Almanac Cricket – Boxing Day Test, Day Five: A Great One.

 

 

You can tell a golfer from a mile away. Generally, they have skinny pins, tanned from the top of the sock line to the bottom of the quads. They don’t have a backside. Not one that protrudes anyway, so they appear to have long backs. Their shoulders are square and bony, and the cap on the head is never removed (unless it gets cap cancer and must be surgically removed). So, if your wife or girlfriend gives birth to a baby wearing a cap, head straight out and buy a set of clubs.

 

Tennis players are a bit similar. They carry lithe looking physiques, bodies that are fuelled by vegetables and fruit. Not much red meat. Tennis players are often Celtic looking, with ginger hair or at least a ginger fleck. They have big facial freckles, peaked noses, and zinced cheeks. The zinc only comes off at weddings and funerals. I’ve never quite worked out if tennis players have protruding backsides or just wear tight shorts. And they are very organised and tidy. The 3pm-on-a-Wednesday-hit-with-the-ladies followed by chicken sandwiches, type organised. Tennis club kitchens are a snapshot into Home Beautiful magazines from the 1950s. Most tennis players are very handy with the kitchen sponge.

 

I love watching people pass and assessing their sport of choice. There is generally a “type”. But cricketers are harder to define. Anyone can play cricket. Think of the vast distinctions between John Snow and Daniel Vettori. Or Michael Holding and Travis Head. Or Bruce Reid and David Boon.

 

I’m sitting at the MCG waiting for Day 5 of the Australia v India Test to commence and have an endless passing parade of folks to analyse. There are plenty of tennis players, golfers who’ve given up a day on the fairways or in the practice bunker, footballers enjoying the summer pre-season, rock climbers, chess players, swimmers aplenty, motor bike riders, and soccer players. I’m sure one bloke is a monster truck enthusiast.

 

The Indian crowd is joyfully banging drums and singing in Hindi and cheering when an Indian catches the ball during the warm-ups. One chap has cut his hair in the shape of the map of India, then dyed it saffron, white and green. It’s an artwork. I want to ask him if I can take a photo of it but then consider the creepiness of that request. One chant in Hindi sounds like “Virat’s a wanker!”  but I’m sure I’ve mis-heard.

 

Within a few minutes of the start of play, with Australia surprisingly still batting, Nathan Lyon has his middle stump extracted like it’s a stubborn wisdom tooth. The bail nearly hits the roving camera as it circles above. India needs 340 runs to win across about 91 overs. They can mathematically do it, but from the start it seems unlikely. We go to the bar to lunch and indulge in our first bitterly cold Carlton Draught for the day. A young surfer pours the beers. He does a good job.

 

The crack of leather on willow is a beautiful sound. There’s the initial “crack” then the slight echo as it bounces around the stadium, before it comes back to your ears as a “ahh”.

 

Crack!!…….ahhh. Jaiswal has just hit an exquisite on-drive.

 

An Indian looking soccer player leaning on the bar casually advises us that it’s the shot of the game. His volleyball playing mate agrees. I do too.

 

“You blokes might have a go at the 340, “ I say to him.

 

“Yes they might,” he says with dancing eyes and a grin like a happy fisherman, “but I’m not Indian! Ha ha ha. Go Aussies!”.

 

A big shot-putter standing at a table drains his glass and says “no chance” referring to India’s victory hopes.

 

Three for thirty-three at lunch, then still only three wickets down at tea. Victory is only a remote chance, but survival looks probable. However, Kohli is out, flashing at one outside the off stump, (again) so their spiritual leader is out of the fight. After tea Pant inexplicably launches into a Travis Head pie but doesn’t nail it. It was a swing of the bat worthy of the O’Toole brothers swinging their axes. Not the shot of a survivor. Marsh takes a juggling mark in the forward pocket. The game changes.

 

The last hour of the game will stay with me for a very long time. The crowd roars are deep and baritone. Full of meaning. This matters. The Indian drummer ups the ante, their chants and singing sound more like prayers. They’re praying Jaiswal can stay there as wickets around him begin to fall. Then he gloves one. Yes, he hit it and got caught. That’s out. The only other explanation for the trajectory of the ball changing after it left Jaiswal’s glove is that the bat’s gravitational pull caused the ball to curve in flight. Like light passing a star. For further explanation on that I refer you to Einstein’s theories. Or Isaac Newton’s work called Optics written in 1704. Knock yourself out.

 

At this stage of proceedings we’re standing at ground level, just outside The Stumps bar, and the vibe is pulsating. A boxer is hugging his mate after every ball and yelling, “Come on!” A rock climber has his girlfriend leaning on his shoulder, eyes buried. She can’t bear to watch. Judging by the angle of her head and the high flexibility involved, I’d say she’s a gymnast. Tennis players are nearly screaming it’s  that exciting. My heart’s pounding. Yes, this does really matter.

 

One wicket to get. Lyon is bowling. Every fielder is circling the batsmen, waiting like scavengers to feast. Arms extended, hands open like mouths of the cuckoo birds, eyes fixed on the red leather ball. Surely Siraj can’t last. He’s like a Christian in the Roman Colosseum, