding theAustralians on their own patch and beating them at home. Fromanyone else it might be considered enough. From Tendulkar evenmore is demanded. It is hardly fair. He is only human. At last his bodyis breaking. It is astonishing that his spirit did not yield long ago.

If it is needed, the case for the defence of Tendulkar can easily beframed. Apart from anything else, he has contributed more to theteam than mere facts and figures. The Indians used to be poor trav-ellers. Not so long ago, they won on dustbowls in Delhi and were

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trounced everywhere else. Now the side is cosmopolitan andrespected wherever it plays, and it has all happened in Tendulkar’stime. Does anyone suppose it is the merest coincidence?

Nevertheless, a tendency has arisen in India to find fault with theirleading batsman. Unfavourable comparisons have been made withthe giants of the past, whose careers were seen through rose-colouredglasses. Sometimes it frustrates the observers that there is no fury inhim, none of the suppressed rage that drove Sunil Gavaskar along,none of the fire that blazed inside Sir Vivian Richards. Sometimes thepast is seen in an undeserved glow. People are inclined to forget thatRichards and Gavaskar also had their failings and their bad days.Tendulkar can compete with most things, but no man or womanborn can match an illusion.

Tendulkar has been blamed for failing to win matches for his teamand it is true, he does not build himself for the special occasion. VivRichards might stroll out at Lord’s like an African potentate;Tendulkar walks out determined to do his best to help his team. Andhe does not distinguish between minor matches and great occasions.Might it not be a point in his favour? Perhaps he does lack the arro-gance of great performers, but his restraint has allowed others togrow not so much in his shadow as by his side. Is it not possible thatRahul Dravid, Venkati Laxman, Virender Sehwag and SouravGanguly are in his debt? Have they not said as much?

Rather than decry the champion, it is worth remembering that hehas been the first batsman since Don Bradman to reduce an opposingteam to the tactic of directing their deliveries a yard outside leg-stump. India has been lucky to find such a sportsman. His stamina hasbeen extraordinary, and his love of the game has allowed him toavoid many complications. Had Tendulkar fallen foul of the crooks,India could hardly have recovered. Had Tendulkar become greedy orangry or political or selfish, the game could not have flourished halfas well. His career tells a tale of balance and determination, strengthsthat have helped a simple man to survive outrageous expectations.

Sachin Tendulkar’s double-century in SydneySachin Tendulkar’s performance in Sydney in 2004 counts amongthe finest in his career. Arriving at the crease after the Indian openershad given the innings another solid start, the man from Mumbai

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built a wall around his wicket with a conviction that must haveimpressed the home captain. Batting with the utmost discipline andto a clear plan, Tendulkar collected runs carefully, denying thebowlers hope and putting his team in a powerful position. Over theyears, he has played by instinct, attacking with a gusto that filledstands and scared bowlers. Now he had decided to play withinhimself, the better to sustain his innings and serve his team.

Several breakthroughs were made during the course of thiscompelling effort. Never again can Indian supporters claim thatTendulkar does not score runs when his country needs them. Ofcourse, it was all nonsense anyhow. Great players are remembered fortheir failures, ordinary men for their triumphs. An open-mindedscrutiny of the facts reveals that Tendulkar has contributed hundredsin most of India’s victories in Test cricket.

Never again can it be said that Sachin does not play long innings.Previously, he had been inclined to lose his wicket after three figureshad been reached, an indication that the younger Tendulkar allowedhimself to become distracted once the main part of the job had beencompleted. Ricky Ponting was the same till he married a lawyer. HereTendulkar took a fresh guard upon reaching his hundred and simplycontinued gathering runs. Not until India was powerfully placed wasthe old Sachin let loose, whereupon he commenced thrashing amediocre and exhausted Australian attack.

Tendulkar will score more double-centuries in the next five yearsthan in the previous decade. Big totals demand an acquisitive state ofmind. Hitherto he has been an adventurer, a yacht responding to thewind. Now there is a certain majesty about him, so that he resemblesan ocean liner making its way through the seas. He has accepted thatbrilliance must sooner or later give ground to middle-aged consider-ations. As the years go by, the eyes lose their sparkle, the feet nolonger dance and the mind loses its sense of immortality. Then a manmust fall back upon technique and the lessons learnt in the middle.

Sachin’s innings was founded upon a rejection of risk. Realisingthat he had been playing shots away from his body, he eliminated thecover drive and invited the Australians to attack his stumps, where-upon he was able to collect off his pads. His opponents were takenaback by this self-denial because they had been depending uponTendulkar’s determination to dominate. Indeed, the Aussies had

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preyed upon this admirable quality by pinning him down and thenoffering something tempting outside off-stump. Convinced that hispatience must eventually let him down, the Australians plugged away,but Tendulkar was not for turning.

During the course of this effort, Tendulkar did not score a singleboundary between bowler and point. Only towards the end wereshots in that direction even attempted. Nor did he pull or hook the faster bowlers till quick runs were needed. In short, he played thegame on his terms, whereupon the beauty and mastery of his defencewas revealed.

Tendulkar batted with a clear mind throughout. His innings indi-cated maturity and longevity. A different Tendulkar was seen at theSCG, the very field upon which the younger version first drew atten-tion to himself with an audacious attack upon a flummoxedAustralian attack that included a novice by the name of Warne. Inrecent times, Tendulkar has seemed to be torn between recoveringthe spirit of that innings and allowing himself to develop a game thatrecognises the passing of time and the changes in his life and respon-sibilities. His contribution in Sydney suggested that the decision hadbeen taken and that hereafter Sachin would be robust rather thandazzling.

No regrets need be held about this change of style. Tendulkarmust be allowed to grow. Nothing is harder for a sportsman than todevelop as a person, because they are taken away from reality at anearly age and put inside a bubble in which time and the price ofbread mean nothing. Tendulkar has survived. Watching him bat maynot be as exciting, but it will be satisfying.

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3

Soaringsubcontinentals

Few could step down the pitch to Warne. Few could late-cutMcGrath. Few could bat so long in such a commanding style . . .

The Australians shook Laxman’s hand. It had taken an incredibleinnings to bring their run to an end.

A fter decades of neglect, Australia has in recent years under-taken numerous trips to the subcontinent and experiencedmany outstanding series. After a faltering start partly caused

by unfamiliarity with the terrain, the Australians finally managed towin a series in India in 2004. Previously, the side had been beatenfair and square in 1998 and had narrowly lost a three-match epic in 2001, widely regarded as the most compelling in the history ofthe game.

In the past, Australian cricketers had been reluctant to visit theregion because of the hardships encountered therein. Vast crowds,adulation and the opportunity to play in challenging conditions wereregarded as insufficient consolation for the dust, rats and queasystomachs that were also part of the bargain. Sometimes dodgyumpires were added to the pot, though Australia was hardly in aposition to complain about that. As a result, most Australian playersand officials regarded the subcontinent as a place to be avoided. Notthat everyone took the party line. Greg Chappell counts among hisregrets that he did not get the chance to play Test cricket in India.

Not that conditions were the only barrier to entry. Australianswere inclined to judge everything by their own lights. Foreigners

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were dismissed by caricature, and different approaches to life andcricket were rejected. Nor were the Australians alone in their reluc-tance to visit the area. England dropped into its former colony aboutonce a decade. But, then, the English were not as well liked as theAustralians, owing to their notorious snootiness. MakeshiftAustralian sides had toured India in the 1930s and their easy mixingand generally egalitarian approach had proved popular.

Still, the subcontinent was, until the last few years, regarded asthe worst trip in the program, an outlook sustained by numerouscolourful tales that remained entrenched till Allan Border and MarkTaylor looked afresh and found not wretchedness but a lively andancient culture and a nation agog for the game. Ever since, theAustralians and their supporters have looked forward to theirmeetings with India, not least because these opponents have put upa better fight than anyone else, a turn of events that further alteredthe antipodean view.

Contact has become so strong that hundreds of Australian support-ers accompanied their side on the successful foray to the region in thesouthern spring of 2004. Superb hotels and improved transport havehelped to convince ageing sceptics about the merits of undertaking thetrip. Of course, the young did not need as much persuasion. Theywatched the matches on television, listened to descriptions on the radio,saw the brilliance of the play, heard the noise, sensed the atmosphere andmade up their own minds. No upset stomachs were encountered in2004. India has changed. Australia has changed. Nations once far aparthave reached an understanding.

Of course, it helped that the cricket was inspired in these series.Contests between these countries took on an epic quality andbrought to the Australian game a sense of emotion and drama absentfrom recent Ashes series. Along the way, cricket followers becamefamiliar with the leading players from the area and started to appre-ciate their characters and styles of play.

Virender Sehwag introduced himself as a buccaneer defying thescientific age to cut a swathe through opposing bowlers. RahulDravid emerged as a serious, tough and superb batsman upon whosegame opponents bashed away with all the impact of a wave upon arock. Nor was respect reserved for the Indians. Pakistani Inzamam-Ul-Haq’s sleepy exterior hid a batsman of resilience and skill. Kumar

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Sangakkara’s smile camouflaged a fighter and a patriot determined tocompete with the mightiest of opposing forces.

Yet it was the welcome given to Sachin Tendulkar, the greatest ofall subcontinental batsmen, in Sydney in 2004 that gave the strongestindication of the newfound respect between cricket’s most powerfulcountries. Tendulkar had been out of form and his performances haddisappointed an audience that remembered his feats as a teenager andwas eager to see something special from him. Despite his recentfailures, he was clapped all the way to the crease. Several days later,he was applauded again as he returned to the pavilion with 200 runsto his name.

Twelve hours in India

So it begins. New Zealand and England set the ball rolling upon the1996 World Cup tomorrow in Ahmedabad, up a bit from Bombayand a little to the right. Computers are predicting a win for England(264) by 88 runs, with Graeme Hick scoring 87 and Chris Cairnsgoing for plenty.

But the Kiwis appear more relaxed.Already, it has been an adventure. As far as Mumbai—as Bombay

is nowadays called—the journey was simple and not without distinc-tion. Sir Richard Hadlee was on the plane, travelling in economy, anddescribed Nathan Astle and Craig Spearman, the Kiwis’ new openingpair, as dashers. ‘We’ll be 0/90 in fourteen overs or 2/10,’ he said.It’ll be a cracking cup if even the Kiwis are going for their shots.

Getting to Ahmedabad wasn’t quite so easy. Mumbai Airport at1.30 a.m. is not the place to discover that your agent has omitted tomake any further bookings. Moreover, the flights due to leave atdawn and dusk were full. Nothing could be begged, stolen or borrowed. Stranded. Someone suggests a tourist car, as opposedto the battered vehicles used by locals, but the cost was enough tobring the Fairfax empire to its knees.

Nor could anyone be raised at the train station.Only one shot remained: going to Mumbai Central and taking pot

luck. The driver charged 950 rupees for the journey. Only 725 toomany, according to informed sources. It was 4 a.m. and the station

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was hushed as hundreds of poor people slept under blankets on thehard floor. Others huddled, some thinking of food, some of a sting.A dubious-looking tout said a train was leaving at 6.25 and offeredto buy the ticket—800 rupees for the voucher and 300 for hisservices. Perhaps he had to bribe someone. At 5 a.m. he returned,presented the ticket and scarpered. He had spent 390 rupees buyinga second-class seat, and had pocketed the rest.

By now the station was awake, a policeman prodding sleepers withhis stick and saying, ‘Catch a train or go.’ An entourage had formedaround me, an adviser to impart his wisdom on matters of finance (hewas a bit late), a shivering man to take care of the bags and a dumbboy from somewhere. They all lived at the station, made their livingthere, they were helpful and overwhelmed by their $3 tip.

And so, at 6.25, the Ahmedabad Express departed ‘almost non-stop’, my assistants had reported. Most Indian trains regard heartattacks as the inevitable result of exceeding 60 kilometres per hour.Express trains are prepared to rise to 120 kilometres per hour. Ourjourney north took seven hours.

And it was quite a journey. Our carriage was packed, but the seatsreclined and the company was more convivial than that encounteredby Malcolm Gray in Calcutta—no screaming, no tantrums, noposturing—simply the world’s first and third, getting along fine.People asked about Australia and about David Boon, a hero here-abouts. They said their country had strong families, a rich culture andlots of corruption.

Meanwhile, waiters brought water, newspapers, patties, tea, sweetsand little packets of savouries, all free. Only the ‘rest room’ raised aneyebrow. The facilities were not of a type likely to appeal to the genialinhabitants of Killara or Carlton.

Not much was seen of the scenery as the train tootled along, sincethe windows were somewhat encrusted. Passengers slept, talked orread newspapers. Finally, the train trundled into Ahmedabad, anotherteeming city with lots of bustle and occasionally an oasis of calm.

The New Zealand and England teams had already been welcomed,greeted by thousands of supporters. According to the Times of India,‘the players were amused at the way girls lined up for welcoming them’.

It was 1.30 p.m. Curious eyes were everywhere. Who is he? A player? Ahmedabad’s cricket ground is the most volatile in India.

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Spectators regularly throw chairs at umpires, officials, policemen andeven journalists. But all was friendly so far.

At our hotel, someone asks: ‘Do you know Tony Greig?’ As if thiswere not enough, someone else asks: ‘Do you play for NewZealand?’, but everyone is smiling. Everyone has been smiling fromthe start, even the hustlers (especially the hustlers).

Twelve hours in India. The World Cup has begun.

Anil Kumble down under

As far as Australians are concerned, Anil Kumble gave his mostconvincing performance on his country’s 2003–04 tour down under.Of course, cricket followers everywhere were familiar with his impres-sive haul of wickets. Everyone had also heard about the boy fromBangalore’s achievement in taking all ten wickets in a single Testinnings. Batsmen all over the world had spoken about the difficultyof facing him on a breaking surface. As much had been documentedby a thousand reporters, recorded by a hundred historians. ButAustralians wanted more and on that famous tour, Kumble gave it tothem. Most particularly, the Australians were looking for evidence ofthe qualities required before the word ‘great’ can legitimately beattached to any performer. It is not enough to rout a team on adustbowl in Delhi. Nor is it quite enough to take hundreds of wicketsin the best company.

Australians had long since accepted that Kumble was a magnificentbowler in his own country. After all, his record speaks for itself. Heis peculiarly suited to subcontinental surfaces upon which bounce ismore important than side-spin. In India a man must beat hisopponent either through the air or surprise him off the pitch. Kumblecan make the ball leap or skid and turn a few degrees in either direc-tion. Slow pitches do not restrict him, because somehow hepersuades the ball to spring to life after landing on the doziest ofdecks. In truth, he is a conjurer in the guise of a clerk.

Proof is required that the sportsman is a man apart, a player whoregularly displays the traits that provoke admiration among beggarsand professors alike. Bowlers of the highest class must be dangerouson pitches lush and bare. Kumble had not been effective on hard

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antipodean surfaces and it was held against him by critics morewilling to forgive Shane Warne his failures hereabouts. Accordingly,reservations were held about Kumble’s standing in the game amongever-sceptical Australians. Indeed, some were surprised that the supposedly ageing spinner had been included in the touringparty. John Wright, India’s coach, explained that his bowling wasonly part of it. India needed Kumble the man. It was then thatAustralians started listening.

Kumble performed magnificently in Australia and played a bigpart in holding the touring party together. At first he seemed to bewheeling away in familiar style. Closer inspection revealed a greaterwillingness to change his pace. In Sydney, Damien Martyn wasmemorably fooled into tapping back a gentle return catch, the sortof dismissal that had seemed to be beyond Kumble’s range. Othersfailed to read the googly and left in a state of confusion.

Altogether, Kumble took 24 wickets in the series, but it took morethan that to convince the Australians. More relevant was his absoluterefusal to give up or to complain about his bad luck. Often Kumblewas roughly handled at the start of an innings and found himselfnursing figures that might have wounded a lesser man. If he waseven disheartened, he did not show it. On the contrary, he’d strideto the bowling crease for another over, flicking the ball, licking hislips, plotting his revenge. Nor did he ever go on the defensive. Defeatwas not in his vocabulary.

Kumble’s reward came with a telling contribution as India wonthe Adelaide Test. Had more chances been accepted off his bowling,Kumble might have also bowled his team to victory in the decider inSydney. Alas, stumpings were missed and catches dropped and Indiahad to settle for the most honourable of draws.

If a single moment is required to illustrate Kumble’s stature, itcame as another Australian batsman left his crease at the SCG. He wasbeaten all ends up. Kumble’s hopes rose as the ball reached his youngkeeper, only to be shattered as the novice dropped the ball. Alreadythe spinner had been working away for hours in tough conditions.Had he raged, he could hardly have been blamed. Instead, he cutshort his celebration as the horrible truth was revealed, allowedhimself a silent curse and walked back to his mark to try again.Between overs, he patted the crestfallen youngster on the back and

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told him to forget about it. Nowadays the Australians can be includedamong his greatest admirers.

Mohammad Azharuddin before the fall

Poor Azharuddin! Imagine it: captain of all India at 27, successor tomaharajahs and nawabs. Pretty good for a Muslim boy of humbleorigins. It was a significant promotion for a fellow upon whose browscarcely a furrow had appeared in his days of dhal and lassi, a periodwhich ended on the morning of 26 July 1990.

Lord’s was a picture and Mr Hunt had prepared a pitch as flat asany in Calcutta. A Bengali sun was beating down, as it had done forweeks, so that gardens were being watered from washing-up bowls.And from the blazing rays seemed to come the message, ‘Bat! Forgoodness sake win the toss and bat!’

But what was this? Wily old pros circled around their new skipperlike hags around the cauldron, detecting doom in every blade ofgrass, danger in every passing cloud. ‘Put ’em in, put ’em in,’ theywailed. Azharuddin sighed and smiled and hoped to lose the toss asthe grizzled Graham Gooch shambled out by his side. Alas, he calledcorrectly and asked England to bat. Gooch peered at him, as iftemporarily deaf, and then pottered off, puzzled.

Now Azharuddin stood midway between heroism and villainy. Hehoped that Kapil Dev’s first ball would swing a foot to clip the off-bail. It did not. So effective in the Caribbean, this hurricane fromHaryana was but a squall. His partner, Manoj Prabhakar, also underthe microscope, was scarcely a threat either.

Perhaps it would spin. Ravi Shastri who, despite his film-star looks,bachelor ways and big hitting, is regularly booed at home, could findno purchase. Even Narendra Hirwani, so splendidly inept in twodepartments, could not cast a spell. It did not bode well.

Gooch moved relentlessly onwards, batting with terrible ease.Now Azharuddin was alone. Support melted away. Gavaskar said hewas flummoxed, and the ever-contentious Bishen Bedi shook histurban sorrowfully. Dozens of Indian reporters lamented this error ofjudgement. Azharuddin was carrying the can, as captains must. Aftertwo days in the field, it was a heavy load. England declared at 4/653.

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Could India fight back? Against the West Indies in 1988–89, theirbatting—Sanjay Manjrekar and sometimes Ravi Shastri apart—hadlacked resolution, so much so that the captain, Dilip Vengsarkar, accusedhis men of cowardice. A private tour to America had been arranged andsupporters said the players were thinking about that. Nothing is everstraightforward in Indian cricket. After two days of wear and tear, MrHunt’s pitch was starting to look its age, so that Devon Malcolm, ChrisLewis and the excellent Angus Fraser were a handful.

Navjot Sidhu and Manjrekar departed, and upon reaching avigorous century, Shastri lifted a catch to mid-on. At 3/191,Azharuddin joined his senior batsman, Vengsarkar. What followedwas one of cricket’s most captivating innings. Pride and grace, theysay, ne’er dwelt in one place, yet Azharuddin, playing an opulentrange of shots, managed both.

Asked if he could see the seam when the ball was on its way,Wilfred Rhodes once replied, ‘Ah, but you should have seen Ranji.He could see t’stitches.’ So it was with Azharuddin, as he cut andflicked, wrist and rubbery arm sending the ball scurrying towards itsdestination. Every stroke flowed through his body as if he were asinuous dancer responding to a beat.

Bent upon counter-attack, he combined delicacy with panache ashe scored his hundred in 87 balls, one of the fastest in Test cricket,though Vivian Richards once needed just 56 in Antigua, and JackGregory, years ago, only needed 67.

But was this the stuff of Test cricket? Was this innings great ofconception? Azharuddin flirted with the crease without ever appear-ing likely to marry it, for good or evil. History remembers famousinnings played in adversity: Dennis Amiss’s unbeaten 262 to save aTest in Jamaica, Hanif Mohammad’s 337 in Barbados, Allan Border’sdefiant hundred in Port-of-Spain in 1983 and Peter May’s 285 atEdgbaston in 1957.

Azharuddin summoned no such powers, and nor did Kapil Dev,whose heave to midwicket with three hours left to play and wicketsstill to fall, appeared culpable. England, surely, were happy that riskswere being taken.

They say it was a good Test match and a captain’s innings and ina way they are right. No doubt everyone was fed up with attritionalcricket. At least we had spin and footwork, and entertainment

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aplenty. Nevertheless, India lost twenty wickets in 178 overs, whichwill not satisfy the game’s more demanding critics.

Azharuddin’s innings was a glorious failure. Having put Englandin, having lost his own wicket to a cross-bat swipe, and having readnewspapers from home, Azharuddin may well feel that he cannotafford many such triumphs.

Inzamam-Ul-Haq at the crease

Inzamam-Ul-Haq’s bulky frame stands between Australia and victorybefore lunch in a 1995 Test match whose arrangements owed muchto the interest of television and little to the convenience of locals. Heis not, on the surface, much of an obstacle. Inzamam hails from theancient city of Multan, a metropolis where things happen about onceevery 100 years, which is roughly the pace at which this regal batsmanconducts himself on the field. Easy work, one might suppose, for thisrugged Australian outfit.

Not so. Inzamam may seem as sleepy as a remote town, butappearances can be deceptive. He scores an awful lot of runs forsomeone who supposedly lets the world wander by. He may seem tolumber around like a hippo in a wetlands, but he can dance. He mayseem not to care, yet he charged into a crowd in search of a specta-tor who had described him as a potato.

Most particularly, he can bat. Indeed, he plays Shane Warne as wellas any contemporary and better than any colleague save Aamir Sohail,whose left-handedness is an advantage. Inzamam’s technique is interesting. He assesses the leg-spinner’s length quickly and, so far,unerringly, and either moves his front foot far down the pitch to driveor retreats to cut and pull. Significantly, he steps straight back ratherthan moving across to protect his wicket. It is the approach advocatedby Salim Malik, an approach that leaves the stumps unprotected butgives the batsman room to play his strokes.

Inzamam is never cramped as he counters Warne, and his chiefweakness has been a willingness to pull in the air perilously close to theman at mid-wicket. Admittedly, Warne did take his wicket in the firstinnings as he fooled the batsman with his dip and prompted a drivelifted to mid-wicket. But it was a mistake rather than an admission of

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defeat. Everyone else lay down at the spinner’s feet. Warne kept a lineand length and let the batsmen destroy themselves, in which respectthey were most obliging. It is odd that the Pakistanis play Warne sobadly, and the Indians so very well.

Even Sohail, in his first innings anyhow, let rashness be his master.Furious at Pakistan being denied a boundary, when Greg Blewettfielded from behind the ropes, he lashed at the next delivery and losthis wicket. His splendid second effort was by way of atonement.

Inzamam alone was steadfast. He has been impressive, choosinghis shots carefully, driving hard and otherwise defending with a deter-mination undimmed by his team’s circumstance. He showed thatlittle peril lay in the pitch, and that Warne could be countered, if notconquered.

In his way, Inzamam was as entertaining and personable as youngSaqlain Mushtaq had been. Cricket needs such fresh and lively talents.Among Inzamam’s characteristics is a reluctance to bother aboutsuch trifles as running between wickets. Whether he has heard talk ofshort singles can only be guessed. It may be that he presumes theyare a reference to unmarried gnomes.

Certainly, he is disinclined to hurry. His very walk to the wickettells a tale. It is such a long way and so much effort is needed and,anyhow, what’s the hurry?

Nor does he often hasten around the field. Inzamam did onceabandon his position at slip to trot after a ball (it could scarcely becalled a pursuit), but only after a long study of the field to see if therewas anyone in the vicinity. Only when the appalling truth was cleardid he begin to move.

There is something rather magnificent about this languor.It’s not mere indulgence. It’s just that austerity is not his caper. He

does try, says he wants to get fit and has, apparently, lost weight sincehis last public appearance. But he still resembles Elvis Presley in thelatter part of his distinguished career. It is a comforting sight. It’shard to imagine such a man involving himself in the politics ofPakistani cricket. Accordingly, he might make a fine captain, after allthe other fellows have had their chance.

It is easy to underestimate such players. And, indeed, Inzamam isyet to fulfil the promise of his thundering entry onto the internationalstage during the 1992 World Cup, a competition his team could not

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have won without him. Since then he has struggled, or so it seems.Yet he’s still averaging 47 in Test cricket. This is a good sign. Somebatsmen are always doing better than you think. Mark Taylor isanother such.

At stumps on Saturday night, the entire Pakistan team ran aroundthe field and practised their fielding (as well they might). All exceptone. But Inzamam is still batting, and it is his wicket that Australianeeds to take this morning and in the matches hereafter.

Laxman’s triumph in Sydney

A bumper found the batsman frozen in his boots and thumped intohis head, leaving the Indian staggering around. Conceivably, his verymanhood was challenged. Unwilling to go down without a fight, hedrove with style and power and hooked fearlessly. Suddenly, he wasnot a victim awaiting his execution but a warrior among his foes.

Very, very, special LaxmanVenkati Laxman has played an unforgettable innings. Where it standsin the list of the game’s foremost hands is a matter for the historians.At present the innings is too recent to bear cricketing comparison.

Laxman’s innings on 13–14 March 2001 was noble of conceptionand faultless of execution and can be enjoyed in its immediatecontext. His batting belonged to the highest class and was notable forits authority, composure and power. He did not appear to be walkingthrough a field of nettles, the impression generally given by batsmenfacing this Australian attack. Rather, he seemed to be striding confi-dently towards a destination within his reach.

Throughout, he showed not the slightest anxiety as he watchedthe ball, selected his stroke and played it handsomely and correctly.He batted with such ease that it seemed he must have wandered in,picked up a willow and set about following the simplest instructions.More likely, his style was the product of years of work in the nets withbowlers sending them down hour upon hour as he rehearsed hisstrokes.

Batting is hard. I promise you, it is hard. Boys want to swing thebat like a baseball bat and must lose the habit. Yet the game seemed

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to flow through the doctor’s son from Hyderabad, as if it were anineffable expression of his inner being. He made it look easy. It wasnot quite fair, yet it is impossible not to appreciate his work becauseit contains no hint of lower emotions such as jealousy, selfishness orcalculation. It was a generous innings and, in some peculiar way, a biginnings. But then Laxman is not the petty sort. He risked his entirecareer by asking to be considered only for middle order, where thecompetition was hotter than a tandoor. From another man this mighthave seemed headstrong. In Laxman’s case he was being true tohimself.

Laxman stood still at the crease, stiller than had Sachin Tendulkarin his agitated effort the previous day. He judged the line and lengthof the ball with an alert and untroubled eye and moved into positionwithout fuss. He does not thrash the ball, or play flashily, but ratherdrives it away with a swing slower and fuller than most. And he hastime to play his stroke. Even Jason Gillespie could not hurry him,hard though the South Australian tried.

Throughout, this batsman was imperturbable in a way that musthave disconcerted his opponents. Of course, he appreciated the plightof his team and yet he took no particular notice of it, concentratinginstead upon the broader picture. One sensed that he was not merelyhoping to make Australia bat again, nor to reach a satisfactory total,but rather had the grander vision of the true competitor. In his mindhe had the idea of winning the match. Accordingly, he showed faithin himself and his partner, and drew Rahul Dravid from his shell in away that helped a self-contained colleague.

Laxman played some thrilling strokes, yet was never merely enter-taining. He drove the first ball after lunch on the rise through cover,an announcement that the break in play had affected neither histempo nor his confidence. It’s hard to remember a single error andhis defence was as firm as his attacking game was exhilarating. He hasscored two triple-centuries in domestic cricket and plainly enjoyshimself at the crease. Hardly a ball was hit in the air, hardly a strokeneglected, hardly an opportunity missed and the highlight was aback-foot shot through mid-wicket played with a straight bat.

The footsore Australians could not find a way past him. Certainly,the surface was somnambulant and the sun hot. Mostly, though, creditmust go to the batsmen. Glenn McGrath and Gillespie bowled some

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fiery spells and might have been rewarded had Australia kept a secondslip in position. None of the other bowlers were threatening, MichaelKasprowicz bowling loose deliveries and Shane Warne over-pitchingand bowling more slowly than the occasion required. Nor was theAustralian fielding at its sharpest as overthrows were given away.

This was a scintillating performance by a quiet and impressiveHyderabadi of 26 years. No wonder he raised his arms upon scoringhis 200th run off his 304th ball. He had played some thrilling strokesand is clearly a batsman blessed with considerable ability. Few couldstep down the pitch to Warne to drive a leg-spinner landing outsideleg-stump through the covers. Few could late-cut McGrath. Fewcould bat so long in such a commanding style. No wonder the score-board called his innings ‘glorious’. The crowd agreed. TheAustralians shook his hand. It had taken an incredible innings tobring their run to an end.

Virender Sehwag in Melbourne

Here was an extraordinary day’s cricket. Here was a tale of a brilliantbatsman riding his luck to play the innings of his life and anotherabout a master upon whose career fortune is frowning. Here was astory about a team previously condemned as poor travellers that ranrings around its host and a story about a home side stretched to itslimits that was clinging to a thin strand of hope till its luck started tochange. Melbourne’s famous cricket ground has not seen many daysas gripping as this contest between a struggling champion and avibrant contender on 26 December 2003.

India rose to the occasion with a brilliant and courageousperformance. Bumpers were defied and bangs on the head ignoredby a team on the verge of a superb achievement and unwilling tocountenance any distraction. Denied the services of its three greatbowlers, the home side flung everything at its opponents in anattempt to break through and then fell back, thereafter to live upona wing and a prayer. Once the attack had been repulsed, the Indiansplayed with a freedom that spoke volumes about their confidence.

Virender Sehwag led the way with an innings as memorable as anyplayed on this ground in a quarter of a century. He is a batsman of

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rare courage and inspiration who responds to voices unheard else-where. At the crease he has a gleam in his eye, suggesting that reasonplays but a small part in his approach. Repeatedly, partners marchdown the wicket to urge restraint upon a man whose entire career hasbeen an adventure. Sehwag listens quietly to their entreaties, smilessweetly, blocks a couple of balls and generally tries to strike the nextone into Richmond Station.

Virender Sehwag bats as might a youngster on a beach. It is notintended as an insult. He stands with a glint in his eye, takes a lookat the ball and as often as possible dispatches it into the sea. He smilesas he plays, seems to regard the game as fun. Not that he lacks seriousintent. After all, he has succeeded in the bearpits of the game, scoringa triple-century in Pakistan and making lots of runs in Melbourne andin a World Cup final. And still he manages to look like the last of theamateurs.

Sehwag is a fine batsman in disguise. His failings are immediatelyobvious. As far as he is concerned, footwork is the preserve of maidenaunts, doddery uncles and English coaches. Now and then he doespush his front foot out a little way. Mostly, he stands and delivers.Yesterday, he kept driving good-length deliveries into the covers andnever mind that he had hardly left his original station. Strokes of thissort discourage bowlers, most of whom spent large parts of theiryouth trying to perfect this delivery.

Moreover, he hits the ball in the air more often than was once fash-ionable among opening batsmen, a group assigned the task of takingthe shine off the ball and breaking the hearts of the bowlers beforemaking way for the fancy hats down the list. Generations of coachesand captains have implored prospective openers either to keep theball on the grass or to pursue another calling. If Sehwag was evergiven advice along these lines, he did not take much notice.Throughout, he has been prepared to live and die by his own lights.

Sehwag’s batting at the Melbourne Cricket Ground (MCG) wasa mixture of physical courage and extraordinary strokeplay. Early inhis innings, he was struck a fearful blow during a ferocious openingspell from Brett Lee. A few minutes later, he was hit on the head asecond time and again stood his ground. In between, his admirablysteadfast partner was also sconed and he, too, refused to retreat.Patently these Indians are made of the right stuff.

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Having survived this ordeal, Sehwag set about the bowling with arange of shots that had their origins not in a coaching manual but inthe depths of his own imagination. Standing still at the wicket, hetook a look at the ball before choosing between responses limited toignoring the offering, a block played with the air of a gambler reluc-tantly no-bidding and a clobber that dispatched the ball to all cornersof an astonished arena.

Only the mightiest cricketers can provoke the sort of gasps repeat-edly heard during the course of this gallivanting creation. Sehwagplayed shots of eye, nerve and power. From a short backlift he cutthrough and sometimes over an alarmed slip cordon. Often he playedwristy flicks off his hip of a type that sent the ball speeding away, thetype of stroke that upsets bowlers under the impression that preciselypitched deliveries must be treated with respect. But Sehwag plays theball and not the percentages. His innings are not so much a construc-tion as an event.

Facing the slower bowlers, he disdained all restraints except thoseperiodically recommended by concerned partners. In his opinion,flighted deliveries must be put out of their misery with the sort ofswing perfected by Babe Ruth. By the skin of his back foot Sehwagsurvived an especially wild heave at a leg-spinner. Of course, strokesof this nature are part of a charm more obvious to spectators thanbowlers or the colleague occupying the hot seat. No one knows whatthe blighter might try next, including himself and his opponents.One swipe was as poor a stroke as any seen in Test cricketsince . . . well, since his dismissal in the previous match.

Considering all these vulnerabilities, it must seem extraordinarythat Sehwag scores any runs at all, let alone a sackful against asupposedly relentless opponent. Clearly, he is twice as good as heseems. His strengths lie in the straightness of his bat in defence, thestillness of his head, the timing of his strokes and the determinationin his heart. Moreover, he can play off both feet and on both sidesof the wicket. Here he even ran well between wickets. It is not a badcombination. Also, he hits a lot of shots on the ground. It is just thathis spectacular shots stick longer in the mind.

Sehwag contained himself sufficiently for the rest of his innings toproduce some scintillating straight drives among further calculatedclubs over the boundary. Sehwag used a bludgeon and Akash Chopra

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a shield as the pair tried to wear down the attack. Now and then, theyswitched implements as they went about their task with the utmostdetermination. After surviving some early mishaps, India’s gameopeners also ran selflessly between wickets.

When Sehwag perished, it was as he had lived, in the land whereboldness and recklessness make their cases. Then came SachinTendulkar for a single ball, an ordinary delivery and an unlucky touchthat reminded spectators of the cruelty of this game, the gloriousuncertainty that brought 62 613 people through the gates in searchof its manifest possibilities.

Rahul Dravid in Melbourne

India has produced a performance of the utmost defiance to force theAustralians to work hard to secure a victory that had seemed withintheir grasp. Down and apparently out after a horrible disintegrationon the second day, the visitors responded with an effort so full ofheart that the match was taken into a fifth day. Australia bowled andfielded well enough to exploit any weakness, yet India refused to giveground. Not until the second new ball was thrown to a tireless attackwere the hosts able to secure the decisive breakthrough. Barring rain,the teams will reach Sydney on an equal footing. India’s fightbackmeans that they will travel with hope.

Rahul Dravid led the resistance with an innings of impressive forti-tude. Over the years, Australia has been able to wear down opponentsby maintaining a high standard throughout a day. Only the mostresourceful players can withstand an intense attack for a long periodof time. Dravid is such a man. Something more than attrition isneeded to remove him. Gelignite is the most obvious alternative butthe match referee might baulk at that. Australia searched for aweakness as a dentist does for holes and could find none. Thereafter,it was a matter of waiting for a mistake. It was a long time coming.

Revealing unfailing powers of concentration and an impeccabletechnique, the diligent right-hander kept his wicket intact for 332minutes. Moreover, it took the combined efforts of a sweltering after-noon, relentless bowling and the vagaries of the pitch to bring himdown. Throughout, Australia pressed with every power at its

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disposal, only to find an immovable object blocking its path. Appar-ently, Dravid sat for hours before removing his pads after his firstinnings, berating himself for the small mistake that had been hisundoing. He sells his wicket dearly.

Somewhat to his chagrin, Dravid has been described as ‘the wall’of Indian batting, a tribute to the sense of permanence to be foundin his batting. Certainly, there is something eternal about his work inthe middle. Moreover, his innings are constructed brick by brick. Butto regard India’s first drop merely as an obstacle is to underestimatehis abilities. Dravid is a batsman of the highest class whose form inrecent years indicates that he deserves to be included in the ranks ofthe major batsmen of the period. He has scored runs against all sortsof bowling on all kinds of pitches.

Dravid has a simple game founded upon straight lines. Reasoningthat runs cannot be scored in the pavilion, he sets out to protect hiswicket. Curiously, this thought does not seem to occur to manybatsmen, a point many a long-suffering coach could confirm. Hedefends his stumps with skill and strength of mind. Australia’s fastbowlers tried to upset him and might as well have been attacking atank with a slingshot. Attempts to test his patience were no moreeffective. Dravid reads long books and does not expect a man to beshot upon every page.

Nor did the spinners trouble him. Aware of his team’s predica-ment and committed to the cause, Dravid concentrated upon a few carefully executed strokes and otherwise bided his time. He didnot leave his crease or give the slower bowlers any reason tosuppose their wiles might soon be rewarded. Not once did he playacross the line.

Not that the Bangalorean thought only about defence. Somelovely drives were played, through cover and past the bowler, severalstylish glides through mid-wicket were summoned and occasionallythe batsman erupted into a pull shot executed with a roll of the wristand flash of arm that hinted at the artist to be found beneath thestoical exterior.

Every stroke was played with the conviction of a man carryingout his intentions with a clear mind. Patently, Dravid believed hecould bat all day and that the match could be saved. Neither pitch,pressure nor bowling was allowed to disturb his thoughts. Every

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ball was played upon its merits. It sounds easy, but is damnablydifficult.

Eventually, Dravid departed for 92 and then came the collapse.Australia had one bad day in Adelaide and was beaten. India had abad day in Melbourne and faces defeat. Not even Dravid and acaptain who remained on the bridge almost to the end could save thevisitors. But India will lose with honour, overcome by a side that hasplayed hard cricket from the first ball till the last delivery of a grippingfourth afternoon.

Kumar Sangakkara in Colombo

Kumar Sangakkara is emerging as the most influential cricketer in hiscountry. Taking advantage of another pitch bereft of bounce and anattack that might just as well have been called a defence, the stylishleft-hander confirmed his flowering as a batsman with a committedand skilful innings that took his side into a powerful position on a typically hot summer’s day in Colombo in 2004.

In olden times, cricketers used to talk about batsmen booking infor ‘bed and breakfast’. Sangakkara went a good deal further and, asfar as the South Africans were concerned, he outstayed his welcomeby several days. Along the way, this fine product of Trinity School inKandy introduced himself as a player of substance. It is one thing totake runs off a bunch of juveniles representing Zimbabwe, quiteanother to bat for a month or so against a confident and supposedlyaggressive South African outfit.

Previously, Sanga has seemed to be one of those creative, intelli-gent, poetic sort of fellows likely to score an ornate 40 before waftingaway outside off-stump and then departing with an air of profoundregret. Rumours had spread that he read books, including the worksof one Oscar Wilde, an Irish wit whose oeuvre has not generallyappealed to those appointed to the important task of taking the shineoff the new ball. Wilde once pointed out that he could ‘resistanything except temptation’ and there have been times when thesame might have been said of the forthright left-hander.

Of course, Sanga never was a lightweight. We are inclined to putmen into boxes and to indulge in caricature. Nor was he ever as

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insouciant as David Gower, in some respects a fellow traveller. To thecontrary, he was as likely to become embroiled in an argument uponthe field as Arjuna Ranatunga, and that is saying something. Plainly,his intellect did not leave him hovering on the brink of the action likesome Hamlet wondering whether to go forwards or back. He wantedto be involved in every minute of the game, felt he belonged in theheat of battle. He is a warrior in the guise of a philosopher.

As much could have been guessed from Sanga’s willingness tokeep wickets, a job he carries out with a combination of aplomb andhumour. From his perch behind the sticks, the Kandian produces arange of vivid facial expressions that accurately convey the thoughtsof the inner man. When by some misfortune a ball eludes him or anappeal is denied, there comes over him the offended look of a golferwhose ball has circled the hole without dropping. It is as if a darkcloud has unexpectedly arrived in the middle of a sunny afternoon.At any moment his state of mind can be deduced from the look uponhis face. Upon finding aces in his hand, he will beam. A man may notmake a fortune at cards that way, but for some it cannot be otherwise.

Not that his keeping has been a laughing matter, but it is hisbatting that sets him apart.

Sanga batted beautifully in Colombo. From the start, he found therhythm all batsmen seek, and with it came a blend between defenceand attack often found in men on top of their games. His approachin the dying embers of the first day told a tale. By then, South Africahad fallen back and harmless spin was being sent down from bothends. After many hours batting under a steamy sun, he might easilyhave lost his head and perchance his wicket. But danger lurked in theform of the second new ball. Accordingly, the leftie rejected theopportunity presented by the mild tweakers and contented himselfwith accepting such runs as came along. Although his partner fell inthe twilight, Sangakkara lived to fight another day, a strategy that wasduly rewarded.

Sangakkara’s performance in his capital city was the most impres-sive of an already distinguished career. In his own way, he brings classand combativeness to the Sri Lankan team, a contribution thatcomplements the stoicism displayed by his new captain. In so manyways he is everything his country needs to be: bright, cosmopolitan,proud, thoughtful, unafraid and progressive. Happily, these elements

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have been released in this young man of his times. Perhaps it willprove to be contagious.

Sachin in the World Cup

On 1 March 2003, Sachin Tendulkar produced the most astonishinginnings seen in 50-over cricket. His breathtaking assault on a flam-boyant Pakistani attack intoxicated spectators till they felt they mustwave, chant and shout themselves hoarse. Tens of thousands hadarrived at Centurion to cheer on their team. Meanwhile, middle-aged ladies sat in respectable homes in Delhi and Lahore, their facespainted in the colours of their country. India was playing Pakistan fora place in the next round. Tendulkar was blistering and monumen-tal, ruthlessly attacking off both feet and on both sides of the wicket.Nor was it a reckless innings, for he did not lose his head, maintain-ing his composure even as the score rattled along. A mild man, herealised the time had come to leave his mark upon cricket’s most prestigious tournament.

Unusually, Tendulkar took the first ball of the innings, a licence hegenerally grants to his partners. Clearly he understood that this wasnot a day for faint hearts. If he did not produce something special,the game would be up for his side. India had not been playing welland World Cups come along only once in every four years. It was thehottest of times. Tendulkar was needed and he answered the call.

Making his intentions plain, Tendulkar attacked the new ball withrelish. After opening his account with a six cut over third man thatprovoked from Shoaib Akhtar an even more furious response, theIndian played a succession of thrilling drives that sent the ballspeeding past the bowler and repeatedly rolled his wrists uponstraight deliveries, deflecting towards the ropes at deep square-leg.Usually calm at the crease, his mind seemed to be at once ablaze andencased in ice.

An off-side field was placed, so he took the ball on the rise andplaced it through extra-cover. Now and then he defended and oncehe let a ball pass, whereupon supporters cheered, not wanting him toget carried away. When spin was introduced, he bent low to guide ayorker through the slips.

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This was not a cricket match. It was a madhouse. Desperate towin, every man upon the field tried with every ounce of talent anddetermination at his disposal to help his side to victory. Someindulged in excess, others carried out their duties and prayed it wasenough. Tendulkar rose above them all, rose above the expectationsand the blend of anxiety and hope that sharpened the atmospherethroughout an exhausting day.

Not until drinks were taken and the maestro was hobbling didhis wicket fall, and then to a cruel and ragged bumper sent downby Shoaib. By then it was too late for Pakistan. The game was up.India and Pakistan had met in a crucial match played in a hotbed of apartheid and, in a blaze of brilliance, Tendulkar had decided the issue.

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4

Breakingbarriers

Cricket is not a game of bat and ball. It is an internal struggle, a war waged between a man and himself. The opposition is

merely a convenience.

Many more Test matches are played these days and everyrecord in the books is vulnerable except The Don’s battingaverage and Jim Laker’s feat in taking nineteen wickets in

a single match. Granting Test status to Zimbabwe and Bangladeshand organising a proper and regular fixture list were intended topromote the game and ease relations between sometimes fractiousnations, but numerous unforeseen side effects have arisen and, as aresult, the game has been compromised.

Never in cricketing history have bare figures been a less reliableguide to a player’s standing. High averages and prodigious perform-ances have become commonplace, especially among Australians, mostof whom can command places only during their peak periods. Accord-ingly, various attempts have been made to devise ways of assessing aplayer’s true worth among his peers by subjecting his performances tocloser scrutiny. Notwithstanding the condemnation of old-fashionedcritics, these strategies have much to commend them.

Of course, the real problem is that cricket lends itself better than anyother game to statistical analysis. Footballing codes may number tacklesexecuted, passes made and yards gained, golf may indicate fairways hitand putts holed, but none of them provides a satisfactorily complete

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definition of the player’s performance. On the other hand, a batsmanexists to score runs. Other factors such as style and speed may berelevant, particularly the latter, but ultimately the purpose of the activityis to put runs on the board. Likewise, a bowler must take as manywickets as possible as quickly as possible. Cricket is a game of facts andfigures played by the obsessed and followed by romantics.

Inevitably, the mathematicians have taken over the joint. Eventelevision commentary teams full of past players unconvinced aboutthe endless figures churned out at every match still feel obliged topass them on to avid followers of the game. Match reports workalong the same lines, on the assumption that readers will feel theirlives the poorer for not being told that Smith averages 45 in Testcricket and needs another 57 runs to become the seventeenth highestscorer in the history of the game.

Before long, all the records save those owned by Bradman andLaker will have fallen into the hands of contemporary players.Inevitably, too, batting averages will continue to rise as the newdispensations field weak attacks and as bowlers are broken by theirload. Over the last few years, Test cricket’s highest individual scorehas changed hands on several occasions, though happily it remains inthe hands of one of the true giants of the era. On the other hand,lesser batsmen collect hundreds at an unprecedented rate and soonwill sweep past great players of yesteryear, such as Allan Border andSunil Gavaskar.

Meanwhile, bowlers survive by reducing their pace, thereby both protecting their bodies and nursing their figures. A handful ofoutstanding bowlers have survived the changes in the game, most of them currently assisting each other in the Australian line-up. Thesefellows have broken records, partly because they are superb and partlybecause they play numerous matches, some of them against weak sides.

How the records described in this chapter fit into the picture is forthe reader to judge. Suffice it to say, they are all remarkable achieve-ments. The list includes a pace bowler from India who became thehighest wicket-taker in the history of the game, a leg-spinner fromAustralia who took his place, a freakish bowler from Sri Lanka whodefied critics and deformities to move mountains, and a thunderingbatsman from Queensland who ended up passing Bradman and MarkTaylor and, for a short time, everyone else.

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Matthew Hayden breaks the record

Matthew Hayden has put his name in the record books alongside themost famous men the game has known. Bradman, Sobers, Hutton,Lara—none has scored more runs in a Test match innings than thistall and muscular banana-bender. None has surpassed the commandshown by the Australian opener. None of them hits the ball as hardor with a straighter bat. None was as strong or blessed with greaterstamina. None had as much to prove in the middle of their careers.Hayden had to wait a long time before he was treated with therespect the rest claimed as young men.

Dismissed not so long ago as a lumbering Queenslander, Haydenhas emerged as a batsman of beautiful brutality. Sustaining a plunderthat began on the Indian subcontinent in 2000, he wore down andeventually destroyed a threadbare attack at the WACA in October2003. At the crease he was a towering figure, a Gulliver amongLilliputians. Such men can be brought down only by unconquereddoubt. Bows and arrows will not be enough.

Hayden was awesome. His defensive shots thundered back to thebowlers, leaving them wringing their hands. His blasts cleared aboundary shortened by ropes. Between times, he cut savagely, pulledwitheringly and drove over and past the bowler with immense power.Repeatedly, he took the ball on the rise and planted it into the stands.In some hands a bat can resemble a wand. With Hayden, it becomesa club.

Through the onslaught, though, came a nagging sense of unease.What did it all mean? Take the manner in which the two most signif-icant landmarks were passed. By the time the Queenslander hadreached 334, the Zimbabweans were on their knees and TrevorGripper was sending down undemanding off-breaks. Far from teasinghis opponent with precisely pitched deliveries, he lobbed down a fulltoss. Hayden stroked it towards the boundary and thereby becameAustralia’s highest scorer in Test cricket. His 376th run was taken offan amiable delivery from Ray Price.

Of course, the notion that Bradman and company scored theirruns against tight and fresh attacks operating on helpful pitches isfalse. Nonetheless, there was always a feeling that the teams belongedon the same field. Unfortunately, the same cannot be said of the sides

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currently appearing in Perth. Test cricket has compromised its mostprecious asset—its legitimacy.

Although it was hardly Hayden’s fault, this was not so much acontest as a demolition. Among the Zimbabweans, only the captainhas earned his stripes. Hayden was not wrenching runs from a reluc-tant opponent. He was taking sweets from a child. Test status hasbeen spread around till the meaning of the word ‘Test’ has been lost.Hayden will have harder outings in Brisbane on a Saturday afternoon.

Notwithstanding these reservations, it was a magnificent effort bya man who not so very long ago was told he was not good enoughto succeed in this company. Following the strategy adopted by mostopening batsmen down the ages, especially those playing their firstimportant innings of the season, Hayden took a long, hard look atthe bowling on the first morning. Indeed, he looked so long and sohard that reporters wondered whether some ailment had affectedhim or, worse, a midlife crisis. Throughout that first day he wore asweater, afterwards undermining numerous stories by explaining thathe had been feeling cold. He is a straightforward man.

Until tea was taken on Thursday, so long ago, Hayden pottered asmeekly as a Viking walking a dog. He reached his hundred and thenlaunched the sort of attack that has seldom been seen upon a cricketfield. He was decisive and destructive as he took to its highest pointa plunder that had begun quietly an age before. His concentrationdid not waver, his judgement was unerring and the ball was hit withferocious power. It is not a bad combination.

Hayden has become a mighty batsman with a game built uponsimplicity and strength. After all those years of trial and tribulation,no one will begrudge him a standing in the game secured not somuch by this innings as by a succession of superb performances overthe last few years.

Shane Warne takes his 500th Test wicket

Shane Warne has become the highest wicket-taker in the historyof Test cricket. In truth, it scarcely seems possible, even though it hashappened before our very eyes. Of course, it is an incredible achieve-ment, yet his contribution goes beyond facts and figures.

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Pace dominated the game when he first appeared. Bowlersplodded back to their marks. Hardly anyone fielded in front of thebat. What was the point? Even Australia could not find any wrist-spinners to maintain the tradition, relying instead on purveyors ofwowserish off-breaks.

Cricket had become an endurance test. Warne challenged all ofthat, changed all of that, and the game changed with him. He sensedthat he had been born to bowl leg-breaks. He knew that he hadgreatness within. It was this conviction that allowed him to take somany risks. In a period of pace, he concentrated on spin. In a time ofcalculation, he pursued the improbable. In an age of reason, hechased the wildest of dreams. Accordingly, he can be forgiven anawful lot, including most of the darknesses that also exist within hisuncontained character. A man must be taken as a whole. Sensiblefellows cannot turn the ball at right angles.

Warne’s journey from the brash youngster with a round belly anda loose action who was flogged around the SCG in 1991 to thebrazen but canny professional plying his trade in Chennai in 2004 hasbeen long and eventful. Even by the formidable standards set by theleg-spinning fraternity, it has been a colourful contribution. A lot ofsauce has been put upon the table. Nor was there anything inevitableabout it. On several occasions he might have faded from view. Alwayshe fought back.

In some respects Warne has been lucky. Nature blessed him withability. Providence provided a coach in Bob Simpson, who under-stood the importance of attacking the blind spot. Fortune left a spaceto be filled. But Warne took his chance. By nature a rebel, Warneworked at his game until the ball obeyed his every instruction. A lotof good deliveries are bowled between the wicket-takers.

Warne has been an entertainer almost as much as he has been acricketer. Although a craftsman of the highest order, he has not beencontent with the quiet efficiency that accompanies the cobbler andthe silversmith. Always there has been the performance, the desire forthe roars of the crowd, the lure of the spotlight. Alongside his fasci-nation with the possibilities of spin could be found a theatrical streakas wide as Drury Lane, a desire for publicity that could put MrBarnum to shame, a competitive drive as strong as Lester Piggott’s.In truth, he has been as much a performer as a craftsman.

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Warne has not always been the easiest of men to like, but he hasbeen compelling to watch. In his pomp he could stand at the top ofhis mark, flicking the ball in his fingers, licking his lips, biding his timebefore starting that slow, teasing approach that builds towards asudden wrench of shoulder, wrist and finger, an eruption of effortintended to create an explosion 22 yards away. He has dazzled evenas he has demolished. And yet his dedication has not wavered.Without his leg-break he is just another St Kilda supporter. Warneworked relentlessly at his game. His mastery did not come, and hasnot been sustained, by flashes of lightning.

Warne has been the most demonic of slow bowlers. Along the wayhe has charmed, tantalised and tormented. He has sent down the ‘ballof the century’ and did it with his first offering in England. He hasbaffled batsmen, bowled them round their legs and fooled them withflippers, googlies and other ruses of his own creation. And he hasdone it with a grin that hints at a ruthlessness beneath the humour.

His final, most glorious trick has been his last. Unable any longerto impart upon the ball the energy that made it fade and dip and bitefrom the pitch, he has learnt to take Test wickets with straight balls.Batsmen and umpires are lured into the plot as a leg-break is followedby a straight delivery and a raucous shout. At once Warne is asupreme technician and a conman. At once he is a born rebel and a calculating professional. Perhaps the contradictions are inherent inthe skill he practises, a freakish part of a conservative game. He is,too, a modern man pursuing an ancient craft.

Warne began as an upstart who dared to challenge the times.Cricket has reason to thank him, for he has revived an apparently lostart. He has been a great bowler. As he showed once again in Chennai,he remains a remarkable competitor.

Murali takes 500

Muttiah Muralitharan has become the third man to take 500 wicketsin Test cricket. It is no mean achievement for a young man born witha slight disability which he has overcome and even turned to hisadvantage. It is no small achievement for a boy raised in a belea-guered tribe that has known great sufferings in recent times. No

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history of Sri Lanka can be written without a chapter devoted to themassacres of the Tamils that occurred in the 1980s, not so long ago,within the spinner’s lifetime.

Murali has met these challenges, carried the responsibilities and hiscountry’s attack and always kept a smile upon his face. He is the mostdurable of characters. Not that it has all been uphill. A mistakenimpression has been formed that he emerged from a poor background. In fact his father runs one of the biggest biscuit manu-facturers on the island and his three brothers are businessmen inLondon. Murali attended one of the finest schools in the area, St Anthony’s Roman Catholic school.

By chance, the Test match in Kandy in 2004 coincided with his oldschool’s 150th anniversary and the chance arose to explore thespinner’s background. St Anthony’s was celebrating with a cricketmatch against its keenest rivals and word was about that the maestromight turn up. Murali was a boarder at a school of 2500 boys whosemotto is ‘Light from Heaven’. Apparently, he was a jovial fellow whotook the numerous rigours of boarding life in his stride.

Four thousand people came to watch the match. Boys from thecompeting schools sat in segregated stands singing, drumming,dancing, chanting from morning till stumps were drawn. Old boysdrank and talked and recent leavers showed off their newfoundsophistication and haircuts. Of course, they remembered thepranks, scrapes and hidings that had been part and parcel of theirboyhood.

Schooldays play an enormous part in the lives of those luckyenough to attend the leading establishments. One headmaster said hehad boys aged twenty in his school and could not persuade them toleave. Alas, only one boy in 100 moves on to tertiary education.Among the boisterousness of the recent leavers could be senseddesperation because there was nowhere to go. Sri Lankans have beenprevented from developing by government decree. Hardly any speakEnglish.

Of course, it was the weekend and even those with jobs could jointhe fun. Down the road, a six-a-side cricket tournament was beingplayed in a makeshift soccer ground. Further along, a Muslim girls’school was staging its sports day and pretty children ran around inbrightly coloured outfits, some wearing veils, others putting on

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wizards’ hats for the races. Nearby, a women’s cricket team practisedin the nets. An enormous statue of Buddha looked down uponproceedings from its perch in the hills.

Mostly the crowd at St Anthony’s was cheerful as the match wentalong. Not even the sight of Trinity taking a lead on first inningsspoilt the mood. A carnival atmosphere prevailed, with firecrackersrepeatedly erupting, claps of thunder amid the bands.

Sunil Fernando, Murali’s coach, appeared and recalled that hismost famous student bowled medium-pace till he was fourteen andtook up spin only because there were stronger boys playing for theteam. His action was ‘never a problem’, he said, adding that Muraliuses his fingers, wrist and arm to spin the ball. He mentioned thatMurali had given him 50 000 rupees recently and had flown him toSharjah to coach a promising spinner. He calls whenever he is notbowling well and asks, ‘Have you seen anything?’

Everyone is proud of Murali. As far as Sri Lankans are concerned,he is a light from heaven. Now and then he visits his old school andthen the boys are excited. In December he came to see an exhibitionof Tamil culture. St Anthony’s recognises all religions and fourMuslims play in its cricket team.

This time Murali does not make it. He has been practising for theTest match. Three days later, he takes his 500th wicket. Minutesbefore, a large contingent of St Anthony’s boys arrived to supporttheir man and their team. When Murali reached the landmark, theyroared and cheered till they were hoarse.

Kapil Dev becomes cricket’s greatest wicket-taker

India is a land whose dusty streets throb with the game. No countryholds cricket so dear or better appreciates its blend of beauty andbanality, politics and patience, brilliance and boredom. India hasproduced many mighty cricketers: Sunil Gavaskar and VinooMankad, CK Nayudu and Vijay Merchant. Now the northern stateof Haryana has produced one of its own.

If the location surprises those convinced that all the secrets of theIndian game have been stored in clubhouses in central Bombay, thestyle of the player must be an even bigger surprise, for in this land of

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brown pitches and shimmering heat, he is a fast bowler who swingsthe ball around with a mixture of dash and cunning.

At first glance, Kapil Dev seems to be the sort of bowler bestsuited to misty mornings in Brighton. But the Haryana Hurricanehas not needed wind, fog or dampness to weave his spell, does notwait for the ball to swing or put himself at the mercy of an unreliablegame. Instead, he forces the ball to curl with a side-on action and acocked wrist and an understanding of his art that is instinctive ratherthan intellectual. Moreover, he can bowl all day and all night, and hashardly suffered an injury.

To watch him bowl, nowadays, is to wonder how he managed tosurpass such clinical and skilful bowlers as Richard Hadlee andMalcolm Marshall. These days, Kapil is a trundler, if one whoknows a thing or two. It is usually so with fast bowlers, for time isunkind to them. As they lose their sting, as their body thickens afteryears of use, so taking wickets becomes a chore. In fact, Kapil haslasted better than most, and in the second part of his career hasbeen more impressive than Ian Botham, so long his rival. Some-times the ball still swings, and then Kapil can worry the best, as hedid Allan Border two years ago. Otherwise, he just works away atmedium-pace and with undimmed hope. Kapil knew an awful lotabout bowling in conditions that did not help him and became aman for all seasons.

But, of course, this is not the Kapil of the 1980s, the bowler asfresh as a colt in spring, sleek, fit and optimistic. Always he attacked,bowled for wickets, relishing the challenge of the game. Heappeared at a time when India’s pacemen rubbed dust into theleather so that Bishen Bedi and friends could get to work. Kapilchallenged all that, changed all that. In his own way, he was asradical a thinker as Shane Warne.

Far from submitting to the times, Kapil forced his team to play hisgame. Hitherto, India had been relying on trickery, the preparationof dustbowls upon which visiting teams could be destroyed with flicksof the fingers and late cuts. He encouraged India to play a differentgame, demanded bouncy pitches in his homeland, argued that Indiacould not otherwise expect to win overseas. Of course, he was right,but the point also suited his game. Kapil has a lot of charm and everybit as much calculation.

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India responded by winning a Test match in Melbourne in 1981,with Kapil taking the wickets on the final day of a match also remem-bered for Gavaskar’s protest about a leg-before decision. Gavaskarand Kapil were an odd couple, stubborn, canny, populist, proud, andbrave in contrasting ways. Gavaskar was the man from Bombay, anestablishment man yet also an individualist and controversialist, atonce above the fray and yet involved. He wanted the minds andmoney of his supporters. Kapil wanted their hearts. He has been theoutsider, a cavalier from an unfashionable place who craved attention.In some respects they were reluctant partners, yet when theycombined, as they did in the 1983 World Cup campaign and again inAustralia, they were formidable.

Perhaps, like so many champions, Kapil has lingered too long.India has compromised itself in search of his record. But it is acountry full of mathematicians, a country seeking performances thatconfirm its arrival as a cricketing force. Not that Kapil needed to bepersuaded to hang around. Cricket has been his life. When next canhe hope to hear the cheers or feel the buzz as he walks to the crease?Grand entrances in retirement are a poor substitute, and anyhowanother champion soon comes along.

Kapil has been a man of action driven by ego. He has not takenany notice of the words of sweet reason that make ordinary the restof us. Fifty years ago, it could hardly be imagined that the leadingwicket-taker in Test cricket would be an Indian. Twenty years ago, itcould hardly be imagined that a youngster from Haryana could be achampion. Ten years ago, the suggestion that an Indian pace bowlermight one day take 400 wickets in Test cricket would have beendismissed as absurd. Kapil has done it all, and has left us manywonderful performances to remember along the way.

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5

To be anEnglishman

Marcus Trescothick nibbled like a confused hamster and a ticklewas heard in important places. Trescothick’s mum and dad still

provide the teas at their local club, so the lad walked withoutwaiting for Mr Bucknor’s decision, a verdict that generally arrives

by pigeon post.

A part of cricket’s attraction has been the wide range of charac-ters who feel impelled to try their luck in the game of bat andball. Cricket-playing countries have little in common except a

colonial power eager to bestow upon subdued nations the noblestgifts it could offer even as it removed the silks and diamonds neededto satisfy home demand. That the game prospered in so many of theseplaces says something about its essential temper. Contrasting nationscan find within its exchanges the opportunity to give voice to theirparticular requirements. And so the Australians play an aggressivegame, the South Africans summon resolve, the Pakistanis rely onmercurial ability, the Kiwis use their brains and the Englishmen aretorn between Victorian suffering and Georgian flamboyance.

Of course, the same applies to individuals lured to the game by the promise, so often broken, of riches to be found at the end of thestruggle. At first sight, it seems that only the most resilient soulsought to contemplate taking up an activity in which a single mistakecan dash the dreams of the previous night, destroy the hopes of anentire childhood. Cricket is a notoriously fickle recreation that reliesupon an uneasy and untrustworthy blend of luck and skill. Yet,through its portals march the most vulnerable of fellows, men

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desperate to unfurl the perfect off-drive or to produce the deadliestof spells, citizens touched by the game in their youth and ever sinceunable to escape its call. A businessman can be shrewd in the board-room and a child in whites.

Sometimes it seems that cricket in its broadest aspect tolerates aremarkable diversity of characters. Perhaps, though, every gamehovers under this illusion, every team, every family, every nation, foralways there does seem to be the joker, the black sheep, the contro-versialist, the dreamer and the leader. Wrestling may imagine itselfblessed with personalities hot and cold, meek and mighty, yet to anoutsider those same men may appear indistinguishable. Cricket, too,has its narrownesses. In Australia it has been something of an Anglo-Saxon closed shop. Its inability to attract women and immigrants canbe told from the fuss made whenever someone from these areasmanages to make an impression.

More than any other cricketing nation, England does seem tohave produced diversity of outlook, which may owe something to thenation’s curious individuality. Whereas Australian strangers will sitnext to each other on a bus, the English will occupy positions as farapart as possible. An Australian will join the driver of a taxi in thefront seat, while the Englishman must keep his distance.

In part it is the class distinction also reflected in the different gatesand rooms used by amateur and professional players 50 years ago. Inpart it is the yearning for space in a crammed country. But it goesfurther. Whereas several generations of European, South Americanand subcontinental families can live together under a single roof,many Englishmen could not imagine anything worse. Cricket inter-ests them precisely because it tests the individual as opposed to thecollective. Nowadays, it is customary for teams to join in huddles andto form tightly knit groups, and these occasions have their purposesbut cannot disguise the rawness of the exposure.

Among the Englishmen included in this chapter, one grew up inAfrica and spent his happiest days in the veldt before ambition andability took him away. David Gower says he has never been ascontent as he was during his African boyhood. Another was raisedin a coalmining family and watched as his brothers went down thepits and raised families, leading the normal life that is denied to thedriven. Geoff Boycott has never put happiness at the top of his list.

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He wanted to be recognised, applauded, acknowledged; he neededto make the grade.

Andrew Caddick came to England in search of opportunity and toescape from the frustrations and disappointments he encountered inNew Zealand. As ever, the background makes it easier to understandand often to sympathise with the man. Matthew Fleming attendedEton, joined an elite fighting unit and then tried his luck in countycricket, the better to express his character and delay his entry into thefamily merchant bank. Mark Lathwell was a wonderful batsman anda likeable young man who yearned for privacy and felt his talentpulling him towards the lights. In the end, his career faded becausehe could not convince himself that the sacrifices were worthwhile.Perhaps he was right, because nowadays he is raising his children andplaying cricket in the same home town. Not long ago, he scored asuperb hundred against my side in a club match, along the way takinga heavy toll of my widely respected offerings. His family watchedfrom the sidelines and when his time was up he pottered along to playwith them.

When these pieces were written, Nasser Hussain and MichaelVaughan were works in progress. Nothing much has changed. Inretirement, Hussain remains a hot-headed warrior. As captain of hiscountry, Vaughan continues to impress.

David Gower

As David Gower packed his bags in preparation for the Oval in 1990,a patrician voice in the Hampshire dressing-room called out, ‘ForGod’s sake, David, get a big one.’

It was meant well. Gower engages hearts rather than heads, andhearts were crying out. Gower’s response was surprisingly snappy for sowistful a man. He had detected a strain of patronage in the remark andsaid so. Only so often can a man tolerate being told to pull up his socks.

We have all done it. Worrying about Gower is a national pastime.If only, we sigh, if only he’d knuckle down, he’d score heaps of runs.If only he’d play straight, move his feet, concentrate, stop fiddlingand flicking, we could watch him without fearing seizure. Gower is aseductive cricketer. Because of his appearance—handsome, diffident

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and apparently doomed—and his style, with its hint of charabanc,cane and top hat, he is cast as a romantic hero.

Half England wants to mother him or marry him, and everyoneelse wants to bat as he does, as if in some enchanted dream. Wry incalamity, nonchalant in triumph, never straining too hard, Gowercarries his followers with him wherever he goes, on a journey withoutmalice which might bring joy.

Accordingly, when David rose to slay his Goliath, thousands stoodto cheer him, and even hardened men, they say, felt lumps in theirthroats. We like to see a pleasant fellow, stoical in adversity, survive.We like our cavaliers, too, yet there is more to it than that. An illusionhas been created: Gower as a fragile genius in a rough world; Goweras a man who could be great were he tough enough. Years ago, I saidhe was content to be a minor genius. That was wrong. He just is aminor genius. One thing above all was obvious from his effort lastweek. He is a gritty, resilient cricketer who can summon a masterpieceevery so often, but usually can play only minor pieces which are adelight in their expression and a frustration in their want of intellec-tual rigour.

Gower, like everyone else, scores as many runs as he deserves toscore, as many as he is capable of scoring, for to do otherwise is to beotherwise, and this is beyond him. Was Strauss chastised for failing towrite symphonies? Gower is not some delicate creature in need ofbucking up. Nor is he the only batsman who endures bad patchesnow and then. His contemporaries—Graham Gooch, Allan Lamb,Ian Botham and Mike Gatting—have suffered sharper swings andtheir leadership has been even more severely condemned than thisman who found himself in Leicestershire but, more appropriately, wasraised in Africa where, in a rare moment of revelation, he admittedhe had been happiest. Gower’s chief failing has been that, as a captainand as a batsman, he cannot communicate fight.

Gooch, in particular, has endured lean spells, and not so long ago,for he seeks to be master of his own fate and is shocked, sometimesto the point of panic, when it cannot be so. Lacking analytical powers,and more relaxed, Gower is willing to allow cricket to follow itscourse and to absorb its blows. Gooch dictates; Gower accepts.Gooch wants to destroy bowlers; Gower plays cricket with them.

Moreover, Gower is a conscientious cricketer, seldom missing a

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game, never leaving the field for a smoke and rarely carrying a poundof excess baggage. Throughout his career, he has batted in the topfour, where it hurts. His ambition, his drive, shone through at theOval, even to those of us hitherto reluctant to see it, those whomistook diffidence for complacency.

When he fails it is, as with most players, due to an error ofjudgement, a fault of technique or a good delivery. It is not amatter of knuckling down. In his terms he already is knucklingdown, already is everything he can be. For years they wantedBoycott to be more like Gower. Now they want Gower to be morelike Boycott.

But wait. Does not Gower thrive in Test cricket and fail for hiscounty, and is this not evidence of a lazy mind? Not so. Ken Barring-ton averaged 58 for England and 54 for Surrey and no one everaccused him of being idle. Gower bats as if in a blur, relies upon armand wrist to avoid trouble. Sometimes this fails, and he is out to anapparently ill-considered shot, while others lose their wickets inhonourable ways.

Test cricket suits Gower. Test pitches are often hard and flat, sothat his hands can save him from his feet’s neglect. Fast bowlers holdno terrors for him, especially if they do not move the ball. Fields tendto be aggressive, and this helps Gower, too, for his backlift is sketchyand forces him to chip his shots, especially to leg, where men arerarely stationed in five-day matches.

David will go to Australia as a battle-hardened Test cricketer, aplayer at his best, a man who cannot change and a man entirelycapable of taking care of himself.

Geoff Boycott

Geoff Boycott fitted into Yorkshire cricket better than he fitted intoYorkshire’s cricket team. His colleagues were beer-and-skittles men,a few pints in the evening, a vindaloo to round it off. Boycott sippedPerrier water and dined upon washed vegetables. His meals, clothes,hair and briefcase spoke of a man determined to overcome theprevailing chaos, a vain, stubborn, brave man who dared to be differ-ent. An unhappy man, too, driven to the edges of himself in pursuit

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of excellence, an uncomfortable place to visit, and this in a teamgame and at a county that has known many famous men, some ofthem even better batsmen than him.

He was as distinctive as he was distinguished. Towards the end ofhis career, he would appear on the field at a quarter to ten to begin hispreparations. ‘Oh Christ,’ you’d think, ‘there’s that bugger Boycott.’Sometimes you suspected the Yorkshire lads took a similar view. He’dfollow his routine of exercises while the rest of the players had a knock-up. No one had heard about huddles or games of football.

At the crease Boycott was immaculate, his body poised as if itsshapes had been sculptured, his left elbow pointing religiously to thesky. His movements were sharp and defined. If he was playing, as heonce did, for Bradford Boilermakers, he’d still graft for his runs,never, never letting his game slip, for he understood well enough thatmen like him cannot afford to drop their guard, for that is to invitefailure in through the front door. Moreover, Boycott’s ego, his verybeing, demanded excellence, precision and runs. And how they’dcelebrate if he fell cheaply: bowler, opposition, critics, rivals, thewhole lot of them. He was not the best batsman in the world, but hiswas the most prized wicket.

His concept of batting had a purity about it. Everything in his lifewas dedicated to tightening his technique. Batting. Batting. To himthe word had its own solemnity. Behind his forward defence, Boycottbuilt his statistics, collected his centuries, hardly ever losing his way,and this in a game in which a solitary lapse can bring a man down.Hostile elements were kept out. Later he built a wall around hishouse and put barbed wire upon it.

At Cambridge, once, he scored 207 not out. For six hours he didnot hit a ball in the air, or even into the ground, so that every strokemoved smoothly across the turf, like a complete thought. He did notappear to be concentrating. His mind was so utterly absorbed that hedid not need to eliminate distractions. No temptations entered hishead. There were only runs, runs and more runs.

Of course, it was a Faustian exchange. Boycott understood thatwell enough. For such men there can be no happiness. He was aperfectionist and an obsessive and the rest did not touch him.

Boycott could buckle occasionally, when flaws were exposed. Thenhe felt as if his existence was under threat. How, in failure, was he to

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walk into the world? Left-arm seamers troubled him because he stayedside-on and could not easily react to their swing or angle. Upon afrailty being revealed, he would lose control of himself, become head-strong in his vulnerability. More often, he appeared impregnable.

Spinners rarely defeated him because he could read their line andlength from the hand, and understood their variations. Once Vic Marksdid fool him, causing Boycott to be stumped. Next morning, he staredaccusingly at the pitch for ten minutes trying to work out where theball had bounced. Eventually he found the spot, by which time Vic hadjoined him. ‘Ah, lad,’ he said, ‘that’s where it pitched and then it turnedtoo much.’ It was as if a great mystery had been solved.

From Herbert Sutcliffe to Len Hutton to Geoff Boycott, thetradition of Yorkshire batting endures. Each man was a master oftechnique. Boycott may be the last of the English masters, for theseare impatient times full of bonus points and Sunday slashes. But,though the game has changed, cricketers have not. Professionals whodid not particularly like Boycott respected his batting for its clarityand judgement. Maybe he was not so much in conflict with commit-tees and comrades. Maybe he was in conflict with his times.

Matthew Fleming

It was a question begging to be asked. What was he doing there?Bristol on 20 June 1992 was windy and empty, players were changingin cabins and Courtney Walsh was bowling bumpers with what localsare pleased to call ‘a breeze’ at his back. His family is the 47th richestin England, merchant bankers the lot of ’em—a cricketing chum had bowed when being introduced to his mother—and he is an OldEtonian and a dashing Green Jacket. The world is his oyster and herehe was playing cricket for Kent in Bristol.

Matthew Valentine Fleming is a singular fellow. His life has beenan adventure, a rejection of the progress apparently incumbent uponhim when he was born into a rich and distinguished family. Noblesseoblige and all that.

From posh school to City, from tuck shop to long lunches, it wasall mapped out but his spirit rebelled and he found a friend in a fatherwho could see what a prison London could seem to an energetic

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youngster. Far better for the lad to sample life, which is precisely whatFleming has been doing ever since, on the field and off it.

As a cricketer he is becoming a latter-day Gilbert Jessop, a cele-brated hitter whose bat swings from ear to ear, a winner of matches,a batsman so destructive that bowlers talk of being ‘Fleminged’ muchas batsmen talk of being ‘Waqared’. He has won three B&H goldmedals this season alone and his is the wicket Hampshire woulddearly like to take cheaply at Lord’s next week.

He can be the very devil to bowl to, not least because he playsshots nobody else thinks about, such as the forehand cross-court.Add fast hands, extraordinary power in a surprisingly slight andbandaged frame, a squash player’s eye and a gambler’s nerve and it iseasy to see why he can swing a game in a few overs.

Certainly, Somerset could not contain him in their B&H contestas Fleming struck four colossal sixes. Two Sundays ago, he tookguard with his team in trouble and promptly dispatched his first twodeliveries back over the bowler’s head. Here is a player free of emaci-ated thought, free of professional inhibition with its five runs an over.But, then, he has experienced parts of life far beyond matters of runsand wickets.

Upon leaving Eton, judging himself to be ‘too thick for university’and too much of an outdoor type to embark upon a business career—‘never seeing the sun, 7.30 to 6.30, never expressing your ability, it’snot for me’—Fleming joined the Royal Green Jackets, attended Sand-hurst and soon found himself serving in Ireland and Hong Kong.

He grew up quickly. In Ireland he saw a gypsy with a six-footscythe in his chest, and the bodies of two soldiers who had died in acar crash. He learnt to muck in with the soldiers and enjoyed theboy’s life that had always been beckoning. ‘They are a grand lot,soldiers: they work hard, play hard, don’t take any crap from anyoneand let you know if you are wrong. Mistakes cost lives. And they seethrough people very quickly.’

He also served in the Far East, saw Chinese refugees trying to clawtheir way into Hong Kong. ‘The desperation of those people. Theysaw a pot of gold and they wanted to get there. They’d cut their waythrough razor wire, get chopped to pieces, caught and sent home.Then they’d try again. Have you ever seen razor wire?’

He loved Hong Kong because it never slept, contained such

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extremes, such an unstinting sense of life. But he did not stay in thearmy beyond the years of his commission. He realised he must leavebecause cuts were being made, petty scrimping, football rattles ratherthan ammunition, that sort of thing. Fleming is not a petty person,hates backstabbers, gives it ‘an absolute crash’ off the tee. It was timeto move on. Yet he was not ready for the City, and though he had notbeen an outstanding schoolboy player—only two years in the Eton XI—cricket was whispering in his head.

Moreover, it was in his blood. An ancestor, CFH Leslie, had oncerun a seven at Lord’s and played for England against Australia and forthe Gentlemen as well, winning praise for his ‘great resolution’ inscoring 59 against the Players in 1881. Mind you, he recorded a‘pair’ in 1882. Family historians insist that Leslie stopped playingbecause he ran out of money.

Fleming’s mother was, her son asserts, ‘a very fast bowler’, whilehis father also appreciated the game and could see why his offspringwanted to try his luck in the years left before cufflinks. Eton had notof late produced many county cricketers—‘it’s all Cirencester andCity’—and not every Etonian is a swashbuckler. They are, though,usually idiosyncratic and durable.

Encouraged by the ‘late, great Colin Page, who told me I’d winmatches and lose matches and never to change’, Fleming joined Kent.His first two scoring shots in county cricket were sixes and he hascontinued to bash away. He did so at Bristol, cutting Walsh threetimes, playing handsome flicks off his pads and banging bowlers backover their heads. He scored 65, his highest tally of the season—‘Pathetic, isn’t it? My concentration is disastrous’—before spooninga hook. It was an innings of astonishing power, the innings of a manof action. Typically, his highest first-class score (116) was madeagainst last season’s formidable West Indians.

It is easy to cast Fleming as an indulgent fly-by-night playing jollycricket before settling down to a serious career. But that is not himat all. Apart from anything else, professional cricket is no easy option.‘It frustrates me, but the game seems so slow on television, peoplethink it is soft. They should face Ambrose.’ Fleming is an original, buthe is also a fighter who is dangerous because he does not recognisethe limitations accepted by others. He is no slogger, but a hitter whodoes not believe in the half-cock.

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Andrew Caddick

Andrew Caddick cuts an isolated figure. He has the character of adisplaced person, almost a refugee, wary, awkward, needing warmth.He pretends not to care, keeps his distance, pushes the world awaywith blurted words and an aloof manner. In his mind he disdains thebackslappers and concentrates only upon deeds. In his heart heregrets the abruptness of his approach, the chill of his mien, for he ismore affable than he seems, and yearns for an acceptance he findswith his beloved. He does not, cannot, push himself into the cheeryand cheering throng and instead builds his own life, putting ittogether as he might a spell on a damp afternoon at Old Trafford.

Caddick has always been cautious and misunderstood. His back-ground tells the tale, pointing towards a pragmatic man from ahumble family that came together in distant Christchurch and slowlyfound its place in this world.

Christchurch is an amiable town in the South Island of NewZealand where the clocks tick and time does not pass. Caddick’sparents, Chris and Audrey, settled there decades ago. Audrey’s fatherwas a boilermaker on the ships in Tyneside, a working man and akeen supporter of Newcastle United. Every Sunday afternoon, thefamily would gather to play whist and eat homemade stutty-cake, abread favoured in the region. Audrey went to New Zealand as a slipof a lass in search of adventure.

Caddick’s great-grandfather lived in a little village outside Liver-pool, where he ran music halls and sent barges down the canal. Hisgranddad also ran barges, pulled by Clydesdale horses as they movedtowards the ships waiting in the docks. If his dad was in trouble, hecould run to the shore women and they would protect him becauseno one took them on. Their village was a community with fairs,gypsies, pubs, a school and its own policeman. Boys collected frogspawn and put pennies on rails to see how big they would grow afterthe train had passed.

Andrew’s paternal grandfather lost his barges in the Second WorldWar and soon lorries took over. Accordingly, the parents bookedseats on a boat bound for New Zealand. Upon arriving, Chris livedas a roustabout, milking, stalking deer and selling their skins for apound and their tails for one shilling and sixpence. To earn a living,

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the family turned to plastering and tiling and were much in demandas other immigrants arrived. Caddick’s parents met in a bakery andpromptly married, enlarging their home as four children arrived, withAndrew third in the batting order.

Then came the tragedy of their lives. Michael, the eldest son, hadleft school at sixteen to work as a plasterer. His father was absent andit was wet. Someone moved the boom and Michael was electrocutedby a cable. They rushed him to hospital, but his heart was toodamaged. A service was held in their local Catholic church and theboy was buried. Twenty years later, the Caddicks still live in the samesmall weatherboard house, except it is not small or weatherboardanymore because Dad is a builder. The door to his room is stillclosed.

Andrew grew and his cricket grew with him. In his last year atschool, he was coached by Dennis Lillee, who changed him from aninswing bowler with an open chest to a conveyor of outswing.Although he took wickets, he did not feel wanted and wasn’t givenmuch recognition. His mother says, ‘Doors did not open for him. Itwas background.’ A contemporary says, ‘He did not go to the rightschool.’ Perhaps it was also his personality.

And so he came to England, searching for life and opportunity. Hestayed with an aunt in London, played cricket for Hampstead inMiddlesex, was spotted by Somerset and made his debut against WestIndies in 1991. It took him a long time to prove himself, to gain theacceptance he craved. People see what they want to see.

Caddick can appear gaunt. His height is part of it, the lofty perchfrom which he sends down those thunderbolts that Steve Waughfound difficult to subdue. He has always believed in method and notemotion and has been mechanical, practical and imitative. Artistry isnot for him, nor the romance others find in a game of bat and ball.He focuses on figures.

Long limbs, though, cannot alone explain the distance between thisman and his world. Somehow Caddick invites rebuke, especially fromthose half-acquainted. He lacks the human touch, the jolliness ofmanner and fervent nationalism needed to convince the sceptics. He iswithout charm or grace. Blessed with a thick skin, he makes little effortto correct unfavourable impressions. Accordingly, his mistakes areexaggerated till they seem to take over his entire character.

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Often he has been accused of lacking heart. Closer examinationreveals a man willing to bowl all day, and to defy painful injury toperform his task. Spectators at Somerset see him take the new ball at11 a.m. and find him still mopping his brow after tea, still poundingthe turf in his long-legged way, flinging the ball down and betweenovers accepting a consoling sweet from the groundsman. He hasbowled despite soreness in his shins so severe that surgery wasneeded, has not missed any tours and precious few matches.Throughout, he has been an old-fashioned professional, an unstint-ing and unsentimental character, a skilled worker, a pragmatist andnot a performer.

Even his bad spells can be explained. Some years ago, an Australianbowling coach detected a technical flaw whereby Caddick threw outhis right arm before letting the ball go, thereby denying his action thesmoothness it needed. Whenever he tried his hardest, this malfunc-tion became important. Once the error had been corrected, Caddickbecame reliable. Like all bowlers, he has good and bad days, but hedoes not go to pieces.

Probably he will never entirely be accepted. Perhaps he will notcompletely feel at home. But the condemnation has been too harsh.The world mistrusts those who neglect to display the requiredemotions.

Caddick has been straightforward and indiscreet. He says somefoolish things, makes idle pronouncements, not least about himself,and gives offence to the passer-by. But his record bears scrutiny.Indeed, it bears comparison with that of Angus Fraser. He has builta career and a house, and has started a family. He is a private, insecure,uncommunicative man who can give love and commitment and hehas served England to the best of his ability.

Mark Lathwell

On dark winter mornings a few years ago, there began to appear atSomerset’s decrepit indoor school a curious young man. He wouldarrive from the remotest parts of North Devon, an hour’s windingdrive away, bowl as busily as a bumblebee for two hours, have hisknock, smack it around, and then rush away with his dad, back to

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his home in Braunton. ‘He never said much,’ recalls Peter Robinson,the coach, ‘and we wondered if he was enjoying it. But a week later,there he was again.’ People noticed him because he was so silent, soself-contained and so evidently touched by a magic.

Few, then, knew anything of Mark Lathwell but, if his manner wasintriguingly matter of fact, even gloomy, his strokeplay was brilliant,an explosion of wrist and forearm. ‘I kept expecting the ball to go inthe air,’ Robinson said, ‘but it never did.’ His style stood out amongthe trained orthodoxies of his contemporaries, and although he neverseemed to smile, he kept bustling in to bowl, and flicking the ball awayas if anybody could do it. Here was a young man whose chief charac-teristic appeared to be a determination to keep the world at bay.

Nothing much has changed since then, save that his gifts are nowwidely recognised. Slowly he has let himself loose, gradually there hasemerged a personality at once thoughtful, watchful, likeable andfunny, in a wry, dry sort of way. And still he wants to keep the worldat bay, feels a little threatened by his sudden fame, by the request forinterviews, says he does not ‘want to be more important than I am.I like being a nobody. I always wanted to be a nobody.’

He says it, not in alarm, but rather as a youngster who cannotfathom why cricketers are more famous than, say, engineers, the tradepursued by his father. If he suffers at all, it is from sanity. If he appearsreticent at first, it is because he is slow to trust, hates conflict, ishappiest when he can relax in the company of his mates around a dartboard or pool table, or in the atmosphere of a contented cricketteam, like Somerset or England A.

Lathwell was born, not in Devon, but in Bletchley, Bucking-hamshire. ‘What were you doing there?’ I asked, to which, after astunned pause, he replied, ‘That’s where we lived.’ He moved toBraunton as a child and stays there, in his room in the family houseon an estate, as often as he can. If his career does not take off, he willbe happy to spend six months playing for Somerset and the other sixat home in Braunton, where it is quiet. ‘One of the reasons peoplego away is that they can’t stand it at home. I like it in Braunton.’

As a boy he took to cricket at once. ‘I was never ambitious,though,’ he said. Then he adds, ‘I wanted to be a banker, a great all-rounder and a millionaire.’ To some ears that will sound a triumvi-rate not entirely lacking in ambition, but, again, he means it. He’d

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wanted to be a banker, and was one for eighteen months after leavingschool, because he’d enjoyed handing round the money in games ofMonopoly. He wanted to be a great all-rounder because he admiredIan Botham, and he can’t remember why he wanted to be a million-aire. He no longer does so, because, ‘funnily enough, I’ve lostinterest in money’.

Sensing that his son was unusually gifted, and hoping to release aboy more intense than he let on, Lathwell Senior started a youthteam and put up a ball in a sock on a string in the back garden. ‘I’dhit the ball into the net, it’d swing back and then I’d hit it again.’ It’sas close as he gets to analysing his game. A coach did once try tochange his grip, but it did not work and afterwards Lathwell vowedto avoid coaches if he could. He also tries to avoid anybody who issensible, a quality that has a low priority on his scale of things.

School was not for him either, because ‘it was full of strangers’. Inhis last two years he did, though, begin to write verse and stories.‘One was about a wallaby who could play cricket.’ From school hejoined a bank, and then the Lord’s groundstaff, where he learnt moreabout living than batting. He played a few games for Somersetseconds, spending most of his time locked in a fascinated duel with aone-armed bandit, and eventually began to play for the county.

Now he is rising steadily, his energetic, brilliant batting stylewinning attention. So swiftly has his reputation spread that whenSomerset met Hampshire in the B&H semi-final last year, MalcolmMarshall reserved his deadliest deliveries for the young upstart. ‘If I’dsurvived his spell,’ (Marshall had him caught behind for one) ‘I mighthave got a few, because I was feeling all right. It was a pity.’

His scintillating, if inconsistent, play won Lathwell a place in theA team to tour Australia, where his batting was ‘good and bad allmixed up. When I was bad, it was because I was negative. It was justthe way I was looking at things. In Adelaide we were in trouble andI tried to defend against two leg-spinners. It was silly.’ He prefers toopen because he cannot stand watching others missing opportunitiesto score. To Lathwell, although he’d never say it, nearly every ballpresents opportunities to score.

Now he is on the verge of great things. Fame worries him far morethan the cricket, because he cannot abide all the fuss. If the cricketdoes not work out, it will not hurt him, or not badly, because ‘I don’t

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need to play for England. Lots of players say they’ve got to play. I’venever felt like that.’ But he deserves to play. He is delightful, whenyou get to know him, and an entertaining, sometimes dazzling,batsman.

Nasser Hussain

It is 1 December 2002, and Nasser Hussain stands on the brink ofenduring the worst defeat suffered by an England captain in Austra-lia for 25 years. He had hoped to arrive as a latter-day DouglasJardine, bringing fast bowlers and plans along with him and insteadhe has been pounded from Hobart to Perth. England has not beenable to beat state sides, let alone the outfit chosen to represent theentire nation. A period in office that began promisingly is likely toend in failure. It is the way of the world. Swap the leaders and theposition might not change all that much. Captains need bowlers asgenerals need guns.

Nonetheless, this mauling has been a grievous disappointment to a proud man. Hussain must feel that he did not have a chance toprove himself. Perhaps he has tried too hard to create an impression.Certainly, he has not been as acute as previously. Great teams have away of changing the thinking of their opponents, drawing them fromfamiliar patterns and throwing them into a state of confusion.

Hussain is a belligerent character and will not take kindly to thesedefeats. Although he presents a cool exterior, there is a lot of rageinside, and no little ambition. He is not an easy man, does not findthe populist phrase or the amusing remark that attracts a loyal follow-ing even in adversity. Nor is he a natural leader but a product of hisown observations. Sometimes he seems to strain for effect, but he istough and ruthless and capable of making unpopular decisions.Players can sense his commitment to the team, can feel that hedesperately wants, almost needs, to win, and respect him for it.

Hussain has always been single-minded about his cricket. In somerespects, this is unusual because his background includes a closeimmigrant family and a sister currently pirouetting around with dancecompanies. It was a civilised upbringing in a warm and supportivefamily. Nonetheless, Hussain was regarded as brash and spoilt in his

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early years at Essex. His younger days were decorated with outburststhat revealed not so much a nasty streak as the strength of the innerdrive. His strong and weak points were writ large and in constantconflict.

His temperament held him back. Essex was a warm-hearted andselfless side and Hussain stood out like a cactus among tulips. No onedoubted his ability, but he lacked the graces needed to fit into theteam. Perhaps, though, this was merely an early indication of anunwillingness to accept the mundane. Hussain was intense anderratic. He could bat, though, and was intelligent enough tocomplete a degree at Durham University. Essex persevered, Englandwatched and waited, Hussain charged and fell back.

Inevitably, his fortunes waxed and waned. Broken fingers did notassist his cause, but England kept losing and gradually Hussain learntnot so much to douse his fire as to direct it. As so often in these cases,wedlock and fatherhood helped. There is nothing like feeding a babysome curious squidgy stuff in the morning to put a bad leg-beforedecision into perspective.

Hussain realised that patience and ambition were not mortalenemies and that a man must serve before he can lead. He learnt thatonly a fool fails to correct his own manifest failings, accepted that theworld did not owe him a living and was bound to judge him onappearances. No one had any time to think about his needs. Prettysoon, he forced his way into the England team and became a regular.Michael Atherton and Alec Stewart could see his qualities and werenot put off by his juvenile reputation.

Eventually, the thorny crown was placed upon the head of theturbulent immigrant from Madras. Helped by Duncan Fletcher,Hussain set out to raise a team full of character and hard to beat. Hedid not tolerate any shillyshallying. Despite recent defeats, he has, byand large, been a successful captain. Although England remains weakin important places, it has played some sturdy cricket and seems tobe improving. Although lacking great players, Hussain’s team bats along way down and fights hard.

Australia has been his undoing, largely because, in his anxiety toprevail, he forgot the lessons that the game has taught. Injuries havetaken a toll, but Hussain has not batted well and has not found thebalance between mental aggression and tactical caution. Heavy defeat

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awaits, and the inevitable recriminations. Men like him live and diewithout compromise. Hussain knows he is finished. Now it is amatter of leaving with head held high, and passing the mantle to aman with a lighter touch. Hussain has hardened his team, the roleplayed by Allan Border in Australia’s rise from the cricketing ditch.Soon it will be up to his successor to take the team on the next partof its journey.

Michael Vaughan

Michael Vaughan has played superbly this English summer and hasbecome his country’s best batsman. Already, he has passed 1000 Testruns for the year and he played every bit as well as Rahul Dravid andSachin Tendulkar in the recently completed series between Englandand India.

Along the way, his average rose from 31 to 48. Nor did it looklike one of those hot runs enjoyed by punters and sportsmen, oftenas a prelude to some calamity. Admittedly, the bowling was un-demanding and the pitches hospitable, but these performances tellof concentration and durability. He did not falter and, after a shortbreak for running repairs on his knee, will arrive in Australia at thepeak of his powers.

Vaughan may be the best right-handed opener England has foundsince Graham Gooch. He is more willing to attack than MichaelAtherton, yet seems every bit as much master of his own fate.Australian spectators can look forward to watching an accomplishedbatsman attempt the crucial task of subduing Glenn McGrath andchums. If Vaughan fails, England might as well go home. Fortu-nately, he has the intelligence, skill and application needed to succeed.Calm and unusually nimble for a tall man, he could be a thorn inAustralia’s side.

Throughout the northern summer, Vaughan batted with authorityand composure and revealed a wide range of strokes. He played longinnings, too, twice reaching the 190s only to lose his wicket to probingdeliveries. In the tradition of Yorkshire openers, he does not throw hiswicket away. Nor is he content merely to occupy the crease like a clerkbehind a desk, watching the clock tick by. Once accustomed to the

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light and pitch, he tries to take charge, scoring swiftly without everappearing belligerent. Vaughan uses his height to drive and often easesthe ball through the leg-side with the full blade of the bat.

Balanced at the crease and steady in his approach to life, Vaughanis not easily upset. Brought up in the northern leagues, he is tougherthan he looks and the Australians will not rile him. There is no angeror agitation in him, nothing to stop him concentrating upon theimportant matter of scoring runs.

Although his rise may seem sudden, cricket has been waiting along time for the tall northerner to find his feet. Vaughan was firstencountered as captain of England’s under-19 team, playing againsta West Indian outfit that included Shivnarine Chanderpaul. In thosedays, his opening partner was a burly lad from Keynsham, nearBristol, by the name of Marcus Trescothick. Vaughan was a dry, self-contained young man and somewhat defensive in his outlook. Asolid career was predicted for him, but he seemed to lack the biterequired to prosper in the highest company.

Although he presented a straight bat and played neatly, he did notentirely take his opportunities and appeared limited. He had time toplay his strokes, and a sound game, but was caged by orthodoxy andrespect for the game. Still, he did force his way into an England teamsearching for batsmen capable of building an innings, and his defen-sive skills and fortitude helped him to secure a regular place in theTest line-up.

Alongside Atherton, he survived for several hours at Lord’s asCurtly Ambrose and Courtney Walsh pursued wickets on a livelypitch. This seemed to be his destiny, a resolute batsman in the stoicaltradition, a fine softener of the ball, an old-fashioned opener.

In the past few months, Vaughan has moved beyond these restric-tions to emerge as a stroke player of the highest class. Something hasclicked in his head. Rather than trying to avoid failure, he pursuessuccess, putting all the pressure on the bowlers. It took courage toreject his breeding and background and to explore the edges of hisgame. Against the Indians, Vaughan drove on the rise and pulled fearlessly. He also played the spinners cleverly and boldly, steppingdown the pitch to drive Anil Kumble through mid-wicket or else pastthe bowler and bending to sweep Harbhajan Singh with a combina-tion of eye and power that drove the bowler to distraction.

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Vaughan has also formed a happy cooperation with his old friendTrescothick at the top of the order, and the pair run aggressively andunselfishly, besides batting in such different styles that opponentsfind them difficult to control. These fellows will not let theAustralians push them around. Challenges will be met and loosedeliveries will be put away.

No glaring weaknesses have been detected in Vaughan’s techniqueor temperament and he is capable of scoring heavily against anyattack. Vaughan has become a fine cricketer and an importantmember of an England team hoping to spring a surprise. His may bethe key wicket this winter, a possibility that may not have escapedMcGrath. After years of hard work, Vaughan has become anovernight success.

Michael Vaughan defies the AustraliansMichael Vaughan has brought the 2002–03 Test series back to life.Assisted by a timid decision from the third umpire, this lofty, cerebralopening batsman from the northern regions of a damp countryproduced the innings his team needed to revive its cause. Nor did hemerely graft his way to three figures in the manner expected fromtop-order batsmen in an embattled line-up. Instead, Vaughan battedstylishly and purposefully as he took his team towards a total bigenough to trouble Australia.

Vaughan was superb. An hour before the match began, he injureda knee in one of those warm-ups that play such a part in the life ofthe modern sportsman. By all accounts, his place was in doubt till thecaptains marched out to complete the formalities, Nasser Hussainhaving spent the previous hour repeating ‘We’ll bat’. At last, Vaughandeclared himself fit to join his comrades. Apart, of course, from theselection of his better half, it was the best decision he has taken.

Notwithstanding these distracting preparations, Vaughanappeared calm as he started batting on a pitch that favoured thisactivity. At first, he needed a bit of luck as Australia’s opening bowlersproduced numerous demanding deliveries, several of which eluded aproffered bat. Vaughan did not appear flustered and put thesemishaps out of his mind, precisely the outlook required.

After taking a look at the bowling, and finding nothing in it toprovoke sleepless nights, the adopted Yorkshireman went for his

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strokes. In his early years, Vaughan was a drudge who collected runsslowly and carefully. Nowadays, he bats with gusto, striking the ballwith a full swing of the bat and always looking for opportunities toscore. Rather earlier than Mr Scrooge, he met his ghosts and tooknote of their recommendations.

Along the way, Vaughan needed one stroke of luck. On 19, hedrove to cover and was cleanly and clearly caught by Justin Langer.Of course, the fieldsmen celebrated, only to find the batsmanstanding his ground and waiting for the replays. Alas, the appointedand well-rewarded umpires refused to take responsibility, whereupontheir assistant detected doubt where none existed and the appeal wasturned down. It was a demeaning and dispiriting episode and it ishigh time these matters were sorted out on the field. Vaughan wasout. Between them, the umpires and the game produced the wrongverdict. If this is progress, then we are better off without it.

Spared, the England opener cut loose without ever losing hishead. Few tall men have scored heavily in Test cricket because ofweaknesses on the back foot. Vaughan has no such deficiency andproved it by carting sixes over mid-wicket and hooking the fastestbowlers around. Pulls and stylish strokes through cover were thestrong points of his game.

Twice, the northerner pounced upon shortish deliveries fromAndrew Bichel and dispatched them into a nearby crowd. Repeatedly,he rocked back to pull pace and spin through the leg-side, a shot heplays better than any contemporary. Often, he stepped back to easepresentable balls to the boundary behind point. His judgement oflength was unerring and the execution of each shot decisive. Austra-lia could not work out a way of dismissing him and the home captainwas reduced to bowling bumpers to a defensive field.

Vaughan played umpteen brilliant strokes, including a back-footshot past the bowler and some calculated assaults on Shane Warnethat alarmed the members watching from behind the fence. Afterreaching three figures with another delightful off-drive, he danced ajig and promptly set about adding to his tally.

Adelaide has known greater innings, but few as important to thewellbeing of a touring team. England fought back, and Vaughan ledthe way. It was a happy day for him and his countrymen, a day onwhich an embattled team stood up to be counted.

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6

Shafts oflightning

Despite all the refinements, cricket is still about one bloke with a bitof leather trying to knock the block off another fellow armed with a

lump of wood.

Fast bowlers are an essential part of the game. Nothing is morecalculated to excite a crowd than the picture of an explosivebowler pawing the ground at the top of his mark, unless it is

the sight of an athletic paceman streaming across the turf to deliveranother shaft of lightning. This is cricket at its most primeval, the sort of cricket played in comic strips and in the dreams of adven-turous boys.

Many of the most celebrated moments in the game feature fastbowlers as the heroes or the villains. In 1954–55, Frank Tysondestroyed the Australians with arguably the fastest bowling crickethas known. In 1960–61, Wes Hall roared in time and again withpendulum swinging and the crowd hushed for every delivery. Beforethat it was Harold Larwood and much later it was the great WestIndians, who hunted not in pairs but quartets and from whose atten-tions not even the sturdiest batting orders could escape.

Nor has fast bowling merely stirred the imagination. Without theiruncompromising assault upon the bones of opposing batsmen, medi-ocrity could more easily prosper. Not that the attack is quite as fierceas was the case in the time of spiky gloves and thigh guards as thin as sliced bread. Modern batsmen wear almost as much armour as

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Ned Kelly, so courage does not play quite such a large role in batting.In the past, too, pitches could be wet or rough and bravery wasdemanded from those hoping to make runs.

Nowadays, the pitches are mostly placid, the bowler must send theball down from the full distance and restrictions have been placed onthe number of deliveries that can with impunity be aimed at thebatsman’s head. Unsurprisingly, pacemen have detected in thesechanges a conspiracy to thwart their enterprise. Of course, they havelong been convinced that cricket is a game run by batsmen on behalfof batsmen, and they may be right about that.

Even so, it is no small thing to stand 22 yards from a man of darkintent capable of flinging a hard missile in the general direction of hisopponents. Batsmen are not in as much danger, but extreme pace stilltests their mettle. Courage is not the only consideration. Noteveryone has the reflexes needed to fashion an appropriate responseas a ball hurries towards them at the speed favoured by teenagedrivers.

Skill is also important in countering extreme pace. A ball changingdirection at high speed is incomparably more difficult to play than aball ambling along. Indeed, many pace bowlers are willing to reducetheir velocity by a yard in an attempt to move the ball around. In fact,it has become quite the fashion as more matches are played and moreslow pitches are prepared by countries anxious that Test matches lastthe full five days, thereby satisfying the requirements of televisionmoguls.

Clearly, fast men remain an important part of any attack commit-ted to removing a resolute batting line-up. Undoubtedly, the 1970swas the greatest period of fast bowling. Of course, events do notdivide themselves into convenient decades. Probably the period ranfrom the emergence of Dennis Lillee and Jeff Thomson in the early1970s to the fading of the last West Indians and the impressivePakistanis about fifteen years later. Opening batsmen of that era hada tough time.

Not every fast bowler mentioned in this book has been includedin this chapter. Malcolm Marshall, Glenn McGrath and Dennis Lilleefound a place elsewhere. As far as this section is concerned, WasimAkram and Courtney Walsh take the new ball, a pair blessed withcontrasting skills and temperaments, the Pakistani relying on

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wizardry and the Jamaican upon height and perseverance. ChamindaVaas and Shoaib Akhtar follow, a couple whose different ways remindus that cricketers come in all shapes and sizes, from the patientCatholic left-armer who enjoys singing to the fiery warrior withnightclubs in his eyes.

Wasim Akram

Wasim Akram is both a rascal and a cricketing genius. In his hands, aball performed the sort of contortions more often associated withdemented pixies. His deliveries embarked upon journeys morecomplicated than any previously undertaken between poppingcreases. They seemed to have second thoughts halfway down thepitch, whereupon they would change direction, thereby confoundingcarefully constructed defences. Against Wasim at his most fiendishthere could be no security, for a piece of wood gives poor protectionagainst charges of electricity.

His mischievous side was captured by a piratical face and gleamingeyes that hinted at a darkness within. Certainly, it was easy to imagineWasim with a knife in his mouth as he swung through the mastsbefore tossing his enemies overboard with a grin and a cheer. Hecould just as easily have been cast as a matinee idol or as the villain ina pantomime. No one could ever tell whether angelic or devilishforces had the stronger hold upon his heart. Suffice it to say that thestruggle had an epic quality, and that it was amply reflected in hissporting career. During the course of a single afternoon, Wasim couldupset his supporters and charm the ill-disposed. Upon the field andoff it, he cast a spell.

Undoubtedly, he has been among the greatest fast bowlers of histime. Certainly, he was the most interesting to watch because he wasdaring, dangerous and never dull. Often he resembled a magiciantaking delight in performing feats supposedly beyond the power ofman. Sometimes they were illusions and sometimes trickery wasinvolved, but none of it could have worked unless Wasim did indeedhave wonderful powers at his disposal. He was an inspired bowler, achivalrous and yet unscrupulous propeller of the cricket ball whosemoods were expressed in the pace of his deliveries.

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Of course, he was also infuriating, and that was part of themystery, the sense that he was not a simple soul sending down scin-tillating productions but a wilful, playful, moody, calculating andcunning customer as likely to be ignoring his captain and followinghis own whims as playing his part in the collective effort. He was anidealistic bowler, always searching for the perfect delivery, the incom-parable spell, yet he was touched and sometimes overtaken bycynicism, for he knew the darkness of his own soul and reckoned,correctly, that the world was not all it appeared to be. In short, he wasan artist who was obliged to paint his pictures within the confines ofa cricket team and within the parameters of a cricket match.

Wasim will be remembered for his brilliant moments, not least thestunning bursts produced on the great day in Melbourne whenPakistan won the 1992 World Cup. Wasim’s elimination of AllanLamb and other members of the top order will not be forgotten bythose privileged to have watched it. None of the batsmen made amistake, none was complacent or showed the slightest disrespect,everyone was fully prepared to counter the threat of the bowler withthe flashing arm, a man who released the ball in his run and couldmake it swing in different directions with some hidden adjustment ofthe wrist. England gave Wasim his due, built a wall around thestumps and still could not prevent the havoc wrought by this crick-eting tornado.

At such times, Wasim was irresistible. He did not lower himself tobuying wickets or maintaining line and length till eventually his oppo-nents lost patience. Rather, he seized the ball and took wickets witha combination of force and supreme skill. Moreover, he was oftenarmed with a new ball, pristine and white, free from interference.There have been more reliable bowlers, but there cannot have beenany with as wide a range of deliveries.

Wasim’s mischief cannot be ignored, either, for all men must becalled to account for the entirety of their activities. Along the way,Wasim fought bitterly with various captains, was suspected, thoughnot convicted, of tampering with cricket balls and allegedly becameinvolved with bookmakers. Although he protested his innocence,there will be black marks against his name when the reckoning istaken. He has been a magnificent cricketer, but perhaps not a truechampion.

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Fortunately, Wasim leaves behind many happy cricketingmemories. After all, it was a long and brilliant career, and he couldbe delightful and amusing. Once it was customary to create beauti-ful illusions about sportsmen, and to imagine they inhabited a worldremoved from our daily discourse. Of course, it was all poppycock.Nowadays, cricketers are regarded merely as members of society,products of their time. Recent biographies of past players reveal theflaws of man. Wasim is living proof that top sportsmen are onlyspecial on the field.

Cricketers like Wasim are not to be judged only in terms of figures.He has a remarkable record, but that is not the entire point. No onedoubts that he was a great player. Rather, he is to be judged by hiscontribution to the game, as a match-winner and as a man whoproved that bowling could be as entertaining as batting.

Between them, Wasim and Shane Warne revived the art ofbowling, thereby helping to restore interest in Test cricket. Neitherbelonged in a vicarage; both dared to challenge the orthodoxies.Wasim and Warne were radicals in a conservative game. Theyreminded us that bowlers are not mere machines. Their wizardry wasas strong a protest against servility as bodyline. They were artists andrefused to kowtow. Admittedly, they were betimes caught with theirfingers in the pie, but they could argue that they had done most ofthe baking.

Courtney Walsh

Courtney Walsh has toiled throughout the 2000–01 series withouttaking many wickets. Doubtless, he’d been hoping to claim theseventeen needed to reach 500 in a blaze of antipodean glory. Unfor-tunately, cricket is a game without sentiment.

Walsh has worked hard, but has seldom looked like runningthrough the Australian batsmen. Often, he’s been reduced to acontaining role. Partly it is a comment upon his age. Partly it is astatement about the incompetence of colleagues curiously keen totest Mark Waugh’s leg-side play and Justin Langer’s ability to cut.

Walsh has taken only nine wickets in the series and time is runningout. He has suffered the fate of the top bowler in a struggling side.

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Batsmen have kept an eye upon him and punished the rest. He neverhas enough runs on the board and always seems to be bowling to thebest batsmen. By the time the lower orders appear, he is exhausted.Accordingly, he has been unable to add significantly to his long listof victims. He has taken 66 in this calendar year, and the last few havebeen the toughest.

Watching Walsh in this series, it’s hard to believe that he was theoutstanding bowler last summer in England, better than CurtlyAmbrose, better than Darren Gough or Andrew Caddick.

Walsh was magnificent in that series, menacing, skilful and persist-ent. A leg-cutter had found its way into his repertoire, complement-ing his natural inswing. Walsh also took delight in his newfoundslower ball that twice confounded Graham Thorpe, whereupon thebowler celebrated as might a father upon the appearance of his first-born. His performance confirmed the adage that it is foolish tounderestimate an ageing bowler. Invariably, they lick their lips andhave a crafty look in their eye. The young bloods are the fellows tohit around.

England was the peak of his career, a superb display that brought34 wickets at an average of thirteen. Alas, Walsh has not been nearlyas dangerous this series. At times, he has looked distinctly flat. Severalreasons lie behind this apparent decline. Naturally, he enjoyedbowling on damp and unreliable English pitches. Also, Ambrose wasaround to lend a hand. This pair often bowled together, pinning thebatsman down, grafting for wickets. Now there is no one else tomaintain the pressure. Walsh also had more luck than he’s enjoyeddown under with umpires and edges.

Perhaps this strong man, who seems to bowl on Coca-Cola as carsrun on petrol, was under-prepared for this series. Before it began, hewas not sure he was going to play. Conceivably, his mind and bodyslowed down like a generator whose power had been reduced. It cantake a long time to restore the surge. Happily, Walsh has not lethimself down. Certainly, there has been no reason to pity him. Noone has taken liberties against him. He can bowl a length in his sleepand that isn’t a bad start. And yet his resilience has been tested to theutmost and sometimes he has seemed downcast.

Walsh’s time is almost up. This is his last appearance in Melbourneand Australia will say its farewells in the final Test next week. He has

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started to lumber in the field and won’t want to stay around muchlonger. Something has been lost. Australians will have fond memoriesof this willing worker, this craftsman blessed with stamina and deter-mination. They’ll remember with a mixture of pain and pleasure hisunstinting effort in Adelaide eight summers ago, where he keptflogging himself to the crease and took the last wicket with Australiatwo runs shy of victory. His eyes then bulged and he ran around likethe 5-year-old that lives inside every sportsman until his day is done.

Shoaib Akhtar

If at all possible, Pakistan must accommodate Shoaib Akhtar. Nevermind that he is frustrating and has disdained camps designed to turna bunch of players into a fighting unit. Every team is allowed onemaverick, or what is management about? Moreover, true fast bowlersappear about once a decade, whereupon they give an attack itscutting edge and the game much of its excitement. Shoaib can be irri-tating, but he can also produce the sort of devastating spells thatchange a match and thrill a crowd.

Shoaib is not a normal cricketer, an off-spinner or yet anothermedium-pacer. Nor is he even quite a typical fast bowler, for some ofthem have been sensible. Rather, he belongs to the wild and woollyschool of pace bowling. Those expecting him to spend time drinkingmilkshakes and visiting libraries are doomed to a life of disappoint-ment. Part headhunter and part headline grabber, he deals in yorkersand bumpers and pursues wickets with the zeal Casanova reserved forconquests. In short, he is a brigand, a Fred Trueman or a DennisLillee, a member of an honourable tradition that has proved effectiveover the years, but whose members have not always been popularwith authority.

No one in their right mind expects those who charge to the creaselike enraged bulls and hurl the ball down with every last ounce ofstrength to display the impeccable manners of the Edwardiandrawing room. It takes an unusual man to try his luck in this riskyenterprise. What are its attractions? A batsman can play lovely strokesand seek the satisfaction of scoring a hundred. A stumper is involvedwith every ball and can bat as he chooses. A spinner need trot in off

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a few steps, whereupon something strange comes over spectators. Afast bowler must sweat upon tame pitches against protected batsmen,before unhelpful umpires and with endless restrictions placed uponhim. He sees batsmen let the ball pass, umpires shake their heads andmust walk uncomplaining back to his mark.

What makes them do it? The fear in the eyes of batsmen, the roarof the crowd and the glorious sight of a stump on its way to thewicket-keeper, that’s what. And it is fun to be a villain. Shoaib andchums are not to be put alongside the crafty and the acquisitive.They belong in a distinct group, men of extremes intent upon thespectacular. They can win a match in a spell, terrify tailenders andoutrage critics before going into the night with more mayhem inmind. The idea that such men are going to be tame is fanciful. It istheir wildness that makes them do it.

Shoaib needs to be understood. It is important to him that he cutsa dash and commands attention. Every fast bowler knows that his giftlasts as long as youth and could end this morning should a bonecrack. As far as he is concerned, it is now or never. Shoaib is not a fooland knows he will not be wanted once the threat has been reduced.Accordingly, he does things on his own terms. No point telling menlike him it is a team game and that he must report at such a place atsuch a time. Who is going to take the wickets? Who is going to fillthe ground? Who is going to take care of him when he slows down?At once he is flamboyant and insecure.

Shoaib is not an unsympathetic character. No hint of malice ormeanness can be found within him. He is too big for all that. Nor doeshe shirk. Of course, he does swagger about, but he has not often let hisside down. It’s just that everything with him is writ large. Even by thestandards of fast bowlers, it must be admitted that he is wilful and erratic.He has a stubborn streak, too, and sometimes seems prepared to spitehis face by cutting off his nose (though not, one suspects, his hair).

Doubtless, captains and coaches find him difficult to handle, buta way must be found because Shoaib has a precious gift. Naturally,Bob Woolmer and his fitness assistants want to mould a team. Indeed,they were appointed with this task in mind because Pakistan has oftenbeen weakened by wrangling and ill-discipline. Nevertheless, somelicence must be given to the local tearaway. It is not as if Shoaib hasbeen lolling about on a desert island.

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Moreover, the bowler could point out that the Pakistan CricketBoard does not take care of its players by providing secure contractsor appropriate rewards. To the contrary, the PCB stands accused ofencouraging the ‘every man for himself’ mentality. Whatever argu-ments are presented, the fact remains that Pakistan and Shoaib needeach other and the sooner common ground is found the better it willbe for all concerned.

Chaminda Vaas

Chaminda Vaas is the unsung hero of Sri Lankan cricket. Over theyears, credit has been given to more charismatic men whose leader-ship and prodigious talents secured a vast following across the land.Aravinda De Silva, Arjuna Ranatunga and Muttiah Muralitharan havebeen colourful and controversial characters whose deeds have turnedcricket fields into stages. An emerging cricketing force searching foridentity took them to its heart, defended them against all comers.Every country needs its champions and its warriors.

Vaas has been the quiet achiever, bowling his overs, scoring hisruns, hiding his exasperation at dropped catches and bad luck andalways turning out for the next match determined to serve to the verybest of his abilities. It is a contribution whose importance will even-tually be realised. Meanwhile, it is a matter of looking in the booksand counting wickets, matches and victories, and throughout Vaashas been the leader of the attack.

A tendency has arisen to underestimate consistent and humbleperformers. Often, such men are not properly appreciated till thetime comes to hang up the boots. Within the game, though, Vaascommands respect. Certainly, the Australians hold him in highregard. During the last series played in Sri Lanka, many of the Aussiebatsmen remarked upon his skill, control and perseverance. Norcould they read his swing and none felt they had his measure. Consid-ering the aggression of the Australians, the nature of the pitches andVaas’s lack of height and pace, this was high praise.

Perhaps, too, it is an indication of a revival in fast-medium bowling.Not so long ago, batsmen were convinced that medium-pace was asdead as last month’s newsreel. But, then, much the same was said of

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wrist-spin a decade ago. A study of the rankings confirms that it was allhogwash. Glenn McGrath, Shaun Pollock and Vaas might not strikefear into a collection of librarians, but they take wickets economicallyand help their captains to retain control of the game. And they last along time.

Vaas and company have reinforced the view that cricket is a gameof skill. Their work cannot be appreciated with a casual glance, forthere is nothing scintillating about it. Closer scrutiny reveals clevervariations and an ability to pin a batsman down till his will has beenbroken or a weak point has been exploited. Aggression has manyforms and is not to be mistaken for mindless violence. The WestIndians of the 1980s did not rely on speed alone; they were supremetechnicians.

Consistency is Vaas’s other strong point. He does not have manybad days. He is the most resourceful of the left-handers to emerge inthe last few years and has about him the air of the canny professionalcapable of adjusting his game to meet the prevailing circumstances.When the ball is swinging, he is dangerous and when the blessedthing refuses to leave the straight and narrow, he is able to concen-trate upon cutters and other subtleties devised over the years.

Every country needs a fast bowler capable of taking wickets withthe new ball. In his unobtrusive way, Vaas has fulfilled this role for SriLanka. Of course, he has not quite been a Kapil Dev or an ImranKhan, inspirational figures coaxing life from moribund surfaces. Suchmen come along once in a generation. But Chaminda has led in hisown way and his figures speak for themselves.

Not so long ago, the idea of a Sri Lankan fast bowler takinghundreds of wickets in Test cricket seemed far-fetched. The pitcheswere unhelpful, the locals were not strong enough and it was toodamn hot. Vaas refused to give in and has become one of the mostpopular and admired cricketers around. It is a considerable achieve-ment. Many bowlers in India, Pakistan and elsewhere could learn alot from him.

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7

From theCaribbean

Tactics took a back seat during the years of West Indian supremacy.They played proud and ruthless cricket and no one could stop them.Now, though . . . no longer can the general rely upon his artillery

to break the enemy.

Cricket is different in the West Indies. Every ground has itsown characters, its own identity. Of course, the West Indiesdoes not exist as a political entity and instead consists of inde-

pendent islands and a South American country. Conflicts occurbetween neighbouring provinces elsewhere, so it is hardly surprisingthat countries with different traditions and backgrounds find them-selves at odds.

Now and then, the idea of a West Indian Federation reappears,only to falter in the face of national interests. CLR James, the mostchallenging of cricket writers, and Sir Frank Worrell, the greatest ofcricketing leaders, were among those arguing in favour of WestIndian unity. Unable to sway the isolationists, they were obliged toconcentrate their energies upon their chosen field, the game of batand ball that had taken hold in the region.

In many respects, the lives of James and Worrell tell the story ofWest Indian cricket, or anyhow its promise, because the performancehas not always lived up to expectation. James was the philosophersitting in his Brixton flat, writing about nationalism and Marxism and expounding upon the players he had seen in his homeland. Hehad a penetrating mind, a sharp tongue and a love of the game.

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Viv Richards and other Somerset players visited him once during amatch with Surrey and remembered his darting mind and themodesty of his surroundings. Here was a proud man uninterested inthe beads and bangles of success.

Worrell’s wisdom emerged on the field, where he coaxed cricketand conduct of the highest order from his charges. He understoodthe importance of his appointment as the region’s first official blackcaptain—George Headley led West Indies in one Test match, butWorrell otherwise was obliged to play under mostly incompetentwhites. He told his players that they must behave responsiblywhatever the provocation, because the eyes of the cricketing worldwere upon them and many were waiting for a slip-up. After all,apartheid was entrenched when Worrell took charge, and IndigenousAustralians were not included in the census, let alone allowed to vote.

Not that Worrell was a saint or anything of the sort. As BasilButcher relates in this chapter, he was a hard drinker and betimes analcoholic. That he was a wonderful man and a profound influence onhis players is not in doubt. Maurice Foster remembers playing withhim in a club match when the great man was nearing the end of hiscareer. Content to bat down the order, Worrell sat in the dressing-room reading a book of philosophy. Presently he noticed thatyounger team-mates were coming and going at a disconcerting rate,some of them looking decidedly the worse for wear.

Worrell put down his book and asked what the commotion was allabout. Foster replied, ‘Mr Gilchrist creatin’ havoc.’ Roy Gilchrist wasa lethal and much feared fast bowler. Worrell put on some yellowingpads and a floppy hat, marched to the crease at the fall of the nextwicket, smote 83 in 77 minutes and upon returning to the roomssaid, ‘You see, Gilchrist can be hit.’

West Indies has fallen back in recent times, owing to its failure torealise the need to support talent with structures. Times havechanged, but West Indies cricket has not changed with them. Young-sters have many more choices and higher expectations and cricketcould not take its place in their world for granted. Nor could WestIndies assume that the supply of cricketers would continueunchecked. Alas, the flood slowed to a trickle and before long BrianLara was the only great cricketer in the region, and he was poorlyplaced to carry the weight put on his shoulders. Happily, a resurgence

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seems to be underway as, rid of the black racism that emerged in thelate 1980s, the Indian population starts to assert itself. A few compe-tent Afro-Caribbean players have also emerged, raising hopes that itis not over yet for West Indian cricket.

Included in this chapter are various interviews conducted duringAustralia’s 2003 tour of the Caribbean. Oscar and company wereencountered by accident in the seas of Barbados and my only regretwas that an unavoidable want of paper and tape recorder meant thatthe ensuing conversation relied upon recollection and not documen-tation. Various phrases were committed to memory, but much musthave gone through to the keeper. Still, the debate was as informed asit was entertaining and its length and content confirmed the region’ssingular passion for the game.

Andy Ganteaume and Basil Butcher were happy to describe theirexperiences and both had tales to tell. Andy Roberts interrupted hispitch preparations to talk about his childhood and playing days. Hehas had a soft spot for me ever since a couple of his bumpers landedon my head a quarter of a century ago, events that in some opinionsexplain a lot. Nolan Clarke has also been included, though he hasspent most of his playing days in Holland. He, too, has a story to tell.

West Indian supporters

Every morning, Clifford and Oscar bathe in the warm waters of theCaribbean. Early every morning, these old-timers enter the salty seasoff the coast of Barbados and revitalise their bodies and minds witha long wallow. Meanwhile, they talk and, like most West Indians, theytalk about cricket and make a good deal of sense. Over the years,they’ve seen ‘plenty, plenty’. Oscar watched Frank Worrell play in1943, remembers him being bowled without offering a shot andsaying ‘that will not happen again’. He says the three Ws grew up alittle further apart than is supposed and adds that only Worrell’shouse has been respectfully preserved.

Clifford does not go back quite so far but recalls Neil Harvey, ‘thebest of the lot as far as I am concerned’. He remembers making a lot of money on ‘Keith Ross Miller’. Collie Smith had been collaring the Australians in the warm-up matches, whereupon the great

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all-rounder announced that he would not score anything in the Tests.Clifford promptly laid against Smith reaching 100 runs in the entireseries and had plenty of takers. ‘He score a double-duck in the firstTest and then they drop he and dey want the money back, but I tellthem it part of the bet.’ He remembers the Australian slips catchingeverything.

The old-timers discuss the game furiously as they wash, and laugha good deal. Other regulars join them. Oscar saw Ken Barringtonplay in England and remembered the West Indian supporters callingout ‘He can’t bat!’ as he walked out, ‘so I ask them “what numberhe? He go in four and you think he can’t bat?” They get him cheaplyand a carnival begin. I say “Why you celebrate if he can’t bat?”’ Oscarrecalls the invasions of the pitches at Lord’s and points out that ‘aWest Indian doing well means a lot, we haven’t got much else’. Heremembers Viv Richards attacking spectators with his bat and holdsit against him.

They like the way these Australians play their cricket. ‘It is athinking game,’ Oscar says, ‘you play it from the neck up.’ They saythe Australians practise harder than their fellows and are betterprepared for when ‘de fella get serious’, apparently a reference to thesun warming up. Brett Lee had caught their eye during the TrinidadTest. Of course, they had watched every ball. He had kept poundingin, not giving ‘de batsmen any respite’. Then Andy Bichel had comealong ‘to drain de runs’. Clifford maintained that he had never seena batsman able to withstand a sustained draining of the runs, not evenGeoff Boycott. ‘They all get out,’ he insists.

Concentration is the weak point of the West Indian side, thefellows agreed, finding common ground for the first time in an hour.Look at Ramnaresh Sarwan, playing sweet before lunch and throwingit away straight afterwards. ‘These fellows alright till thirty,’ Oscarannounces, ‘then “pop” they out.’ Sarwan was a problem because hecannot hook or run between the wickets. Marlon Samuels isdismissed as ‘dozy’, but ‘must play because he can bat. We don’t havemany like him.’

What was the problem? Well, the schools were not playing cricketas much. In the olden days, there was only cricket, now hockey andbaseball had to be considered. Clifford added athletics to the list ofdistractions and pointed out many gifted sportsmen won scholarships

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to attend American universities. The selectors were also ‘full of fool-ishness’. Richards or Gordon Greenidge were not up to the task andthe assumption that only past champions understand Test cricket wasnot shared by the bathers. They were not at all happy with the teamchosen for the Trinidad Test. ‘The Australians chose five bowlers andwe come up with three—it doesn’t make sense.’

They want to see Tino Best playing alongside a couple more Bajanbowlers, one not even in the national team. Nor are they convincedthat Omari Banks is the best spinner in the Caribbean. John arrivesand says that a fast pitch has been prepared for the Bridgetown Test.‘No point having a spinning track,’ he points out, ‘we don’t have anyspinners.’ Oscar says the pitch does not matter because theAustralians are too strong. John is not so easily discouraged andpredicts that Best and Jermaine Lawson will make the Australians‘hop about’. He reminds his fellow bathers that India turned thetables on these same opponents and tries to convince his friends thatWest Indies has a chance.

After an hour and a half, it is time to leave. Oscar and chums lingera little longer in the water. West Indies has many conversations of thissort, with cricket as the only topic and no sign of the debate flaggingafter all these years. It does not happen elsewhere. Cricket matters inthis region, holds the attention of intelligent men for hours everymorning, men hoping to see some good cricket and some sign ofrevival from their team.

Andy Ganteaume

Andy Ganteaume watched from the President’s box as West Indiesslumped to defeat against the marauding Australians in Port-of-Spainin 2003. A sprightly 82-year-old, he greeted the dignitaries, chose theman of the match and rejoiced at the achievements of his fellowTrinidadians, Daren Ganga and Brian Lara. Fifty-five years earlier,Ganteaume had become the first son of this island to score a Testhundred at Queen’s Park. It was the only innings he ever played inTest cricket.

Ganteaume was born and raised in Belmont, one of the poorersuburbs in Port-of-Spain, a place where doors and windows were

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closed only in the rainy season and ‘everyone knew everyone else’sbusiness, good or bad!’ His parents were not married, but the boy wasproperly educated at an ‘English Catholic’ school where the rudimentsof algebra, geography, grammar ‘and Kings and Queens and all that’were instilled. He was steeped in the church, with ‘Sunday school,choir, bible and hymns’. Ganteaume wanted to go to college andapplied for one of twelve scholarships, but was not strong enoughacademically. ‘Even then I could not make the XI’ he chuckles, hidingthe hurt. He believes this failure held back his cricket because it slowedhis development between the ages of fourteen and eighteen.

Instead, the boy joined the civil service and, upon reaching hissupposed maturity, started playing cricket for Maple Club, anarrangement that was to last 35 years. Although he had no formalcoaching, he was ‘not without advice, from the elders and so on’. Atalented sportsman, Ganteaume became a regular in Trinidad’snational soccer team, playing matches on the savannah, a vast patchof browned grass that serves as the lungs of the city and upon whichmatches are still played and kites flown.

Thousands used to watch the internationals and even more turnedout for the dust-up between north and south. Gerry Gomez and JeffStollmeyer, white men who captained the West Indies cricket team inthe 1950s, played, as did Clifford Roach, another Test cricketer.Ganteaume played left-half, but sometimes became ‘so browned offwith the forwards not scoring that I thought “What the hell, I cannotmiss any more than they!”’

Ganteaume was a wicket-keeper and opening batsman whopreferred the latter activity and thought it outrageous that a manshould be asked to fulfil both roles. ‘In those days, West Indian cricketwas obsessed with the idea of a keeper opening because his eye was in,’he recalls. ‘Of course, it was utter madness.’ Ganteaume was inclinedto speak his mind and says he is not ‘the pandering type’. He feels itcounted against him, cost him further opportunities in Test cricket.

By the time MCC arrived in 1948, Ganteaume had been scoringconsistently for his country for seven years. In those days, it wascustomary for a touring team to play two practice matches at eachvenue before the Test. Already the Englishmen had earned a reputa-tion for playing a defensive game, with seven men on the off-side andthe boundaries protected as soon as the shine went off the ball.

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George Headley—‘Master George’ as the diminutive Trinidadiancalls him—had captained the team in the first Test, one of three menappointed before the series began by way of placating local interests.

Next, MCC arrived in Port-of-Spain to prepare for the secondmatch of the series. Ganteaume scored a century in the first warm-up match. He knew he had to make runs because ‘I was not a privi-leged boy. I had to make a hundred to get into the argument.’ At theend of the first day, he was unbeaten on 101. An English reporterwrote that he had ‘no praise for a batsman who in these beautifulconditions takes a whole day to make a hundred’. Ganteaume remem-bers the words and quotes them verbatim. They had a powerful effectupon his life. ‘We were a colony,’ he explains. ‘If an Englishman saidsomething, it was gospel. I had never been criticised for scoring slowlybefore. I became a slowcoach because an Englishman said so. I will diewith that tag. People walk up to me and ask “How many singles didyou score in that innings?”’ The laughter returns, and the hurt.

When West Indies chose its team for the second Test, Ganteaumewas omitted. He was not surprised. Teams had to be chosen early togive players a chance to make the necessary arrangements. Anotherpractice match remained, and Ganteaume failed in the first innings.Then Stollmeyer injured his leg, whereupon the candidate scored 90in the second dig. Finally, the selectors had no choice. Even in hisfinest hour, Ganteaume sensed rejection, for the local selector, ‘a cold and imperious man’, could not bring himself to offercongratulations. A medical certificate was required from the familydoctor, but Ganteaume was poor and had none, so a friendperformed the duty.

At last Ganteaume had won his first cap. MCC scored over 300—he is hazy on these details—and the neat 26-year-old went out toopen the innings alongside George Carew, a fine player of pace, butweak against spin. On the way out, Carew said, ‘When de fella Lakercome on, he a damn good bowler and I going to fire. It him or me.’Both batsmen started well and passed 30 at around the same time,whereupon Carew cut loose against the spinner. Fortune favouredhim and Carew reached three figures as his colleague recorded his52nd run. Ganteaume points out that ‘Any thinking batsman willkeep his end up and push singles to give his partner the strike whilsthe is running hot.’

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Ganteaume was not all that slow. After four and a half hours of steadybatting, he became the first Trinidadian to score a Test century in frontof his home crowd. His innings included thirteen boundaries. WestIndies was poised for victory until a rainstorm turned an easy chase intoa race against the clock. The match was drawn. Of course, it was awonderful achievement by the young opener. Nonetheless, he wasdropped for the next match, and replaced by a fast bowler. It rankledthen, and it rankles now, though Ganteaume tries to hide it as the waiterbrings coffee and his wife of many years sits demurely by his side.

In Stollmeyer’s absence, Gomez had captained the team in Port-of-Spain. John Goddard was appointed for the third Test, anotherwhite man of dubious merit under whose leadership men of darkercomplexion and superior ability, experience and intellect weresupposed to play. Ganteaume does not conceal his contempt forGoddard or his dislike of Stollmeyer. ‘He opened with me for manyyears. If he wanted me in the West Indian team, it would havehappened.’ Soon Master George also tired of the shenanigans, andwithdrew from the fourth match of the series complaining of aninjury. Ganteaume was not taken to India that winter, the selectorspreferring Allan Rae, who was studying in England and whose formand fitness were unknown. He was white. Ganteaume was notwanted. It was as simple as that.

In three matches against the Englishmen, the opener scored twocenturies and a ninety. In his only Test innings, he reached 112. It isnot quite the end of the tale. Ganteaume retired, slightly hurt, butthen Learie Constantine and CLR James persuaded him to try again.He returned and played well enough to be chosen for the 1957 tourto England. It was a rotten tour. West Indies had two managers andten world-class cricketers, none of them opening batsmen or bowlers.England destroyed their spinners with pad play and low morale didthe rest.

Ganteaume withdrew to family life. Perhaps it was slow scoringthat held him back, or his refusal to kowtow, or the colour of his skin,or a combination of these factors. Certainly, he was born in thewrong place at the wrong time. In retirement he helped to raise threedaughters; one works with retarded children, another in land distri-bution and a third married an American philosopher and became aballet dancer.

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Mr and Mrs Ganteaume seem a healthy and happy couple, proudof their children and with plenty of years left in them. Perhaps he hashad the last laugh, for the rest are gone and he is 82 not out andheading for another hundred, this time at a pace to satisfy even hismost demanding critic.

Basil Butcher

Basil Butcher sat in the Queen’s club pavilion at Bourda Oval inGeorgetown, surveying the prematurely empty field, greeting hisfriends and grown-up sons and talking about the state of the game inthe West Indies. In his time, Butcher batted at second wicket downfor the West Indian teams of the 1960s, after Rohan Kanhai andbefore Seymour Nurse and Garry Sobers. In 1963, he played one ofTest cricket’s most celebrated innings, scoring 133 out of 227 atLord’s against a strong English attack. Before going in to bat, he’dbeen told his wife had miscarried their first child and he took it outon the ball.

Along the way, Butcher mixed with the great men of West Indiancricket and enjoyed the experience. ‘Worrell and Weekes were theheaviest drinkers I ever knew,’ he laughs, ‘and Garry was a very closethird.’ Nowadays, he runs his own bauxite company and watches asGuyana and West Indian cricket try to turn their fortunes around.

Not bad for a boy raised on a sugar estate in nearby Berbice, ahumble country boy, incompletely educated and without any partic-ular ambition. ‘What I was then,’ the 64-year-old points out, ‘is notwhat I am now.’ Nor was Butcher the only cricketer to emerge fromthe estate. Kanhai lived a stone’s throw away, Alvin Kallicharran wasa neighbour and Joe Solomon grew up 600 yards away. He remem-bers Kanhai as a little fellow, three years his junior, whose fatherbought and sold rice. When Butcher found a job with the localsuppliers of water, he’d ‘go to work and he’d be batting. I’d comehome and he’d be batting. Always Rohan was at the crease. Next daythe same thing.’

Kallicharran was raised by his grandad not far away. His father wastrying to buy a house on a welfare scheme. Both worked on theestate. Butcher recalls seeing ‘this tiny fellow with a bat up to his chin

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carting the bowling around. I ask “Who dat?” and they said it wasPagla’s son, Alvin. He was twelve. From there he just took off. I wasproud to be captain in his first match for Guyana.’

Joe Solomon’s father was butler to the manager of the estate, so theboy rubbed shoulders with the mighty and was regarded as affluentand not really ‘one of us’. Butcher remembers his refusal to hook.‘He’d sway till the right ball came along and then he’d cut hard,’ hesays, recalling the unruffled manner of a man whose unerring throwcaused Test cricket’s first tie in the epic series of 1960–61.

Butcher’s own father worked on the estate and his mother ran abakery. Cricket was played endlessly and for fun, a game withouthorizons. He says, ‘We never dreamt we could play for Guyana.There was a big difference between town and country. We weresupposed to be second-class citizens. It took us a while to shake thatoff.’ At first, bats cut from coconut trees were used. Presently, properbats were provided by local clubs. Rivalry was keen between theschools, with Butcher representing the local Anglicans and Kanhaithe Catholic seat of learning, and the entire community comingalong to watch. Not that Kanhai spent much time studying, reachingonly third standard before departing.

Butcher is indignant that administrators nowadays regard educa-tion as important in selecting teams and captains. By his estimation,Shivnarine Chanderpaul has all the ingredients required for captain-ing a cricket team and never mind that upon leaving school he couldbarely read or write. ‘These things can be learnt,’ he points out.‘Cricket is an experience, not a lesson in a book.’

He is not sure how the sugar estate produced so many top sports-men—a boy in his house played tennis for his country and there wereother less famous national and international cricketers. John Trimehad played a couple of times for the West Indies as a pace bowler andhe was from the same background ‘so maybe that was an inspiration’.

No less importantly, Robert Christiani, a former Test batsman,retired to work as personnel manager for the company and broughtClyde Walcott along on coaching visits. He did not so much coachas talk about the game with Christiani. Meanwhile, the boys listened.‘We were learning all the time. These men commanded respectbecause they had gone the distance so many times. They could helpus over the hump,’ says Butcher, his eyes alive and intelligent.

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Walcott encouraged the lads from the estate to go to the city fortrials. At first, they were overawed, but after a couple of matchesrealised they had the city boys covered. They’d talk about theweekend’s cricket on the train back to Berbice. Butcher believes inthese cricketing conversations, and regrets that more is not made ofpast players. He does not see them in the dressing-rooms, discussingand assisting, not even Walsh and Ambrose, and thinks a vast resourceof knowledge and goodwill is being wasted and that the game hasfallen into the hands of non-cricketers, immeasurably to its detriment.

Soon the country boys were making their mark. Mind you,Butcher barely survived his first match. Batting with Walcott, he sawthe great man tap an easy single and waited obediently for the call.No one had told him about push and run. Belatedly sent back,Walcott was run out by yards. ‘He was a big man,’ Butcher chuckles,‘and could not turn around. I thought I may as well pack my bagsand go home!’ Before long, they were all playing: Kanhai, Solomon,Kallicharran and Butcher, four gifted youngsters from the cane fields.

Butcher should have been chosen for the famous 1961 tour ofAustralia, but Worrell did not watch the trials. Later, he became closefriends with the great man and was a regular visitor to the ‘A1 suites’he occupied throughout the 1963 tour of England. Worrell did notmind the boys drinking, but said he ‘wanted six hours from themnext day, not five and a half’. ‘If anyone fell short, there was hell topay. He wasn’t interested in excuses.’ He says that Worrell drank ‘likeit was going out of business. He saw life as a one-innings game.’Butcher still admires Worrell. ‘A lot of things he said made an awfullot of sense,’ he observes, ‘then and now.’

West Indies defeated England 3/1 in 1963. ‘As far as we wereconcerned, once we had beaten England that was it. That’s how wesaw it in those days.’ He thinks the English are too stereotyped.‘You’re not going to produce sausages for cricketers,’ he says, ‘notgoing to get them all the same, with left elbows and all that. You gotto let the other things loose.’

Butcher regards poor preparation and not money as the downfallof West Indian cricket. ‘We need good leaders to prepare them.Cricket is a big thing now. The boys need people to inspire them. WestIndians believe in stars, even when they are talking nonsense. We havepeople who talk sense.’

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He laments that non-cricketers have taken over the game in theregion because ‘it cannot work’. Our time is nearly up and Butcheris becoming reflective. ‘Cricket means so much to us,’ he sighs, ‘andwe do so little to prevent its destruction.’ He reflects upon the phraseand repeats it. But he smiles as he finishes, for there has always beenmore laughter than tears in his innings.

Andy Roberts

Anderson Montgomery Roberts is not around. According to hisworkers, he’s away somewhere and ‘due back soon’. He’d been to theRecreation Ground around breakfast time to continue last-minutepreparations on the Test match pitch. Contacted by phone, his repliesare friendly and monosyllabic. He has never been a man to waste words.Didn’t bowl much down the leg-side either. After sending down a thun-derbolt, he’d stand silently a yard from the batsman, looking at himfrom the corner of his eyes, a brooding presence. He has been neglectedand was among the greatest bowlers the game has known.

Roberts was the first man from his tiny island to play for the WestIndies. His successors are still around, Sir Vivian as chairman of selec-tors, while Kenny Benjamin, Winston Benjamin and Curtly Ambrosework for the government’s sports department. In truth, they are notan impressive collection. West Indies had reason to rejoice at the riseof the Antiguans and later had reason to regret it.

Among the rest, Richie Richardson, a man of principle, runs sportsshops in town and was considering running for Parliament till friendsadvised him to steer clear of ‘those people’. Eldine Baptiste has beencoaching in Kwa-Zulu Natal and applied for the job of West Indiancoach. Dave Joseph plays for Antigua and Ridley Jacobs is the onlylocal in the Test squad.

Andy Roberts arrives at the ground, an unmistakable figure. Theyused to call him ‘The Tornado’, but these days he lumbers around.Immediately, he says hello to Gravy whose antics have enlivenedmany Test matches at the ground. Gravy says his walk around theboundary in his wedding dress on the previous Australian tour washis farewell performance. He has retired. Roberts laughs, inspects hispitch and then finds a quiet corner and starts telling his story.

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He grew up in Urlings, a village on the south of the island wherehis father had a boat and fished for snapper. He was somewhere in themiddle of ‘about sixteen’ children. Agriculture also ran in the familyand often Andy was in the hills, chasing cattle or sheep. Or else hewas diving and swimming with his pals. From the outset, he wasstrong and had plenty of stamina.

Cricket was his game. Soccer was not played in the countryside.Until he was sixteen, Roberts did not see a hard ball, instead playingwith a shaven tennis ball, which proved advantageous because ‘effortwas needed to send it down fast. And I wanted to do that.’ Even nowthere is lots of informal cricket in the Caribbean. Barbados has tapeball and tennis ball leagues and Antigua is not far behind.

Roberts did not play for his school, but at eighteen was spottedbowling in the parish league and summoned to represent hiscountry. In those days, Antigua did not play in the regional compe-tition, so this was only a stepping stone. A year later, he played forthe Leeward Islands and at twenty made his first-class debut for theCombined Islands. It took him three years to catch the eye of WestIndies selectors because ‘we had to be better than the rest to getnoticed’. Roberts and Viv Richards were sent to England in 1972and attended Alf Gover’s indoor school in London. Before long,they were snapped up by English counties.

In 1974, Roberts became the first Antiguan to play for WestIndies. He took 100 wickets in nineteen Tests. Richards followed himinto the team and soon it was clear that this tiny island had producedtwo extraordinary cricketers. World Series followed. Roberts says thecricket was the hardest he ever played. ‘Every morning, you’d wakeup and know it was going to be tough.’ He was at the peak of hispowers and arguably produced the best sustained exhibition of pacebowling Australia has ever seen. Absurdly, the figures are notincluded even in the first-class records.

Roberts believes that their experiences in World Series put theWest Indians on the path to greatness. Thanks largely to theAntiguans, the West Indians swept all before them in the first year.‘We beat the Australians every time,’ the greying and broadening fastbowler insists, ‘and that gave us the confidence.’ Things did not goso well in the following year until Kerry Packer called them in for ameeting. ‘He said we had to pull up our socks,’ Roberts recalls,

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‘except he did not quite put it that way!’ Realising their paymasterwas right, the West Indians started playing as a team and dominatedworld cricket for the next fifteen years. By that reckoning, theAustralians still have a long way to go.

Eventually, Roberts retired and nowadays he fishes, runs a super-market and helps any fast bowler seeking assistance. He will notvolunteer his services, because then the coach is taken for granted. Ofcourse, he despairs of West Indian cricket. He coached the team fora couple of years from 1995, but became frustrated because ‘nobodywas listening. Bad habits had set in.’ He believes the rot began inRichards’s time. ‘Richie was blamed, but it began earlier than that.Viv was such a dominant force that no one spoke about it publicly.’Discipline fell away and the work ethic followed. Soon it was hard toget the players to train. ‘They thought it was a matter of just walkingon the field,’ Roberts says with the quietness of the proud man. Hethinks West Indies started rebuilding too late, lost sight of the basicsand believes there is too much emphasis on scholarship and coaching.‘At this level, a coach just makes plans and spots weaknesses andstrengths in the opposition. It’s up to the players to take responsibil-ity.’ It is a cry from the heart.

Some rain falls and Roberts became agitated about his pitch. MikeProctor appears and the old cricketers exchange felicitations. It istime to go. Roberts has been underestimated. He helped West Indiesto the top and did his best to prevent the fall.

Nolan Clarke

Nolan Clarke sat in his hotel room. He’d been poorly and his Dutchteam-mates said it served him right. All week he’d been ribbing themabout their ailments, saying it was just nerves. But now the Cup’soldest player—‘Not 46, I’m 47, don’t steal one of my years’— hadhimself fallen ill. At last he was rallying, and a bottle of somethinglively lay nearby. Holland’s champion was on the road to recovery.

His has been an unusual career. Twenty-two years ago, he scored159 for Barbados against England and was chosen as twelfth man forWest Indies. But he couldn’t hold his tongue and soon afterwardswent to play in Holland. He’s been there ever since.

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Cricket had been in his blood. His dad should have kept wicketsfor Barbados, Clarke says. ‘My uncle was also very good. They werethe best-dressed cricketers ever. Khaki pants were worn in those days.They wore flannels.’ The youngster liked their style and adopted it ashis own. ‘People used to bet whether or not I’d get my trousersdirty.’

From the start, he was unrepentant and aggressive. A young AndyRoberts tried him out and was hit out of the ground. Roberts smoul-dered. ‘I said, “People can’t get me out with spikes and you arewearing pumps.” I had no respect for fast bowlers. Had all kinds offights with dem. Something in me said I got to destroy dem.’Courage was not his problem. He stood at short leg as Glenn Turnerscored 200. Only Rod Marsh worried him. ‘I was standing there andI see de man’s hands and de man’s wrists, and I couldn’t believe hewas a normal man. I wanted to move. He slapped one past and thecaptain moved me.’

Clarke’s brilliance took him into the Barbados team, but his hottemper hindered his rise. ‘I kept doing well and it bothered people.They dropped me and Everton Weekes said, “You see what happensif you want to do it your own way?”’ Nevertheless, Clarke’s battingtook him to the edge of the West Indies team. But his mouth wouldnot stop talking. Rohan Kanhai was captain and Clarke recalls, ‘WhenI heard him talking at the players, I saw he was a slave master. I thought, “Is this what cricket is all about?” One day he told me tofetch some water. I said, “The pipe is over there.” I told him he hadno culture. I told him he should never captain the West Indiesbecause he had no morals. That put the nail in the coffin.’

Clarke had the talent to reach the top. Had he been moremalleable, his name might have featured more regularly. Instead, hewill be remembered as a man who went his own way and took theconsequences. He settled in Holland, and has been its champion,regularly scoring centuries and playing a big part in his country’svictories over West Indies, South Africa and England A. He hasenjoyed his time there, though frustrated by the dominance ofhockey and soccer.

A passionate, direct and formidable man, Clarke believes himselfpossessed of unusual powers. ‘I see a lot of things before theyhappen—so many you’d be scared,’ he says. ‘In Kensington Oval

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I saw a guy in a crowd of 15 000 and said, “He don’t live anotherday.” He died that night. It helped my batting because sometimes Ican tell what people are going to bowl before they bowl it.’

Occasionally, he returns to Barbados. He did so last Novemberand brought the house down by scoring 80 and 89 in brilliant stylefor Sparta, his club. Thousands came to watch him. Bajans still talkabout him. And he’s still scoring runs for Holland. His team neededto beat Bermuda to reach these finals. Clarke couldn’t sleep thatnight and instead played cards, danced and drank. ‘In the morning,I was ready for them. I had runs in my head.’ And soon, runs on theboard, too—121 of them, not out.

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8

From variousangles

Warne struck again as a delivery skittled through to a batsmantrapped like a thief in a spotlight. For some it remains bewildering

. . . that such gifts could be bestowed upon such an apparentlyvulgar fellow.

Cricketers are men of many parts. Try as the reporter might, itis just not possible to squeeze them into a single article, letalone a solitary phrase. Over the years, an awful lot has been

said and written about the importance of sportsmen as role models.Most of it has been tosh. The idea that a youngster looks towards hissporting heroes as embodiments of all that is noble in life seems tobe the most extraordinary fantasy.

A tale is told of a child gazing sorrowfully at one of his baseballidols involved in the match-fixing scandal of the Depression years andsighing, ‘Say it ain’t so, Joe, say it ain’t so.’ Of course, the story maybe apocryphal. About the only quote I have used from a childconcerned the World Cup semi-final in Kolkata, which ended in ariot. Surveying the scene, a boy murmured, ‘India bad today.’ Eventhen, it was hard to tell whether he was commenting on the perform-ance of his team or the misconduct of the crowd. In any event, hisremark found its way into the newspapers next morning.

The point about the story is not that the heroes had let down theirfollowers with shenanigans. Rather, they had betrayed them byrigging a match, thereby destroying the bond of trust that existsbetween player and supporter. The idea that children inhabit some

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innocent reverie has been disproved a hundred thousand times. Noone familiar with schoolboys or their own consciences could argueotherwise. They expect their sportsmen to be honest and to performmighty deeds in the critical hour, and that is all.

Of course, the modern penchant for intrusion is regrettable. BillO’Reilly always insisted that the players entered our lives only in thehours of play. Everything else was their concern, and theirs alone.Now and then, he’d talk about the high jinks undertaken by cricketteams in his time. The idea that the men of the past were moreabstemious did not survive his recollections.

Since replacing the great leg-spinner and orator as a columnist, I have tried to maintain that tradition. To my mind, cricketers are fairgame on the field and otherwise off limits. Not that I ever hear anygossip. Of course, the same principle applies elsewhere.

Moreover, there is no need to scour a man’s private life in searchof his character. In this chapter can be found articles about twocontrasting and equally brilliant Australian cricketers. In bothinstances, the idea is to allow events to speak for themselves. RobinSmith is also mentioned. Only twice in a long journalistic career haveplayers thanked me for an article—Robin Smith and David Gower.Neither article was especially flattering. Perhaps that was the point.They felt they had been understood ‘warts and all’. Both articles areincluded in this book.

In Shane Warne’s case, the furore surrounding his suspension fortaking a banned substance was surpassed only by the drama thatattended his reappearance in a Second XI match played on his homeground in St Kilda. A veritable rash of journalists, cameramen,photographers and commentators made their way to Melbourne todescribe the great man’s return. It was part farce, part comedy, parthistory and part documentary. Somehow the confounded conveyorof leg-breaks had drawn us back into his web. Throughout, hegrinned and managed to appear perplexed by the fuss he had createdand so much enjoyed.

As it happened, rain ruined the opening day of the match, soeveryone had to book into hotels for the night. As usual, Warne didnot let us down. He has been many things in his life, but seldom dull.

Adam Gilchrist has been the most challenging of the Australiancricketers to catch on paper. In truth, that may say as much about the

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author as the subject. Always the writer looks for the darkness and thedepth. Gilchrist is ambitious and adroit in most situations, not leastbusiness, but he seems to lack ‘side’, so the search may be in vain.

For a time, the fact that he had been reported to the cricketingbeaks more often than any colleague provoked confusion. In eachcase, though, he had been fighting a perceived injustice. His‘walking’ also created friction and it took a conversation—an unusualevent, because beyond courtesies and professional requirements I donot talk to players—to clear the air. Eventually, I realised thatGilchrist was sincere and had taken upon himself the task of leavingthe game in better health than he found it. Of course he is also afabulous cricketer.

No article of mine has created more interest than the piece onwalking. Yet it was written off the cuff at the behest of the ‘frontpage’, as sports reporters call the bothersome news editors. Somehowit touched a nerve, provoked heated debate. At the time it hadseemed a minor matter that did not greatly disturb the mood or, asit turned out, destiny of the match. Later the newshounds were to beproved right.

Shane Warne returns

Nothing and everything happened at Junction Oval in St Kilda on 10 February 2004. Everyone had turned up—film stars, companydirectors, footy players, former cricketers, wagging schoolboys,visiting coaches and a veritable throng of photographers, reportersand interviewers—all of them eager to see how Shane Warne wastravelling. A businessman watching from behind the wire perimetersaid he had come along because he ‘wanted to show Warne the pastis forgotten’. Nor was it merely an Australian affair. The Times ofLondon had found space for 1000 words. The Manchester Guardianwas almost as keen. And what unfolded? It rained a lot. Cricket is likethat. Truly it is a beautiful game, and blessed with a sense of humour.

On the surface, it was a routine Second XI match betweenQueensland and Victoria, but it was also much more, not least thereturn of the prodigal son. Bless their cotton socks, but the hundredsof spectators present at the ground had not come to see Brendon

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Joseland drive through cover or Grant Sullivan fling down hisseamers. Asked to explain his presence at the ground, an unemployedman replied, ‘Have you ever seen Warney bowl?’

Everyone wanted to see him bowl a leg-break. Just one. Instead,he batted, fielded and even warmed up and then the rain started andeveryone sat around glaring at the heavens and pondering upon thephenomenon that had dragged us all to the ground. Of course, hehas been a wonder since the Gatting delivery, the ball that landed afoot outside leg-stump and turned across a seasoned English profes-sional to take the off-bail. It was the first ball the blessed fellow sentdown in Test cricket in the country where the game began. Not hissecond offering mark you, but the first. Clearly, the fellow had theextraordinary within his grasp. He can attract and repel, but seldomdisappoints.

Shane Warne’s first day back at work had begun early with yogaon the outfield, followed by nets with his comrades. In the rooms hemixed easily with the players. After an hour, Victoria’s reserve teamfinally lost its fourth wicket as Nick Jewell, son of the celebratedfootball coach, charged down the pitch and forgot to take his brainswith him. Nathan Hauritz took the wicket, a young finger-spinnerstriving to revive a stalled career.

Rumours abounded that a higher than usual place in the battingorder had been found for the great man, so all eyes turned to see whowas emerging from the Blackie-Ironmonger stand. At first, it seemedimpossible that the creature making his way down the steps was theaforementioned muncher of pies. He was much too skinny. Only thepresence by his side of a security guard gave the game away. AidenBlizzard, the other contender, does not need such company.

Warne looked the slimmest he has been for twenty years. Apparently,butterflies were fluttering in his stomach as he walked to the crease forthe first time in twelve months. In the past there was room for ravens.The oddness of the occasion must have struck the leg-spinner as hetook guard with young banana-benders swarming around. Doubtless,the sight of Paul Reiffel officiating at the bowler’s end added to thesense of the absurd. Reiffel did not think much of umpires in his playingdays, but now says the job is harder than it seems.

Warne played some bright and breezy strokes in his inimitableway. He has always been able to play the shots. But batting demands

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restraint and judgement and they have not been his strong points.After eleven runs had been collected, he lunged forwards at a ball sentdown by Steve Magoffin, a regular wicket-taker whose dad fencespools and whose family comes from Oronsay, an island off the coastof Ireland. An edge resulted and Warne walked even before the fingerwas raised.

Soon Victoria declared and then all and sundry waited for the ballto be thrown to ‘de man’ as our Afro-American friends are inclinedto call these fellows. Warne took a slip catch and started to loosen hisbody as rain started to fall. Someone in the crowd yelled ‘Give ’im abowl!’ and the home captain seemed to share the sentiment.

Alas, the rain became heavier and the covers came out, followed bythe cards. After that, the main excitement was the arrival in the groundof the bowler’s wife and mother. Presently, the crowd began to driftaway. They’ll be back. Warne can lure otherwise intelligent and busypeople to cricket grounds on gloomy Monday mornings on the chanceof seeing him bowl. As a cricketer, anyhow, he has been missed.

Next daySurprisingly, Shane Warne did not take a wicket with his first ball backfrom his spell in the outer. Thrown the red leather at 4.40 p.m. on amurky afternoon in St Kilda, the leg-spinner peeled off his sweater andpropelled a delivery from the front of his hand that started down theleg-side and refused to change course. Chris Simpson, who had beencutting a swathe through Victorian ranks, missed the ball, as did PeterRoach, a keeper well aware that the delivery was destined to be shownaround the world, but still hoping that his mum would miss it.

In truth it was an ordinary offering, but then, wrist-spinners areentitled to a loosener, especially when the ball is slippery and specta-tors are shivering. Bit early to rush to conclusions. At least it landedon the cut strip. He had been the fifth bowler introduced, though theonly one granted an initial on the old wooden scoreboard.

Warne’s second ball was also sent down from the front of thehand, but it was better directed and landed on a length. Aaron Nye,the Queensland captain, played it with due decorum. Warming to histask, the wrist-spinner dared to try his full leg-break and must havebeen pleased as it dropped on a length. Another leggie followed, andthen a zooter or back-spinner or possibly a slider, hard to tell from

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the sidelines and anyhow they all go straight through. Warne is themost beautiful of conmen. Cunning and innocence contend withinhis brain.

Finally, with the sixth ball he has bowled in public since his suspen-sion, Warne dared to tempt the batsman with a flighted delivery.Doubtless, Nye had been warned about this sort of thing anddeclined to take a bite from the apple. Warne turned to the umpireand took his sweater. He had bowled a maiden. Considering 41 runshad been clobbered in the previous six overs, it wasn’t too bad.

Warne’s first over was unthreatening and utterly compelling. Thesight of him tossing the ball from hand to hand, walking and thentrotting to the crease has retained its fascination. Around the arena,enthusiasts appreciated his artistry and schoolboys relished his rebel-liousness. Reporters gathered behind his arm and tried to read hisdeliveries. Of course, there was nothing in the pitch for him.

Warne returned for another over and spectators sensed that he wassettling in for the long haul. Plenty of bowlers have fallen apart in lesstesting circumstances than these. And leg-spinners must performsuch improbable contortions that it’s astonishing the ball ever landsin roughly the right place. Small wonder that leg-spinners areregarded as the anarchists of the game. Sensible people find simplerways to earn their keep.

Gradually, Warne started mixing up his deliveries, though theflipper and googly were not unleashed in these exploratory overs. Atlast, he bowled a long-hop and was cut to the boundary, an eventwhose rarity reminds spectators of his astonishing accuracy. In hispomp Warne hardly ever bowled a loose delivery, which allowed himto crowd the bat without releasing the pressure. Even now, he doesnot give much away.

Nor does he wilt in the face of an onslaught. By now Simpson hadcarted his way into the nineties. Realising that he might not getanother chance to reach three figures by hitting the game’s greatestspinner for six, the banana-bender swooped upon an inviting offeringand dispatched it over the boundary, a stroke that seemed to pleasehis comrades in the stands. Warne congratulated his opponent andpromptly tossed the next ball a little higher, slower and wider.

Warne kept wheeling away. He loves bowling, loves the chance totake wickets and to display his prodigious powers. He has never

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doubted that he is special. But he is also an immensely disciplinedbowler and could not succeed otherwise. At last, with his 59thdelivery, Warne took his first wicket for twelve months as Nye pushedat a leg-break and was taken behind the wicket. An over later, hestruck again as an appeal for leg before wicket was favourably receivedby his old mate Reiffel. By now, Warne had taken 2/23 in elevenovers of accurate, teasing wrist-spinners.

Warne can be infuriating, but he brightens the game and dares toexplore its possibilities. He bowled well and does not seem to havedeteriorated in the interim. If anything, he seemed fresher and sharper.Of course, it’s just as well. In 25 days he may well be playing Testcricket. Cricketers will wish him well while hoping that discretion hastapped on his shoulder during the break. It’s good to have him back.

Robin Smith struggles

There comes a time in most sportsmen’s lives when the cheers, thelights and the rest of it are no longer enough to drive them throughthe mud, actual or metaphorical, and towards the sunlit uplandsbeyond. They’ve already been there.

A time comes when, somewhere deep inside, a man does not wantto put himself through it all again. Already he is beaten because it isin the yearning that the secret lies. The hesitation is fatal. And then,perhaps, his life begins, bringing the boredom of ordinary existenceor the contentment of sudden normality. Usually, if there is a going,there is no coming back. Only those forced away, dropped, impris-oned or injured are likely to return in triumph, their spirit rested. A bad patch is one thing, a fractured will another.

Only Robin Smith will know, as another April turns to anotherMay, and as another West Indies team approaches these shores, if, inaddition to the after-effects of a shoulder operation, he is feeling thehurt of the dispossessed or the weariness of the exhausted. If it is theformer, he may well return to the England team to launch a freshattack upon the fastest bowlers, the sort of assault of which few arecapable, a battery full of cracking cuts and rasping drives.

England might need a little rawness to add to Atherton’s meticu-lous method. And yet rawness can be hardest to sustain, for it

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demands greater sacrifice, is founded upon a wildness that is oftenlost in the cultivations of adulthood. It is an approach of reactionrather than calculation. Thinking can be its undoing.

Smith is the most physical of batsmen, a player of simplicity andstrength, of straight lines; a furrowed brow is his enemy. At his best,he takes the fight to the foe; at his worst, he is fighting himself, thebattle that is joined once a secure position has been established.

Of course, there is no security, only the illusion of invincibility. A man must press ahead or perish. In Smith, those constant duel-lists—certainty and confusion, ferocity and gentility—contend as theyhave always contended, but more keenly, so that the extremes ofemotion impose themselves. Sometimes he can appear a giant amongmen, while at other times seem quite the opposite.

If Smith is feeling the hurt of the dispossessed, he can returnbecause he’s good enough and brave enough to score runs againstthe most ferocious of fast bowlers. If his mind has given way, then itwill show soon enough because the performance will be mere carica-ture, a snarl rather than a bite, an attempt to recapture and to repeat,but without the belief upon which sportsmen depend.

Smith cannot succeed without absolute commitment, cannot bluffhis way through. He has none of the fraud in him. At heart, he is aboxer, and woe betide the pugilist entering a ring unprepared, orhalf-willing, or with doubt in his mind. Not even Mike Tyson couldsurvive that. Once the intensity has gone, it is all gone. Once the will-ingness to take a punch has gone—and Smith has taken plenty in histime, not least while facing Ian Bishop in the West Indies five yearsago (and he took them well, grinning and grimacing as he went)—here can be no return. An occasional success, maybe, but not the oldforce, the old vitality.

Like Tyson, Smith has had time to contemplate his previousmistakes and to think about life hereafter. Neither was quite insolitary confinement, but neither was in the ring, either. Maybe Smithhad been enjoying the lifestyle too much and the life too little. Itwasn’t only the puritans who thought so. Perhaps he drifted a little,not onto the rocks, but in their general direction.

At first, Smith would have none of it. Instead, he thought himselfpoorly treated, as so many have done before. But this is no braggart,or any fool, either. Gradually, the red mists began to disperse and the

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formidable batsman began to realise that he had been master of hisown destiny, that he had lost a little of his sense of direction. Perhapshe had turned from an expression of talent to celebration of self, aturning whose mischievous journeys include the dreadful transfor-mations of philosophers into pundits, politicians into pontificatorsand sportsmen into stars.

The figures told their own tale. It had taken a century in the finalTest in Antigua to rescue a series that had previously brought 145 runsin eight innings. Nor did he prosper against New Zealand last summer,his three Tests bringing 120 runs and eighth place in the averages,above Angus Fraser and no one else. No wonder he was discarded forthe series against South Africa and omitted from the tour to Australia,where his fallibility against leg-spin was taken into account.

Smith’s friends and relations did not spare him, either. Ratherthan offering easy comfort, they held up a mirror to him and Smithwas shaken by what he saw. At 31 had he played the last of his 53 Testmatches?

Smith’s spring has not yet been full of runs, but he is not alone inthat. Nevertheless, even as England takes stock once again, theresurely remains a place for him, if only he has the nerve and energy toseize it. After all, he scored two hundreds in the last home seriesagainst the West Indies. Much will depend on his shoulder. A mancannot nowadays be hidden in the field. But more will depend on hisinnermost thoughts, on how much fight there is left. And he may notknow that until the bell rings.

Robin Smith succeeds

Barely seven months ago, Robin Smith was in dreadful trouble.Having arrived in Australia with a fearsome reputation as a batsmancapable of committing assault and battery upon all sorts of bowlers,a batsman who had hit 553 runs against Australia in 1989 and 361for twice out against India, he suffered a decline as painful as any byan England batsman down under since Denis Compton scored 53runs in seven Test innings 40 years ago.

To fight back so convincingly from such a wretched and unpre-dicted slump has required courage and heart. To see Smith walking

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out to bat in those dismal months was to see a man desperately tryingto recapture a mood, for this is a man who must assert himself, mustswing his arms aggressively as a boxer does entering a ring. This is abatsman who bristles or dies.

And herein lay Smith’s difficulty, because his game is all belliger-ence, yet he is not a belligerent fellow. He has gods who cannot bedefied, who must be answered, for they hold the secret, demandobedience and, in Smith’s case, their name is aggression. Smithcannot filibuster, cannot reconnoitre, must move and hit, must seizecommand, hence his panting exercises and the possessed expressionin his eyes.

Here is a batsman who scores when he is hot, yet here is a manwho is uneasy with such attitudes, an old-fashioned sporting type,one who married a Hampshire girl, enjoys fishing, shooting, anddrinking in his local pub, ‘The Three Tuns’ (just one ton would havedone last winter). For him batting is a crusade, not a calculation.

To be such a player demands an inner swagger absent in Smith,who seldom feels as masterly as he appears. Accordingly, he suffersperiods of doubt, as he did in Australia, as he sometimes did in hisearly years at Hampshire, during which he believes he cannot benearly as good as he seems to be. In these periods, he is probed andteased by skilful spinners and medium-pacers, against whom he canfeel inadequate, for his defences are not so much weak as non-existent.

Once doubts emerge, he habitually thrusts his pad forward, for heknows not submission, must do something, and yet this solutionmerely adds to his difficulties by cramping the shots square of thewicket which are his strength. This is Smith’s dilemma. By instinct hemust get close to the ball and slug it out, yet technically he needs tokeep a distance to execute those conclusive cuts and clips off his pads.

Out of sorts, Smith’s technique and temperament are in conflict,and so he is liable to suffer bad trots in which he will sink to depthsmuch deeper than those plummeted by lesser players.

Everyone tried to help Smith in Australia, and no doubt helistened carefully, partly because he is dutiful and polite, partlybecause he lacks Gower’s resistance to change. No doubt, too, hetried to put wise words into practice, and yet perhaps such intro-verted analysis is as much a hindrance as a help.

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Apart from the sheer cussedness of life, Smith’s failures were duemostly to doubt and its chum, tension, for they caused an inhibitionthat his game could not absorb. In part, too, those failures were dueto the pressures he put himself under, pressures that mounted oncehe and his team had performed badly in Brisbane. In trouble, hesought a trustworthy method rather than relying on the instincts thathad hitherto served him so well.

To remember Smith in those hard times, and to see him thissummer, has been to observe scarcely a difference, and yet to detecta profound change, for he has been like a man who, having beendiagnosed as cancerous, has just been given a clean bill of health.Joviality and aggression were not forced, they carried conviction.

All season Smith has been formidable. This was his sort of cricket,dangerous cricket full of cut and thrust, not a matter of dancing andjabbing. All season he entered with England tottering, joining hiscaptain, or perhaps young Mark Ramprakash, and all season he hitcrisply and bravely. Of course, Viv Richards had no Terry Aldermanor Bruce Reid to probe away and create passivity where passionwanted to be. Rather, it was cricket as Smith had been raised to playit during those early-morning sessions with father and brother in hisbackyard at home in South Africa.

This must be Smith’s way hereafter, and against all sorts ofbowlers. When he first appeared for Hampshire, he used to smitespinners because he could not play them properly. As balls werereturned from distant flats, his opponents were not altogetherconvinced by arguments that he was only belting sixes because hecould not play this sort of bowling.

For a time, he tried to be respectable rather than disrespectful, andreally it did not work. Eventually, he began to hit the ball again,began to bat up the order rather than away from the new ball andgradually he realised that he might be as good as everyone said, nomatter how inadequate he sometimes felt.

He is a splendid man to have around. He cares about hiscolleagues, averages 50 in Test cricket and enjoys a battle, especiallyif it is fast and furious. No doubt, he learnt as much last winter as he has this summer. Although his returns were disappointing,Smith survived with spirit intact. Now he has reappeared, muchrestored, a little wiser and as a batsman powerful enough and brave

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enough to render irrelevant flaws of technique that would destroya lesser man.

Adam Gilchrist walks

Something strange happened in Port Elizabeth on the morning of18 March 2003. An Australian batsman left the field withoutwaiting for the umpire to raise his finger or even nod his head. Incricketing parlance, he ‘walked’. As he did so, a hush came over St George’s Park, the sort of silence that generally indicates thatsomething so astonishing has occurred that a period of reflection isrequired. Had all and sundry rushed away to check that the worldremained round and that Alec Ferguson was still managingManchester United, they could hardly have been blamed. Had adodo been spotted flying around, the amazement could hardly havebeen more widespread.

Life cannot proceed without its certainties, among them thatAustralian batsmen do not leave the crease voluntarily unless theirstumps have been scattered, and even then not on a windy day.

Of course, it is too early to tell whether Adam Gilchrist’s depar-ture heralds a new age of sportsmanship or was merely an aberration.At such times, it is inevitable that observers study the evidence insearch of clues that might have been missed, warning signs indicat-ing that the distinguished and recently deposed vice-captain ofAustralia had taken leave of his senses. After all, we need time toprepare ourselves for these radical manoeuvres. They cannot besprung upon us, for we are not entirely without feeling.

Several things are known about this lively left-hander, amongthem that he has a family, a grin and a penchant for striking the ballover the boundary. At first sight, none of these traits suggests apropensity for walking. Perhaps Gilchrist, or Gilly as he was called byconfidants before this strangeness came over him, was making a pointabout the futility of sporting endeavour in a time of war or elseshowing that despite the sound and fury Australians are not such badfellows. Suspicion grows that he does not take his cricket entirely seri-ously and may even believe that other things are more important thantrying to hit a bit of leather with a chunk of wood.

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Perhaps the story should be told in its entirety, so that readers candecide for themselves what came over their champion. Australia hadreached the semi-final of a World Cup and was playing Sri Lanka inthe seaside city of Port Elizabeth. Ricky Ponting and his men werenervous because semi-finals are traumatic, besides which the terrainfavoured an opponent that had several unusual characters of its own,including one chap with the most bizarre bowling action ever to passmuster. In the first hour of the Australian innings, Gilchrist andMatthew Hayden, a muscular banana-bender, took such a toll of theopposing fast bowler that presently the ball was thrown to Aravindade Silva, a seasoned campaigner who bowls with the air of a man notexpecting much.

Gilchrist was facing. Presently, he stooped to sweep. To his dismay,he did not execute the stroke with quite his usual precision. Ratherthan rushing to the boundary, the ball followed a gentle parabola andwas taken by the Sri Lankan wicket-keeper. Uncertain of its where-abouts, Gilchrist scanned the horizon. Meanwhile, his opponentsappealed for a catch. Rudi Koertzen, a stern and respected umpirefrom the host nation, shook his head. Realising it had all happenedin a blur, the Sri Lankans took the setback in their stride. Certainly,they considered the matter closed.

And then Gilchrist decided to depart of his own accord. It was anextraordinary gesture to make at the start of a crucial match.Australians have never believed in walking, regarding it as a strategyeasily misused by the unscrupulous. For a long time, they stood alonein their refusal to give themselves out. Between the ages of WG Graceand Geoffrey Boycott, Englishmen walked or faced the wrath of friendand foe. Honesty was instilled in schools, clubs and counties andspread across the empire. Only the Australians resisted. Not till the1970s did anything change. Then the stakes grew so high that playersacross the world stood their ground. Only one man had walked previ-ously in the tournament: Aravinda de Silva, the very man bowlingwhen Gilchrist gave himself out.

If Gilchrist’s gesture indicates a new age of cricket, then it will bea fine thing, for the world has enough troubles. Certainly, it hashelped to improve the sometimes frayed relations between thesecompeting countries. Sporting deeds remain long in the memory, forthey reflect well upon the man and his team. As he left the field,

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Gilchrist reminded all and sundry that it is only a game and thoughwinning is important, it is not the only consideration.

Adam Gilchrist complains

Far from complaining about the penalty recently imposed uponAdam Gilchrist, the Australians should take it in their stride. Coppingit sweet is part of the antipodean tradition and must not be lost in thislitigious age. Ricky Ponting and his players must ignore the nation-alists who have sprung to the defence of their man. Instead, theymust accept the verdict gracefully, thereby displaying the sportsman-ship and humility everyone expects from sportsmen representingtheir country overseas.

Gilchrist deserved his fate. He protested publicly about a decisionand could hardly expect to escape without some form of censure. Heis an experienced and highly regarded player holding a position ofresponsibility within the team. Moreover, he was standing at thebowler’s end when the finger was raised and cannot complain aboutthe red mist that from time to time descends upon most batsmen. Noexcuses can be made. It behoved the dashing left-hander to saynothing beyond a quiet ‘Bad luck’ to his crestfallen colleague.

Many instances of sportsmanship have been witnessed over thelast few seasons. Cricket is fortunate that the greatest batsmen ofthe era, Brian Lara and Sachin Tendulkar, invariably show theutmost respect for umpires, and fieldsmen for that matter. Consid-ering the pressure upon them, this is a fine achievement. Repeat-edly, Lara has accepted the word of opponents that a catch hascarried, and has continued to do so even when replays indicatedthat he had been misled. Tendulkar has always left the fieldwithout fuss. No one can remember a single incident of this sortinvolving either champion.

In contrast, Gilchrist ‘has previous’. Indeed, this was his thirdoffence. That he has also shown many outstanding qualities is besidethe point. Not long ago, cricket was forced to choose between maintaining manners upon the field, or saying ‘anything goes’.Politeness was preferred. Nothing else could have worked. Cricket isplayed by Muslims, Hindus, Christians and peoples of many colours.

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Participating countries have different traditions. Accordingly, a strictcode is needed to prevent misunderstandings.

Cricket also has another characteristic, one it scarcely acknowl-edges. In the past, it was a white man’s game. Not until the 1950s wasa black man considered worthy of leading the West Indian team. Nordid cricket exactly lead the fight against white supremacy in Africa.Only against this legacy can the present properly be understood.

Without kowtowing to hysterical elements, the Australians mustbe sensitive to these developments. Ponting and company must trynot to throw their weight around as English commentators did, notso long ago. England won an acrimonious series in Sri Lanka, but in2003 the locals were able to turn the tables because their opponentsremained wary and defensive. Far from meeting the challenges ofplaying cricket on this newly independent island, the Englishmenwithdrew into their shells and the rest was inevitable.

Ponting must ensure that his players forget about this minor aber-ration. The protest became an issue because the umpire changed hismind, a dubious precedent because an umpire’s word is supposed tobe final and unaffected by the reactions of players, supporters or busi-nessmen watching replays. Now a batsman will not be out till he hasleft the field.

Rather than complaining, the Australian captain must remind hisplayers of the importance of accepting decisions regardless of theirmerit. Andrew Symonds left the field with sufficient dignity to satisfythe match referee. He played a bad shot and was saved by the sort ofsnick umpires sometimes miss amid the hue and cry. Worse decisionshave been made, not least by Australian umpires.

Gilchrist overreacted. He is not a saint, but an aggressive cricketerconstantly in the thick of the action who has had his moments withsubcontinental umpires. Nevertheless, his bank balance has sufferedmore than his reputation and he will bounce back. Happily, his finehas been supported by most commentators down under, with playersand selectors alike pointing out that a batsman standing at thebowler’s end has no business saying anything, let alone making apublic protest about a decision.

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From the DarkContinent

Fire, ash and sun could not stop Allan Donald, Fanie de Villiers,Hansie Cronje and company, and their successors must prove that

they, too, can defy the odds.

A frica has become the making and breaking of cricket. At thelast under-19 World Cup, the Ugandan batsmen swappedhelmets and bats on the journey to and from the crease.

Noticing their shortages, their Australian opponents gave themeverything they could spare before returning home. Later,Bankstown, one of the strongest clubs in Sydney, organised a collec-tion of spare bats and pads and so forth and sent it to Uganda.

Soccer has become Africa’s game. Provided a makeshift ball can befound, the game can be played on the dustiest corner of the poorestvillage. And the ball can be made from almost anything. Nor does thegame change much further up the ladder. Boots are needed, andshin-pads for the most refined, but that is about it. Soccer is thegame of the world because it is also the game of the street corner.

Improvements in communications have also helped the code.English Premier Division matches can be watched all around theworld. My orphans in South Africa support Manchester United andChelsea. Wayne Rooney counts among the most famous men on theplanet. Soccer is part of globalisation. Ultimately, the game willdominate everywhere except on the Indian subcontinent with itsgods and its films and its cricket.

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Cricket in Africa is hard-pressed to compete. Although rudimen-tary bats and balls can be used in backyards, expensive equipment isneeded at higher levels. Space and time are also required. Moreover,cricket is a complicated game inclined to befuddle those unfamiliarwith its rules. Accordingly, cricket is handed down from father to sonand from village elders to inquisitive youth.

My reasons for going to Africa were unconnected with cricket.Tribal structures and hierarchies appealed, with their respect forelders and appreciation of tradition. I wanted to combine leftist andrepublican thinking with a conviction that respect and manners alsohad a part to play, especially in the raising of youth. African schoolsexpect their pupils to be courteous and hard-working. Of course, theappeal of Africa went deeper. After the subtle shades and grey skiesof England, it was glorious to encounter the brightness of Africanflora and the astonishing animals.

Inevitably, cricket in Africa reflected the forces at work in thatdifficult continent. Although articles about several black cricketershave been included in this book, this chapter concentrates on whiteplayers. This focus is the merest chance—none of the handful ofleading black players in those countries has been interviewed or satis-factorily described.

The conversation with the Flower brothers took place at theSydney Cricket Ground in the dying stages of a Shield match. Andyand Grant sat in the green seats outside the pavilion and teased eachother most obligingly. At the time, they were the mainstays of theZimbabwean side and its only truly professional players. Even then,they were frustrated not so much with the issue of colour as with therefusal of their authorities to put cricket on a proper footing or totake any notice of the players’ points of view. Later, Andy talkedabout the need for a Players’ Association, but by then it was too littleand too late. Had the other players supported him, much of thesubsequent conflict might have been avoided, for it was as muchabout bad management as race.

Andy had a complicated relationship with his Board. His fatherworked in the high-density areas and also at rich white schools andAndy left his white club to join Old Winstonians, Takashinga as itbecame, the strongest and most influential of the black clubs inHarare. Not that his gesture convinced important people in the

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ZCU (Zimbabwe Cricket Union) about his bona fides. One seniorfigure condemned him as a racist, though the cap belonged on hisown head.

Our paths continued periodically to cross. After wearing his blackarmband during the World Cup, Andy was pondering his next move.My view was that the point had been made. Flower replied that pastprotests had petered out and he did not want the people of hiscountry to think that he, too, could be intimidated. Accordingly, hedecided to wear a black wristband that sustained his point withoutbreaking any rules.

At that stage, the older Flower brother was drawing attention tothe political situation as opposed to the misdeeds of the ZCU. Notlong afterwards, the subject of sporting boycotts cropped up. SinceI was arguing that cricket could not involve itself in political protests(as opposed to condemnation of racism in sport), a meeting of mindsseemed unlikely. But Flower agreed, saying that he could not see anypoint in halting cricket tours to Zimbabwe. He was keeping quietonly out of loyalty to his courageous fellow protester, Henry Olonga,who was going around England advocating a boycott. Having settledoverseas, Andy had realised that rich white Zimbabweans had donemuch too little to help their struggling black countrymen. Somethings can be seen more clearly from a distance.

My position on sporting boycotts of Zimbabwe changed after theperemptory sacking of Heath Streak and the insults that accompaniedit. Flower may also have changed his position in light of develop-ments, but that is for him to confirm. Neither of us needed to belectured on the nature of the Zimbabwean dictatorship or the plightof its people, least of all by silly little Englishmen. Flower had riskedhis life in pursuit of justice. I was putting five black Zimbabweansthrough university, three of them boys adopted from an orphanagein Harare and the others variously the son of a cheated MDC candi-date and the younger brother of a human rights lawyer.

Upon the publication of the Flower article, their father Billappeared in the press box in Sydney to introduce himself and to saythat the content was ‘pure poetry’. Of course, he may have meantthat it was a flight of fancy with little relation to actual events!

Lance Klusener, Ray Price and Graeme Smith were seen from a distance and included here because their lives were taking an

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interesting turn. Kevin Pieterson is included here because he is Africanand attended Maritzburg College, a state school in Pietermaritzburgknown for its tough discipline and concentration on sport. He wasencountered at a club practice at the University of Sydney. Later,someone said that he had been a shrimp in his first few years at seniorschool and had been forced to bury his vulnerability. Perhaps theseexperiences explain the arrogance detected in his character these days.Or perhaps it was the backyard games with his older brothers, or theschool he attended, or the demands he makes upon himself.

Andy and Grant Flower

Two Flowers of a different sort open the innings for Zimbabwe.Andy, the elder and the captain, smiles and goes for his shots. Flowerthe younger (‘Bud’ they call him, though Grant is his name) is of amore suspicious disposition and reckons the world, and particularlyits bowlers, is full of trickery.

They make a fine pair, though to listen to them talk about theirrelationship is to form the impression that one might, at the drop ofa hat, drive a stake through the other’s head. They sit in pavilion seatssipping beer, as New South Wales pursue some outrageous target,relentlessly teasing each other. Apparently, they’ve been at it fortwenty years. But there is a point to their thrust and counter-thrust, a point that goes to the heart of sporting experience. Andythinks Grant could do much more, if only he’d let himself go,whereas Grant says he is already at his limit and fighting for survival.Secretly, though, Grant wonders if his brother might be right.

Grant is reading a book called The Pursuit of Excellence and findswithin thoughts helpful to his game. To him cricket is an internaljourney, a defiant struggle. Andy thinks he ‘enjoys the torture’ andreckons he leaves all his strokes in the nets. He points out that‘reading a book is all very well’. Grant knows this, of course, butknowing is only a part of it. He yearns for release, yet believes thatfreedom is beyond him. It is often like this with sportsmen searchingfor the way forward. Are his limitations imaginary or real?

And so it is in cricket. A player must find a technique and anapproach that fits his talents and personality, must know himself

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before he can judge his game, must play to his strengths, for onlythen can he improve. It is our fate and our futility to wish thatBoycott played more like Gower and Gower more like Boycott.

And so the teasing continues, brothers-in-arms and at war, Andytrying to goad his team-mate into reaching for more, Grant fearingthat more will be his undoing. Sibling rivalries start at an early ageand are beyond the softening of time. Perhaps, too, they are sharp-ened by the need for the lesser talent to stand up for himself andagainst all-consuming failure. As it is not easy being the son of afamous father, so the younger brother of a talented sibling can havea rough ride.

Failures bite the deepest into those whose self-esteem is mostprecarious. They cannot afford to fall short and so barricades go up.In our youth we need someone to tell us about life’s possibilities. Andyet the Flowers have much in common and fight side by side. To seethem running between wickets is to know that harmony outweighsfriction. They are as swift and unstoppable as any pair has ever been.They take singles to gully.

Andy and Grant grew up together as schoolboys in Johannesburgand teenagers in Harare and they’ve been professional cricketers alltheir lives. Some people are just born that way. In their youth, theyfeared they might never be able to test themselves in the highestcompany. Had not the poet written that ‘full many a flower is bornto blush unseen and waste its sweetness on the desert air’?

Herein lay the Flowers’ greatest fear. They wanted to be propercricketers and dedicated their lives to that end. No sooner had theyleft school than they concentrated on their game, playing inZimbabwe every summer and flying to England in their winter toplay in the northern leagues. Apart from David Houghton, they wereZimbabwe’s only professional players, which was often a source offrustration because others could walk away but they were bound tofight it out.

As far as the Flowers were concerned, cricket was life. Mostcolleagues regarded it as a game. Naturally, they considered movingto South Africa after school, but no firm offers came, and anyhow,South Africa wasn’t playing Test cricket either. To their surprise,Zimbabwe was given Test status a few years ago and ever since theyhave been the backbone of the team. In India they felt they must stay

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in or else. Andy scored 100 and Grant passed 90, but Zimbabwecollapsed once they were parted, and slumped to defeat.

Both were conscious of the need, as Andy puts it, ‘to justifyourselves. We can’t just go out and play. We must prove that wedeserve Test cricket.’ It was easier in their earliest days, when nothingwas expected. In Pakistan, the boys had played with abandon. ‘Andthe people loved us,’ Andy recalls. ‘They could see we were enjoyingourselves.’

It didn’t last; it never does. Eventually, the game becomes hardwork because there is a job to be done. And defeat concentrates themind. Andy believes Grant would be a much better player if he couldbat in a powerful side rather than a struggling one. Perhaps he iswrong about that. Perhaps it is his brother’s destiny to work for hisruns, to make the most of a smaller talent, a most worthy goal.

In different ways, each is giving his country stout service. Both aretrying to prove themselves, trying to compete. The teasing betweenthe brothers will continue and it will hurt occasionally, as only thetruth can. But they work hard together and are carrying a consider-able burden as a new cricketing nation battles for survival. If Andycarries his load lightly, his brother carries it with no less determina-tion. As ever, their team will rely on them and hope that each in hisdifferent way advances the cause.

Pat Symcox

Pat Symcox was at it again on 11 December 1997. No sooner had thesecond wicket fallen than he was walking to the crease, as erect as asoldier and as salty as an old sea dog. South Africa needed someoneto go over the top. They’d found the right fellow. Symcox has beengoing over the top for years.

Nor did he take long to begin his appointed task. He’s never beena fellow to dip his toes in the edge of the water. To the contrary, heplunges into the waves. After the briefest of surveys, he stepped downthe track and thumped the ball over long-on. Good morning, MrO’Connor. Next ball, he drove through mid-off as the score clatteredalong. Once again, it was a full-blooded stroke. Symcox doesn’t dothings by halves.

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Pretty soon, he was talking to all and sundry, even to AdamParore, and hardly anyone does that. Doubtless, he talks in his sleep.Throughout, he gave the impression of a fellow enjoying himself, acricketer who is deadly serious about his game while at the same timeregarding it, and life, as a great lark.

This attitude is hardly surprising because Symcox views everyminute of this tour, every moment of his revival, as an unexpectedbonus. The game owes him nothing. Five years ago, he retired, moreor less, and it took encouraging words from Graeme Ford, the newlyappointed and highly successful coach at Natal, to lure him back.Ford had lots of young players and needed another old hand to helpMalcolm Marshall knock them into shape.

It was a gamble and Symcox took it. Throwing away his white-collar job, he hurled himself back into the fray. He had never been theabstemious type. He’d always been willing to practise, but took somepersuading about diets and training and batting properly.

Natal prospered and so did its ageing fox. Moreover, South Africacouldn’t find any spinners except Paul Adams, who might not last.Symcox forced himself into the reckoning. He’d always been under-estimated, especially by himself, had never taken himself seriously,hadn’t thought he belonged in this company. But he’s a fighter andsuch men can rise further than anticipated.

He’s become quite a cricketer and a decided handful. In appear-ance and manner he resembles Dennis Lillee, and, like the oldmaestro, he is all fire and brimstone on the surface—an irascible,drinking, cursing opponent, forever young and clearly relishing thescrap. Probably Symcox wishes he were a fast bowler, able to stick itup the batsmen whenever he wanted, which, in his case, would beevery ball. But he adds guile to his gall and proved as much with hisdismissal of Tom Moody in Melbourne. Already, he had reacted toMark Waugh’s six by sending down a faster one and following itthrough with an assault of words. Under pressure, Waugh soon cutto point.

Now came Moody, as lanky as a lamppost. First Symcox pitchedshort, showing the batsman his spin and driving him on to the backfoot. Next came the sucker punch, a subtle delivery that floated fromhis hand, pitched on a fuller length than expected and ran straight on.Moody was confounded, pinned on his stumps, fooled by his brazen

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opponent. And they’d said off-spinners couldn’t bowl? In Hobartthere was a sign saying, ‘Excuse me, Pat, can we have some sauce withthose pies?’

Even at the batting crease, Symcox has widened his range.Subtlety has been added to his strength. Pressing for runs, he rockedback to cut Chris Harris. Instead of piercing the field, Symcox founda Kiwi and again he laughed. But it was a revelation. Blimey, he couldplay off the back foot, too.

Pretty soon, it was over. Like the post, Harris deliveries generallyarrive an hour or two later than expected. Detecting an offering he fancied, which did not put it in isolation, Symcox drove and cursed himself as the ball landed meekly in the hands of his oppo-nent. He shook his head, put his bat under his arm and strode fromthe field. Would you believe it? Harris! Ah, to hell with it. What’sdone is done.

Graeme Smith

Graeme Smith is a remarkable young man of 22 years with animportant part to play in the rebuilding of his country’s cricket. Hiscontribution can reach beyond a mere game, for he can help achanging society to confront its fears. He is not responsible for thepast, is not bound by it and does not apologise for it. He spent the last days of apartheid in junior school. Unlike past players, hehas nothing to forget, no need to dress in liberal finery. Refusing tobe inhibited by history or cornered by politics, he marches forward,jaw set and victory in mind. He believes in himself, believes in hisplayers and believes in his country, an approach that has rekindledthe enthusiasm of a group weary of compromise.

Although Smith did not score many runs at Headingley, his influ-ence could be felt throughout. Even the old codgers had a spring intheir step. Gary Kirsten played the innings of his career and found byhis side Monde Zondeli, a young man with a ready smile, a black skin,a wonderful temperament and a straight bat. Together this pairrescued their team.

In a short time, Smith has made an enormous impression. Heleads in an intelligent and uncomplicated way, demanding the best,

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telling the truth and seeking victory with every cell of a brain thatticks but does not explode. His players had been united in the appar-ently simple task of winning cricket matches. Some of them hadbecome demoralised, feeling they were fighting not just opponentson the field but administrators in offices. Now the sense of repre-senting a nation has been restored.

Smith’s appointment was a gamble. Notwithstanding the furoreraised in Kwa-Zulu Natal, Shaun Pollock’s time was up. Rushed intothe captaincy at the fall of his compromised predecessor, he lookedlike a man fighting on too many fronts. Far from inspiring his men,Pollock had become bogged down and his team suffered. Failure inthe World Cup was the inevitable result, as was the cleaning of thestables that followed.

Smith was not the obvious replacement. He was not a regular inthe team, not even an original member of the World Cup squad. Inshort, he was an outsider with an untested game and the face of anespecially fierce sixth-former. One thing, though, was known abouthim, and its significance was not missed. He had irritated theAustralians. It is hard to think of a better reason for choosing a manas leader. He had spoken openly, almost disingenuously, about theobservations made by these opponents on the field of play. Hisremarks made headlines and were regarded by the Australians as abetrayal of the code of silence about events on the field. But Smithwas not complaining, and that is the point. He was simply confirm-ing that Australians talk a lot and sometimes with forked tongue. Hewas just telling the truth. A question had been asked and he hadprovided the answer. Cutting through the nonsense counts amonghis qualities. He seemed amused, almost flattered, by the hostility ofthe Australians and surprised by the ensuing fuss. But he did not backdown, for he is not to be intimidated.

After the wretchedness of the World Cup campaign, South Africaneeded to find someone fresh, a leader untouched by failures andfrustration and capable of carrying with him a complicated cricketcommunity. Within a few hours of his appointment, it was clear thatSmith was the right man. No sooner was his nomination announcedthan the 22-year-old said he was happy to accept and had beendreaming of captaining his country since he first took guard. Not aword about surprise and respect and honour and all those things a

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man is supposed to say. Instead, he told the truth, admitted he wasambitious, had hoped to be appointed and was confident he could dothe job.

His candour was invigorating. Asked for an opinion on HansieCronje, he said simply that he had ‘never met him’. In a sentence theghost had been slain. Later, he made some remarks that were notuniversally popular in the Klusener household. Again, he was simplyanswering a question as honestly as he could. And he was right.Klusener had put on weight and was looking hangdog. A brighterapproach was needed. It was up to the all-rounder to show that hestill wanted to play.

Smith showed the ruthlessness needed by a captain determined toturn a team around. From the outset, he knew what he wanted andwent after it. He looked comfortable among his players, many ofwhom had imposing records and plenty of reason to be wary of thenewcomer. Watching from the players’ balcony, he’d occupy a middleseat, live and die with every ball and show unfeigned delightwhenever one of his men surpassed themselves.

Leeds in 2003 was his reward. When Gary Kirsten held the lowcatch that brought victory, his captain punched the air and then thesky. Mark Boucher ran across and hugged him. A broad grin appearedon the face of Jacques Kallis, whose outswingers had brought thematch to an abrupt conclusion. Makhaya Ntini grabbed a stump andgave it to Monde Zondeli, an undaunted young man who had battedwith astonishing serenity. South Africa was a force again. The past,recent and ancient, had been forgotten. A team containing two menwith bullets in them, an abused orphan, a pair of black pace bowlers,youngsters from various tribes, including Afrikaner and Anglo-Saxon,had overwhelmed England on its own patch. And South Africa’s bestbowler was not even playing.

Ray Price

Most of the Zimbabweans have colourful pasts. Many were mauledby lions in their formative years. Price was struck down by meningi-tis and survived by the skin of his teeth. He was left hard of hearingand his balance was affected. At school he was regarded as a willing

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but abysmal fieldsman and was not given much chance of making thegrade. But the youngster loved the game and was not easily discour-aged. Gradually, he learnt to adapt to his new circumstances. Slowly,he fought his way through the ranks. It has been a long haul for aman whose face would tell of a thousand sufferings if only the smilewould once abandon its station.

In those days, Zimbabwe had lots of highly regarded spinners, mostof them leggies, a breed known for its volatility. Accordingly, Price didnot give up and, with an injury here and a protest there, presentlyfound himself not merely representing the country of his birth butbowling to the Australians on a turning pitch in Sydney in 2003.

He is the sort of bowler easily underestimated. In the nets he lookslike the type of trundler your aunt could play. Trotting in off a fewpaces and with an air of innocence, he sends down apparently innocu-ous deliveries and laughs as team-mates dispatch them into the never-never. Certainly, he does not look like a bowler capable of takingsix wickets in a Test innings against anyone, let alone Australia.

But Price has strengths hidden to the naked eye. Most particularly,he is a competitor to his bootstraps. Toss him the ball and he willbowl all day. Nor do his spirits drop in the face of a buffeting. Muchcould be told from the resilience he shows while batting, an occupa-tion not greatly to his fancy in which he generally contrives tocontribute something. Beyond dispute, he is a game ’un.

In Sydney, Price marched onto the field with the air of a man deter-mined to bowl out the Australians and convinced such was within hispowers. He had the nerve to bowl exactly as he does in the nets,tempting the batsmen and accepting punishment as part of his calling.Throughout, he tried to take wickets; not once did he think or act withtimidity. Whereas most contemporary spinners push the ball through,he invites batsmen to assist him in their destruction, challenges themto play their shots yet does not give them anything easy to hit.

Nor does he waste time searching for the diabolic. Others mayspeak of mystery balls; he merely walks back to his mark and tossesthe next one a little higher or a fraction wider. Bounce was hisgreatest asset at the SCG, a weapon available to those blessed with ahigh arm and an ability to flight the ball as opposed to merely lobbingit. Ponting fell to a delivery that took the shoulder of his bat, SteveWaugh was held at short leg as he plunged forward.

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Mark Boucher

Mark Boucher is a scallywag and does not pretend otherwise. Anyoneseeking insight into his character need only consider the cards hesends back to websites while on tour and his performance in hissecond Test appearance, when he helped to break the record forninth-wicket partnerships.

Boucher’s reports from overseas are amusing, irreverent anddisarming. Far from portraying the correct picture of a bunch ofdedicated professionals preparing for matches on a diet of water andself-denial, Boucher cheerfully admits to dancing and drinking. Afterdowning a bottle of rosé, he managed to convince Jacques Kallis thatit had been made by pouring a bottle of white wine into a bottle ofred. In many respects, he is a typical sportsman: competitive, notespecially ambitious and preferring the laughter of the dressing-roomto the intrusion of the wider world.

Certainly, the contrast could not be greater between Boucher andhis predecessor, the endlessly refined and discreet Dave Richardson.Where the older man was greying and understated, his replacement isbustling and sometimes impertinent. Richardson never put a hair outof place, while Boucher cracks boundaries and throws himself around,never bothering with appearances. Richardson was a craftsman fromthe old school, unruffled and undramatic, while the younger man isemotional and aggressive—a rock band after a string quartet.

Not that Boucher is a lesser cricketer. Indeed, it was the youngerman who stood firmest against the opportunism that came like acancer upon South African cricket in Hansie Cronje’s time ascaptain. Long before the revelations emerged, a senior colleagueconfided that ‘only Kallis and Boucher care’. In hindsight, it was atelling remark. Kallis and Boucher had seemed among the grumpi-est of the South African players. Perhaps they were merely the mostfrustrated.

Boucher rose in estimation during the King Commission, or non-commission as it ought to be called. While senior players disappearedfrom view or else emulated the three monkeys, he confronted theissue. Most particularly, he told his friend Herschelle Gibbs that hehad to answer the questions honestly, for this was a matter of legalprocess and serious consequences would follow any attempt to

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mislead. Accordingly, Gibbs told the truth and was soon able to playcricket again. Boucher’s intervention saved the career of a giftedplayer, a man like himself, full of mischief rather than menace.

Small wonder that the wicket-keeper was chosen to serve as vice-captain at the age of 23. Not that he sought the position. Rather, hispromotion was recognition of the strong points of a responsiblerascal. He is a rough diamond with a deep-seated suspicion of polish.Doubtless, he is also wary of administrators and politicking. Unsur-prisingly, he has become an independent man.

Despite his experience and position, Boucher was not consideredthe right man to replace Shaun Pollock after the World Cup debacle.Nor did he make any attempt to promote his candidacy. Suspectinghe might not be able to swallow the pills nowadays taken by SouthAfrican captains, he disqualified himself by refusing to present himselfin a sympathetic light. In short, he did not want the job or, rather,the compromises that go with it.

Lance Klusener

Lance Klusener is the most elusive member of the South African teampoised to reach the 1999 World Cup final. A silent swashbuckler onthe field, he abhors the nonsense that accompanies sportsmen as theystrut their stuff. Words are sniffed with suspicion. Asked for histhoughts after winning yet another man-of-the-match award, hereplied, ‘Champagne’s nice.’ Before going in to bat, he sits quietlyand reads a book. Of course, the pressure does not get to him. Hedoes not think it exists. He took guard in Zululand among familiesworried about their next meal and waiting for the rains. To him,cricket is a game, not a mission.

Klusener first appeared on a farm in Eshowe, in the northern partsof Natal. Like most farmers’ sons, he had a black nanny and playedwith Zulu children. He spoke the language and learnt the customsand has always respected the people and land of his birth. Particularly,he likes the Zulu philosophy that says ‘Better a goat than a dollar’,because a goat can be cooked or milked.

He boarded at Durban High School, a traditional establishmentthat had knocked down its draughty ancient buildings and softened

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its regime of cold showers at dawn. He was a quiet schoolboy andspent his time thinking and watching. Klusener was also a small chapwhose pectorals did not yet contain the power of King Kong. Nor didhe stand out as a cricketer, spending most of his time as an openingbatsman with the Second XI. Altogether, he was a late developer. Inthe holidays, he would go fishing in the mountains or hunting for redbuck on the plains, pursuits that remain his greatest pleasures.

After school, Klusener did his National Service, where he enjoyedhimself so much that he stayed beyond his requirement and becamea corporal. Nothing perturbs him. Certainly not 4.30 a.m. bugles orthe roaring of sergeant-majors. He played cricket for the countrydistricts, where a rough-and-ready form of the game is preferred. Fewtop players have emerged from the South African bush. Mostly theycome from the cities and posh schools.

Klusener took to hitting the ball as hard as possible and bowling asfast as he could, an approach that suited his temperament. To hissurprise, Klusener found he could bowl fast. He kept belting runs andbreaking stumps and word spread. Inevitably, the Natal selectors sent forhim. Luckily, their coach was Graeme Ford, a fellow capable of drawingthe best from players as diverse as Pat Symcox and Jonty Rhodes.

Pretty soon, Klusener was playing for his country. He kept takingmore wickets and scoring more runs than he was supposed to do andhe kept finishing on the winning side. The farmer’s son became afeared cricketer, but remained his own man, a hunter, a man of theveldt, with its sunrises and sunsets and the endless struggles andglories of nature. He has shot a buck and hit a six; he recognises theprimeval and is wary of everything else. He doesn’t say much becausehe knows what life is about and realises this is only a game and thata fellow ought not to get carried away.

Kevin Pieterson

Kevin Pieterson scored 87 for his grade club on Saturday. A monthago, he struck a century in 32 overs to win a match, an innings fullof booming straight drives. Next time England tours Australia, he willbe available to represent his adopted country. He hits the ball hardand has the strong character, commitment, talent and ambition

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young men need to make the grade. Born and raised in Kwa-ZuluNatal, Pieterson is building his cricket career in Nottingham and hispowerful strokeplay and occasional off-breaks have already madetheir mark. Disillusioned with a quota system that denied white-skinned players a fair opportunity in South Africa, he packed his bagsand joined Clive Rice at Trent Bridge. These Africans and immigrantfamilies from Asia will revive the fortunes of English cricket.

Pieterson cannot play immediately for his new country. Althoughhe has a British passport and says he has been offered ‘a milliondollars’ for it, he must wait four years before he is qualified. Two havebeen served. Meanwhile, he is playing for Nottinghamshire andchomping at the bit. This northern winter he is trying his luck ingrade cricket, and is prospering where so many spoilt brats fromEngland fail. Sydney University was his chosen club because he wantsto learn more about spin bowling from Greg Matthews.

Already it has been a long and eventful journey for a tall, strongyoung man whose voice hints at a vulnerability absent in his words.His father is a director of a civil engineering company in Durban andhis mother takes care of the house. Pieterson began playing cricket inknockabout matches with his three brothers in the backyard, whereit was a matter of ‘fighting for your life’. From the start, he learnt totake care of himself and to expect nothing, especially from siblings.He dreamt of playing for his country.

Pieterson was sent to Maritzburg College, one of those robustAfrican schools full of rigour, fitness and friendship. Alan Paton andJonty Rhodes count among its old boys. Parents around the countrysend their sons to the boarding houses to be knocked into shape.

‘The discipline and attitude to sport helped me a lot,’ Pietersonsays as team-mates execute fielding drills nearby. ‘Academics tooksecond place.’ I was surprised by this elevated position. ‘No onebunked school on Tuesdays because it was practice day.’ Collegetrained harder than any team except, perhaps, Grey College inBloemfontein, and in six years Pieterson can only remember losingtwo cricket matches. ‘We were taught to be aggressive, to dowhatever it took. We had this will to win. We were proud to beplaying.’

In those days, Pieterson was predominantly a spinner and hisabilities took him into Natal and South African youth sides and

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finally into the national under-19 team. He started working his waythrough the senior ranks and to the verge of a powerful state teamand then hit a snag. After a successful tour of Darwin and Broome,he had expected to play in the opening match of the new campaign,only to discover he was not even in the squad. Worse, Natal hadimported a coloured spinner from Gauteng by way of fulfilling aquota. ‘So I went to see the selectors and said, “What is the story?”They had to pick players of colour. I went to see Dr Ali Bacher andasked, “It is three coloured players now, next year it will be four.Where will it stop? Will the Natal team ever be chosen on meritagain?”’

Bacher replied that it would never be all white because the variouscoloured communities would improve. It was a response typical of acrafty politician. Bacher wanted him to stay, but ‘Peter Pollock said,“Go for it!”’ Pieterson wanted to stand or fall on cricket alone andrealised his decision had been made for him.

Accordingly, he accepted Rice’s offer of a contract at Notting-hamshire and enjoyed putting pounds into his bank account. Hisattitude is simple and reflects his upbringing. ‘I take every singleinnings as an opportunity for runs,’ he says. ‘I don’t want to givemyself up. Winning means so much to me.’ Growing up in SouthAfrica or Australia is an advantage, he says, because ‘the first thingthey throw you is a cricket ball. As soon as you can stand, there is acricket bat in the Christmas stocking. In England it is a soccer ball.’

Pieterson is confident he can score runs for his adopted countryand thinks he is ready. Nor will he go off the boil in the next twosummers of waiting. Graeme Hick had to wait for seven years and hisgame lost its edge. Pieterson says he is hungry now. ‘How muchhungrier will I be in 2004? The last two years have flown by.’ Heintends to improve his bowling and widen his experience as abatsman.

Asked what he can add to an England team, he says he can ‘finishmatches’. ‘That has been my strong point, finishing games with 60needed in eight overs.’ Nasser Hussain must wish he had beenaround in Hobart.

Of course, he is impressed by the Australians and says the 2002–03series shows not so much how bad England has been but ‘how goodthe Australians are’. He admires the dedication of club cricketers and

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points towards 40 colleagues still throwing themselves around asevening settles upon the old stone buildings of the campus.

Pieterson has scored a stack of runs in county cricket and will beavailable for England when he reaches 24. Others will arrive fromAfrica. ‘It’s on the cards,’ he says. ‘Just watch.’ Pieterson hits the ballhard, is used to winning and has a part to play in the restoration ofthe game on that cloudy island. Count on it, he will be here in2006–07, playing for England and looking the Australians in the eye,as he looked his brothers in the eye all those years ago. In the begin-ning can be found the man.

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10

Salt of theearth

Sportsmen need to bear in mind the words of the old poet: ‘Beginafresh, afresh, afresh.’ Still, there is an art in retaining vitality and

enthusiasm through a long day, a long season and a long career.

Properly regarded, sport is revelatory. A man brings onto thefield the qualities he takes into the world. Some seek the dramatic role, springing to life in the manner of actors

upon a stage. Others go about their task in a more self-absorbed wayand regard the fuss as incidental to their activity. They prefer the satis-faction of the job well done to the cheers of the crowd.

Professionalism is not a matter of money. Rather, it is a questionof application. As the professional writer sits at his desk each day andstarts to fulfil his requirement, so the amateur awaits the arrival of hismuse. As the professional sportsman sets out to make runs and takewickets, so the part-timer frets about appearances. Golf is a questionof getting the ball in the hole with as few shots as possible. Greatnesstakes many forms, but it never loses sight of its primary task.

Players such as Allan Border and Steve Waugh were praised formaking the most of a minor gift. It was a misunderstanding foundedupon sport’s habit of mistaking style for substance. A pretty wrist ismistaken for talent, an occasional stunning stroke is regarded asconfirmation of rare ability. Meanwhile, robust performers aredismissed as battlers. No one, though, has thrown down the stumpsmore often than this pair of deadeyes.

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Superb craftsmanship is not an alternative to greatness, but merelyanother path to its accomplishment. Genius is another matter, forthen extraordinary deeds can be performed repeatedly and apparentlyat will. Of course, the genius is often less reliable, for he tendstowards permanent adolescence, while the master must enter theworld before he can properly construct his response.

Neither David Boon nor Angus Fraser was touched by magic,but both were magnificent cricketers who served with distinction.Both learnt to accept their abilities and to work with them. Neithersought to soar, for they understood that the journey was futile.Sometimes it is easier for those whose talents could be defined. Ofcourse, they had been blessed with considerable advantages. TheTasmanian had an eye for a ball and could judge length in aninstant. The Londoner was tall, strong and could send down a leg-cutter.

Boon was a fighter who conveyed courage and defiance as he woredown an opposing attack. No one ever saw him take a backward stepor let down his team-mates. He belonged to the generation ofwarriors that restored Australian cricket after the setbacks of the1980s. He belonged to the age of struggle. Hard to imagine him ina huddle.

Angus Fraser was encountered on a Saturday afternoon in Sydney,where he was spending the northern winter playing club cricket. Hisevery moment speaks of salt of the earth, yet the description is in partpatronising because he was a highly skilled and proud performer andan astute thinker about the game. Fraser led a life without any of thetrappings of success, for the things he valued, the things he expectedfrom himself, were not to be found in the fringes. For him cricket wasnot a means to an end, but the purpose of his early years. In disci-plining and expressing his individuality he was putting his life on thecorrect path.

Asanka Gurusinha and the Dutch centurions had the same senseof honesty as their comrades in this chapter. The Great Guru repre-sented all that was fine and sometimes betrayed in Sri Lankancricket, while the delight shown by Jan Kloppenburg and Klaas-Janvan Noortwijk upon reaching three figures in a World Cup matchshowed that determined men from other walks of life can now andthen accompany the cricketing gods on their journey.

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David Boon

David Boon was not a man easily removed from the crease. Bowlersbattered and blasted him, but he never could be shifted, never didcry ‘enough’. Somewhere along the way, perhaps in his cradle, hehad hardened himself against all that. Backward steps were not forhim. He’d stand his ground till the onslaught had abated and thenlaunch an attack of his own, cutting and pulling and driving past thebowler, moustache bristling, mouth chewing and legs scurrying. Ofcourse, he took a certain satisfaction in it all, seemed to be saying,‘You’ve had your go, mate, now it’s my turn.’ And so he’d build hisscore, taking us with him on his journey—a rugged man crossingrugged terrain.

Boon never let you down. Durability has been his trademark.Without it, he might not have left the outpost of his raising. Doubt-less, the genial citizens of Launceston think themselves in the thickof life, but that is not the general impression. It isn’t even what theythink in Hobart.

Boon had to force his way upwards by weight of runs, by the irre-sistible power of performance. From Launceston he convincedHobart, from Tasmania he convinced Australia, and from Australia,he convinced the world. Always it was a battle, and that suited himbecause he thrives on them. And what else is life? Always he has beenthe pragmatist, his pillars firmly on the ground, concentrating,fighting for his quarter, the little bloke surviving in a hostile world.Always he was showing ’em what a fellow from Tasmania can do, anordinary man with little legs who played fancy shots now and then inhis dreams, but did not indulge himself in waking hours.

Defiance has been his mood: defiance of bowlers, defiance oftroubled times, defiance of opponents, umpires and journalists whoseemed to him to have joined in some fell conspiracy calculated tobring him down. Perhaps he was slightly intimidated by stylists, withtheir apparent ease. The fighter always overestimates elegance,mistakes it for comfort, does not realise that it is superficial and oftenunnecessary. But the misjudgement can be turned to advantage.Boon knew himself, knew he was a scrapper. He enjoyed playingunder Allan Border because he felt the same, dealt in deeds and notwords, shots as opposed to strokes.

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Boon’s robust innings for the Prime Minister’s XI in Canberra in1984 awakened Australia to his merits and secured his promptpromotion. Nor did he fail his country when asked to play against theWest Indies in 1984–85, taking his peppering without complaint. Hisfuture seemed secure, but it is never as easy as that.

Within a year, Boon had lost his place in the team, the result ofsome tentative footwork against the England tourists of 1986–87. Hefiddled away outside off-stump and was repeatedly caught in the slips.He had disintegrated before our eyes, and it was hard to imagine himreturning.

A few months later, Boon scored one of the finest Test hundredsit has been my privilege to watch, a faultless innings played againstRichard Hadlee in Brisbane. Astounded, I rang Boon that night insearch of an explanation. ‘I read something Sir Garry Sobers said,’ hereplied. ‘He talked about not being at the bottom until you thinkyourself there.’

Realising he had been thinking himself down, Boon set aboutcorrecting his faults, scratching a line outside off-stump to alert himto balls that could be left alone. It was a superb response to a diffi-cult time.

Boon did not look back from that moment, was never droppedagain, or not from the Test team anyhow. He started as an openingbat and later moved one place down the list in order to accommo-date Mark Taylor. Not once did he bat in the softer regions in themiddle order, for he belonged in the front lines, where the battle islost and won. Always, he stood his ground and held his nerve,keeping his game together, never complaining.

And times could be hard. West Indies had been a baptism of fire,and the flames did not abate for several years. But, then, Boon wasnot made for easy times. Indeed, his reputation rests upon his stead-fastness, a characteristic that helped to lift Australia from the depthsin the 1980s to the heights reached a decade later and maintainedever since.

Boon had his revenge upon England, played in a team that proveditself the strongest around, helped to win a World Cup. He was theheart of the team, a man to be relied upon, a batsman to score the hardest runs. And now he has realised it is time to go. Boon hasserved his country well by announcing his retirement promptly and

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with humility. His move gives cricket followers an opportunity tothank him for his contribution.

In Hindu mythology there is a force known as the Divine Boon.It is a protection that cannot be destroyed by man or beast. Arrowswere fired, stones thrown, but such trifles were brushed aside. Thoserelying on the Divine Boon were unconquerable and indestructible.Australia has been fortunate to have its very own Divine Boon.

Angus Fraser

It was all there: the long familiar trudge back to the mark, the oldsagging of the shoulders, the plaintive look that is never far away andsays so many things—this pitch needs digging up, these slips can’tcatch, the umpires are blind, the ball’s crook, my back’s sore, the wholething’s stuffed and West Ham are useless. Angus Fraser is in town.

It’s there, all of it. The cranking of the body and the mechanicalaction that leads to a rip of fingers across the seam, a long follow-through, an exasperated peer, a shrug, a plod back to the mark andthe paceman’s eternal questions—Why don’t I bowl spin? Why don’tI bat? At last, a turn, a heavy trot and another unerring delivery.

Really, the surprising thing in all of this is that Fraser is not playingfor England but for Western Suburbs in Sydney grade cricket.England had appeared certain to pick him. Having bowled hiscountry to victory in Barbados last April—‘That was nice, I got morefrom the pitch than Ambrose’—he had bowled well at home andthought he could pack his bags for Australia. But they had chosenfaster men, younger men, players more suited to hard grounds. Ohyes, and they said he’d lost his nip.

Naturally, he had been disappointed, especially since he had heardthe news on television. He did not think much of that and said so toa journo, which ‘didn’t go down all that well’. It had hit him hardbecause he knew what he was missing. Heavens, he had even enjoyedthe tour last time, amid the defeats, amid the wreckage of a team inwhich dourness and frivolity fought for supremacy. He’d enjoyed itall except the pitches, which were just as grudging as those inEngland and the West Indies, and everywhere else. ‘Only Perth hasany pace,’ Fraser says.

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Playing for England means a lot to him. That’s why his first Testmatch was a bit disappointing. It had seemed like just another game.‘I wanted something special,’ Fraser says, ‘national anthems and allthat. You’ve got to call on something extra, after all.’

He started well for his country, taking wickets, and a long careerappeared certain. But Fraser is no athlete, nor is he strong. His bodyis not suited to the demands of his trade, with its jarring and itstensions. Injury struck three years ago and imperilled his career. Itwas a hard time. ‘I couldn’t watch any cricket,’ Fraser says, ‘I was verylow. Sponsors invited me to the first day of a Test against the WestIndies and I couldn’t wait to get out of the ground and get my mindon something else.’

Against prediction, Fraser fought back and bowled out the WestIndies in Bridgetown. Then came the chop and the threat of suddenanonymity. He is frustrated because he feels he has more to offer.Fraser wanted a long career, wanted to be counted high in the ranksof pace bowlers. So far, he has taken 85 wickets at an average of 27;not bad, but not enough, either. Really, England should have pickedhim because line and length has much to commend it.

Happily, his old friends at Western Suburbs asked him to returnand he accepted. Denise, his fiancée, has friends in Australia and,anyway, what else is a professional cricketer supposed to do inwinter? Later, Tasmania offered him a contract, but he had given his word.

Although he would have liked a chance to bowl at an Australiantop six he describes as ‘awesome’, he is enjoying his time with Wests.His adopted club is riding high in its centenary year and eager foranother win. Earlier, Fraser had scored a noble 14 as Wests reached185 all out on a pitch producing more shooters than High Noon.Fourteen isn’t bad for Fraser. ‘Only scored 13 the last time I washere,’ he says. Upon being asked if this had been a memorableinnings, Fraser replies, ‘No, 13 altogether, in all matches. That’s onerun every thousand miles. Mind you, I don’t get many hits.’

Now it was his task to bowl Wests to victory. Over upon over hetoiled, his accuracy unfailing. Finally, the last wicket fell with thevisitors 35 runs short of their target. In 28 overs, Fraser had taken3/56. He had reason to be satisfied but, as he left the field, he madeonly one remark: ‘Ruddy hot, ain’t it?’

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Asanka Gurusinha

Predictably, Asanka Gurusinha was at the heart of the fightback on29 December 1995, leading the way as colleagues lent admirablesupport. Guru is not the most exhilarating batsman ever to set footon this earth, but he is among the gamest. Built along comfortablelines, he is not the fittest athlete around, either, but he has the heartof an ox and it is the heart that counts. One can tell, somehow, thathe is a good man.

Like all notable voyages, Guru’s innings began in hardship andencountered all manner of torments along the way. They were metwith equanimity by a batsman not easily shaken from his course.Guru was hit in the nether regions, a blow that laid him low forseveral minutes. He returned for more. He was hit upon morerespectable parts of his anatomy and always came back for more. Atvarious stages, his innings more or less ground to a halt, as if bodyand mind were not prepared to function a moment longer. And stillhe came back for more.

His journey from 80 to 100 was an epic in miniature. It took hima year or so to move from 80 to 87 where, exhausted by the effortand apparently enjoying the scenery, he remained for another coupleof years. Spectators urged him to his 100, but it seemed almostinconceivable he could score another run unless roller skates and awider bat were provided.

Guru did wonderfully well to survive this ordeal. His strugglehereabouts was as much with himself as with his opponents. Hismind was exhausted and his bat all edges. He might have given up.To his credit, he did nothing of the sort, simply dusted himself offand came back for more. The Australians tried pace and spin, every-thing, in fact, except the bowler who had taken his wicket in the firstinnings. And they could not shift him.

At last he found his form again, and the fluency we thought haddisappeared forever, clipping a stroke through mid-wicket and thenpulling to the boundary to reach his hundred, whereupon he wavedto colleagues and crowd before giving the middle of his bat the Fridaynight treatment. He might also have kissed his outside edge.

Yet it would be wrong to give the impression that stoicism was theonly characteristic of Guru’s innings. Defiant as he walked out to bat

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as the six o’clock news was being read on Thursday evening, he beganin sprightly form, pulling, glancing off his pads and, much to theexasperation of the bowlers, edging through a slip cordon that alwaysseemed to be standing in the wrong place. He also drove straight andoccasionally through cover, a side of the wicket he usually disdains onthe grounds that it is favoured by prettier types. He rattled along, 65runs in two hours, as the crowd waited for it to end, not realising thatsomething substantial had begun.

It was in the afternoon that Guru’s great battle with himself andAustralian cricket started in earnest, a battle that had to be won if SriLanka was to recover its cricketing pride. This was the part of theinnings during which the crowd embraced him as an individualwilling to put his entire being at the service of his team.

After tea, his 100 secured and the torment behind him, Gurubatted more easily, moving solidly behind every ball and occasionallyplaying a forceful and secure stroke. At last he fell, leg before as PaulReiffel tried his luck around the wicket, the umpire deciding that theball did not intend to allow the leg-stump to escape its attention. Andso ended one of our game’s most courageous innings. TheAustralians saluted Gurusinha as he left the field, a worthy opponentgiven his due.

Jan Kloppenburg and Klaas-Jan van Noortwijk

Ordinarily, Jan Feiko Kloppenburg works in a large law firm in TheHague. Every morning, he reports to the office and shuffles throughpapers containing the private language that lawyers use. Now andthen, he puts on some orange clothes and plays cricket for hiscountry. Hitherto, he had not been especially successful and hishighest score in this tournament was 18. Considering he was missingwork and receiving only 50 American dollars a day, he might havebeen miserable, but amateur cricketers do not think like that and theDutch have been having the time of their lives. To a man, theywanted to play against the Australians in Potchefstrron, though thepitch was wet and there were two points for an abandoned match.

In the 2003 World Cup, on a hot morning in Bloemfontein, Klop-penburg became the first Dutch batsman to score a hundred in an

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official one-day international, a tulip succeeding in the city of roses.A tall man with a fondness for driving over the top, Kloppenburgcelebrated his 50 in style and upon reaching three figures swung hisbat so that it resembled a windmill in a typhoon and hugged hispartner so hard that observers feared he might not breathe again. Atthe crease he was a man surprised to discover he could bat this well.Released from self-imposed limitations, he stepped down the pitch todrive the slower bowlers over long-on and bent to thrash anythingwide over point. Few 28-year-olds have enjoyed themselves as muchwithout breaking a law.

Nor was Kloppenburg’s day complete. As the Namibians set off inhot pursuit of a distant target, the tall opener was thrown the ball andresponded by taking four wickets for 42 runs in his ten allotted overs,a spell that helped Holland to secure its first victory in World Cupfinals. Every cricketer yearns for days like this; even dry-as-dustlawyers have their dreams.

Klaas-Jan van Noortwijk was not far behind. In civilian life heworks for ABN Anro as a financial adviser. Now he emerged at firstwicket down only because Bas Zuiderent, once a child prodigy andthese days a struggling professional, had hurt his head in a collisionbefore the match. Van Noortwijk hit the ball hard from a short back-lift and directed his attentions over the mid-off. Not long after hiscomrade, he became the second Dutchman to score a hundred in theWorld Cup, whereupon he reacted with the restrained pleasureexpected from financiers who have seen markets go up and comedown without ever taking their eyes off the p/e ratios.

Van Noortwijk reached his century in 111 balls, fifteen fewer thanhis partner, and promptly stepped down the pitch to strike thebiggest six of the innings. Helped by some sloppy fielding andwayward bowling, the pair added 228 in 243 balls. Afterwards, thefinancier was so stiff he could not field. Thanks to this stirring part-nership, Holland was able to end its campaign on a high note.

Dutch batsmen had the time of their cricketing lives as the lawyerand financier cut loose beneath a hot, Free State sun. Next week, itis back to the desks and the routines of life. For a time they were ableto soar, and man can ask no more than that. And they took theirchance with a performance they will remember to their dying days.

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11

Australians atwork

All sport is boxing in another form.

A ustralia has been the dominant force in cricket since the gameexpanded beyond its English base. Other teams have enjoyedstrong periods and the West Indies were powerful for fifteen

years, but overall the wide brown land has dictated terms. Of course,England was the main rival for decades, and until recently contestsbetween the nations were close. Remove series played in the after-math of war, and results were even. Australia’s supposedly strongestteams—Warwick Armstrong’s 1921 side and Don Bradman’s Invin-cibles of 1948—prospered against a devastated opponent.

Since 1989, Australia has surged ahead of England. Of course, thesame applied on the rugby field till the old enemy learnt from its rival,invigorated its production line, appointed a gifted and ruthless coachand found some great players, whereupon the World Cup was wonwith the last kick of extra time. Australia has also moved ahead ofother cricketing nations, none of whom has been able to sustain achallenge.

As far as cricket is concerned, Australia’s superiority has been amixed blessing. On the bright side, Australia has played an attackinggame, scoring quickly, setting aggressive fields, pressing for resultsand generally providing entertainment. Hardly any matches have

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ended in the sort of stalemate commonplace in the 1960s and at oddswith the prevailing mood. Moreover, Australia has played its part inthe revival of leg-spin bowling, an art that seemed to be dying as thegreat West Indian fast bowlers demolished everything in their path.

Australia has also produced many of the innovations that helpedto revive the game in the 1970s—including night cricket, colouredclothing, circles, lively presentation, more money for players, lucra-tive television contracts and the spread of one-day cricket. TheAustralian Cricket Board helped to put the game’s administration ona proper footing.

But Australia’s influence has not been entirely beneficial. Whereasthe Brazilian soccer team has illuminated its game with a combina-tion of brilliance and sportsmanship, the Australians have restrictedthemselves to ruthless conquest. On the field, the Australians havelacked charm and generosity. By and large, they have been respectedand not admired, let alone loved as the Brazilians, Muhammad Ali,Seve Ballesteros and others have been loved.

Of course, the Australian players are the products of a hard-boiledsystem that crushes sentiment and instils aggression. To say thatmanners are not enforced even in private school matches sounds likethe sort of snobbery a fellow left England to avoid. Yet it is a fact.Spectators at matches between prestigious schools are often takenaback by the conduct of the players. But, then, Australia lives by itsown lights. Boys watch their heroes on television and want to playthat same hard, daring game. No holds are barred in Australiancricket, not on the beach, in the backyard, in a park on a Saturdayafternoon or in youth or adult cricket. Decorum is left to the women.

In recent times, attempts have been made to change the approachof the Australian team. Not so long ago, Manly, a suburb of Sydneythat fields its own teams in grade cricket, decided to stop sledgingopponents, most of whom responded by behaving themselves. By allaccounts, the matches were competitive and enjoyable. Not thatsledging is any longer uniquely Australian. If anything, Englishcricket is worse as unpleasant professionals and aping amateurs throwtheir weight around.

Frustrated by their unpopularity in their homeland, someAustralian cricketers have set out to improve their reputation. Ofcourse, they had first to accept that the bad image was not merely a

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media beat-up, a point that finally took hold after a secretary of theirBoard told them that she hated going to work as she spent her dayanswering rude phone calls from angry supporters. Steve Waughstarted the reformation in his own way, by trying to broaden theminds of his players so that they enjoyed visiting unfamiliar places andtook an interest in the wider world from which they were otherwiseprotected. But he could not bring himself to show warmth upon thefield, for a man cannot betray his entire self.

Adam Gilchrist has taken the next step by deciding to leave thecrease of his own accord. Much to the frustration of somecolleagues, he has also stopped appealing unless he thinks thebatsman is out. Other Australians have also walked, not least JasonGillespie and Michael Kasprowicz, though these may have beeninstinctive reactions as opposed to matters of conscience. Beforeevery series, Ricky Ponting suggests that batsmen on both sidesaccept the word of fieldsmen about low catches rather than riskinga wrong decision and bad blood by waiting for the opinion of thethird umpire.

Regardless of their approach to the game, the Australians are nota bad lot. Herein can be found a description of Michael Clarke’s firstTest innings and articles about Brett Lee, Darren Lehmann, JustinLanger, Matthew Hayden and Damien Martyn, accomplished crick-eters raised in the Australian way, not a blue blood among them, buta pianist, a student of martial arts, a young man who has helpedyoungsters with depression and a senior man who manages to playwith a smile on his face.

Brad Hogg’s flipper to remove Andy Flower in a World Cupmatch was included because it was such a fine piece of cricketperformed in an unlikely place at a contentious time. The RickyPonting piece was revived in a forlorn attempt to convince readersthat the author does now and then get something right!

In a foreign land

Cricket is an outstanding game. It’s not all bad, not by a long chalk.A few years ago, a group of Australian cricketers embarked upon a tour of England. John Benaud was among them, not so much a

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mother hen fussing over her brood as an ageing lion keeping an eyeupon his pride.

As can be told from his occupation of the position of chairman ofthe New South Wales selectors, Benaud has the fearlessness of thoseprepared to walk into the murkiest corners of cricket’s existence. Hedid not want his curious collection of characters to visit square littleplaces like Surrey and Sussex where people wear cravats and washtheir cars on Sunday mornings. Rather, he wanted to plunge into theremoter parts of the old country and especially deepest Somerset.Accordingly, arrangements were made to play on a farm in the heartof the countryside.

The match was to take place on a farm in a tiny village calledBishop’s Lydeard, a couple of booming drives from Taunton. Aftera period spent peering over hedges, the Australians located the fieldand immediately noticed that it was in some respects different fromthe MCG. One or two of the younger chaps were surprised to beinvited to change in a converted cow shed, but the older hands tookit in their stride. They were enjoying the sight of cows grazing andnot at all disconcerted that these admirable creatures were, for thetime being, doing so in the region usually occupied by cover point.They had also sensed their hosts regarded the match as a mereprelude to singing and drinking, not necessarily in that order.

There is no need to dwell upon the early hours of this contest. Thehighlight was the innings played by Benaud which, though meritori-ous in many other ways, could not count productivity or longevityamong its distinguishing features. Upon his stumps being disrupted,Benaud strode from the field looking not unlike an officer in theGrenadier Guards whose boots had not been polished.

Benaud had some hard things to say and the language to serve thepurpose. Sportingly, though, he did not mention pitch or umpires, areaction thought to be unique among those whose innings hadrecently been terminated. Benaud is a man blessed with forthrightopinions and it is, perhaps, just as well that his comments cannotexactly be recalled. Suffice it to say that he expressed the opinion thathe ‘never had been able to pick a bloke’s straight-onner’. Some adjec-tives may have, perchance, made their way into his description but,as Graham Greene and several editors have pointed out, they are anoverrated part of the lexicon. Meanwhile, the match moved along

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well, with the Australians chasing against an attack that waxed andwaned as circumstance dictated. Finally, it came to the last over withthirteen runs required. Since the boundaries were short and thebowling not quite up to the standard set by Joel Garner in thesedenouements, the task was not as daunting as it might sound. A single was taken off the first delivery. Now came a commotion. Thescorers had been studying their books, a thought that had not previ-ously occurred, and to their dismay had found another ten runs.Accordingly, the visitors needed to score only two runs in five balls.

Now came a remarkable turn of events. The youngest member ofthe touring party found himself on strike. Unprompted, he pushedback the next ball, a tactic that provoked curiosity among friend andfoe. Unprompted, he pushed back the next three balls as well, so thattwo runs were needed off the last delivery. Suddenly, everyone under-stood. He had not wanted to win the game the wrong way. Victoryand defeat were a small matter. The day was not to be spoilt. It wasa question of honour.

With two runs needed off the last ball, the youngster opened hisshoulders. The winning runs were scampered, whereupon there wasmuch laughter and good cheer.

The fellow’s name has slipped from mind, but his gesture endures.Sport does not so much build character as reveal it.

Michael Clarke

Michael Clarke has made the most stunning debut seen from anAustralian since Dungog Doug carted England all around the Gabbain Brisbane in 1965. Before our very eyes and in his country’s hourof need, a young Australian produced such a scintillating perform-ance that it was hard to believe he was a novice. On 8 October 2004,Clarke produced a wonderful range of strokes, including drives, pullsand some inventions of his own, and made them all seem as naturalas breathing.

Nor was it just his batting that caught the eye. Clarke’s innings wasnot a solitary journey undertaken by a remote figure. During its course,the young New South Welshman laughed, kissed, embraced, cried andrejoiced. He lived and died with every ball and took with him on his

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journey his partners, team, parents, grandparents, an entire groundand, doubtless, a sporting nation. It was the most human of perform-ances. Whenever something went wrong, he looked up to the heavensand thanked his gods for their indulgence. When a run came his way,he skipped down the pitch like an excited wallaby.

It was Clarke’s journey through the nineties that caught the heartsand minds of spectators. Till then, he had been in command ofhimself as he batted with the freedom of the young man eager to takean unexpected opportunity. Suddenly, the game became inexplicablydifficult. Suddenly, his bat felt heavy in his hands. Suddenly, his twin-kling feet had mud upon them. Suddenly, the agony had replaced theecstasy. In this period Clarke might have fallen several times, but wasspared. He was fortunate to have by his side a calming influence inthe person of Adam Gilchrist, who curtailed his own activities toguide the youngster towards his dream.

Gilchrist himself played a wonderful innings, thereby confirmingthat he has mastered the skill of starting an innings against theturning ball and putting to rest all fears that he might not prove anadequate replacement for his ailing skipper. No praise can be too highfor the way the left-hander went about his work. His timing, judge-ment and spirit were exemplary and on another day would demanda column to themselves.

But this was Clarke’s day and it was his contribution that caughtthe imagination. Somehow, his hazardous journey through thenineties added to his appeal. A clip off his pads took him to 96, a glidebrought another couple and then, at last, after delays and swishes andlaughs, another tuck brought the hundredth run. Clarke punched theair, hugged his partner, kissed his treasured baggy green cap (whichhad been restored to his head for this very purpose). And then hecried. Parents and grandparents hugged and burst into tears. Beforelong, there was not a dry eye in the house. Everyone else was relievedbecause the run brought to an end the preceding tortures. It waswonderful to see how much it all meant in this cynical age to a risingyoung sportsman and the people around him. Doubtless, theyremembered in this hour all the sacrifices that had been made and allthe disappointments that had been suffered.

Both before and after the nervous nineties, Clarke was anotherbatsman entirely. At stumps on the opening day, he had confessed to

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being a gibbering wreck as he walked out to bat in the first afternoon.He added that nerves had taken such a hold of him that he hadawoken at 5.30, a time he seemed to regard as beyond the pale.

If Clarke was feeling shaky in those early minutes of his innings,he hid it well. From the outset, his footwork was smooth and his shotselection was confident. Clarke has a dancer’s feet and seemed toglide down the pitch before playing his stroke. He has a free-flowinggame and a simple, clean swing of the bat. Hardly once did the ballstrike his pads, for, though he bends over his bat at address, there isnothing cramped about his game. Indeed, his batting expresses acharacter untouched by meanness.

Clarke’s judgement of length was swift and unerring and allowedhim to move back to dispatch under-pitched deliveries with a fullswing. Twice, he pulled shortish balls over the mid-wicket boundarywith the low hands and swivel used by Dungog Doug in his maraud-ing days. Never mind that a man had been stationed thereabouts.

Fearlessness could be detected in Clarke’s choice of shots. Norcould his effervescence be missed. Upon reaching 50, he celebratedby driving Kumble for six over long-on. Upon reaching three figures,he cut loose so effectively that the score was sent racing along. Afterlosing his captain, he launched such an assault that fifteen runs weretaken off Kumble’s next over. Between times, he ran excellentlybetween wickets and defended with the widest of bats. His game, likehis character, is built on strong foundations.

It was a wonderful innings from a fine young cricketer. TrevorHohns and company deserve credit for having the nerve to pick him.Apart from his batting, fielding, bowling and outlook, Clarke bringssomething else to the game. With his fashionably unkempt hair andadventurous ways, he can convince the next generation that cricketis cool. His pals Shane Watson and Cameron White can lend a hand.Clarke is young and outgoing, but he cares about his cricket andupon reaching three figures he kissed his Australian cap.

Ricky Ponting

Ricky Ponting is my nomination to serve as vice-captain of theAustralian team, and the sooner he is promoted the better.

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Shane Warne’s injury has changed everything and made theappointment much more important. Warne might not play again thisseason and there is no guarantee he will ever recover his powers.Accordingly, the position is vacant regardless of the rights and wrongsof his sacking.

Australia must find a replacement for the longer term, notsomeone to fill a gap. Steve Waugh and Warne had formed an effec-tive partnership, but those days are over. A replacement is needed andthe selection is crucial because it may decide the shape of Australiancricket for the next decade.

Ponting has most of the credentials needed to occupy a significantrole in the team, not least a sharp tactical brain, superb fielding skillsnear the bat or far away, a secure place in both sides and respect fromhis peers.

Safer choices can be found elsewhere, but they seem to lack theedge detectable in this urgent Tasmanian. He would be a riskychoice, but the risk of ignoring him is greater.

He is also the right age to succeed Waugh when this accomplishedincumbent decides to put his bat away. At 25, Ponting is a seasonedcampaigner whose best days lie ahead. He has scored runs in mostcorners of the cricketing world, has proved himself against pace andspin alike.

Two years ago, he was all at sea against the turning ball, but hestudied, listened and learnt. He may lack a certain gravitas, may nothave passed many exams in his schooldays, but he has an astute crick-eting brain and a hunger for runs and cricket that can be detected inhis every movement.

Ponting is also willing to take responsibility and did so last year inSri Lanka, where he became the team’s leading batsman, scoring runsbetween the showers, holding the side together and showing it waspossible to score runs against deliveries turning a yard.

The Tasmanian’s batting prowess cannot be doubted. Nor is itmerely a matter of scoring 30 or 40 runs. In Brisbane last week, hehit the highest score of his career, 233, and he scores his runs quickly,relying upon nimble footwork and shrewd shot selection.

And he proved his temperament by reaching the nineties on hisTest debut, only to be let down by a dubious lbw decision.

Of course, Ponting also has his weak points, especially a quick

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temper that drops him into hot water with disconcerting regularity,a rough tongue and a fondness for watering holes that might perturbthe wowser element on the Board. At present, he is also about asdiplomatic as Sir Les Patterson. In short, he has a lot of JavedMiandad in him. He does not regard cricket as a gentleman’s game,but as a brawl with no holds barred.

Obviously, a lot of sandpaper will be needed to smooth down the edges of this determined product of deepest and darkest Laun-ceston. But this is precisely why he must be nominated. Properlytrained, Ponting will be the right man to lead Australia in three orfour years’ time.

Meanwhile, it’s up to senior figures in Australian cricket to providethe appropriate grooming. Ponting seems to realise the need. Appar-ently, he has taken to quenching his thirst with light beer, a consid-erable sacrifice for a fellow of this sort and a hint of the ambition thatlies within.

He may not entirely have embraced sobriety, but does seemcapable of understanding that an Australian captain is in the spotlight24 hours a day and twelve months a year. It isn’t just a matter oftossing a coin, changing the bowling and shouting a round in the bar.Australia must not hesitate to appoint him, need not dwell too longupon his failings. Ponting’s strengths outweigh his weaknesses. Andhe will learn.

Brett Lee

Brett Lee was the bowler of the 2003 World Cup, the cutting edgeof a powerful side, the maverick in a team of professionals whose flagwas not lowered in 42 days of campaigning. He was the debonair andfierce face of Australian cricket, always laughing, always trying, alwaysunsettling batsmen with his pace and versatility. Australia might haveretained the Cup without this force of nature from the southernbeaches of New South Wales. After all, there were several furlongsbetween the antipodean thoroughbreds and the rest of the field, apoint confirmed in the final. But Lee brightened the competitionimmeasurably and turned several matches upon their heads withshafts of lightning sent down on sunny afternoons. He was the man

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of the tournament, an important player in a powerful team and themost exciting competitor to appear in those long and sporadicallyinspired weeks. All the great cricketers of the world turned up to playand Lee went home with the spoils. Any man could be proud of suchan achievement. He chose a fine time to raise his game.

Lee was fun to watch and hard to face, for beneath a grin thatcould sell toothpaste lurks a ruthless and sometimes devastatingcompetitor. Lee burst upon matches so regularly and effectively thathis interventions were almost anticipated. A buzz used to go aroundthe ground whenever Shane Warne was thrown the ball. Now thesame applies to Lee and he must have sensed it and relished it. Givenhis head, he did not lose it, sending down more thunderbolts thanan enraged god, changing matches in a moment and otherwiseprowling in the outfield, waiting till the call came again.

Here was a cavalier whose time had come. No one else bowled asfast or created as much danger, no one brought the field to life as hedid. Fifty-over cricket was supposed to be a batsman’s game, witheven the fastest bowlers tossing the ball down and fetching it back.Helped by the restoration of the bumper and the consequent returnof fear, Lee changed all that. He seemed to enjoy the sight of batsmenhopping around, for he is mere flesh and blood. But he did not getcarried away, and concentrated upon playing his part in a team thatswept to victory.

Quite a change has come over Lee these last few months. Althoughthe transformation did not happen overnight, it did not take all thatlong, either. Perhaps the sound of an approaching World Cup broughthis ambitions into focus. Not so long ago, batsmen would keep theirwickets intact till he was thrown the ball, for his spells were eventfuland often costly. He’d charge in and fling the ball down with littleregard for length or direction. In those none-too-distant days, he’drespond to punishment by raising the stakes, so that his overs startedto matter too much. If Lee had a good day, Australia was bound toprevail. On his bad days, colleagues had an awful lot of ground torecapture. Often, he was more trouble than he was worth and he wasby no means certain of his position in the team.

With the World Cup approaching, he lost his place in the 50-overside and said he was confused about the different instructions givenby his country’s various captains. His supposed consternation was

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regarded in some quarters as an indictment of the splitting of thecaptaincy. But Lee was talking nonsense. Steve Waugh wanted him tobe aggressive because wickets matter in Test cricket, while RickyPonting wanted him to blend attack with economy because runscannot be given away in 50-over matches. Top bowlers regard adjust-ing their games as part of the challenge. Only boneheads cannot tellTest and limited-over cricket apart. Nor did Ponting spare his friendand fastest bowler. Australians are not inclined to tiptoe around,particularly when there is a tournament to win. Lee was a liability.

In the nick of time, Lee realised the error of his ways and he setabout putting things right. First, he accepted the need for accuracy.Thereafter, he concentrated on bowling as fast as he could whilemaintaining a tight off-stump line. Bumpers and yorkers wereallowed, but no easy pickings off the pads. In short, he worked withinparameters that allowed his captain to place attacking fields. In atrice, he became a formidable opponent. It was not so much hisbowling that changed as his tactics. He bowled with his head as wellas his heart.

Circumstances also conspired to help him. If Warne’s departuregave him the room he needed, then the loss of Jason Gillespie gavehim the responsibility for which men of spirit yearn. Gillespie’s injurymade his place secure, so that he was not looking over his shoulderbut into the eyes of his opponents. Hitherto, Lee had seemedimmature with his occasional beamers, jumps for joy that resembledan audition for an advertisement and moments of excess when hesearched for extra pace and found it by going wide of the wicket,opening his chest and allowing his action to deteriorate. Now hesettled into his work, became part of a machine as strong as itsweakest link. He was not selling himself or indulging his youthfulwhims. Rather, he was a professional sportsman carrying out his tasks,and doing so with the enthusiasm and selflessness of the humble.

Sometimes Lee took wickets in his first spell as he hurled the balldown and laughed as it swung away from nervously proffered bats.Of course, he enjoyed bowling with white balls that were far moreobliging than their red brethren, further confirmation that commu-nism does not work. In these spells with the new ball, he generallyremembered to pitch the ball up, an approach that goes against thegrain with every fast man with fire in his belly. Pace bowlers hate to

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be driven, for it offends their dignity, ridicules their efforts andsurrenders the initiative. Most respond by pitching the ball up aboutevery second Tuesday in March and otherwise concentrating entirelyupon pushing the batsmen backwards. Fortunately, the Australiancoaches have managed to persuade Lee that wickets alone count andthat they are usually taken by deliveries threatening the stumps, apoint amply confirmed by a scrutiny of the figures produced by JohnBuchanan to reinforce his argument.

Now and then, Lee forgot himself and pounded the middle of thepitch in that opening assault. He was especially wild against Englandon a Port Elizabeth pitch about as lively as a bingo game in Ponte-fract on a cold winter’s evening. Rather than taking a look at the pitchand realising that it had fallen into a deeper sleep than Rip VanWinkle, Lee bowled ever faster and shorter and soon the score wasgalloping along at ten runs an over as Marcus Trescothick and NickKnight hooked and cut in the manner of Errol Flynn after an unusu-ally early night. His refusal to adapt almost cost his team the match.Andrew Bichel took seven wickets for a farthing and played theinnings of his life and still Australia only scraped home.

Significantly, the swashbuckling paceman did not repeat themistake. Although Lee remains a gambler, the wildcard in an attackthat relies upon precision, he has realised that he is expected to usehis brain. His second spell was much better and he did not drop shortagain in the tournament, except as part of a plan. It was not merelyhim being pitted against his opponents. There was a Cup to lift.

Sometimes Lee did not take wickets till later in the innings.Indeed, it was a mark of his improvement that he has learnt how touse the old ball and can move it around almost as well as the cele-brated but ageing Pakistanis. In the past, he has looked at an old ballrather as a classical musician looks at a banjo. Now he realises that ithas its uses. In fact, in the right hands it can be downright unplayable.Lee displayed his newfound skills in a burst against New Zealand inPort Elizabeth that will linger long in the memory. Australia had fewruns to spare and something special was needed from the paceman.Lee took the ball and tore in. Releasing from wide of the crease, hesent down a succession of inswinging yorkers that The Don mighthave kept out in his prime. The Kiwis were cut down like grassbeneath a mower and the issue was settled in one devastating spell.

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Lee kept punching the air and the stumps kept going over as thecrowd roared at the sight of athleticism, pace and late movement infurious combination.

Although he was not called upon to play such a decisive role in thefinal, Lee went home a happy man. In many respects, he is an uncom-plicated soul who has tried to take life lightly ever since a friend of hisyouth committed suicide. Mostly his joie de vivre has reflected the good nature of a boy raised in the simplicities of the bush and thepleasures of the beach, a young man nowadays often to be foundstrumming a guitar as if posing for Picasso. But it was also a decisionto grasp life with all its twists and turns. In his private times, he helpstroubled teenagers; in his own hours, he tries to reach the speed oflight armed only with a cricket ball.

Perhaps the traumas and delights of his background held back hiscricket, for he did not take it entirely seriously but still expected every-thing to fall into place. At the Eighth World Cup an exceptional youngman emerged, a fellow of a hundred laughs blessed with the ability tobowl fast and latterly an understanding that life is indeed too short togo around with a long face, but also too precious to be wasted upontomfoolery. Lee’s moment came and he grabbed it with both hands.As ever, the performance revealed the state of the man within.

Adam Gilchrist

A breezy, humorous and gregarious century from Adam Gilchrist on3 January 2003 renewed the spirits of a crowd dismayed by the prompt loss of the home champion. Australians concerned by theearly departure of their captain and several tailenders could takeconsolation from the sight of Gilchrist not so much standing hisground as charging towards the guns. Whereas Steve Waugh’sexpertise lies in the reconstruction of an innings, Gilchrist seeks tochange the mood of a match. Waugh calculates the angles and theodds, or he did before this second youth came upon him. Gilchristsees the ball and hits it hard into a gap. Whereas Waugh works frombehind, like a hard-tackling midfielder, Gilchrist goes in pursuit ofgoals. Together they repaired a wounded innings and brought theirside back into the match.

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Combining the fearlessness of a hitter with the technique of a top-order man, the wicket-keeper can turn a match around in an hour. Ifhe cared about such things, he’d be averaging over 60, but he doesnot allow such considerations to restrict him. If swift runs are needed,he will have a go and lose his wicket with a laugh. His previousinnings in Melbourne told the story, a swipe across the line before adeclaration. Don’t tell him about facts and figures. Talk instead aboutwins and losses and life itself.

Playing a wide range of strokes, some of them recognised by thetennis correspondents arriving in town for forthcoming tournaments,Gilchrist renewed his team’s hopes with a hundred scored in 94 balls.He has played many brilliant innings since the selectors were wiseenough to bring him into the side. None has been better timed thanthis bold effort. No wonder the crowd continued to buzz through-out a morning full of spread fields and hooks and lashes throughcover. Gilchrist is an irrepressible cricketer and a wonderful batsman.Of course, all his eggs are not in a single basket and batting mishapscan be corrected in the field. His grin is carefree and reflects thedelight he takes in playing cricket and smacking the ball around.

In recent times, the northern New South Welshman has not hadmany chances to build his innings. Mostly, he has been restricted tocheerful cameos. Here he joined his captain with his team in troubleand plenty of time left in the match. Almost unnoticed, he rushed to45 on that second evening. Of course, it helped that England bowledbadly to him. Under the impression the left-hander cannot hook,England pounded the middle of the pitch and Gilchrist kept rollinghis wrists and dispatching the ball into the deep. He plays this strokewell, taking his hands above the ball and hitting it early. Actually, heplays every shot well and England’s desperation reflected its inabilityto find a weakness in his game. His bat is straight, his head is still andhis mind is uncluttered, yet he bats intelligently too, seldom loses hiswicket to a foolish stroke. His brain lives in his batting. His approachreflects his character.

Gilchrist helped his partner reach three figures before stumps andtook almost as much pleasure as his captain from this memorablecontribution. After losing Waugh upon the resumption, he tookcharge of the innings. Driving powerfully through the covers,stepping down the pitch to lift over the bowler’s head, hooking hard

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and running harder, he kept the score moving along and coaxed fromJason Gillespie an unsuspected range of shots.

England has not worked out a way of containing, let alone dismiss-ing, Australia’s no. 7. Accordingly, a measure of panic sets in whenhe arrives at the crease. Nasser Hussain fears he will lose control andhopes that the menace will go away. His tactic of sending eight fields-men to protect the boundary and crowding Gillespie did not work.Nor did it seem sensible to assume that bouncers must sooner or latertrouble a batsman used to the WACA ground. Gilchrist countsamong the happiest of hookers. Top-class spin has been his weakestpoint, especially early in his innings, a frailty these opponents havebeen unable to exploit. Perhaps Ian Blackwell could have beenchosen, and asked to bowl into the rough.

Regardless, Gilchrist played a marvellous innings, changing thecourse of the match with his inspired strokeplay. He is an excellentcricketer and a strong competitor who has played his part in turninga dead rubber into a contest that has kept tightly packed spectatorson the edges of their seats.

Darren Lehmann

Buoyed by his state’s victory over the Blues in Sydney and roared onby his home crowd, Darren Lehmann is poised to introduce himselfas a Test match cricketer. Lemon, as Indian spectators are pleased tocall him, has long been a bucolic and buccaneering wielder of thewillow, but has not so far made his mark in Test cricket. A popularfellow, and better tempered than, say, Russell Crowe, Lehmannknows that time is not his friend. Given his familiarity with this pitchand the difficulties his opponents are encountering in raising a side,the burly South Australian must sense opportunity knocking on hisdoor. An innings of substance is required to confirm that strongmaterial lies within that hefty construction, the sort of inningsplayed by Mark Waugh on his debut or Wasim Akram, whosehundred on this ground included more flashes of lightning than anelectric storm.

Most talented players are given a run of matches early in theircareers, as selectors find out whether the juvenile is made of gold, as

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family and critics insist, or the merest flesh and blood. Of course,youngsters imagine themselves immortal and accordingly openproceedings with numerous dazzling displays. Usually, these upstartsfalter and are dispatched to the backblocks for a few years to learntheir trade.

Lehmann has been granted no such licence. For him, it is now ornever. Adelaide can look forward to cheering as he charges aroundthe field like Mr Pickwick pursued by an ill-disposed horse andcheering again as he unfurls an array of subtle and brutal strokes. Atleast he does not feel like an outsider, because he has travelled aroundwith the team. Not that he quite fitted the bill. Lehmann is not easilypictured writing verse of the printable variety and tends to take apragmatic view of life.

Despite a sore finger, he comes into this match on the crest of awave. As tranquil as an NRMA board meeting, state matches provideideal preparation for the Test arena. Lehmann played his part with alarge first innings and calm captaincy on a compelling last afternoon.He did not, though, look comfortable against Brett Lee’s thunder-bolts, but that’s a weak point England is unable to exploit.

Justin Langer

Showing considerable powers of concentration, an unfailing appetitefor runs and a relentlessly straight bat, Justin Langer has demolisheda woebegone England attack. His batting had a rhythm about it thatdefies easy description. For a time, he’d nibble away, then step downthe pitch to drive over the top or try something daring outside off-stump. His straight-driving was the highlight of his innings as theleft-hander pounced on over-pitched deliveries and sent themspeeding past the bowler.

In the past, Langer has relied upon shots square of the wicket, buthis balance, timing and confidence in this match allowed him towiden his repertoire. The Western Australian has long been regardedas too limited a batsman to hold a position in a powerful line-up. Hisform over the past couple of years, and this sustained assault on thecream (or rather, the yoghurt) of English bowling, will help tochange these perceptions.

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Langer’s effort was the culmination of years of hard work. In thenets at his club, he has driven ball after ball thrown down by his friendNoddy Holder, nicknamed after a spirited gentleman who providedthe vocals for such masterpieces as ‘Cum On Feel the Noize’ by a1970s group called Slade.

After school, Langer attended the cricket academy alongsideShane Warne, Greg Blewett, Damien Martyn and Laurie Harper,under the stewardship of Jack Potter. A steady career was predictedby most observers. Dogged and doughty, he was condemned by theadjective. Langer played with passion, put a heavy price on his wicketand left it reluctantly. Summoned from Perth as a late replacement,he played against the West Indies in Adelaide in 1993, took theirbumpers on the body and head, eked out 20 and 54, and shed tearsas his team suffered a narrow defeat. He went to New Zealand,prodded around and was promptly dropped. His face fitted but hisgame did not.

Next came Langer’s period in the desert, and for five years hestruggled against the anonymity that enshrouded him. An outcastcan either surrender or fight back. Langer chose to fight and setabout proving he deserved another chance. He needed to changehis outlook to the game. Hitherto, he had been a ball of intensity;every delivery brought life or death. Balance was required, anapproach that could carry him through his days. It was not easy,because Langer is an unusual mixture of diligence and exuberance,emotion and reason.

Always he was trying to find a tempo that suited him, a game thatreflected the strengths of his character and subdued the weak points.It was a long process and at its end he was familiar with the challengeof reconstructing life after a setback.

Eventually, a gap appeared in the national team as Michael Slaterlost his way. Langer returned and set about securing his position. Hisattitude had changed. It was not enough to build a wall around hiscastle. He had to leave its portals to attack the enemy.

Reputations are hard to lose. Even now, Langer is dismissed asdefensive, though he cuts and slashes like a man trapped in amosquito net. Not until he added more than 200 for the sixthwicket with Adam Gilchrist, as the Australians rallied to overcomePakistan in Hobart in 1999, could he be confident of selection for

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the next match. Even that innings had its dramas, as Langersurvived a clear snick and later announced that his bat handle hadbroken as the ball passed. He has an extraordinary ability toconvince himself that, despite a mountain of evidence pointingtowards the contrary, he is not out. Otherwise, the innings thatchanged his life was a chanceless effort, a combination of aggressivebursts and unobtrusive accumulations.

Perhaps the problem with Langer has been that he is not an espe-cially interesting batsman to watch. Like his colleagues, he collectsefficiently off his pads, tucking the ball away through mid-wicketand square leg. Delicate leg-glances appear, alongside cracks throughcover. Now and then, something lavish is attempted as the aggressiveand even artistic part of his character asserts itself.

Reversing the usual adage recommended by Greek philosophersand confirmed a hundred thousand times during the course ofhistory, Langer has succeeded precisely because he has not conqueredhimself. By nature, he belongs to the age of struggle. By accident, hefound himself living in a time of affluence, off the field and amongbatsmen. Casting aside his native caution, accepting that courage wasnot as active an ingredient in the batting pot, desperate to survive,releasing parts of himself that might forever have been suppressed,the roundhead became a cavalier.

Damien Martyn

On 6 January 1994, Damien Martyn played a shot that was to haunthim for years.

On a scorching day in Sydney, with fires burning in the outskirtsof the city and ash landing on the inner suburbs, the Australians weretrying to eke out a paltry score to beat South Africa.

Fanie de Villiers and Allan Donald were bowling fast and straightand giving nothing away. Minutes ticked by and the pressure grew asfieldsmen circled like vultures above a traveller breathing his last.Everything depended upon Martyn as the Australians scrimped andscraped towards their target.

For 87 minutes, he defended carefully, his score almost immobile.Australia kept losing wickets and the winning line did not seem to get

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closer. At last, the Aussies needed a handful of runs with a couple ofwickets to fall. Already, Martyn had passed 50 in the first innings andnow he’d reached double figures in the second innings.

And then came the moment that almost ruined his career. Ratherthan grasping, he gambled, throwing caution to the hot wind with ablazing drive. Unfortunately, the ball was caught at cover and Martyntrooped off, a diminished figure. Australia lost. He did not play Testcricket again for six years.

Obscurity has been the making of Martyn. For a long time, herefused to recognise any failings, blaming everyone except himself forhis downfall. He was still the same headstrong young man he was atthe academy. He’d even captained Australia’s under-19 side andmanaged to upset officials. He seemed unable to curb himself orcontrol his gift.

Along the way, Martyn was given the captaincy of his state, anattempt to foster maturity. Spurning his opportunity, he was erraticand almost lost his place in the Western Australian team. His club wasdisappointed by his reckless batting on Saturday afternoons. Martyn’slife was in turmoil, a talent was going to waste.

Hereabouts, Martyn did not listen to counsellors. Rather, hefollowed his own counsel. Determined not to lose him, the Australianselectors put him in charge of the A team and he did well, but it wasa false dawn.

Martyn’s spell in the wilderness did not harm him. To thecontrary, it was needed so that a proper man could emerge from theshell of self-celebration. Cricket put him in his place. Eventually,Martyn realised that time was passing and the world still awaited hismark. Ever since, he has been seen in a better light. He has becomea responsible member of the team and a reliable man at first wicketdown, whose economic style counterpoints the power and brillianceof his colleagues.

Yesterday, Martyn was rewarded for his efforts. In 1994, he was agifted young man touched by brilliance and wrestling with demons.He had everything a sportsman needed except a head. In 2001,Martyn is in his batting prime.

In Adelaide, he batted for 295 minutes and throughout appearedsettled and superb. He has turned his life around. And if he can,anyone can.

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Brad Hogg

Brad Hogg’s removal of Andy Flower on 24 February 2003 was thehighlight of a match that began nervously and started to relax asthreatened protests petered out. Hogg came on to bowl as theZimbabwean innings was gathering momentum after another shakyopening from a brittle top order. The brothers Flower had respondedcapably to their team’s predicament, only for their partnership to becut short as the younger sibling omitted to follow the instructions ofhis elder, a turn of events that did not please Andy all that much. Notfor the first time in Zimbabwean cricket, everything seemed todepend upon Andy Flower, whose position in the side had not beensettled till late the previous night, after his Board had tried to forceits selection committee to leave him out for disciplinary reasons.

Rather than taking umbrage, Flower senior set about rebuildingthe innings and unfurled some lovely cover drives during an impres-sive performance. Men like Flower can put different parts of theirlives in different places and concentrate upon matters in hand. Aftersurviving the onslaught from the Australian pacemen, he must havethought the worst was over. An adroit player of spin and a bettersweeper than Mrs Mop, Flower began tucking the ball away withdeflections and swift running between wickets. He looked settled atthe crease as Andrew Symonds wheeled away and Hogg sent downhis deceptively innocent offerings.

Hogg lacks the mystique and menace of a certain contemporaryfrom Victoria.

Hitherto Hogg’s bosie has bewildered lots of Englishmen butFlower has scored hundreds of runs against Sri Lanka and has wonduels with all the great spinners of the era. Over the years he hasproved harder to fool than a seasoned detective. Accordingly, thiscrafty customer was not expected to have any particular difficultyreading Hogg from the hand.

Flower appeared serene against Australia’s purveyor of Chinamenas he kept Glenn McGrath busy on the fine-leg boundary. Zimbabwewas starting to move again and Flower had regained his composureafter reacting furiously to the errant ways of his younger brother.Perhaps the sight of his father pushing a pram occupied by his sonSam calmed the former captain, for there is nothing more calculated

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to keep a man at the crease than the recollection that changingnappies sits high among the alternatives.

Hogg began his second over and decided to try a flipper, a signthat his confidence is rising. Seeing the ball dropping shorter thanusual, Flower stepped back with intent. Under the impression the ballwould spin away from him, this accomplished practitioner preparedto cut. Rather than bouncing invitingly, the ball skidded throughupon landing and made a dash for the stumps. Flower had no timeto respond to this changed set of circumstances. He had taken hisman for granted and had no fallback position. In a trice Flower wascut down. To the bowler’s unhidden delight the ball crashed into thetop of the stumps, whereupon Hogg pumped the ground like hisfast-bowling friend from Wollongong.

Jason Krezda

Jason Krezda sat quietly in the stand contemplating the empty fieldbefore him, upon which a few minutes before South Australia hadbeen vanquished. Secretly, he wanted to join the boys in the roomsfor the post-match celebrations, but he had been trained and under-stood that obligations had first to be fulfilled. Accordingly, he cameto talk about himself and his hopes of success in a game that so farhas been unable to hold the attention of settlers from his neck of the woods.

Krezda is not merely one of the most promising of the youngspinners running around in Australia, not merely a regular in a stateteam that has secured three successive victories, but he is also the bestcricketer the country of his extraction has produced. Since the malepart of his family comes from Czechoslovakia, the boast is not quiteas impressive as it sounds. Not that a switch to the maternal sidechanges anything, since his mother comes from Poland, that land ofGdansk, Lech Walesa and Pope John Paul II.

Krezda was born in Sydney and has set out to combine his coun-tries of blood and birth. In some respects, he is a typical Australianwith his lip salve, his sport and his desire to belong to the group. Inother ways, he is mid-European, for he yearns for a stronger, richerfamily life and wants to go back to Prague one day to meet all his

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uncles, aunts, nephews, cousins and grandparents. When he visits thehomes of mates from Greece or Croatia or Yugoslavia, their housesalways seem full of relations.

A private young man, Krezda wants to sample the warmth evidentin these communities, with their soups and smells and laughtercoming from the kitchens. He regrets that his life is Anglo-Saxon inits isolation. He is a man of many cravings, a cricketer, a sportsman,an Australian, a Czechoslovakian and a soccer player. Therein lies hischallenge. Of course, he is also a young man trying to make his wayin the world, and that is a daunting enough task.

Jason’s dad left his homeland at the age of nineteen. His youngerson is not too sure why. Perhaps he could not make enough of a livingto feed his family, or perhaps he wanted to try his luck overseas as aprofessional soccer player. He does not recommend contacting hisfather, because he is not the communicative type. George, the afore-mentioned progenitor, insisted that his mother tongue was spoken inthe house when the family settled in Sydney and both sons are fluentin the language. He also insisted that Czechoslovakian food beprepared by Jadwiga, his Polish wife, for he is proud of his heritageand does not want his offspring to lose touch with it.

Krezda senior was a skilful soccer player and joined clubs in NewZealand and Australia. Jason paints a picture of a hard man whoraised his boys as he was raised, in the tough European tradition.Even now, his father and chums from Croatia and Lebanon andGreece meet every Sunday to play soccer on the large field behind thefamily home, the field upon which the rising off-spinner first encoun-tered a very different game.

Both sons attended St Francis Xavier school in Liverpool, wherethey studied a bit and yearned for the lunchbreaks when they couldplay sport. Jason started playing cricket at seven years of age and, likemany a spirited youngster, set out to be a fast bowler because theywere allowed to bowl bumpers. From the outset, he regarded himselfas Australian. Perhaps it helped that the Czech community wassmall—he says he has only ever met three Czechoslovakians. Accord-ingly, it was a matter of mucking in with the rest.

His background did not block his path. He says that teachers aremore important than parents in this regard and adds that he was luckyto be encouraged by enthusiasts at St Francis Xavier’s. He turned to

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spin after suffering a double stress fracture in his back and has learntto flight and turn the ball tellingly. He can bat as well and confirmedthe point by contributing an important half-century in the recentengagement with ‘The Vics’.

He thinks others from similar backgrounds will come to the gameas he did, by playing with their pals in the backyard. He does not seehimself as a role model or anything of that sort, just wants to cementhis place in the state side and in the winter to visit his father’shomeland to see what it means to be a Krezda and a Czechoslova-kian. Australian cricket needs to nurture fellows like him, for otherwise it will become a game whose time has passed.

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12

ReputationsSport is a rage against anonymity.

A man only has his reputation. He wants to walk into the worldas a respected figure, wants to be able to enter his local pubwithout provoking scowls, wants to meander through his

high street without feeling any sense of embarrassment.Cricketers live in a constant state of fear. It is not a matter of

physical timidity. A blow on the body is nothing to a battle-hardenedbatsman. It is the blows to the psyche that cause alarm. Every day aman’s scores appear in the papers, every day the world is providedwith the latest news about his progress and makes its judgements, orso the player assumes because he lives in an enclave and hardly knowsthat the rest of the planet has more serious concerns.

Even the most brazen characters are in constant need of reassur-ance. Shane Warne rings friends and tells them how well he is bowlingand how unlucky he has been and awaits the response. A man withhundreds of Test wickets still needs to hear that he has not lost it.Everything is more fragile than it seems. Insecurity stalks the sportinglandscape.

Always it is a question of self-esteem. Sportsmen are driven people.They must succeed because the alternative is too painful to contem-plate. Moreover, cricket offers a unique combination of cold facts and

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collective warmth. Golfers become used to isolation. Cricketers needto test themselves, yet appreciate the company. That is why suicide ismore common in cricket than golf. A disappointed golfer suffers aneclipse; a struggling cricketer loses a life.

Cricketers are constantly worried their form will desert them at thewrong time or that a rival will pass them by. Players respond to thesethreats in different ways. Ken Barrington and Colin Cowdrey builtwalls around their wickets in an attempt to prevent failure’s incursion.Never mind that the former was a battling professional and the latteran apparently comfortable amateur; money has nothing to do with it.

Contrastingly, Australians refuse to admit anything is going wrongeven as they refuse to boast. Listen to an antipodean batsman talkabout his form. Either he is ‘hitting the ball well in the nets’ or he is‘hitting them all right’. He refuses to undertake the soul searchingthat attracts the more analytical mind and likewise does not want toskite. Partly it comes from a desire to keep things simple.

Whereas the English regard sporting performance as a mani-festation of the inner man, the Australian focuses on the contest.Englishmen enjoy torment; Australians like to pretend it is just agame. By refusing to give any ground to negative thoughts, let alonecritical analysis, the Australian player rids his brain of forces thatinhibit other performers. They may be beaten by opponents, but willseldom beat themselves.

Of course, the need to command respect reaches beyond the field.Nothing is more important to a sportsman than his ability to hold hishead high. Whenever troubles arise, he fears not the penalty imposedbut the loss of face. Mohammad Azharuddin and Hansie Cronjewere the men most obviously affected by the betting scandal thatrocked the game in 2000. Both were captains of their countries andaccordingly carried responsibilities towards their players, countriesand the game itself. Both betrayed their trust and the fact that theywere not alone and others still playing or recently retired wereinvolved and enjoy spotless reputations is hardly the point.

Cronje and Azharuddin’s cricket careers were ended by thescandal. Thereafter, the issue became their place in the cricketingworld and among men. My task in these articles was to find solidground upon which their reputations could rest. The Azha piece wasa contribution to a debate that began after a television channel

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offered him work as a commentator, a move that raised a hullabaloo.Vengeance has never seemed to be an attractive emotion and thearticle argues that the time had come to forgive and forget.

If the Cronje piece seems harsher, it is because matters seemed tohave run too hard in his direction. An impression was being given insome quarters that he was more sinned against than sinning.Certainly, the piece needs to be considered in that context. Amongcricketers, Stephen Fleming had the most appealing approach to thetopic. He was approached by the bookies and, though he turnedthem away, he sympathised with the exposed players because he knewhow tempting it must have been to accept an apparently minor offer.

Bob Simpson, Sourav Ganguly and Arjuna Ranatunga areincluded in this chapter, not through any sense of comparative guiltbut because they, too, are significant cricketing figures burdened withmixed reputations. Readers must decide for themselves whether theseservants of the game deserve to be seen in a better light.

Hansie Cronje

In winter 2004, Shaun Pollock spoke from the pulpit at a churchservice in Kwa-Zulu Natal. His chosen task was to restore the reputa-tion of his fellow Afrikaner and former captain, Hansie Cronje. He hasnot been alone in endeavours that reach beyond the requirements ofChristian forgiveness. A tribe and a country want Cronje back. Pollockand company are eager to rescue a man they respected from thecaverns of history. They want to remind people, and especially histo-rians, that corruption was but part of his life and not the entire tale.

Till his story was contaminated, Cronje seemed like a colossusamid a compromised people. He was a hero in uncertain times. Areligion had abandoned its most basic tenets, a strong nation hadbeen forced from its enclave, the pillars upon which life had rested forgenerations had been shattered. And there, upon the field, was aremote and unyielding figure, a conquering son reminding all andsundry that the possibilities of life endured.

And then came the fall, and a terrible fall it was. Afrikaners, espe-cially, were stunned. Slowly, the shock has subsided and evidently thetime seems right to reassess the boy from Bloemfontein. Afrikaners

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are keen to embrace Cronje, in part because his story has been theirstory. Also, many have convinced themselves that he was unfairlysingled out, a sentiment that runs through hundreds of years ofhistory. Had not his father complained that his son was taking ‘theblame for the entire world’? Has it not always been so?

Hansie Cronje has a peculiar place in the hearts and minds of hispeople. Afrikaners have been suffering from a crisis of confidence.Moreover, they have been affected by collective condemnation. Toarrive in South Africa fourteen years ago was to be advised on noaccount to go to Bloemfontein because it was full of Afrikaners.Thinus, a schoolboy, asked ‘Have there been no good Afrikaners?’Now he is working as a doctor, surrounded by AIDS patients.

Hansie Cronje stood resolute amid the pessimism. He was notmerely the hope of the side. He was the hope of a generation draggedinto a world whose iniquities had been emblazoned in its soul and atribe that had not previously been forced to look inwards at thedarkness seen by Kurtz as he whispered, ‘The horror, the horror!’

For good or ill, Hansie seemed to represent his people, symbolisingthe ways that had set them apart, turning them inwards till the worldseemed a strange and hostile place. Afrikaner society, and for thatmatter African families, are patriarchal, with obedience and respect forelders instilled at an early age. The father is a mighty figure, an icon toput beside the schoolmaster and the priest. Cronje understood theexpectations of the leader, that he must be unyielding and remote.Upon the field, he was the Afrikaner paternoster writ large.

He had another trait that bound him to the tribe from which heemerged. Stoicism lay at the heart of his character, alongside a passionthat burnt like a low flame. Afrikaners count among the mostromantic of peoples, a description that distinguished prop forwardOos van Randt might not recognise, though it is expressed in hissnorting defiance of age. Arguably, this outlook has been a weakness,yet it has often been a source of strength. Afrikaners want to believe.

Cronje expressed the tenacity of his people. In Sydney in 1994,with bushfires raging and grass smoking before our eyes, he led histeam to a famous victory. The heat was almost unbearable. Alwaysthere must be the suffering. Cronje was the great leader of men, atowering figure urging on his players till the moment of redemptionarrived.

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But it was more than that. Cronje is not so easily defined, for hewas also a man of his times, a cosmopolitan, dashing figure, whosetoughness was respected by men and whose appearance was admiredby women, many of whom flocked to the speeches he gave after thefall. He was rich, sexy, uncompromising and successful. Moreover, hewas a match for Ali Bacher and all his machinations. He reassured atribe that the world had not come to an end. He expressed theyearning of his folk.

No wonder South Africans, especially Afrikaners, did not want tobelieve the tapes. Indeed, the reaction to the revelations reeked ofracism. Was some Indian buffoon accusing a favourite son of malprac-tice? The cheek of it! Alas, South Africans had misjudged both of themain players involved. Detective Paul is cold and efficient. Cronje wasflawed and greedy for money. His team-mates at Leicestershire calledhim ‘Crime’ because ‘crime never pays’. Cronje was tight androutinely spent his meal money on a hamburger, pocketing the rest.

Eventually, Cronje had to admit that the tapes were genuine andhe had not only taken money to play badly, but also had used hisposition as captain to persuade others to put their ladles in the pot.No one will ever know the full story. The King Commission was acharade. But the possibility that Cronje stashed millions away in taxhavens cannot be discounted.

Cronje was hardly in his grave before the campaign began torestore his name. An impression was created that some Australianshad behaved just as badly, but it is not true, merely a self-comfortingnotion calculated to reinforce feelings of victimisation. Cronje wasgrasping, disloyal and manipulative. He knew what he was doing,talked privately about the corruption of the touring Pakistanis in1994, but did not add that he intended to join in. He was caught red-handed. Of course, they went for him.

Now the reassessment. Cronje was not wicked. Nor can he berestored by tribal or national acclaim. Given time, he might haverepaired his reputation. No one will ever know. Others cannot act onhis behalf. Plainly, though, he was not a legitimate champion becausehe could not be relied upon in the hour of need. South Africansdeserved better.

Other heroes have been found. And the Afrikaners are bouncingback. They have not surrendered anything that matters, merely

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power and position. The search for the new life within a new dispen-sation is underway. Cronje cannot light that path, for he took toomany false turns. But his strong points deserve recognition. Maturesocieties realise that the world is not divided into heroes and villainsand that every man and every nation endures the struggle betweenthe forces of light and dark. Cronje deserves neither our contemptnor uncritical admiration. His life should serve as an inspiration andas a warning.

Sourav Ganguly

Sourav Ganguly arrived in Australia in 2003 in charge of a talentedside whose imminent destruction was widely predicted. He startedthis series with a team still spluttering like an engine on a frostymorning. Nor is that the end of his difficulties. His own form has beenpoor, the result of rustiness after a period in dry dock. No one expectshim to score any runs. No one expects his team to emerge unscathedfrom the Gabba, ‘the fighting place’ of Aboriginal tradition.

By rights, Ganguly ought to be looking as glum as a docker whohas missed his morning fry-up. Instead, the Indian captain seemssurprisingly jaunty, like a child on the way to the swings. But then,Bengalis are a proud and stubborn lot. Ganguly, too, is more resilientthan he seems. Certainly, he is not easily broken. His entire careerattests to the fact. They keep throwing him upon the floor and hekeeps getting up.

Now, Ganguly faces his most daunting challenge, the task ofleading a cricket team on a tour of Australia. In many respects, hispresence in the touring party indicates his durability. Ganguly firstvisited these parts as the junior member of the 1991–92 touringteam. Typically, he did not attempt to please the elders of the side.Carrying bags for older players was, in his opinion, beyond the pale.Accordingly, he was dismissed as a youngster unprepared to dance tothe contemporary tune. Certainly, he was not willing to bow andscrape for grace.

Ganguly’s rejection of the role of the younger player was put downto the arrogance of youth and the laziness of a boy raised amongcushions. In fact, it was an act of courage. Ganguly understood the

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risks attached to upsetting senior players. Deference is embedded inthe Hindu way of life. In India it is normal to address elders andbetters as ‘Sir’. Likewise, it is normal to refer to respected seniors as‘Uncle’ or to add ‘bhai’ to their names. Juniors kiss the feet ofrespected seniors. Ganguly’s defiance of the prevailing culturedefined him as a man apart. Such fellows either end up on the scrapheap or leading the party.

Time has softened Ganguly’s individuality without breaking hisspirit. Nothing irritates him more than intimations that royal bloodflows through his veins. In fact, Ajay Jadeja was the highest bornamong contemporary Indian cricketers. Ganguly is merely rich. Hiswealth has been a boon for Indian cricket because it made him bothinvulnerable to the apples offered by bookmakers and independent ofthe cricket politicians. Throughout, Ganguly has been above the fray,a lofty figure, popular among his players and disdainful of otheropinions.

From spoilt youngster to respected leader has been a long andrewarding journey. Along the way, he has taken his team to the finalof a World Cup, only to lose his nerve at the last moment. He has alsocaptained his team during the greatest fightback in the annals of thegame. As a consequence, India holds the Border–Gavaskar Trophy,no mean achievement for a side obliged to play without Anil Kumble,a bowler deadly on crumbling surfaces. Throughout that epic series,Ganguly showed that he was not afraid of the Australians, eventurning up to play against them for India A, an arrangement slightlymarred by the fact that he stayed in a different hotel from team-matesand spent most of his time on the telephone.

Now Ganguly must score runs and inspire confidence in hisplayers, or else his career will be incomplete and his position will befatally weakened. Finding holes in this Indian team is a simple task.On the other hand, India fields some wonderful cricketers and severalsuperb batsmen. Ganguly and his countrymen must hope that India’sgifted batsmen produce the form that alone can keep this series alivetill Christmas. It is not a forlorn hope, because some of these visitorsare capable of the big idea, the great innings that is needed to bringdown such a formidable opponent.*

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* A few days later, Ganguly saved his side with a brilliant century. India squared theseries and retained the Border–Gavaskar Trophy.


Arjuna Ranatunga

Arjuna Ranatunga has been an extraordinary cricketer and among thefinest to wear the colours of his country. Amid the controversies ofhis later years, it is a point easily forgotten. Certainly, his battingcommanded respect. Until a fondness for hamburgers took its toll,Ranatunga was a quick-footed predator capable of scoring hundredsagainst any bowling. The audacity of his strokes in the carefree daysof youth is remembered, and even now he can score runs against anybowler except the fastest. His record speaks for itself.

At the crease he was alert, crafty and quick. He was, too, an inspirational figure whose very walk to the crease—slow, serene, yetsomehow abrasive—seemed to calm comrades almost as much as itirritated opponents, among whom the Australians were the mostexpressive. Ranatunga reserved his own ire for the English, for whosecondescending ways he did not care. Everything else was a perform-ance calculated to attract attention and please the masses.

He was a skilful cricketer whose stubbornness has been both hisstrength and, sometimes, his undoing. Against Australia he repeat-edly lost his wicket to wild strokes played against Shane Warne, whomhe wanted to dismantle. He’d allowed the leg-spinner to needle him,and it showed. Otherwise, he mostly ran himself out. But he couldbat with economy, power and timing.

Inevitably, though, it is for his leadership that Ranatunga will beremembered. He brought to his team and Sri Lankan cricket thepride of competition and the sniff of victory. Nor was he inhibited bythe ways of the old Ceylon, replacing them with a more uncompro-mising approach, a mixture of cunning, opportunism and banditry.There was always a hint of Napoleon about him, and a touch of CheGuevara too. Nor was he unduly restricted by scruple. Opponentsmuttered darkly about local pitches and umpires, but Ranatunga wasnot bothered about their complaints. Experience had been a hardmaster.

As captain his greatest achievement was to turn a charming bunchof cricketers into a fighting unit. As a result, Sri Lanka won the 1996World Cup and held its own, even against the Australians. It was amatter of belief and nerve. That he carried on so long is hardlysurprising, for he had built Sri Lankan cricket around himself and

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thought it might collapse without him. Moreover, he was enjoyingthe fruits of his labour. He was a father figure to his players and thegodfather of his country’s cricket. Part of love, though, is the abilityto withdraw. Ranatunga played past his time, a self-indulgence fromwhich Sri Lankan cricket has not yet recovered.

This is a man driven by desires he likes to keep hidden. Of course,he wanted to see Sri Lankans hold their own, an attitude he had incommon with Sunil Gavaskar, a greater batsman but a man of similardisposition. Gavaskar used his bat to prove that Indians could standtheir ground. Every emerging nation needs a figurehead of this sort.Imran Khan served the purpose in Pakistan, ridding his country ofany lingering sense of inferiority by proving himself a great cricketerand captain. All three have played in sides that unexpectedly wonWorld Cups.

But it went further with Ranatunga. Certainly, he was committedto instilling pride in Sri Lankan cricket, but he was an innovatorcommitted to widening the game so that everyone had a chance,regardless of faith or location or upbringing. Cricket had been a gamefor the privileged and most players had emerged from the famousChristian schools in Colombo. Ranatunga was born into a risingfamily who sent him to a Buddhist school from which he emerged asa superb cricketer determined to fight for his place among the oldguard. Ever since, he has appealed to the people in the villages whosepassion he has sometimes inflamed.

By and large, Ranatunga and company have succeeded in givingopportunities to youngsters regardless of background. Significantly,the current captain comes from humble stock and first took guard inthe south coast, and the leading bowler sent down his first off-breakin Kandy. This Sri Lankan team also includes a couple of Tamils andan opening bowler educated in a Catholic school.

Ranatunga’s later years were marked by conflict, with coachesappointed and ousted. He failed to check the deterioration that ledto Sri Lanka’s dismal failure in the 1999 World Cup. Where once hewas the solution, now he was the problem—an ageing player refusingto let go, a man obsessed with furthering his career to the detrimentof the game in his country.

Of course, the last has not been heard of him. Ranatunga is aconsummate politician and was always suspected of plotting some-

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thing, even on those rare occasions when he wasn’t. His ambitionsextend beyond the backbenches of Parliament and the nationalcricket team. During the course of the next few years, he will choosehis path. He could emerge as a demagogue or as a true leader. Uponthat choice his reputation will ultimately depend.

Meanwhile, it is enough to acknowledge his contribution. He leda team representing a country ravaged by civil war and hindered bypoor resources, and he prevailed. Before him the Sri Lankans playedwell, but did not win. Playing by his own lights, he built an enthusi-astic side and won a World Cup, a privilege granted to few.

Bob Simpson

Robert Baddeley Simpson is a strange and uneasy man driven byambition and a suspicion that keeps a distance between him and thesmooth-talking world. Battered of psyche as of a face distinguishedby craggy features, swept-back black hair and wary eyes, Simpsonemerges as a person who has been hurt, as someone who believes thisto be a dog-eat-dog world, as someone determined to prevail. He isa gifted man, a fierce and unforgiving competitor suffering from asense of inferiority and bent upon proving his worth.

His world has done him no favours and he holds it in no senti-mental regard. Aesthetics are not for him, nor softness of brain, forhe is a grafter, one who cannot be loved by the sporting crowd. Hehas been scorned by insiders and contemporaries alike, but has fed offtheir rejection and self-satisfaction, knowing that his salvation lay inrepeated triumph, for all other avenues had been closed. In failure,Simpson learnt the vacuity of mere style, learnt to be acquisitive,never to surrender ground easily. He is an uncomfortable man withwhom to do business.

As a player, he was outstanding, one of the finest openers of hisgeneration and a magnificent slip-catcher. As a captain he wasresolute, and as coach he built his reputation by using acute analyti-cal powers and a ruthless mind. Players under his control were madeto work hard on their basic skills and to think with no hint of laziness;if they could not love Simpson, they could respect him, for they sawthe results produced by these toils.

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Origins may offer clues to this prickly character. Simpson’s fatherwas a Scottish immigrant who moved to the hot, motorised Sydneysuburb of Petersham, a place untouched by fancy, a place from whichto rise. Already a picture of Scottish canniness forms. They were acricketing family and Robert Baddeley practised on a tennis courtunder a beating sun. At sixteen, he played for New South Wales. Onlythe doomed Ian Craig was selected at a younger age. A brilliant careerwas universally predicted.

It was not to be so simple. In these early years, Simpson was acreative batsman, almost an innocent, a fellow capable of breezyfifties, not a sticker, for he had not yet realised what a rough life it canbe. And then, in 1954, he was poised on 98 against Len Hutton’stourists when a light rain fell, whereupon the Englishmen ran fromthe field, leaving umpires and batsmen behind and provoking spec-tators into loud barracking. Play resumed immediately, but Simpsonlost concentration and swung at John Wardle without addition. Theincident rankled. He is not a man to forgive and forget.

For years, Simpson drifted, but slowly he tightened his game,turning himself into a robust opener by eliminating his hook, usinga shorter and heavier bat, and learning to play off the back foot. Hehad found his metier, yet Test hundreds remained elusive, not onebeing scored in 29 Test innings. Then Richie Benaud retired ascaptain in 1964 and Simpson was appointed. Blossoming in his firstautumn, he batted with authority and brought to England a teamdescribed as ‘the worst ever sent’ and ‘the faceless ones’.

Plotting a dour campaign, he ensured victory by compiling 311 in762 minutes at Old Trafford. No one had ever batted as long againstEngland. Fred Ramsey gasped, ‘Any of you blokes ever taken a fourthnew ball?’ It wasn’t pretty, but it was effective, like its progenitor.

Simpson retired in 1968, after scoring 4900 Test runs at anaverage of 47, taking 71 wickets and holding 100 catches, a splendidrecord. He had programmed himself to score runs, batting ‘as if bycomputer’. Afterwards, he played superbly in grade cricket and other-wise busied himself wheeling and dealing.

And then came the Packer rebellion and an official request toresume office. Enemies never forgave him; admirers praised him. Typi-cally, Simpson batted magnificently against the Indian spinners, scoring130 more runs than anyone else. He was less fortunate in the West

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Indies, where he next took his team, thereby imperilling his 41-year-old bones. Upon returning, his selectors would not guarantee a regularplace against England and Simpson retired, this time for good.

After Australia’s debacle in England in 1985, he was summonedonce more, as coach. Until Allan Border’s triumph over a brokenEngland team in 1989, his position was in jeopardy, for success waselusive and Simpson was inclined towards complaint. Shirkers andstirrers were dropped and still nothing good happened. Still victorieswere rare.

And then came England and triumph. Critics have been inclinedto dismiss his contribution, praising instead Terry Alderman andMark Taylor. This is harsh, for Simpson had moulded the team.Moreover, he had taken England’s premier batsmen to pieces andprovided Border with powers of observation and execution.

Mohammad Azharuddin

Mohammad Azharuddin has not suddenly grown horns. As far as canbe told, he has not harmed a mother or child, has not betrayed thesecrets of his country or spent the taxpayers’ money on himself orprevented a foreign-born leader taking the position of PrimeMinister. Not that he has been a saint or anything of that sort. Bettermen can be found upon every street corner. But sooner or later thepast must be forgotten and a man allowed to resume his life. If the prodigal son could be welcomed back, then Azha can be allowedto work on television.

No fuss should be made about Azha’s appearance as part of themedia attending the 2004 Asia Cup. Apart from anything else, he haspaid the price of his misdeeds. To the best of its ability, the law of hisland has called him to account. Cricket has also scrutinised his activ-ities as part of a wider investigation. His game, the game that neverlets go, the recreation that took a hold upon him when he was a poorMuslim child playing in the back streets, has rejected him. He cannotplay cricket again, or not in public. Batting was his life.

Worst of all, Azha has lost his reputation. Till his dying day, he willbe remembered not as the sleek batsman who scored a wondroushundred at Lord’s, but as the man who used his position as captain

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of his country to feather his nest. Whenever he walks into the ground,he will hear the whispers and sense the mixed emotions that his arrivalhas provoked. He could have been a hero, but threw it all away in anattempt to fulfil the other dream of the sporting child, to live in thegrand way, surrounded by marble, adorned by jewels, wearing fash-ionable clothes and with an attractive wife upon his sleeve.

Doubtless, Azha now understands the folly of his ways. Doubtless,he has encountered the emptiness to be found inside the pleasing shellof the stylised life. Doubtless, he yearns to turn back the clock, a licencepermitted only to writers of fiction. In public, he may excuse himself,may refuse to show contrition. In private, he is hurting because he haslost his reputation, the most valuable thing a man possesses. Only thevengeful will seek further recrimination, and they ought to examinetheir own souls before worrying unduly about Azha’s. The idea that aman of his sort had nothing to offer merely upon the exposure offinancial misconduct is absurd. An offence is revealed and punished andthen life starts again like a forest after a fire.

Nor does the idea that the world is divided between black andwhite sit easily with anyone who has seen journalists fill in theirexpense forms, businessmen claim their allowances or politiciansmisuse their funds. Sportsmen, too, are notoriously mean. Thenotion that famous sportsmen inhabit a world separate from the restof mankind is dishonest. Like the rest of us, they are made of fleshand blood. Curiously, it is the most saintly of people who are gener-ally the swiftest to forgive because they know the power of the temptations they have resisted.

Not that a red carpet needs to be laid upon the ground for Azhaas he rejoins those living under the thin veneer of respectability.Cricket barely survived the self-indulgence of its corrupted players.He should be regarded as a professional earning his crust by makingcomments on television, as a man of past glories who fell with a thudfrom a high place and now deserves the chance to try again.

Cricket teaches its practitioners to forget about the last ball and tothink about the next one. Man himself deserves the same opportu-nity. Azha’s past is irrelevant. He, too, must be treated upon hiscurrent merits. Welcome back, Azha, and may happier days lie ahead.

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13

Leaving thestage

Regardless of past deeds, a man walks out to bat with nothing to hisname and in silence, except for the sound of his own footsteps and

such remarks as his hosts care to make.

No time in a successful sporting career is more fascinatingthan its twilight. Famous sportsmen lead a life of eternalyouth, a Peter Pan existence sustained by fantastic events

upon the field and fanciful stuff off it. They conquer worlds, and feelwithin the rush of importance, the sense of grandeur encountered by the rock star as he twirls his microphone. Of course, it is a drug.Who has turned his back upon adulation? Only those who walk awaytruly reject it, and their names could be written on the back of apostage stamp.

At its highest levels, the sporting existence is extraordinary. Attimes, the star must crave the anonymity others strive so hard toavoid. Celebrated actors regularly appear in glossy magazines com-plaining about the intrusion of, well, glossy magazines. Yet it is notcompletely dishonest. A man may want many things in his life, someof them contradictory. Often there is the craving for ordinarinessalongside the drive for success. Many sportsmen relish their fameand wish it was a switch that could be turned off, now and then.

For exalted performers, the idea of leaving the stage for the lasttime is hard to face, for the crowd’s roar has stirred their soul. Theyknow that afterwards there is only Kellogg’s for breakfast and forms

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to fill. Returning to civilian life is not much easier for the sportsmanwho has bathed in approval than it is for a soldier who has smeltcordite. For a sportsman to withdraw is to admit that the vital, ful-filling part of his life is over. It is not a concession easily made. Businessmen and politicians can continue deep into their seventies.Sport offers no such grace. Always the clock is ticking. And does eventhe ageing corporate leader or the declining statesman easily walkaway from his field of activity?

Those who have escaped anonymity seek with every power at theirdisposal to maintain their hard-won privilege. Even the betteradjusted sportsmen obliged to fight to survive, who always felt reliefwhen night came or rain fell, for then the cloud of threatened failurereceded for a few precious hours, even these battlers generally try tohold on for another week or month or year. Neither David Boon norAllan Border wanted to leave. Geoff Marsh was so offended by anarticle suggesting that his time was up that he brushed past the nexttime our paths crossed. No one wants to hear the news. Steve Waughfought furiously against his passing and only when its inevitability wasaccepted did he start to think about its manner.

Of course, these famous men fight to the end. Dollars and cents are seldom the issue. None of the men mentioned above expected tomake his fortune as a cricketer. That came later, with the television andthe success and the sponsorship. Cricket was a calling that became anopportunity. Rather, it is an anxiety to remain within the confines of theonly existence they had known. Women constantly underestimate howmuch men like spending time together, how much they enjoy therooms with their secrets and vulgarities and laughter, for there they feelunderstood and appreciated and their full selves.

Once the silence descends upon sportsmen, there is no turningback. Only boxers try to reclaim the fleeting glory, and most of themend up on their backsides or worse. Cricketers, rugby players, athletesand so forth know the truth. When it is over, it really is over. Oftenit is illuminating to watch the champions as they breathe their lastupon the field, for then can be seen a blend of defiance and accept-ance. Sometimes the player sinks into self-caricature as he strugglesto produce one last performance, while at the same time trying torespond to the warmth that embraces him like a blanket on a cold,dark night.

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Of course, it is different for lesser lights, those destined to pursuetheir calling in more obscure places, those who regard themselves asfailures or at best only partial successes. Often they are relieved whentheir time is up, for then duty has been done and life proper canbegin. Sport concentrates upon its most brilliant performers andleaves in its wake a hundred million disappointments.

Sometimes sporting failures destroy a man’s self-esteem and forsuch players there can be no easy passing. In a minor county gamesome years ago, an opponent drove a ball to a boundary fieldsman,miscued and trotted to the bowler’s end. Upon hearing my cusses,he apologised and added heavily that he had always been a uselessplayer. It ought to have been a warning bell. He had played as acounty professional for several years and had tried his hardest.Certainly, he had nothing to be ashamed about. Yet he had expectedmore of himself and a year later took his life.

Herein can be found descriptions of the last international appear-ances of Michael Atherton and Allan Border, and Steve Waugh’s laststand in first-class cricket. These men knew their time was up and thecrowd was able to rise to them. Merv Hughes is seen hobbling fromthe field for the last time, while Lance Klusener is caught trying torecapture a gift that stubbornly refuses to be bottled.

Allan Border’s last match

Few sportsmen have been awarded an ovation as heartfelt andprolonged as that given to Allan Border as he stepped onto the SCGon the evening of 25 January 1994. Under the intoxicating blacknessof the skies and with colour all around, a crowd rose to him as anation bid farewell to one of its favourite sons. Australia is a land of brilliant colours, of fire and rain, desert and snow; it’s a land ofextremity and endurance, a place whose characteristics the departinghero expressed and enhanced. Australian heroes are not a breed apart.They belong to the people and are admired and protected, for thenation is young and yearns to make its mark.

As Border walked out for the last time, the match was forgotten.Suddenly, we were celebrating not a game but a man. Supporterswere saluting the contributions of a fellow who has risen above

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himself on countless occasions (it is hard to avoid clichés with Border,a man who favours them himself, yet has never become one). Aust-ralia was never beaten till Border’s wicket had been taken. To watchhim during those closing overs on Tuesday night, prowling theground and resenting every run, even after the issue had long sincebeen decided, was to see his strengths on display for one last time.

Casting aside the grizzled exterior that has over the years beensuch a comfort, and no mean disguise, Border responded to thecrowd to the extent of allowing himself to bowl the final over. At lasthe let down his guard, allowed himself to be reached as the crowdsang, ‘Border, Border, give us a wave’. In the past, he had heard theroars and had put them out of his mind. He did not trust himselfenough, did not believe in himself sufficiently, to involve himself inthe fleeting moment. He batted against fear and failure, protected hiswicket with his last breath because to do otherwise was to take a stepdown the slippery slope.

Accordingly, Border played his cricket in a matter-of-fact way. Hecame across as an ordinary bloke, trying his hardest to score runs,take wickets, and run some of these blighters out. It was an illusion.It was not really the common man out there at all. Mark Waugh andDean Jones are more touched by human frailty. Border was anextraordinarily skilful and consistent cricketer with phenomenalcontrol of his mind and emotions. He had an absolute command ofhimself. Ordinary men cannot rise to that.

It was a remarkable evening, and a display of affection that almostreached hero-worship. In some respects, it was unanticipated. Borderis the bloke who stands with hands on hips, his fury plain, when thingsare going wrong. Sometimes he kicks the turf, often he scratches hishead, occasionally he growls at umpires. No one wanted to win morethan him, yet he reacted to victory not with ecstasy but relief. Anotherbattle had been won, another day survived. Border played without joy,for he is a straightforward man and does not get carried away.

Border’s waves as he walked onto the field were repeated as hedeparted into the privacy of the dressing-room where he has lived solong, where he has belonged. It was a heart-warming occasion, andthe three cheers at the end rounded off a marvellous night. Borderlacked all pretension and concealment. He just wanted Australia towin and, after a rough start, he generally made sure that they did.

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Michael Atherton’s last stand

Michael Atherton’s last innings for his country, on 26 August 2001,was brief and typically understated. As he walked to the crease, thecrowd rose in recognition of long and distinguished service by anEnglishman of a particular sort: scruffy, pale-skinned, educated andfond of proper beer and Manchester United. As the ovation contin-ued, a softening could be detected around the eyes of a man who hasalways avoided emotion. In his younger days, Atherton did not fullyunderstand the furies and passions that drove others forward. Later,he yearned for them.

As ever, Atherton did his utmost. He has never sought the easyway. Rather, he set himself to bat until hell freezes over, pittedhimself against the entire opposition and fate itself. He tried to dothe complete job and not just his bit. Often, he fell short, for he hasbeen a highly skilled batsman a few notches short of greatness. Buthe always came back. Long ago, he had chosen his course and hekept to it because it expressed the inner man.

Atherton’s manner is deceptively plain, for he avoids show, has nointerest in celebrity or populism, relies upon deeds and relaxes onlyin the warmth and privacy of the dressing-room. Away from pryingeyes and sporting conflict, he can be amusing, interesting and opin-ionated to the point of stubbornness.

He has not bothered much about money, clothes or cults. Rather,he has been a mixture, a man of many parts. At times, he is thenorthern lad following his soccer team; at other times, the everlast-ing student taking his clothes from an over-full drawer. Sometimes,he becomes the intelligent, questing young man reading bookswritten by South Americans. Above all, he remains youthful, for,though he has known setbacks and anger, he has not aged. He is anindependent fellow, untouched, mostly unruffled.

Atherton has been a fine batsman and a committed cricketer whosold his wicket dearly and held England together in troubled times.Something was missing, for he was solid rather than substantial, skilfulrather than imposing. Perhaps he lacked the force of personality of thesort seen in Geoff Boycott, John Edrich, Ken Barrington or Bill Lawry.

Alas, his final appearance was brief, though he bettered The Donby some distance. Once again, Glenn McGrath was his nemesis, a

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bowler whose skills he could not contain. McGrath repeatedlyproduced the ball that most troubled the Lancastrian, just short of alength, just outside off-stump, rising and deviating. Atherton’s back-foot defence has been his weak point because it’s played with chestpointing down the pitch. Often he has been caught behind or in theslips, touching dangerous deliveries as they pass. He prefers spinnersor bumpers or anything except this torment.

Of course, Atherton did not ask his partner to take first ball, noteven in this final innings. He did not allow softness to enter hismind. He took guard and embarked once more on the task ofsubduing his most fierce opponent and the bowler who had oneighteen occasions been his undoing. Perhaps he dreamed of aglorious last stand, though he is not the sort whose head spendslong in the clouds. Before long, he touched another probingdelivery, whereupon he sighed as he awaited the umpire’s verdict.Then he trudged once more towards the pavilion, a slight shake ofthe head accompanying him, and then the rising applause. As heclosed his innings, he could reflect upon a job well done and couldhope, as he always hoped, that better days for England lie justaround the corner.

The Australians clapped Atherton as he left the field. At first, theyhad dismissed him as a toff, but he kept coming back and then they realised he was a man to respect. It is not such a bad epitaph.

Merv Hughes leaves the field

As Merv Hughes trudged from the SCG on 12 January 1995, it washard to avoid thinking that, for him, it was the end. And he seemedto sense it, too, for he walked slowly and, as he walked, he paused toglance at the hubbub all around. He was in pain, and puzzled too;time had flown by so quickly.

It had not been much of a day for Hughes, yet it was not atypicalof the days of his career. Somehow, despite it all, despite himself,despite everything, he had done his bit, taken his wickets. And theAustralia A team had won, though by then Hughes had made hisforlorn departure, body drooping in sympathy with his moustache.

Hughes’s opening overs were awful. Oh, he ran in with intent,

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arms by his side, pitter-patter steps to start with and then a surging,heavy rhythm, a blast of arms and, though there was no body in it,an unleashing of power. But there was no pace or direction, unlessrepeated waywardness can be called direction.

He had bowled so well in previous games, well enough to promisethe prolonging of his autumn. He might have played in theMelbourne Test had not injury struck. That was barely a fortnightearlier. And now he was on cricketing skid row. The secret of it all isto know when it is time to go.

That opening spell was punished at a rate of seven an over asEngland raced away. Hughes was sent to patrol the boundary at fineleg. He was not in disgrace. He had too much in the bag for that. Yetit was hard to imagine that night would bring improvement. He hadroared like a bull, but only a croak had emerged.

Soon enough, Hughes was recalled to the crease to replace PaulReiffel. Humiliation did not seem far away, for Hughes had beenlumbering and looked tired and unhappy, an old man in a youngteam. For once, his urgings were not to be heard across the ground;for once, he was the player in need.

Further embarrassment appeared certain as Hughes began hissecond spell. The batsmen were set, the pitch was firm and the fieldwas spread. Was there one among us who did not sigh and say for theumpteenth time, ‘He’s finished, he’s going to cop it now’?

Oh, we of little faith! Ever since he first appeared in Australiancolours, Hughes has been making fools of us all. Now he hurried into bowl at Graham Gooch and somehow enticed an edge as thebatsman waved at an unexceptional delivery. A few overs later, hethudded a ball into Mike Gatting’s pads and his appeal wasanswered. He’d done it again. Hughes is a match player, and adarned good one.

Now he rested again, breathing heavily and retreating to theboundary. At last he was recalled, but could manage only two moreovers. They weren’t bad, but they were painful. Hughes isn’t a manto let his team down, not a man to leave the field, yet he did so nowbecause he was hurt.

It’s hard to see him playing for Australia again, and he may not lastmuch longer for Victoria. There’s no need for regrets. His time hascome. The spirit is willing, but the body can’t take it any more.

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Mike Gatting gets his century

All summer Mike Gatting had huffed and puffed and blown downnothing. All summer he seemed a cricketer from a bygone age, a relicwhose career was destined to end in disappointment. It was hard tofeel sympathetic; he may have been a victim of the turbulence thatwas English cricket in the 1980s, yet he was also a cause. Besideswhich, it had been a good and long innings.

But no one likes to see a cricketer end badly and everyone urgedGatting towards his 100, even his opponents, or so it seemed, thoughthey tried hard to stop him. It was as if the game yearned to saygoodbye in a fit and proper way.

It hadn’t been much of a tour for Gatting. Bad luck had stalkedhim, his scores had been low and humiliation followed close on hisheels. A career part brilliant, part folly, part inspiration, part frustra-tion, a career not without its blind alleys or disputations, was reachinga sorry conclusion.

Accordingly, Adelaide barracked for him on 27 January 1995.After all, he had given service, and service must be acknowledged. Hehad led England to victory in the summer of 1986–87, its last win,had scored a century on this pitch eight years earlier, and had gener-ally impressed as a no-nonsense type, a man to roll up his sleeves and shout a beer. If he could not be cherished, he could at least berespected. A hundred constructed in adversity would, it was widelyagreed, be an appropriate farewell.

Scoring the first 89 was easy enough. Admittedly, he made hisusual jittery start and was bowled by a no-ball, but this was no more than expected after previous misfortunes. Admittedly, CraigMcDermott troubled him, as he usually does, for Gatting’s feet nolonger stride forward to the faster men. Yet he played the spinnershandsomely. Previously, Gatting had been all at sea against spin,much to the surprise of selectors who had chosen him because of hisexpertise in this area. Now he seemed in charge of the turning ball.

A further eleven runs were needed. It took an unconscionabletime to get them. Craig McDermott and Shane Warne gave himnothing. Warne’s fingers were snapping at last, and his follow-through bristled with energy. McDermott was outstanding, producing a searing eleven-over spell after lunch, pinning England

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down and taking wickets. But he could not remove Gatting.Somehow the batsman moved to 95. About three years later, hetouched 99. One run needed. The crowd was on tenterhooks. Everyfieldsman was alert. A cover drive was stopped, and no other scoringopportunity arose. A run can take an awful lot of getting.

And then Gatting cut hard through gully. Relief, at last. Off hecharged, those little legs pumping. If this wasn’t a run, he’d neverscore another. But what was this? An interception from Steve Waugh,a confusion, men running in all directions, cries of ‘Yes’, ‘No’ and‘Hurry up, you old fool’ pierced the air. A throw, a miss, a run and an ovation. Gatting had his 100.

Lance Klusener in decline

Lance Klusener is looking a shadow of his former self. Of course, itis dangerous to discount anyone capable of reaching a par five in oneblow. Still, his 30-year-old bones are creaking and his confidence hassunk as low as it can go. This year, 2001, he has averaged 21 with thebat and over 40 with the ball. It is the wrong way round. His placeis in jeopardy.

Even Klusener’s booming off-drive is letting him down. Previouslya strong point, owing to its habit of landing in a nearby suburb, thisshot has, of late, repeatedly proved his undoing. Klusener fell this wayin Adelaide and twice in Sydney. Taking guard on a pair yesterday,Klusener could not even survive Mark Higgs’s innocent offerings.Before long, he pushed a catch to mid-off. Probably it was notintended to go into the air, but he was crouching more than usualowing to his nonplussed state of mind.

It came as no satisfaction to witness the fall of the ageing lion. Oneyearned for the roar and the savagery and was presented instead witha lame performance that told of waning powers.

Steve Waugh’s last innings

Steve Waugh has gone. At 6.08 p.m. on 6 January 2004, he walkedthrough the pavilion gates and into the Australian dressing-room for

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the final time. His last departure was saluted by cricketers, umpiresand a large crowd present to farewell a favourite son. His lastperformance was an epic of sorts and, though the story ended unsat-isfactorily, it contained the elements seen throughout an astonishingcareer, especially doggedness and sudden blows that sent the ballcharging to the boundary. Most of all, it was a typically cussed, skilfulcontribution in which Waugh found the powers needed to save hisside in its hour of need. No one was surprised by his contribution.His defiance has been a byword.

Apart from its closing minutes, Waugh’s last stand was admirablein every way. His career ended as it began, with a pinch-faced, gum-chewing refusal to surrender. Of course, he had wanted to end hiscareer on a winning note, but no sportsman, not even an Australiancaptain, can dictate the course of an entire match. Recovering theBorder–Gavaskar Trophy proved beyond his powers. Still, Australiahas won lots of trophies in his time as well as breaking numerousrecords. No man can have everything.

Arriving at the crease with his team in trouble and India pressingfor victory, Waugh began by constructing a brick wall around hiswicket and repelling all invaders. His glint-eyed backward defence hasbeen a familiar part of the cricketing landscape ever since the shyyoungster from an unfashionable part of town played his first Testmatch all those years ago. No one has ever found a way through it.

If Waugh’s heart was beating unusually fast on this final after-noon, he showed no sign of it. Not that Old Stone-face has everbetrayed anything as unhelpful as sentiment. Always it has been amatter of getting the job done. As far as he is concerned, the rest ispoppycock. In the heat of the battle, under gloomy skies, in front ofa large audience for the final time, it was the same old Waugh, a littlethicker around the waist maybe, but as stoical as ever. He had plentyof company as fieldsmen crowded the bat. Indeed, he found the timeto engage them in ‘conversation’, his comments creeping out fromthe corner of a mouth that otherwise remained tight-lipped. Waughhas always been able to take care of himself. And he has always knownthe exact location of cameras and microphones. Throughout, he hasbeen a competitor by instinct, a sportsman by necessity.

Hours passed and Waugh continued batting. Sourav Gangulymust have sensed the match slipping away, yet he seemed strangely

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paralysed, unwilling to change his bowling or set challenging fields.A stalemate developed as Australia fell further behind the clock andwickets refused to fall. India did not seem to believe in the possibil-ity of winning. Waugh has that effect upon people. They cannot readhis mind and, accordingly, fear his intentions. India was wary lest helaunch an improbable attack; never mind that the target was beyondreach. The Australian captain reduced his opponents to ineffectualprobing by weight of reputation alone.

Waugh’s dismissal was curiously unsatisfactory and at odds withhis philosophy. Once the match had been saved in all but name, heresponded to the urgings of 27 056 spectators disappointed to findthe match petering out by launching a ferocious assault upon a wearyand defeated attack. Plainly, he wanted to end with a hundred. Witha few overs left and needing another twenty runs, he bent on a knee,swept towards deep square-leg and watched as the ball flew towardsSachin Tendulkar, whose batting had illuminated an enthrallingmatch. Tendulkar took the ball. Waugh had scored his 10 887th andlast run in Test cricket.

In some respects, these last minutes were unworthy because theyglorified the individual and exposed tailenders to the trials of a reju-venated Indian side. The match might have been saved but, still, itwas a poor piece of cricket and left some observers feeling empty.

Perhaps the end did not signify. On a day of intense competitionand widespread frustration, Waugh had outstared and outwaited hisopponents. For eighteen years, he has epitomised the relentless driveand ruthless spirit of an Australian team that has been more execu-tioner than murderer. It will be strange to see an Australian side taketo the field without him.

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14

RetirementsCricket is a pursuit wherein the lessons of life are learnt. They arenot taught with the tenderness encountered elsewhere, for the game

does not permit its children an easy raising or its veterans acomfortable passing.

Whenever the curtain falls upon the career of a noted figure,the opportunity arises to attempt a summation of his or her contribution. Since sporting careers usually come to an

abrupt halt in the mid-thirties, the assessments can read like obituaries.Actually, it is not the end, merely the start of the next stage of an activelife. Thereafter, the departing sportsmen face a new challenge as they search other means of obtaining the satisfaction that sport hasprovided, or at any rate something to make them feel worthwhile.

Living in retirement is not easy for anyone, let alone a young manstill near the peak of his powers. A worker with 50 years’ experiencemay feel that he deserves a rest, yet the day spreads out long beforehim and unless interests have been found, the hours are hard to fill.Never mind the longer term. What is a man supposed to do afterbreakfast? Many people keep working as long as they can becausethey enjoy the company and the activity and fear the isolation. Forthem retirement is not a hard-earned rest but an unsettling prospect.A man needs to know how to retire, but it is not something that canbe gleaned from manuals.

As far as sportsmen are concerned, the withdrawal from the actionis especially traumatic because it occurs at an early age. A man or

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woman of 65 may admit that their race has been run. The sportsmanhas another 30 years of working life, more if he is employed as acricket commentator. Accordingly, even the most flattering review ofpast deeds is received with mixed emotions.

Few sportsmen easily depart the world they have for so longoccupied and sometimes illuminated. Of course, there is the questionof employment. Many sportsmen have few other qualifications. Natu-rally, they try to find work within its portals, for otherwise it is thefactory for them, as it was for Harold Larwood in his day. But thereis more to it than that. Many ageing sportsmen are no more willingto retire as journalists or broadcasters because that, too, thrusts theminto the cold unknown.

Richie Benaud and Bill Lawry are cases in point. At the time ofwriting, neither man has shown the slightest inclination to put his feetup as recommended in contemporary advertising. To the contrary,they turn up fresh every year. Lawry bristles at suggestions that hisinnings is almost over and to prove the point remains the most obviously enthusiastic of his colleagues. Every year, word spreadsthat Benaud is about to leave, rumours swiftly squashed by a pressrelease announcing that he has signed another three-year contract.

Obviously, the skills and knowledge displayed by these men areappreciated, but their reluctance to depart also tells a tale. GeoffLawson is a qualified optometrist, yet he must remain within thegame, for otherwise he’d die—or so his wife insists. Others serve asselectors. Bob Simpson still roams around helping club and nationalteams. Nowadays, many sportsmen manage to stay within the game,which allows them to lead the same life without the attendant pres-sures. Nevertheless, the fear remains. The list of cricketing suicides islong and the reason is simple. Cricket attracts sensitive men and fillstheir time from the age of twelve to 35. And then it sends them backinto the world.

Even now, not everyone makes the adjustment easily. Althoughretirement may be anticipated years ahead, it can still somehow creepup on a fellow. Dennis Lillee admitted that he found fitting intoeveryday life difficult and faced periods of emptiness. Here is asociable man, who helped to fund Crocodile Dundee and coached fastbowlers around the world. But he also made a comeback withTasmania and, typically, took a wicket in his first over. Lillee was

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reported for damaging a dressing-room in the same match, the lasteruption of a quietening volcano.

Geoff Marsh was a different man entirely, yet he too encounteredproblems in adapting to life outside the Australian cricket team. It ishardly surprising. Since the age of 23, batting for Australia hadsustained him and suddenly it was over. He spoke to Mike Cowardabout his melancholy, and the subsequent article was as moving as itwas helpful to others in the same boat.

Happily, Lillee and Marsh survived their return to routine. Amongthose included in this chapter, Graham Gooch and Allan Border havealso prospered. If anything, Border has grown in stature because heremains the same unpretentious man. Both have remained withintheir game. Michael Atherton has become a respected writer andbroadcaster, but has kept a certain distance between him and theworld that embraces him. He has written about matters other thancricket by way of stretching himself.

Hopefully, the Waugh twins will also flourish. Their futures are intheir own hands and no man can ask for more than that. They startedlife in the same womb and left the cricket scene on the same day.

Allan Border

Departing has never been Allan Border’s strongest suit. Give him outcaught at the wicket and he’ll growl and glare as if final proof hadarrived that the world was a rotten place and life itself not to betrusted. Deny him a leg-before appeal and he’ll spit and kick at theturf. Defiance was ever his way; that is why he defended so fiercelyand was so reluctant to declare his Test career over. Never give aninch was the philosophy of this most unbudging of cricketers.

Graciousness was not for him; he could see only through the eyesof a victory, only through the needs of Australia. He was determinedto deny his opponents every last run, hated to bowl lest he give a fewaway. He hit the stumps with throws directed by those pitiless eyespartly because he was gifted, partly because he wanted to hit them sovery much. The world was not going to put one across him.

Gentlemanly gestures had little appeal, and a smooth departurewas not to be anticipated. He is a cricketer, after all, and never said

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he was anything else, not more and not less. It was his proudestboast. And he was still scoring runs. Was it time to go? Pick a teamto play for your life and try leaving him out.

No, he didn’t want to go, couldn’t see the need. Within him wasa voice saying, ‘You can still bat, AB.’ Throughout his career, he hadtrusted those voices, urging him to keep his head down, telling himnot to declare yet, driving him away from another defeat and, some-times, towards victory. It had been his second greatest weapon, theinstinct of the fighter who brought Warne on to bowl in Sri Lanka atthat perilous hour, the instinct that always knew which end to throw.He could sense weakness because he was so aware of his own—tooaware, really, for it did not make life easy for him, his colleagues, hisopponents or spectators.

Willpower was his greatest weapon, though—the will to prevail,the will to score runs again and again. Courage was not far behind,as was evident during his finest innings, the century and 98 in a singlematch against Joel Garner at his most explosive on a pitch as greenas pastureland.

He did very little that took the breath away, yet he was betterloved than many of those in close contact with the sporting gods. Inpart it was the love of longevity, of those who have served for a longtime and with unfailing devotion. People appreciate a familiar face,enjoy the sight of a reliable man walking out to take on all comers onall pitches.

And yet it was more than longevity that brought to Border thecheers of the crowds. It wasn’t skill either, not that technique waslacking. Rather, it was his apparent ordinariness, the very fact that hedid so little that you or I could not do, a man apparently untouchedby magic who simply rolled up his sleeves and took ’em on. He hasbeen a magnificent servant and it is up to his successors to match hisunfailing dedication and to add a little something of their own—generosity perhaps, the sort of gesture Border rejected because it wasnot a tea party out there.

Doubtless, someone will, one day, make sense of all the shenani-gans of the past few days. Let us not get bogged down in all that. Itwas the right time to go, while people still thought of him fondly andrespectfully. This way, whenever Australia is in trouble, folk will sighand say, ‘If only Border was next man in.’

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Ian Healy

Ever since he first appeared in Australian colours, an appearance thatsurprised all except those familiar with his feisty personality, efficiencybehind the stumps and competitive zeal, Ian Healy has been acommitted colleague and unrepentant foe. In his country’s cause hehas endured blows, broken fingers, cursed batsmen and argued, allthe while barking remarks into opponents’ ears in a voice that resembled an electric saw.

Healy stood unyielding behind the stumps, making his presence feltupon friend and foe, and anyone else near at hand or far away; nothingwas ever quiet while he was around. He had the effect upon compla-cency of a low-flying aircraft upon glass. Always he was pressingforward, demanding high standards, his movements precise, his glovework clean, his voice urgent and often saying, ‘Bowled, Warnie.’

Throughout, Healy has been an aggressor and an agitator, acandid and confrontational character with cold eyes and a hard mind.When a victim came along, he celebrated unapologetically, for he hadbeen blessed with, and nurtured, a killer instinct. Not the least of hisattractions was an unwillingness to placate the bystander. He foughtwith sundry querulous opponents, including Arjuna Ranatunga andDesmond Haynes, and once threw his bat in anger at CenturionPark, where the provocation had been severe, coming as it did froma local whitecoat nowadays serving as a timekeeper in Gladiators(where his particular qualities are better appreciated).

Healy was a constant companion and hardbitten player, a mandedicated to his calling. Yet he was something more, too: an artistcapable of finesse, a craftsman blessed with grace. At first, his subtletyand style came as a surprise because his cricket was a creation of hismind, yet artistry was in his dexterous glove work as Shane Warne wasflinging down deliveries that bit and turned and bounced from therough. At such times, the ball seemed to nestle into Healy’s gloves asgently as a bird dropping into its nest.

Warne and Healy worked together as well as any pair of comedi-ans or composers, or detectives. There was a ruthlessness about theirperformances, and a brilliance that seemed to extinguish hope. In allcircumstances, Healy was a precise, tidy and accomplished wicket-keeper. Paired with Warne, he was pre-eminent in his field.

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To meet Healy was to encounter a man of drive and energy. Towatch him was to observe a worthy member of a great tradition thatincludes Bert Oldfield, Don Tallon and Rod Marsh.

Towards the end, Healy lost form with the bat. Perhaps, too, hismind had also lost its edge. He belonged to the times of AllanBorder, David Boon and Geoff Marsh and must have felt his day hadpassed. As a player he needed to apply himself body and soul, neededto commit totally, or else he was nothing. Such men cannot contem-plate the call of civilisation. By nature, they are warriors and oncepeaceful notions enter their mind, they are finished.

Happily, Healy read the signs. His batting had deterioratedbecause his footwork had slowed down. His footwork had sloweddown because his will had been compromised. He was a remarkablecricketer. Sometimes he might miss a take, but it’s hard to rememberhim dropping a catch. He has always been a man to rely upon.

Throughout his years of service, Healy never let his team down orput his own interests too high. He made himself into a great crick-eter and belonged to a hardbitten bunch who helped to restore thereputation of Australian cricket after the deprivations of the 1980s.Healy had hoped to finish in Brisbane, in front of his home crowdand with 400 victims to his name. It was not to be. The selectors saidit was time to go. So he went. Healy has always been a practicalperson, a proud competitor and a loyal servant of Australian cricket.

Graham Gooch

Although it did not fall to him to be the colossus of his time, GrahamGooch was an immense figure in English cricket. He was an out-standing batsman whose forceful style brought numerous hundredsand whose fallibilities produced periods of confusion resulting froma certain inflexibility in his game, a failing also detectable in his character.

He did not change much in his time at the top, remaining at heartthe simple Essex lad searching for home truths and often yearning forhome itself, a loyal local man whose abilities took him beyond theworld in which he felt comfortable and into an arena whose chal-lenges he was prepared to meet but whose ways did not much please

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him. Although he enjoyed the rewards of greatness, one sensed thatGooch really belonged in the cricket of the 1960s, a more private ageof cricketers and cricketing talk. In his heart he was more sawdust pilethan zinc cream, more Market Rasen than Ascot. But a man cannotchoose the time of his coming. He can only make the best of things,a mission by and large accomplished by this warm and driven man.

Gooch had no relish for the life his abilities obliged him to lead.It says much for him that he survived to serve with such distinction.Throughout, he sought the companionship of the faithful, thehumour of the Essex dressing-rooms to which he learnt to add hisown wry remarks, the ancient wisdoms of ‘Tonker’ Taylor, DavidAcfield and Keith Fletcher, the sense of club and team and kindredspirit he missed whenever he played for England. It was his strengthand his limitation, for it conveyed loyalty and revealed a want ofimagination. True leaders cannot live in the past.

He grew close to people because he wanted affection, wanted tobelieve in things. He did not go to South Africa in 1982 throughgreed or ambition. He went because he had lost faith in Englishcricket. He was a proud man, too, and wasn’t prepared to be orderedaround by those he did not respect. He had been close to KenBarrington and resembled him in many ways. Barrington’s untimelydeath was keenly felt. It took English cricket twenty years to recover.More than had been realised, the Surrey man provided the patriot-ism and humour needed to bind together a disparate group of men.Mickey Stewart was not much of a replacement. Indeed, he was asresponsible for the subsequent deterioration as Barrington had beenfor the rise.

Gooch kept searching for an emotional commitment beyond hisfamily, yearned for pegs upon which he could hang his hat withoutfear of removal. He forged some relationships calculated to surpriseoutsiders: with David Norrie, the cricket correspondent of News of theWorld, and with Alan Lilley, who became his personal coach. Bothmen acted as advisers and Gooch had faith in them.

Off the field, Gooch was a wary, apparently aloof character,admired for his dedication, respected for his batting, but not muchknown because he kept within his circle as if fearful of hurt. Accord-ingly, his understated humour could be missed. Most particularly, his mimicry provoked surprise because wit is not expected from

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roundheads with hangdog moustaches. Of course, he was definedand dismissed by caricature, but now and then the human emerged and then Gooch could be seen, not as a comic-strip figure belting the bowling around, but as flesh and blood.

His vulnerability was his most endearing quality, yet it was also afrustration to Gooch and a nation searching for champions anddesperate to beat the Australians. Among bowlers, only TerryAlderman really troubled him, a canny medium-pacer who exposedand exploited a flaw in his technique. Gooch failed time and again, agut-wrenching experience that brought first confusion then despair,then fatalism as an often-dominating batsman was reduced to anxiousshuffling. Once the Australians had his measure, they did not let go.Otherwise, Gooch feared no one and especially not the fastest andmost ferocious bowlers of an age noted for its uncompromisingaggression. He batted superbly against the West Indians, the tough-est opponents of the era.

In his cricket dotage, he came to Taunton to face André VanTroost on a firm pitch. Although the flying Dutchman bowled hisfastest, he could not shift the old blighter. Gooch scored a-hundred-and-lots and afterwards was full of life, as if the challenge had revitalised him.

Of course, he has played even more accomplished innings in Testcricket. Only those who did not see Gooch score 154 not out againstWest Indies at Headingley and 153 against West Indies on a fastpitch in Jamaica in 1981 could doubt his greatness. Undoubtedly, he was the leading batsman among the three Gs, whose varioustemperaments, strengths and flaws were the talking point of Englishbatsmanship during the 1980s.

Gooch was no happier than David Gower or Mike Gatting, or forthat matter Ian Botham, in the role of captain. Perhaps he lacked anacute awareness of the personalities of his players. Men who trainthemselves to subdue their own faults are often unsympathetictowards the self-indulgent. Nor was he notable for the imaginationof his tactics. Perhaps it was his stubbornness. England’s inability tofind either an appropriate captain or coach in his period meant thatthe 1980s became an age of unfulfilment.

And so the curtain falls upon an outstanding career. Some will notforgive the wretchedness of the 1982 tour to South Africa, but that

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occurred in another time and in a different country and, in any case,the good outweighed the bad. Cricket is left with the memory of atall, strong batsman standing determinedly at the crease, insecuritiesmostly hidden and batting with all his might for Essex and England.He was a foot soldier upon whom greatness was thrust and he woreit manfully.

Michael Atherton

Throughout the 1990s, Michael Atherton was the face of Englishcricket. Head still, eyes wary, left elbow high and feet moving neatlyinto position, he dedicated himself to the tasks of scoring runs, resist-ing bowlers and protecting his team’s position. Beneath his pale,youthful and sometimes defiantly stubbled exterior could be found awilful man blessed with skill and determination. What was wantingwere the particular abilities needed by the hour; he lacked the sparkleand drive required to rouse a team from its slumbers, and if ever ateam needed rousing during his years as Test cricketer and captain, itwas England. But it was not his way to intone. He was more inclinedto say, in his suburban way, ‘Come on, lads, let’s get stuck in.’

In every respect, Atherton remained untouched by the vicissitudesof fortune and the ravages of time. Stoicism was his most obviousquality (he played for a decade on constant medication for an inflam-matory condition affecting his spine). There was a dryness of outlookthat made him as much an observer as a participant. He was tough,though, and did not flinch in the face of furious bowling or allow his spirit to wilt in adversity. Indeed, he was in his element in thesecircumstances, as the ingredients of his Lancastrian character cametogether to produce a towering effort.

Just as he did not strive to appease his opponents, nor did he seekto impress the baying public, even if in time the public took him toits heart and claimed him intimately as ‘Athers’. Not that this affectedhim; proud and private, he performed his duties on the field and thenwithdrew. Atherton enjoyed the community of the dressing-roomand the fellowship of the football crowd, but otherwise he wascontent to be alone, reading, fishing or looking for a pair of socks ina bulging drawer.

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He was a tidy cricketer, and yet also expressive, for he did notdepend entirely on the regimented. There was a touch of subcontin-ental subtlety in a mainly Anglo-Saxon game, a thinness of the arm,a hint of wrist as he stroked the ball through point, sending itskimming to the boundary. Nonetheless, he regarded himself as acraftsman, not an entertainer, and he did not listen to the whispersof indulgence. His northern common sense outweighed the delica-cies he had learnt and occasionally studied at Cambridge.

It was Mike Atherton’s fate, though not his fault, to represent hiscountry when its fortunes were at a low ebb. England had beenunable to find any cricketers capable of dictating terms in any arena.Atherton did his utmost, especially against the Australians, whosedirectness stirred him, but he could not quite put the matter right.He worked hard, fought hard, told the unpalatable truth, and stillEngland did not improve; so it was that his career ended as it hadbegun, with heavy and unavenged defeat by the Australians. Perhapshe lacked a clarity of character needed to provoke change. He was awanderer and not a man of action.

Atherton averaged 37.69 in Test cricket and would have hoped fora little more. The England run-makers ahead of him—GrahamGooch, David Gower, Geoff Boycott and Colin Cowdrey, whom hepassed in his farewell summer—all averaged more than 40. But,towards the end, his form fell away as his mind grew weary and hisbody made its complaints. It is the record of an accomplished crick-eter whose contribution might be better judged from the stability hebrought to the batting order during a long career that produced7728 runs in 115 Tests, and sixteen centuries, none of them easilycompiled.

It was also his fate that his generation threw up some of thegreatest bowlers of any age. There wasn’t much relief. Whereasbatsmen of previous generations could hope to take advantage ofhumdrum attacks fielded by weaker nations, Atherton was con-fronted by Malcolm Marshall, Curtly Ambrose and Courtney Walsh,Waqar Younis and Wasim Akram, Allan Donald and Shaun Pollock,Glenn McGrath and Shane Warne. No wonder he soon lost the jaun-tiness sometimes seen in his early days.

In Sri Lanka in 2001, he had particular difficulty with ChamindaVaas, as a weakness against left-arm swing bowling was discovered—

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precisely the failing that had tormented Geoff Boycott many yearsearlier. Both men remained side-on till the last moment and oftenseemed locked in this position as the ball darted back and thuddedinto their pads. Boycott was the consummate technician whose gamedidn’t change much over the years. Atherton was more graceful andinclined to tinker, especially with the placement of his back foot,whose errant ways often brought unwanted trouble. Both weresingle-minded and watchful in the great tradition of openingbatsmen.

Better than most thoughtful men, Atherton could withdraw intoa cocoon of concentration, an asset as a batsman but not necessarilyas a captain. He was intelligent rather than intellectual and made hisdecisions easily, at the crease anyhow. A purposeful man with strongopinions, he did not allow his career to fritter away; instead, after the2001 Oval Test, he cut it short in the belief that his battles had beenlost and won, and it is for the defiant innings he played in hiscountry’s colours that he will be remembered. His duels with AllanDonald and Glenn McGrath were cricket played at its highest pitch.These bowlers strove for his wicket because they knew it wasresourcefully protected. Atherton did not give in, his wicket had tobe taken from him. He had the heart for the fight regardless of condi-tions and obstacles.

Donald sometimes prevailed, whereupon he wore a surprised anddelighted look. Sometimes the batsman had the better of him, mostnotably in his unbeaten 185 at Johannesburg in 1995–96, an inningsspanning three weeks, or so it seemed, an effort of mind and bodythat saved a Test match. It was the innings that secured for Athertonthe respect and national affection he had not sought through any artificial means.

Another Test match against South Africa took him to his lowestpoint as the chairman of selectors, Raymond Illingworth, fined himfor not being honest with the match referee about having dirt—an‘illegal substance’—in his pocket to dry his hands, an incident dulymagnified into a cause célèbre; Atherton went to ground and consid-ered resigning. Instead, he held firm and afterwards the Headingleycrowd roared its approval. Fortune might have favoured him with acentury. He was dismissed for 99.

McGrath was his nemesis. Better than anyone else, the Australian

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understood Atherton’s game and knew how to pierce his defences.Atherton liked to wait till the ball was under his nose, choosing hisstroke at the last, often playing with soft hands, absorbing the ball likea sponge. McGrath would relentlessly pitch on exactly the rightlength, moving his deliveries around unpredictably and bouncing theball steeply, so that edges would carry. Repeatedly, Atherton waspushed back and, trying to adjust his stroke, often succeeded only intouching a ball others might have missed. He’d leave with a shrugand a sigh, and the Australians, respecting a fighter, were pleased tosee him go. But he refused to change his game; it had been tried andtested over the years and had not let him down. He could not bringhimself to chance his arm, because it would be a betrayal of every-thing he knew and the team he represented.

Atherton was the finest English batsman of his generation, andcaptain in 54 Tests, a record for his country. He was an even-tempered cricketer, popular with team-mates and, eventually, withdistant observers, a fierce patriot and a man prepared to fight hiscorner. Yet he could seem aloof, even arrogant, to those who occa-sionally crossed his path. His retirement was well timed and he’ll beable to relax now, writing books and articles, voicing his concerns,telling amusing stories and generally confirming that he is bettercompany than he sometimes cared to show. He made an outstandingcontribution to his country’s cricket and his only regret must be thatgreatness did not bestow its largesse upon him.

Steve and Mark Waugh

Over the next four days, the Waugh twins will make their final appear-ance at the SCG. Most likely, it will also be the last important contestof their careers. New South Wales could sneak into the Pura CupFinal, but it is a long shot. More likely the brothers will pack their kiton Sunday evening and put it away forever. The picket fence will closeupon them, and then open for the next generation. Part of theterrible beauty of sport is that the show always moves on.

It has been a long and extraordinary journey for two young menwho shared a room in Picnic Point Road, Panania, throughout theirboyhood. Between them the twins have played 2161 matches for

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various provincial and international teams, scoring 93 246 runs,striking 221 hundreds, taking 1167 wickets and holding 1293catches. Not bad for one womb, one birth, one bedroom, one class-room, one game and sometimes one thought.

As far as Australians are concerned, the twins are more famousthan Romulus and Remus. Their relationship has provoked fascina-tion and speculation, for it is no small thing to grow up alongside alegend. But which was to be the legend? From the start, the boysknew about the survival of the fittest. From the beginning, they wereunder pressure. It’s hard enough being a younger brother. Astonish-ingly, both survived. In the end, the weaker brother found the fortitude to build a career of his own.

Steve was the pricklier of the Waugh boys, a cactus alongside a lily.At school he was untidy, rebellious and combative enough to breakan opponent’s teeth on the soccer field. His later beatification has glossed over the fiery part of his character, the inner rage that hasdriven him towards incredible feats. In sport and business he has been calculating, ruthless, insecure and inspired. Always there wasthe need to pass the test. His softer side has been reserved for familyand friends. Somewhere deep in their hearts, the twins envied eachother. And so, formidable forces were unleashed from a single room.

Mark was the gentler brother, a quiet, obedient schoolboy whosereserve worried his teachers. An observer of life, he did not have hisbrother’s craving for competition or desire to be in the thick of the action. Usually Steve was the captain and Mark was dismissed as gifted, charming, likeable and other epithets that slighted even asthey praised. He saw his brother rise and become famous and aleader, and it must have hurt.

Somehow he survived. Actually, he did better than survive. He hasscored 26 772 runs in first-class cricket, at an average of 52, about thesame as Allan Border, Greg Chappell and Stephen Rodger Waugh.And he has usually finished on the winning side, a family custom.

Inevitably, Steve was the first of the twins to play for New SouthWales. On 7 December 1984, he appeared at the Gabba and reached31 before falling to Jeff Thomson. Stevie Wonder was topping thecharts with ‘I Just Called To Say I Love You’ and Bob Hawke wasinstalled at Kirribilli House. Waugh was a skinned rabbit of a boy, shyand watchful, so that his sudden explosions at the crease came as a

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surprise. Always there has been a protective ring around him. Alwaysthe world has been kept at bay.

Meanwhile, Mark was languishing and soon was awarded thenickname of ‘Afghanistan—the forgotten Waugh’. Finally, on 28 Oct-ober 1985, he made his debut for the Blues in Hobart, scoring 13before falling to Winston Davis, a West Indian fast bowler long sincein his grave. He did not reach 50 till his fifteenth innings. Strokeplaycame easily to him, but he was prone to lapses of concentration. After-wards, he admitted that he had lacked rigour, and it was a grievousfault. But there were compensations, notably his catching at slip and agrace expressed at the crease and in the fairness of his play.

Before long, Waugh the slightly older was chosen to play forAustralia. He had a hard time and eventually was dropped in favourof his boyhood room-mate. In his first match, Mark scored a lovelyhundred against England. Ever since, there have been many wonder-ful moments for both and a few setbacks along the way. Now it endsas it began, with the pragmatist and the poet fighting in theircontrasting ways to put runs on the board and another victory in thebooks.

But this tale has been told. The Waughs have played a long andimpressive innings and now it is someone else’s turn.

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15

Dealing withlife

It is generally a mistake to consider yourself immortal.

It has long been our custom to divide life into separate boxes, likeparcels in a post office. Even the news is divided into sections.Usually business and sport appear last and still the intellectuals

complain. Yet sport is part of our daily lives, and is different fromother activities only in its ability to test our mettle and touch ourimagination.

Much to their eventual detriment, those blessed with exceptionalsporting ability become our property and are expected to maintainstandards we cannot keep in our own houses. Because they succeed ina world ordered by our enthusiasms, we feel entitled to enter their lives.

Yet a sportsman is not a seal performing tricks to delight a youthfulaudience. He is a person trying to make his way. He has his faults,foibles, habits, preferences, opinions, immaturities, indiscretions, thehumanity that we are reluctant to admit, so that we turn them intoheroes and villains, cheer and chide not just their contributions buttheir very being.

Sportsmen accept that they inhabit a special place, the land of ourdreams. Now and then, a sportsman does not take himself or his gametoo seriously and still manages to succeed. Generally, though, it is thedistortion, the desperation, the drive, that takes the player to the top.

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Don’t expect them to smell the roses. Perspective can be the enemy ofsuccess. As in politics, there is only the game, the winning and thelosing.

Eventually, though, every sportsman has to face the truth. Some-times it is the silence of the hotel room, sometimes it is the way thephone stops ringing. Sooner or later, the thought occurs that thereis another world waiting. Someone else will appear on the sportingnews that night, someone else will hear the roar of the crowd,someone else will feel the satisfaction of the low round put togetherunder pressure or the penalty punted between the posts with thescore level and the whistle in the referee’s mouth.

When the show is over—what then? It is easy for an actor, for hemay put on his greasepaint till his dying day. The sportsman mustsearch for answers, and can find them only within. This chapterconsiders the cases of a few cricketers who have, in their various ways,tried to deal with their lives. They may seem an odd collection, butthe common thread was their attempt to come to terms with partic-ular challenges for which life had not prepared them.

In truth, the articles speak for themselves. Dennis Lillee appearedas a distant figure on a field and simply joined a practice. When thepiece was published, Greg Chappell said how much he had enjoyedit. He, too, has known the search for life, has pursued schemes,offered his services, tried to find a way. He has dared to speak publiclyabout his successes and failures, thereby moving beyond the assertiveveneer favoured in the region.

Yet it is the vulnerability that is interesting. Impregnability is anact. Kerry O’Keeffe’s recent autobiography was appreciated becausehe described his hard times and his failings. It was an act of courage,not a sales pitch. Writing those sorts of books is not about self-expres-sion but self-examination. Everything else belongs in a comic book.

Matthew Cleal was, and remains, a friend of mine. Of all mySomerset colleagues, I liked and respected him the most. It may soundodd to award this accolade to a young cricketer who did not make it.But he did make it, and that is the point. During his playing days, heseemed as thick as bread sliced by a teenager. Once he said he wasgoing to vote Labour because he liked Paddy Ashdown, the leader ofanother party. Two years after the article in this chapter appeared, herang to say he had finished school and was going to university. After

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that came a PhD. Last time I heard from him, he was teaching atuniversity. We used to play golf, sometimes 45 holes in a day.

Nick Pringle was another of many Somerset youngsters who didnot fulfil his dream. It happens all the time, and everywhere. Sport iscompetitive and cruel. Maybe he was too stiff in his stroke, maybe hewas not given enough help, maybe he just could not work it all outin time. Whatever, he returned to civilian life and slowly came toterms with his fate. Last time I heard about him, he was in Taunton,a town he needs to leave, though it is probably too late.

Basil Penrith was a wonderful boy who appeared fresh-faced andsmiling at a cricket camp run on behalf of Kerry Packer during theWorld Series years. As it happened, he ended up in my group. Hecould swing the ball both ways and deserved to be called back for theextra week awarded to the best players from each age group, but he’dprobably have been chosen anyhow. Decades later, I went toTamworth to cover a match and noticed the name Penrith in theprogram. I had always wondered what had happened to him. Young-sters seldom keep in touch. As it turned out, he had done well, onthe field and off it.

Lastly came the chance to watch a match between the deaf crick-eters of Australia and England. Again, a personal interest wasinvolved because one of the England side had played under mycaptaincy at Devon, and had been treated just as badly as everyoneelse. Here was a group of young men playing good cricket in anatmosphere reminiscent of the way the game was played before theclapping and catcalling. But it was not sentiment that arousedinterest, just a desire to show the many faces of the game and to givethese players their due. Afterwards, the deaf community said howmuch they had enjoyed the article, especially the bit about how someof them had been in trouble for partying the previous evening!

Dennis Lillee joins a practice

A day in the life of Australian cricket. Bowling to a local lad in a localschool. The nets are up because there is a camp on, and the pitches aregood, the best in town. All around, boys are packing their bags, finish-ing for the day. A middle-aged bloke with a lived-in stomach is running

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around the ground. There’s something familiar about him. He passesby and says, ‘G’day’. Dennis Lillee, running off the night before.

Our practice begins. One teenager batting, and a couple of friendsbowling. A few laps later, Lillee stops, walks across and says, ‘Mind ifI have a bowl?’ Well, no, actually, we’d quite like it. One of thegreatest bowlers since Bill O’Reilly and he’s asking to bowl to anunknown youngster on a late afternoon.

He picks out a mouldy old ball, rolls over an arm and pitches a leg-cutter. He could bowl a bit, you know. The boy with the bat smiles.He was two when Lillee played his last Test, but he knows about him.Everyone knows about him.

Something wrong with the shoulder, Lillee says, his voice as crispas fresh lettuce. Fell down the stairs, or bumped into an iron, doingan Agassi, something like that. Can’t remember the story, but it wascolourful.

He starts talking about the Zimbabwean bowler, Henry Olonga.‘Good lad, you know, good listener, good worker and at seventeen hecould run as fast as Carl Lewis. But his feet and body were all wrong,feet straight and body turned, so that he was throwing the ball.’

Lillee simply straightened Olonga’s body and his arm went with it.Often he tells bowlers to forget about the side-on thing and to keepfacing the batsman, like Malcolm Marshall. He says it’s impossible toturn the feet sideways if they weren’t that way in the first place.

Meanwhile, Lillee mixes up his deliveries and tries to coax theyoungster into going for his shots. He tries his off-cutter. Nevercould bowl that ball properly, he says. Now the leg-cutter, that wasnatural. Tried his offie towards the end, to keep the batsmanguessing, might get the hang of it one day. And, yes, he liked toantagonise batsmen and paid for it sometimes, but that was part ofit. Next ball was always fast and anywhere.

Lillee talks about his pace camp in Madras. Brilliant set-up, he says.Players are sent from all over the world. Except for England, ofcourse. Darren Gough had wanted to come, but he wasn’t allowed.There is one Indian, fast, bends his back in the old way, could beanything. Hard to tell, could be nothing.

In his younger days, Lillee watched Wes Hall and Fred Trueman.He learnt from them, perhaps these youngsters were getting some-thing from him.

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The boy is still batting. Lillee bowls a couple down the leg-side.‘Sorry, mate,’ he says, ‘just trying something.’ He feels the lad is holdingback, so he sets him a target. ‘My brother was like that at seventeen,’ herecalls. ‘No one could get him out, but he couldn’t get any runs.’

Lillee applauds every forcing stroke. ‘Six to win in six balls,’ hesays. ‘And I’ve got two slips and a gully.’ Always bat with somethingin mind, he advises, don’t just bat.

Lillee bowls a few more, but his shoulder is shouting for mercy.Doesn’t bowl much these days, he says, with his knees and whatnot.At last he departs, still thinking about his off-cutter, an ordinarybloke, an approachable bloke, a cricketer and one of the greatestbowlers to set foot on this earth.

For the youngster, it was not merely a lesson in cricket, it was alesson in fellowship, and a lesson in being Australian. You can’t getthis sort of thing around the world.

Two Englishmen who did not make it

Matthew Cleal had his days of glory. At eighteen, naive and raw-boned, he made his debut for Somerset against the West Indies,scoring brave runs and taking four for 41, beating Richie Richardsonand Jeff Dujon with his lively outswingers. Overnight, reporters andbroadcasters were on the phone, one even tipping him for England.Four years later, he is on the scrap heap.

Nick Pringle had his moments, too. He remembers facing AllanDonald at 11.30 one Birmingham morning, three men already out,and surviving to clout Norman Gifford far into the stands, drawingfrom his partner, Martin Crowe, an astonished stare and the adviceto ‘get your head down’. Pringle promptly hit a second six and scored79. Five years later, he was dumped and Crowe asked, ‘What the hellwent wrong?’ It is a question Pringle often asks himself. That 79 wasto be his highest score in 27 appearances for Somerset.

For so many young cricketers this spring brings not joy butsorrow. Our cricket fields are littered with the corpses of brokendreams. Pringle and Cleal yearned for success, tasted it briefly andare left with the sourness of defeat. Now that ‘well-apparell’d spring’has arrived to tread on the heels of winter, former colleagues are

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preparing for another season while these men are trying to rebuildtheir lives. Both were devastated by their decline and both arefighting back.

To Pringle in particular, cricket was everything. Half hard nut,half vulnerable kid, he rebelled at school and thought only of cricketand practised it endlessly. ‘The thought of failing at cricket neverentered my mind.’ He started brightly in 1987, feeling as immortalas any 20-year-old, modelling himself on Crowe. Only later did herealise he had ‘hardly learnt how to bat, hardly learnt about touchplay or one-day cricket’.

By 1989, he was back in the second team, learning and not losingfaith. In 1991, he batted capably and captained Somerset secondsimpressively, but it was too late—batsmen had been signed andpromising youngsters discovered. In September he was released.

‘For a few days I was fine, down the pub and so on,’ he said. ‘Afterthat I cracked up completely. One day I was driving along and I justburst into tears. Even now, I regularly wake up in the middle of thenight thinking of what I could have done, how I could have played aball differently. One less bad shot, one opportunity seized rather thansquandered, might have swung it.’

He finds it hard being introduced as ‘Nick Pringle, who used toplay for Somerset.’ ‘If they ask about it, I tell them I was sacked. Theydon’t ask much after that. So many questions were left unanswered,“Was I good enough? Did I give myself the best chance?” Others hadbad periods, but people thought they merited chances more than I did. Some players are brilliant when they succeed, but I believe ina season I could score as many runs.’

It was different for Cleal. Injury rather than lack of form curtailedhis career. ‘I just couldn’t do it. You can’t expect to be employed ifyou can’t do the job.’ As a boy he had not contemplated a career incricket because the game was hardly played at his comprehensiveschool. He had concentrated on soccer, was offered terms by BristolRovers, but rejected them because ‘I wasn’t good enough’. Tryinghis hand at cricket, he joined Somerset on a YTS scheme and soonwon respect as a strong cricketer with a sense of humour preyingupon his own apparent thick-headedness.

After a promising first season, he slipped in 1989 because ‘Ithought I’d cracked it. I was lazy.’ He fought back in 1990, only to

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injure his back while bowling on an artificial net pitch. Despiteumpteen scans and visits to umpteen specialists, he has not bowledproperly since, skimming his deliveries off the pitch rather thanhitting it, putting bite on it.

In September 1991 he was also released, as had been expected. ‘Itwasn’t a surprise but it hurt, it still hurts. At eighteen, I was goingplaces: at 22, I was finished. I’ve had some bad times over the pasttwo years, at home, sitting around, something goes wrong, a billarrives or whatever and you take it out on your family. There havebeen times when I’ve cried, times when you just can’t think ofanything else. Not so much now. I’m a strong character.’

What hurt Cleal most was that ‘I was talented enough, but for twoyears I was on 60 per cent and there was nothing I could do aboutit. People treated me as if I was on 100. I was never afraid of failure,I just wanted to give it my best shot and I couldn’t do it.’

Both men are determined to make something of their lives.Pringle was lucky in that everything changed so quickly afterwards.‘Within three weeks, I was teaching at Clifton College and a monthlater I’d been accepted by Durham University. My next three to fouryears are mapped out.’ He had begun to use his brain after realisinghe was wasting it by playing cards in dressing-rooms on rainy days.In time, he will be a fine teacher, especially of the livelier pupils.

Nor is Cleal downcast. ‘I had a good time. I was from a working-class background and I was lucky to have a go.’ Last winter he spray-painted industrial heaters, but now he is on the dole, ‘learning howthe other half lives’. Once a week, he collects his money and seesunemployed people who, he says, have no hope, especially after thelast election. ‘People always want more. If they’ve got one million,they want two million.’ He believes young cricketers should go tocollege one day a week, as football apprentices do, and is hoping to study for a diploma at Yeovil College. In the meantime, he plans to work with deprived children.

An Aborigine who made it

Basil Penrith was a bright and cheerful lad when first he appeared on the cricket scene nineteen years ago, and yet I feared for him.

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A beaming smile seldom left his face, he could swing the ball bothways and kept a straight bat. Nevertheless, we feared for him.

Basil was the only Aborigine attending a course run by the WorldSeries people to show their commitment to the game. He did welland made it to the last week when the stars returned. But could hesurvive the waiting world?

Happily, the news is good. Basil has not changed. Out of the bluehe appeared at England A’s match in Tamworth in 1996, standingunder the plane trees on the far side of the ground, sipping beer witha little embarrassment as his four-year-old son Cale Coen (‘Thunder’in his native language) played around him.

Penrith was embarrassed by the beer because he is trying tochange the lives and image of his people, especially the notion thatthey are all drunkards. He smiles as The Age confesses that it, too,enjoys a drink on a hot afternoon.

He is still playing cricket, too, as he has done since his early daysin Tumut, where he started knocking the ball around with his mates.Finding he had some talent, he pursued the game, playing gradecricket in his university days, securing a place in the Aboriginal XI andcaptaining Tamworth when work brought him to a country townblossoming from the recent rains but blighted by Paterson’s curse.

Basil is a good cricketer. In his first year in Tamworth, he topped thebowling and batting averages—‘got a lot of not-outs, but’ he says—andeven tried his hand at baseball. ‘They kept throwing full tosses.’

Now that he’s slowed down a bit—‘and I wasn’t that quick in thefirst place’—he plays for City United and bowls ‘mostly inswing. Mybelly gets in the way.’ Locals still talk about his 150-minute, match-saving innings in a grand final a few years ago.

It hasn’t only been cricket. There was always something moreinside, enthusiasm for life certainly, but also discernible pride.Nowadays, Basil works as a field officer for the Aboriginal and TorresStrait Island Commission.

He is delighted that his people have their own democratic processthese days and adds that mistakes have been made. ‘They are teethingtroubles. Our system is only five or six years old. There are problems inmainstream government and they’ve been going for hundreds of years.’

Penrith’s task is to support enterprises that provide opportuni-ties to Aborigines in the Glen Innes area. It’s an attempt to break

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the ‘welfare mentality’. ‘Lots of the problems begin with a lack ofwork. Work is important because it gives self-esteem and a purposein life.’

He sees improvements, in his area anyhow, with more work, lesscrime and fewer youngsters lost to grog. ‘Good things are starting tohappen,’ he thinks. He encourages his people to have a go, whileacknowledging that it’s harder in the remote areas because there isnothing to do. ‘They have to leave their community if they want toget ahead in the modern way.’

Basil is also committed to restoring Aboriginal culture. An attemptis being made to revive the Wradjuri language with a dictionary of thefirst thousand words. ‘It hasn’t been written down before.’

He’s telling his son about the old times, about his grandma’s dayswhen they asked the bunyip’s permission to fish. ‘If he was in a badmood, they’d go home. If it was OK, they took the fish they needed.’He tells Cale about his mother and her brothers hiding in the bush‘when they came to take them away’. Penrith has been woundedrather than hurt.

Cricket has helped his work. Asked if colour had been an issue inhis sporting experience, he says: ‘No, not really, everyone from thebush starts a point behind whatever their colour.’

He says he wasn’t quite good enough to play representativecricket, not fast enough with the ball and not high enough in thebatting order. He enjoyed his time with the Aboriginal XI, partic-ularly a tour to New Zealand (seven wins and seven losses). Theyplayed the Maoris in Wellington, the gateway to Maoridom. ‘They treated us so well because they understood. Not that the resttreated us any worse.’

Penrith has served with distinction. As he observes, ‘It’s easy todismiss stars like Cathy Freeman and Kyle van der Kuyp as one-offs.’The more Aborigines playing in local comps the better. ‘The kids cansee they are going to be given a chance if they are good enough.’

Basil is no saint, just an ordinary bloke who enjoys a beer, likessport and has a young family to support. He wants to lift his people,his country. Smiling quietly, he says: ‘We’ve got to show that not all Aborigines are drunkards. We’ve got to open people’s eyes. A lotof positive things are happening out there.’ The child has been fatherto the man.

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Noiseless cricket

It was the silence that attracted attention. Upon the field, Englandwere defending doggedly as eleven green-capped Aussies pressed forvictory after enforcing the follow-on. Now and then, an appealerupted around the ground, disturbing the peace like an electric sawin a forest. Occasionally, a burst of applause greeted a stroke or ademanding delivery. Otherwise, all was quiet except for a flutteringsound as captains gave directions or spectators engaged in muteconversation. It had a strange, alluring beauty about it. Outside, theworld rushed past along Sydney’s Parramatta Road.

After several years of inactivity, the Australian and English Deafcricket teams were meeting in the First Test of the 2004 series. On the opening day, the locals had slipped to 4/72 before recover-ing thanks to a rousing partnership of 272 between Andrew Watkins, a banana-bender whose twin brother also plays in the side,and Phillip Cox of Mildura, a captain who also took five wickets in the visitors’ first innings. Later, Luke Trudgett, a 15-year-old who plays fifth grade for Sutherland, scored 45 in 53 balls as his parents and brother (who plays for the Silent Warriors inGladesville) watched from the sidelines. Allowed to miss school, Lukehopes to hold his place for the forthcoming Tests in Melbourne and Sydney.

Hundreds of people had been present on Australia Day as thehosts reached 455. The deaf community is tightly knit and word ofthe match had spread by email and SMS, innovations that have trans-formed their lives. England had wilted under a scorching sun andended the day exhausted, reviving just in time to enjoy celebratingsomeone’s birthday. Deaf people drink, dance, chat up pretty girlsand play cards. They just cannot hear all that well. Most of them seemgentle and friendly, and observers say their relaxed approach to life isdue to the silence in their heads.

It is especially quiet on the field because hearing aids must be leftin the pavilion. A loss of 55 decibels is the qualification mark. Onlythe umpires can hear properly, a situation widely regarded as uniquein cricket. Luke’s dad watches from under one of the University ofSydney’s older trees as his younger son chases a ball. He says thatLuke has been helped a lot by his grade club, Sutherland, where he

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has been lucky to find a great bunch of mates. His public schoolprovides an assistant teacher versed in sign language.

England’s first innings had been a disaster born from rustiness.Thunderstorms had forced the abandonment of net practices. Nowit was a matter of adjusting to the heat. Not that anyone wascomplaining. The previous night, an official had told his dearlybeloved that it was a trifle warm down under, whereupon she hadinformed him in no uncertain terms that it was ‘snowing hard andperishing cold’ back in Blighty.

Even Mark Woodman had not been able to trouble the scorers inthe first dig, a kindness he repeated in the second innings. Woodmanplayed for Devon in the English Minor County Championship in the1990s and his probing medium-pacers still command respect.Captaining him at Devon was interesting because he had the happyknack of hearing edges but not curses, and running between wicketsdemanded the sort of directions given by a traffic cop. Consideringhis deficiency, he could raise a mighty impressive hue and cry when abatsman was hit on the pad.

Woodman had brought a couple of younger Devonians along withhim: Stephen George, a teenager who plays for Painton, andJonathon Cadaux-Hudson, a promising leg-spinner who is supposedto be doing his homework in the evenings. Doubtless, both young-sters were inspired by the example of the senior man. Officials in bothcountries report that communications and confidence were the mainobstacles in their path. All things are possible, though. Kym Daley,Australia’s best young deaf cricketer, was that very day playing forCity youth against Country youth elsewhere in the city.

Forced to bat again after being routed for 105, the Englishmen puttheir heads down in a valiant attempt to save the match. Umesh Valjee,their captain, led the defiance and reached 50 with a sweet cover drive.Hours passed and still the visitors refused to give up. Ashes battles arefought to the last. Valjee reached 100 and then 150 and each milestonewas saluted. Partners came and went and the captain was left strandedon 182 as England went down by an innings and a run. When the lastwicket fell at 5.30 p.m., with storm clouds gathering, the Australiansraised a hullaballoo that brought professors hurrying from their lairs.Valjee left the field to applause he could not hear.

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16

DeparturesHookes played and lived in the uncharted land between legend and

myth. At once he was a boy’s own hero and an underperformingplayer . . . And then he was gone.

Nothing is sadder than the extinguishing of a young life.Besides the loss itself, and the pain that follows, the prema-ture ending of a life serves as shock, reminds of the fragility

and foolishness of our existences. When Princess Di died, her countrytemporarily became a better place. When David Hookes departed,the sorrow reached beyond his immediate circle and into the masses.Partly, it is the loss of a friend. Partly, it is the realisation that we havebeen wasting our lives upon nonsense.

Not that it lasts. Still we complain about traffic wardens andshampoo bottles that will not open, and the weather, and the neigh-bours and taxes and noise and the rest of it. And then a child dies, ora friend is suddenly removed, or a familiar face vanishes, whereuponregret comes over us for the life unled.

Do not suppose your author is any wiser in these regards than anyoneelse. Everything works in theory and then a drill starts in a nearby house,or someone’s car occupies two places, or a traffic jam is encountered, ora queue, whereupon reason flies out the window. Rage resumes tillsomeone is lost, a depressed youngster or an acquaintance amid ascreeching of brakes, whereupon calm returns, for then the truth mustbe faced. We are, indeed, shadows passing across the mouth of a cave.

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It is absurd that we take ourselves and our lives seriously when itall hangs by a thread. Yet it is likewise foolish to waste gifts, for theycarry with them a certain responsibility. Without intensity, much lesscan be achieved. A man cannot spend his entire life with a gaga grinupon his face. Blood, sweat and tears are part of the human expres-sion, part of our growth, and there is no need to regret their place inour lives. Mozart and Tendulkar have provided myriad delightsbecause they dared to pursue their talents.

Often it is the striving that provided satisfaction and then followsthe laughter and the strength. If perspective insists that our dailylives are not important, then it is a fool. Nevertheless, much can bemissed along the way and it can take an untimely passing to remindus that we are, in so many ways, behaving like fools.

Wherever it occurs, death has a profound impact. Some peopleseem to set a life almost at naught and then perform long incantationsto mark its ending. Encounters with death are an everyday occur-rence in India as a body is put unadorned upon a cart and pushedthrough busy streets accompanied by priests, relations and mourners.Yet the lamentations to mark the occasion can last for weeks.

Of course, it is the death of a young man or woman that causesthe deepest sorrow. Until his sudden passing, Corey Doyle was aname heard around the cricket clubs of Somerset. He was mentionedas a typical Australian: brash, uncomplicated, uncompromising. Butinsofar as Australians are the same at all, it is only on the surface asthey seek acceptance in a culture forged in harshness and developedupon an inhospitable continent. As it emerged Corey was much lessconfident than he seemed, and much more in need of love. By thetime his friends understood, it was too late. No one was to blame.

In some respects, Ben Hollioake’s passing was the most painful ofthem. There was a grace about him that affected those close at hand,even as his debonair approach attracted girls and his dashing strokesimpressed cricketers. Everyone wanted Ben to prosper because hewas without malice, besides which he had a doomed quality thatprovoked anxiety.

He was beautiful in many ways, yet one sensed that such things didnot matter to him nearly as much as succeeding at cricket. I talked tohim a couple of times and felt his frustration at the downturn in hiscricketing fortunes and a desperate desire to find a better way. And

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the worst of it was that, just before he was taken, he seemed to becoming to terms with himself and his talents.

Walter Masimula was a simpler case, for his death was unintendedand his manner till the end was cheerful. Still, it came as a shock tohear that he had gone. As it happened, I had, a year earlier, taken agroup of young cricketers to play in the Isle of Wight and Walterappeared hail and hearty and performing as the local professional.Ten months later, he died in his sleep, the victim of some mysteryailment that cut short an apparently healthy and boisterous life.

Malcolm Marshall was the greatest fast bowler I saw and seemedthe least likely to be taken at an early age. He was the most impres-sive of the West Indians of his era because his character containedsome of the luminous qualities detected in great predecessors. Toomany contemporaries lost themselves in vanity and ego, but Marshallremained humble and purposeful. He had much to contribute andwas prematurely removed.

Inevitably, Colin Cowdrey’s death did not provoke as muchsorrow as the departures of younger men. Moreover, there was asense in which he was more loved as an idea than as a man. His careerwas a reminder that it is possible to be both kindly and calculatingand confirmed that even those raised in comfort may be assailed byuncertainty. He was not a bad chap at all and history will rememberhim fondly.

Having started with the early days of Garfield Sobers, it seemsappropriate to finish with the passing of The Don. News ofBradman’s long-anticipated death arrived when the Australians werein India. As far as could be told from such a distance, the reaction tohis loss went far beyond even the highest expectation. He was a greatcricketer whose manner and deeds meant a lot to millions of peoplearound the world, and especially Australians struggling to survive thehardships of the Depression years.

Corey Doyle

Corey Doyle took his own life last week. On Friday night, he wentinto the garage of his home in the English town of Bridgwater, put arope over a rail and hanged himself. Next morning, his fiancée’s

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father broke down the garage door and found him. In a faraway landand in the dead of winter, the life of a promising young Australiancricketer had ended.

No one had seen it coming. On Thursday night, Doyle and hisfriends from the cricket club had been practising in the indoor nets.He had even bowled to one of the Somerset players. It was a coldevening with snow settling and a bitter easterly blowing. Nonethe-less, the boys were bouncy and, as usual, Doyle was in the thick of it.Next season did not seem far away.

One night later, he went out for a few drinks with his friends, anordinary Friday night with his chums, talking about this and that,laughing and maybe singing. Then he went home to see his girl-friend, had a row and put an end to it all. Apparently, he was thinkingof going back to Australia for a while, to see his parents and so forth.The couple had just announced their engagement. He left a notesaying he couldn’t take it any more.

He had arrived in Bridgwater a few seasons previously, to play thegame and to lead the life and had taken to it so much that he hadstayed. The feeling was mutual. Bridgwater is a semi-industrial townlocated in the northern part of Somerset and built upon a canal anda ton of pride. It’s not an obvious place to settle. Yet it offers a certainwarmth and Doyle wasn’t the first Australian to appreciate it, for thisis also the town of Sammy Woods, a hulking figure, a remarkablesportsman and a notable Australian who arrived as a boy and stayeduntil his dying day.

Doyle was a good cricketer. Six years ago, he toured New Zealandwith the Australian under-19s, of whom some have risen and othershave faded. Already he had fought his way through the ranks. Raisedin humble circumstances in the western reaches of Sydney, he joinedFairfield, where he impressed as a combative and competent cricketer.He could bowl at a lively pace and give the ball a rare crack. Heseemed an uncomplicated sort, too.

He might have stayed at home and tried his luck. But somethingcalled him away, something took him to Bridgwater to play in a localleague whose standards are modest but whose conviviality is consid-erable. Maybe he didn’t want the pressure of taking his talent to itsoutermost limits. Perhaps he found warmth and knew its value.Cricket meant a lot to him, but it wasn’t his entire world.

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And the locals liked him. A typical Australian, they said, althoughthe west country had added its softening touches. Pretty soon, Doylewas taking wickets and scoring runs. He was the dominant player inthe league and Bridgwater rose on his back. He seemed at home.Perhaps he had found the belonging for which he yearned, a compan-ionship and combativeness without which life can feel empty. Hisparents had separated in his younger days.

Perhaps he had realised, earlier than most, a truth about oursporting lives. Beneath the driven man, behind the fractured surface,can be a yearning for camaraderie, an overwhelming desire to be partof a team, to hear the voices in the rooms. Perhaps he had swappedhis own achievements for this. What is life except a search forwarmth? And he had discovered that man has an emotional self, thatsport can fulfil only part of our needs and woe betide the fellow whoimagines otherwise.

Corey Doyle will be missed. He was a friendly and powerfullybuilt fellow with a competitive streak and a ready smile. He will becremated on Monday. His mother and stepfather live in a caravan onthe NSW south coast, but Cabramatta Leagues Club, the SalvationArmy and lots of cricketers in Sydney and across the waters arechipping in so that his mother can attend his passing. His ashes willbe flown back from England and spread across the pitch at RosedaleOval in Fairfield. Cricket and the world will say a proper goodbye toa friend.

Ben Hollioake

Ben Hollioake’s young life has been extinguished in a meeting ofmetal and stone. He had always relied upon his judgement, a singlescrambled, a low catch taken, nerves jangling and the crowd roaring.

Danger was part of his life as daring was part of his game. He had never driven in the middle lane nor yet pushed back temptingdeliveries. Rather, he struck the ball with a free swing, sent downoptimistic deliveries and lived as generously and spontaneously as he passed away. On and off the field, it was the same. He never didpin down his life or his abilities, for they were butterflies thatbelonged in the air and not in a scrapbook.

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Mere death does not bestow nobility, let alone sanctity. Hollioakewas not given time to ripen and reliance must be placed upon thedeeds of those early days of bonhomie when an artistry was displayedthat did not quite find its form, for the bud was prematurely plucked.

Ben was a likeable young man searching for his way. He gave theimpression that the world did not touch him, for he moved as grace-fully as antelope through veldt. Yet he cared about his cricket andwas frustrated by his inability to turn early promise into lasting fulfil-ment. Despite his style and a hint of nights spent high on the hog,he wanted to be a sportsman, a cricketer, to be recognised andrespected.

It had seemed to be within his grasp, for he made his name withperformances produced on great occasions. He could sweep ShaneWarne into the stands at Nottingham or bat sweetly on a Lord’spitch whose torpor brought all others down. He could take wicketsor graze around the fields ready to pounce upon the unwary. Heseemed ready to join the immortals. But all things hang by a thread.

After this brilliant beginning, cricket toyed with Hollioake, forcinghim into a time of struggle and reflection. He did not score enoughruns or take sufficient wickets to prompt advancement. His gamelacked the solidity needed to bear the weight of expectation in acountry looking for a saviour or, anyhow, another Botham. Especiallyin Test cricket, his shortcomings became apparent. Both his cricketand his life lacked the rigour needed to survive scrutiny.

Adam, his older brother, had a game that could be reproduced withthe turn of a key, a competent construction calculated to provide aregular supply of runs and wickets. But Adam is a different case, a proud,rugged competitor raised in Australia. A man who enjoys boxing andhas achieved beyond his apparent ability, Adam has always been at easewith himself, for he knows his limitations. He preyed on the nerves ofhis opponents. His younger brother played on his own. Ben’s life wasan exploration and, sometimes, a frustration and a torment.

Ben was educated mostly in England, where his manner provokedresentment and his escapades prompted rejection. He was bettersuited to the straightforwardness and structures of Australia, wherehe completed his schooling. His parents lived in Perth and hereturned every northern winter, to relax and train and return to thelife he valued.

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Still, he was an English cricketer playing for Surrey alongside hisbrother and mostly under his captaincy. Perhaps the doggedness ofthe county game affected him, for he was a player of inspiration ratherthan routine. His batting relied on touch, for his feet did not alwaysmove into the required position. Sometimes they did not move at all.His game lacked planning and regimentation and his failures wereoften as spectacular as his triumphs. As so often with those who riseswiftly, Hollioake was forced into self-examination. He found himselfplaying for the reserve team, an inconvenience he regarded morewith puzzlement than dismay, for he was a man without meanness.

In recent times, Hollioake had restored himself and was pushingfor a place in the World Cup squad. Doubtless, he was encouragedby fresh leadership and a coach capable of seeing beyond his faults.Perhaps, too, he had realised that his task was to find his own voiceand that he could not succeed as an echo. Perhaps he had simplycome to terms with his abilities. As a cricketer, he was a breeze thatsometimes blew. As a man, he was a delight.

Malcolm Marshall

Malcolm Marshall was the greatest fast bowler of his time. Aloneamong his contemporaries, he took wickets in every country and inall sorts of conditions. Neither the cold winds of Dunedin nor theheat of Ahmadabad could stop him. He’d simply mop his brow andrun in again with an idea in his head and the ball in his hand.

His combination of athleticism and artistry could not easily bestifled. He had, too, a probing intelligence, an understanding of thegame and a spirit that remained unbowed even as the foul diseaseinvaded his body. Cricket has lost a competitor, a sportsman and amaster of his craft.

Wherever and whenever he played the game, Marshall wasrespected. He gave great service to all his teams, mighty or meek, wastoo proud a competitor and too faithful a servant ever to give secondbest. Parading was not for him, nor the posturing often associatedwith fast bowlers. To him cricket was a battle of wits as well as anexpression of excellence. He could not settle for the mundane, had amind that reached beyond the ordinary, wanted to explore the limits

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of his calling. Nor could he stoop to violence. His eyebrow-singeingbumper was merely a means to an end. Wickets, not blood, sustainedhim. He wanted to be master of the cricket ball.

At times, he seemed almost unaware of his prowess. Asked howhe’d bowl to Sanath Jayasuriya, he replied, ‘I bowl to he once. I started with two inswingers and he dispatch dem, so I bowl straightand moved the ball across him. After that, I held him tight.’

He was puzzled that ‘the other fellows’ did not pursue the samestrategy and seemed surprised to hear few people can send down fastinswingers and that even fewer could promptly change directionwithout losing accuracy, and none could unravel batsmen with suchalacrity.

Marshall knew no defeat. He was at his best in the most demand-ing conditions. Often, he measured himself against the great batsmenof the age and raised his game when they arrived at the crease. Hiscontests with Sunil Gavaskar were uncompromising as the fast bowlerand the master technician met upon the field. Often, Marshall tookthe spoils.

Nor could pitches break his spirit. Much could be gleaned fromhis performance against Australia in Sydney in 1989. West Indies hadalready won the series and might have relaxed. None of the otherbowlers could find any life in the pitch and Australia scored 401.Even Marshall could not find much to please him, whereupon hegave a memorable display of clever and controlled pace bowling.Reducing his speed and setting a circle field, he kept a full length andwaited for mistakes. No two deliveries were the same. Varying theangle of his wrist, his position at the crease, his pace, grip, swing,length and anything else that might unsettle his opponents, he took5/29 in 31 overs.

Marshall stood out even among the champions of a well-endowedera. Ironically, he was also superbly fit. Although he did not sparehimself, he hardly missed a match through injury. Indeed, he oncebowled England out with a broken arm. Admittedly, it was his leftarm that was broken. His sense of fun remained intact and his spiritdid not waver even as his body began to give its first warning signs.

On the field, Marshall was a glorious sight. Off it, he was a magnif-icent competitor, a thoughtful colleague and a likeable man. Hiscontribution was immense.

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Walter Masimula

Walter Masimula was a friend of mine. Actually, he was everyone’sfriend, a cheerful young man who enjoyed hurling cricket balls downthe pitch and approached life with the same gusto. He was a blackSouth African raised in poverty and unmarked by its deprivations, forhe did not dwell on them but, rather, seized such opportunities ascame his way. As usual, Walter had been sent to England to play clubcricket, in the home counties this time. On Friday night, he went tosleep and did not wake up, a young life cut short by a mysteryailment, a strong body broken by a hidden menace.

Walter first appeared on the cricketing scene towards the end ofthe 1980s, as his country poured money into the black townshipsin search of champions and legitimacy. Several promising boys werefound and pushed along, the brothers Peace and Justice, Gift Pedifrom Free State and others from Soweto and the other hellholes ofthe era. Most of these youngsters fell away because cricket is a hardgame, besides which there were often mouths to feed. Some endedup in trouble; few lads can survive pampering. Among them, Walterstood out: he was tall and powerfully built and had been blessedwith athletic ability. Accordingly, he was soon the apple of AliBacher’s eye.

Word spread about him. Cricket has its ways, and Walter filledmany of the contemporary requirements. Not that this fame wasrestricted to the townships or offices where the future had beendecided. In 1991 he played for a development side against a whiteschool located in one of the city’s plusher suburbs. His arrival wasawaited with the tension detected in courts as the jury returns. Untilhe appeared, the visitors were downcast and their hosts hopeful.Once he strode in, beaming and only a little late, the mood entirelychanged. Now the locals were fearful.

Of course, Walter could not carry the burden of transformation.Surprisingly, it did not break him, for he remained the same engagingcharacter in triumph and sorrow—indeed, seemed not to noticethose swings of fortune or expectations that provoke dismay else-where. Tracksuits, tours, teams and opportunities were thrown at himand he kept trying, but wickets came in a trickle. He had reached hispeak early in his life and soon the rest caught up and presently passed

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by. Walter lacked the techniques needed to remove skilful batsmen.He was fit and willing, but that is not enough.

Happily, Walter was given some days in the sun, playing forGauteng and taking a couple of wickets and remaining until the endin the squad, playing regularly for the reserves and bowling his heartout in the nets. Indeed, he practised with the Australians at theWanderers before the First Test of their 2002 tour, sending down hisinswingers and occasionally troubling the batsmen. But he was not atop-class bowler, just a first-class fellow and a reminder that cricketerscannot be microwaved and that a man may rise as his career fades.

As it happens, I played against Walter on the Isle of Wight lastyear, catching a ferry from Southampton, accompanied by the youngcricketers in my charge and enjoying a match played on a groundshaped like a soup bowl. There was Walter, larger than life and a gooddeal more amusing. He scored a few runs and then lost his wicket tosome indiscretion. Batting was not his strong point. He had the bigman’s impatience with fiddling around. Watching him defend waslike seeing a weightlifter tying a shoelace.

Although the match was a friendly, he roared cheerfully down thehill, bowled as fast as he could and periodically explored the middleof the pitch. Afterwards, he pronounced that it had all been great funand headed straight for the bar. Walter was not a failure; he was aroaring success. He played some good cricket, brightened a lot oflives and ought to have lived longer.

David Hookes

David Hookes’s untimely death in 2004 cast a pall over Australiancricket. More than might be expected, his departure had a profoundeffect upon a small community in which he had become a familiarfigure. The sense of loss was as palpable as it was painful. Even thosenot by instinct drawn to this abrasive and latterly mellowing SouthAustralian felt their lives had been cheapened by his absence.

Hookes was full of life, and that is the awful irony of it. Nothingseemed to hurt him, or slow him down. And yet it took a mere punchto stop him, a blow that left him unconscious on a road on that darkand dismal Victorian night. Throughout his life, he had remained

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resolutely optimistic and unapologetically forthright. He was thesunblessed product of a sunscorched country whose strengths andweaknesses he epitomised. He was young and outgoing in theAustralian way, and might have been catching a wave even as heplayed a cover drive. If Steve Waugh was the uncomplaining digger,Hookes was the unafraid larrikin.

Hookes was not a saint and did not pretend to be. He was notespecially enlightened and did not suppose otherwise. But he wasstraightforward and without malice and he cared about the youngcricketers around him and that counts for a lot. Always he seemedyoung, a beer in hand, an opinion in his mouth and a laugh upon hisface. He loved the banter of the game almost as much as he had lovedplaying, loved the dressing-room with its myths and secrets. It was nosurprise that he stayed in the game after his playing days were over,no surprise that he was still drinking and talking at midnight on thenight his life ended. It had been his life and had become his career.

Always Hookes appeared fearless, for the setbacks of the world didnot seem to affect him any more than arguments disproving hisfavoured theories. Although his social activities might suggest other-wise, he was also somehow an innocent. From the outset, he hadbeen confident to the point of confrontation. In his youth, he washandsome, loud and entertaining. Girls flittered around him, appre-ciating his brown, open face, blond locks and sense of fun. Theycould tell he was slightly dangerous company, and they were right.Men also enjoyed his company, the noise around the bar, the talk ofsport, opinions exchanged, jokes told, the endless debates that playsuch a part in Australian life. Always Hookes was in the thick of it.He was not a man for reflection. Time was too short. Life was to belived. And anyhow a man looking within is embarking upon aperilous journey.

Of course, the same applied at the crease. Hookes did not bothermuch with such niceties as footwork or taking a look at the bowling.From the start, he understood that the ways of respectability were notfor him. He could not work that way, yearned for the wide openspaces and the brutal simplicities. He burst into Sheffield Shieldcricket as an audacious, abrasive batsman and the exemplar of histimes, for Australia was casting aside the conservatism of the Menziesera and plunging headlong—some might think, headstrong—in

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search of an identity of its own as a democratic, young and purpose-ful nation.

At first, cricket bowed to the will of the forthright young manfrom Adelaide. Only the news that he had come to cricket by way oftraining as an accountant hinted that he might have more to offerthan a thumping drive and a rude hook. Before long, his repeateddestructions of state attacks were noticed and Hookes was chosen toplay in the Centenary Test in Melbourne. Somehow it seemed appro-priate that he should take part in this historic and dramatic occasionas the forces of tradition and challenge met upon the field. Hookescontributed manfully and memorably, hit five successive boundariesin an over bowled by Tony Greig, by way of response to his adver-sary asking whether the prodigy’s testicles had dropped. Supporterscheered the daring of the newcomer as they roared for Dennis Lilleeand Dungog Doug.

A brilliant career beckoned, but it was never as simple as that withHookes. Hitherto he had resembled an imperial soldier fightingnobly upon field and afterwards enjoying the fruits of victory. Now,suddenly, he encountered mortality as a bumper from Andy Robertsbeat his hook shot and broke his jaw. Hookes was never quite thesame again. He still hooked and drove vigorously, but the game hadsmelt him out. Suddenly, he was not so much the rising champion asthe flawed hero whose talents allowed him to fly now and again butnot soar in the expected way. Hookes became a force only in SouthAustralia. He needed a bigger stage and, colleagues sometimes felt,built it in his mind.

Although Hookes played 23 Test matches and batted excitinglyand productively for his state, his career did not fulfil its apparentpotential. Simply, he was not quite good enough to prosper in Testcricket. Prevented by disposition from playing the supporting role, itwas perhaps appropriate that Hookes did not hover around thefringes of the Australian team but was, instead, an outsider attendingto his own affairs.

Retirement brought fresh challenges met with a bravado that gaveno ground to the disquiet a lesser man might have felt. Before long,Hookes was a regular on radio and television, informing and enter-taining viewers by releasing opinions others reserve for the backroom. Gradually, the cricket community warmed to him. Patently he

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had been underestimated. It was easy to dismiss Hookes as a merecontroversialist craving attention. Perhaps, too, he softened as heaged, becoming less judgemental.

Never a man to duck a challenge, Hookes accepted an offer tocoach Victoria, an arrangement that left him with strong interests onboth sides of the boundary fence. Of course, he set about the taskwith his usual forcefulness. His players responded to his leadershipand a bare week ago Victoria consolidated its position at the top ofthe table with a spirited and remarkable run chase against its oldestadversaries. Naturally, Hookes lapped it up and enjoyed sendingmessages to his muckers in the opposing camp. Meanwhile, hecontinued to arrange outside help for his players, asking KerryO’Keeffe to take a look at his leg-spinner and so forth. He hadbecome a much broader man.

Hookes’s last years were his best. Of course, he had always beenpopular in his circle. At the last, he commanded a wider respect allthe more significant because it had been hard-earned. Even moreimportantly, the cricket community had learned to love him. He wascut down in the prime of his life.

Colin Cowdrey

Australians will remember Colin Cowdrey with a mixture of respectand affection. He was the portly gentleman who put aside his slippersin the northern winter of 1974–75 to answer his country’s call to facethe wrath of Dennis Lillee and Jeff Thomson. He stood steadfast asthunderbolts went by, and spectators liked him for it.

He was also the slight young fellow who introduced himself here-abouts with a dashing and decisive century made against RayLindwall and Keith Miller in the Melbourne Test of 1954–55.Between times, the Australians saw a lot of him, more than some-times seemed appropriate.

Cowdrey was the gentlest and least certain of English batsmen. Inhis later years, he had about him a Falstaffian figure that seemed toindicate merriment. In fact, Cowdrey was a reticent man with a mindthat seemed to skirt around issues without ever quite reaching aconclusion. He did not want to offend, could not quite decide.

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Much the same hesitancy could be detected in his batting. At hisbest, he could dominate any attack, for he had nimble footwork anda wide range of strokes. He seemed to stroke the ball as if it were afriend, as if the bowler, too, were a chum. His batting had a kindnessabout it, and a hint of reluctant ruthlessness. He’d tap the ball into a gap with fieldsmen in hot and unavailing pursuit. Cowdrey was acautious man in every way; his strokes and comments were temperedby tact. He could not bring himself to aggression.

Patience, determination and concentration could be countedamong his qualities. He was inclined to potter along with a sense ofease that sometimes provoked frustration. He might have been ridinga bicycle. In short, he was a gifted batsman who wanted to last as longas he could, a craftsman blessed with exceptional talent and burdenedby inner doubt. Perhaps he might have used those abilities more oftento tame an attack. But it was not his way. He could not bring himselfto do it. Instead, he served his country reliably and productively.

Cowdrey did indeed last much longer than his contemporaries.Peter May, a sharp man with a ruthless streak, retired early to enjoy aquieter life in the world of finance. Ted Dexter, a vague chap with apowerful game, left as soon as he could. Cowdrey survived, kept theruns ticking along and eventually became his country’s leading scorer.

As captain of England, he conveyed kindness rather than convic-tion. But he did manage to beat the Australians in 1968, after spec-tators and players alike helped to dry the ground after a storm. DerekUnderwood did the rest, and even Cowdrey managed to lookpleased. In some respects, those last appearances were his finest hour,as a cricketer anyhow. Cowdrey stood his ground against Thommoand the boys and made a few runs with his tried and tested technique.

Afterwards, and inevitably, Cowdrey joined the ranks of cricketadministrators. In office he was inclined to look somewhat baffled. Hecould see the other fellow’s point of view and wanted to reconcile theirreconcilable. Conceivably, too, he was craftier than he let on.

Cowdrey will be remembered as a superb slip-catcher and as abatsman who scored his runs without flamboyance. He defied theAustralians in 1954 and a generation later was defying them again.Beneath a benign exterior could be found a courageous cricketer. Hesurvived the ravages of time. Cowdrey was a man of his period, slightlytroubled, seeking peace and striving for his place in a changed world.

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Don Bradman

Sir Donald Bradman has gone to meet his maker. The sorrow ispalpable. Upon the cricket field, he was the most efficient collectorof runs the game has known. At the crease, he made a finely balancedstruggle, the duel between bat and ball, appear hopelessly unfair.

A new way of bowling was devised in an attempt to stop him, orrestrict him, an approach so close to the line between legitimate tacticand outright assault that a break between nations almost resulted. Inthe nick of time, the game realised it ought not to lower itself merelyto compromise a phenomenon, accepted that Bradman was beyondcontainment and that his abilities ought to be appreciated, for his likemight not come again.

Bradman took batting to its highest pitch. He was the definitiveexpression of batsmanship, a player in control of himself, quick ofjudgement, alert of foot and eye, precise of execution, strong of mindand limb. He had a ruthlessness about him that was confident andchuckling rather than chilling. He was an artist who disdainedflourish, a scientist who went beyond calculation. The game in itsmost effective form flowed through him.

Others might struggle, with themselves, with the conditions, withthe bowling. Bradman saw only the ball and the inviting gap. Hemoved along in a bird-like way, almost skipping between the wickets,delighting as he carved through cover or pulled past the bowler.Some batsmen can keep their wickets intact for hours upon end.Others can cart the bowling around. Bradman did both at the sametime; that was the devil of it.

Perhaps the finest tributes to Bradman’s powers came from thosewho suffered most at his hands, the turners of sods and hewers ofwood as that fiery Catholic and contemporary Bill O’Reilly called themembers of the bowling fraternity.

After the war, Bradman reappeared and for a time faltered. AgainstEngland he edged into the slips and, in the Australian way, stood hisground. Astonishingly, the appeal was rejected. Decades later, thebowler said that this had been a good thing because otherwise theDon might have retired.

Bradman was above his game and his times and yet also a productof them. In some respects, it was a limiting factor. It is not to be

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expected that a young man born and raised in a practical family in thecountry towns of the 1920s should be the epitome of enlighten-ment. It was a Protestant and self-denying upbringing that explainedhis inability to join the rush of the sporting crowd and especially itsboisterous Catholic element. Bradman’s failure to leave the boat inBombay or even to wave to the 20 000 Indians gathered on the dockprovoked dismay, as did his refusal to meet Vijay Merchant, amongthe finest of Indian opening batsmen.

It cannot have been easy to be Bradman. Perhaps he was happiestand safest at the crease, in the public eye and yet removed from it, anuntouched figure in his element. Even so, the pressures were intenseand might have broken a lesser man. As it was, his health failed himregularly during his career, and his life was despaired of in the 1930s.And yet, the same apparently frail man lived to a ripe old age.

These setbacks were almost the only hint of vulnerability in a manwho conveyed competence from the uncertain days of the Depressionuntil the aftermath of devastating war.

Bradman will be remembered wherever the game is played, notleast in India with its emotions and fondness for figures and mystique.His sporting achievements were extraordinary, and undimmed bythe years. Nor did he stop serving the game after declaring his inningsclosed. Always he protected its reputation, standing firm againstthrowing and other corruptions.

During his career some said he played and lived by his own lights.No such charges could later be laid at his door, as he made his contri-bution still yearning for the silence his abilities had denied him. Hehad a cryptic way about him, and a wry humour that conveyed keenintelligence.

Cricket has known great men and fine players, but there has been,and can be, only one Bradman.

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Afterword

After the Indian Ocean tsunami

One memory remains of the year past, an experience that seemedunimportant and is now etched in the memory, an encounter thathad slipped from mind within a few days as the show moved fromGalle to Kandy and then to Colombo, and then somewhere else, onlyto be revived as pictures appeared on our television screens andreports were published in our newspapers.

It was not a cricketing recollection, but they can wait for anotherday. At these times, sport hardly seems to matter, though it must notstop, for that is to admit defeat. If cricketing memories are wanted,then Steve Waugh’s last Test match, Michael Clarke’s first innings, hisbreathtaking assault in Nagpur and the bedlam as Australian wicketsbegan to fall in Mumbai top the list. But these are minor concerns ofbat and ball and human inspiration. They don’t matter, not really.They simply reflect man’s ancient lust for sport with its twists andturns and debates about ‘who’s in and who’s out’.

No, the abiding memory of 2004 is altogether more personal. Lastautumn, the Australian cricket team visited Sri Lanka. Of course,reporters went along, and found their own places to stay. In my case,the trip was organised by a young Englishman called Charlie,Cricinfo’s man on this spot. In his spare time, Charlie runs a travelagency. Happily, he survived the recent devastation, but 35 of hisparty are missing. In any event, he found suitable accommodation forFairfax’s columnist.

Since the first match was to be played in Galle, our first task wasto head south along the coastal road, beside the track from which atrain was plucked by the torrent as if it were a plaything. Our hotelwas run by a splendid old lady and was situated beside a small patchof sand that wound back towards the metropolis.

Every morning, a group of ragged boys ran along that beach.Every morning, we’d awake to find them sprinting up and down the

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strip of sand, through the dying water of the last wave, uninhibitedin their delight, joyous in their athleticism. Back and forth they wentwith the cheerful intensity of youth, laughing and sometimes scrap-ping but serious once the running resumed. One of them was theleader, a dashing youth who supervised the stretches and led theraces. He could run, too, flying across the sand, arms punchingthrough the air, head high, feet skimming the surface.

After training, they’d cast aside their clothes and plunge into thetimid waves, splashing about cheerfully, not going too deep, for,though many in the region live by the water, few spend much timein its embrace. As far as locals are concerned, swimming is for fish.The sea is not to be trusted.

Of course, the youngsters had no money. They lived in tin shackslocated in a shanty town just across the road, twenty yards from thebeach, thirty from the calm waters of the ocean. As it turned out,Chaminda was the leader’s name. He was sixteen and had beenforced to leave school because his family relied on the pittance hecould earn as a waiter. He said that he loved running and had triedhis luck at meetings, where his performances had been praised. Histimes had been good and he thought he could go faster, but he couldnot afford running shoes and did not think he had much chance ofmaking the grade.

Every youngster deserves a chance, so the newspaper took him intotown on a tuc-tuc and bought some spikes in a store run by an obligingopportunist. Chaminda smiled and next morning was with his palsonce more, charging up and down the beach with fresh intent. A fewdays later, the time came to part company. The athletes came to saygoodbye. Chaminda wrote his name and address on the back of a scrapof paper marked ‘Cocktail Sauce’. And then faded from memory.

Then came the news of the terrible events of 26 December 2004.Not far down the road, the house owned by Murali’s manager wasdestroyed. Tin shacks could hardly hope to withstand the bombard-ment. And they lived cheek by jowl with those very waters thatbetrayed them. Suddenly, the faces of the youngsters sprang back tomind. Death is not a number. It is the optimistic beam of the youngathlete or the grey visage of the waiting parent. Some things cannotbe outrun.

Let’s hope they made it.

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Postscript

Chaminda survived the tsunami. A month after the disaster a letterarrived from him. He wrote:

At that time I’m in Galle town so that I faced this accident. Mostof our relatives have lost their houses. We are also very unluckybecause I have some physical damages and we’ve lost our boats.There wasn’t any big damage to the house, but our whole thingsare destroyed. My father has lost his fishing boats. That is a bigproblem to our family.

I couldn’t continue my running these days because of thedisaster.

But he was alive.

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INDEXAboriginal cricketers 226–8Acfield, David 212Achrekar, Ramakant 11, 12Adams, Jimmy 27, 35Adams, Paul 139Akhtar, Shoaib 33, 60–1, 94,

98–100Akram, Wasim 33, 93, 94–6, 173,

215Alderman, Terry 128, 193, 213Ambrose, Curtly 27, 80, 89, 97,

112, 113, 154, 215Amiss, Dennis 48Armstrong, Warwick 159Astle, Nathan 63Atherton, Michael 34, 87, 88, 89,

124, 197, 199–200, 208,214–17

Azharuddin, Mohammad 47–9,183, 193–4

Bacher, Ali 148, 186, 239Baddeley, Robert 192Banks, Omari 106Baptiste, Eldine 113Barrington, Ken 76, 105, 183,

199, 212Bedi, Bishen 47, 70Benaud, John 161–2Benaud, Richie 192, 207Benjamin, Kenny 113Benjamin, Winston 113

Best, Tino 106Bichel, Andrew 30, 91, 105, 170Bishop, Ian 125Blackwell, Ian 173Blewett, Greg 50, 175Blizzard, Aiden 121Boon, David 44, 151, 152–4, 196,

211Border, Allan 42, 48, 63, 70, 88,

150, 152, 193, 196, 197–8,208–9, 211, 218

Botham, Ian 20, 28, 70, 75, 85,213, 236

Boucher, Mark 142, 144–5Boycott, Geoffrey 73, 76–8, 105,

130, 137, 199, 215, 216Bradman, Sir Donald 9, 25, 38,

62, 63, 64, 159, 170, 199, 233,245–6

Brant, Scott 9Buchanan, John 170Butcher, Basil 103, 104, 110–13

Cadaux-Hudson, Jonathon 230Caddick, Andrew 74, 81–3, 97Cairns, Chris 43Campbell, Sherwin 26, 34captaincy 4, 28–30, 47, 75, 86,

87–8, 111, 140–2, 165–7, 177,183, 189, 192, 194, 213, 214,244

Carew, George 108

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Chaminda 248, 249Chanderpaul, Kemraj 5–6Chanderpaul, Shivnarine 2, 5–7,

89, 111Chappell, Greg 41, 218, 221Chappell, Ian 9Chopra, Akash 55–6Christiani, Robert 111Clarke, Michael 161, 163–5, 247Clarke, Nolan 104, 115–17Cleal, Matthew 221–2, 224–6coaches 11–12, 66, 207, 212, 223,

243Compton, Denis 126Constantine, Learie 109Coward, Mike 208Cowdrey, Colin 183, 215, 233,

243–5Cox, Phillip 229Craig, Ian 192Croft, Colin 5Cronje, Ewie 18–19Cronje, Frans 18Cronje, Hansie 2, 14, 18–19, 133,

142, 144, 183–7Crowe, Martin 224

Daley, Kym 230Davis, Winston 219De Silva, Aravinda 100, 130De Villiers, Fanie 133, 176deaf cricketers 222, 229–30death 231–2, 248Dev, Kapil 47, 48, 69–71, 101Dexter, Ted 244Donald, Allan 14, 133, 176, 215,

216, 224Doug, Dungog 163, 165, 242

Doyle, Corey 232, 233–5Dravid, Rahul 38, 42, 52, 56–8,

88Dujon, Jeff 224

Edrich, John 199

fame 195–7Fernando, Sunil 69Fleming, Matthew 74, 78–80Fleming, Stephen 184Fletcher, Duncan 87Fletcher, Keith 212Flower, Andy 134–5, 136–8, 161,

178Flower, Grant 134, 136–8Ford, Graeme 139, 146Foster, Maurice 103Fraser, Angus 48, 83, 126, 151,

154–5

Galle 247, 249Ganga, Daren 106Ganguly, Sourav 38, 184, 187–8,

204Ganteaume, Andy 104, 106–10Garner, Joel 163, 209Gatting, Mike 75, 121, 201,

202–3, 213Gavaskar, Sunil 6, 11, 38, 47, 63,

69, 71, 190, 238George, Stephen 230Gibbs, Herschelle 144–5Gifford, Norman 224Gilchrist, Adam 119–20, 129–32,

161, 164, 171–3, 175Gilchrist, Roy 103Gillespie, Jason 52, 161, 169, 173

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Goddard, John 109Gomez, Gerry 107, 109Gooch, Graham 47, 75, 88, 201,

208, 211–14, 215Goodwin, Murray 9Gough, Darren 97, 223Gover, Alf 114Gower, David 59, 73, 74–6, 119,

127, 137, 213, 215Grace, WG 130Gray, Malcolm 44Greene, Graham 162Greenidge, Gordon 106Gregory, Jack 48Greig, Tony 45, 242Gripper, Trevor 64Gurusinha, Asanka 151, 156–7

Hadlee, Sir Richard 43, 70, 153Hall, Wes 92, 223Harper, Laurie 175Harris, Chris 140Harvey, Neil 104Hauritz, Nathan 121Hayden, Matthew 30, 64–5, 130,

161Haynes, Desmond 210Headley, George 103, 108Healy, Ian 27, 210–11Hick, Graeme 43, 148Higgs, Mark 203Hirwani, Narendra 47Hogg, Brad 161, 178–9Hohns, Trevor 165Hollioake, Adam 236Hollioake, Ben 232–3, 235–7Hookes, David 231, 240–3Houghton, David 137

Hughes, Merv 200–1Hussain, Nasser 74, 86–8, 90, 148,

173Hutton, Sir Leonard 64, 78, 192

Illington, Raymond 216Innis, David 11–12Inzamam-Ul-Haq 42, 49–51

Jacobs, Ridley 26, 113Jadeja, Ajay 188James, CLR 102, 109Jardine, Douglas 86Jayasuriya, Sanath 238Jessop, Gilbert 79Jewell, Nick 121Jones, Dean 198Joseland, Brendon 121Joseph, Dave 113

Kallicharran, Alvin 6, 110–11, 112

Kallis, Jacques 142, 144Kambli, Vinod 11, 12Kanhai, Rohan 110, 112, 116Kasprowicz, Michael 53, 161Khan, Imran 101, 190Kirsten, Gary 140, 142Kloppenburg, Jan 151, 157–8Klusener, Lance 135, 142, 145–6,

203Knight, Nick 170Koertzen, Rudi 130Krezda, Jason 179–81Kumble, Anil 45–7, 89, 165, 188

Laker, Jim 62, 63, 108Lamb, Allan 75, 95

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Langer, Justin 30, 91, 96, 161,174–6

Lara, Brian 22, 23–7, 34–5, 64,103, 106, 131

Larwood, Harold 92, 207Lathwell, Mark 74, 83–6Lawry, Bill 199, 207Lawson, Geoff 207Lawson, Jermaine 106Laxman, Venkati 38, 41, 51–3Lee, Brett 54, 105, 161, 167–71,

174Lehmann, Darren 161, 173–4Leslie, CFH 80Lewis, Carl 223Lewis, Chris 48Lillee, Dennis 33, 82, 93, 98, 139,

207–8, 221, 222–4, 242, 243Lilley, Alan 212Lindwall, Ray 243Lubber, Stephen 17

McDermott, Craig 33, 202McGrath, Glenn 22–3, 32–6, 41,

52–3, 88, 90, 93, 101, 178,199–200, 215, 216–17

McGuire, Anthony 7Magoffin, Steve 122Malcolm, Devon 48Malik, Salim 49Mangongo, Steve 15Manjrekar, Sanjay 11, 48Mankad, Vinoo 69manners 160–1Marks, Neil 22Marks, Vic 78Marsh, Geoff 196, 208, 211Marsh, Rod 9, 116, 211

Marshall, Malcolm 33, 70, 85, 93,139, 215, 223, 233, 237–8

Martyn, Damien 46, 161, 175,176–7

Masakadza, Hamilton 16Masimula, Walter 233, 239–40Matsikenyeri, Stuart 14–16Matthews, Greg 147May, Peter 48, 244Merchant, Vijay 69, 246Miandad, Javed 167Miller, Keith 32, 104, 243Mohammad, Hanif 48Moody, Tom 139Muralitharan, Muttiah 67–9, 100,

248Mushtaq, Saqlain 50Mwayenga, Allan 9, 10Mwayenga, Waddington 2, 9–10

Nayudu, CK 69Nkala, Luke 19Nkala, Muleleki 19–21Norrie, David 212Ntini, Makhaya 142Nurse, Seymour 110Nye, Aaron 122–3, 124

O’Keeffe, Kerry 2, 221, 243Oldfield, Bert 211Olonga, Henry 135, 223O’Reilly, Bill 119, 223, 245

Page, Colin 80Paton, Alan 147Pedi, Gift 239Penrith, Basil 222, 226–8Pieterson, Kevin 136, 146–9

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Pollock, Graeme 24Pollock, Shaun 101, 141, 145,

184, 215Ponting, Ricky 2, 7–9, 38, 130,

131, 132, 161, 165–7, 169Potter, Jack 175Prabhakar, Manoj 47Pretorius, Dewald 2, 13–14Price, Ray 64, 135, 142–3Pringle, Nick 222, 224–6Proctor, Mike 115professionalism 150–1

Rae, Allan 109Ramprakash, Mark 128Ramsey, Fred 192Ranatunga, Arjuna 59, 100, 184,

189–91, 210Reid, Bruce 128Reiffel, Paul 121, 124, 157, 201reputation 182–3, 246retirement 195–7, 206–8, 221Rhodes, Jonty 146, 147Rhodes, Wilfred 48Rice, Clive 147, 148Richards, Sir Vivian 38, 48, 103,

105, 106, 113, 114, 115, 128Richardson, Dave 144Richardson, Richie 113, 115, 224Roach, Clifford 107Roach, Peter 122Roberts, Anderson 104, 113–15,

116, 242Robinson, Peter 84role models, sportsmen as 118–19

Samuels, Marlon 105Sangakkara, Kumar 43, 58–60

Sarwan, Ramnaresh 105Sehwag, Virender 38, 42, 53–6Shastri, Ravi 47, 48Shivaji Park, Bombay 11–12Shivalkar, Das 11–12Sidhu, Navjot 48Simpson, Bob 66, 184, 191–3, 207Simpson, Chris 122, 123Singh, Harbhajan 89Slater, Michael 175Smith, Collie 104–5Smith Graeme 135, 140–2Smith, Robin 119, 124–9Sobers, Sir Garfield 2, 3–5, 24, 64,

110, 153, 233Sobers, Thelma 3–5Sohail, Aamir 49–50Solomon, Joe 110–11, 112Spearman, Craig 43sportsmanship 160–3statistics, problems with 62–3Stewart, Alec 87Stewart, Mickey 212Stollmeyer, Jeff 107, 108, 109Streak, Heath 20, 135suicide 207, 232, 233–5Sullivan, Grant 121Sutcliffe, Herbert 78Symcox, Pat 138–40, 146Symonds, Andrew 132, 178

Taibu, Tatenda 2, 14–16talent 22–3, 151, 244, 245Tallon, Don 211Taylor, Mark 42, 51, 63, 153, 193Tendulkar, Sachin 2, 8, 10–12, 19,

22–3, 36–40, 52, 56, 60–1, 88,131, 205, 232


Thomson, Jeff 33, 93, 218, 243,244

Thorpe, Graham 97Trescothick, Marcus 72, 89, 90,

170Trime, John 111Trudgett, Luke 229Trueman, Fred 98, 223tsunami (Boxing Day 2004) 247–9Turner, Glenn 116Tyson, Frank 92

upbringing, role of 1–2

Vaas, Chaminda 94, 100–1, 215Valjee, Umesh 230van Noortwijk, Klaas-Jan 151,

157–8van Randt, Oos 185Van Troost, Andre 213van Zyl, Corrie 14Vaughan, Michael 34, 35, 74,

88–91Vengsarkar, Dilip 48

Wadekar, Ajit 11Walcott, Clyde 111–12walking 120, 129–31, 161Walsh, Courtney 27, 78, 80, 89,

93, 96–8, 112, 215

Walters, Doug 22Wardle, John 192Warne, Shane 33, 35, 40, 41, 46,

49–50, 53, 65–7, 70, 91, 96,118, 119, 120–4, 166, 168,169, 175, 189, 202, 209, 210,215, 236

Watkins, Andrew 229Watson, Shane 165Waugh, Mark 96, 139, 173, 198,

208, 217–19Waugh, Steve 23, 26, 27–32, 35,

82, 143, 150, 161, 166, 169,171, 196, 197, 203–5, 208,217–19, 241, 247

Weekes, Everton 110, 116White, Cameron 165Woodman, Mark 230Woods, Sammy 234Woolmer, Bob 99Worrell, Sir Frank 4, 102, 103–4,

110, 112Wright, John 46

Younis, Waqar 215

Zondeli, Monde 140, 142Zuiderent, Bas 2, 16–18, 158

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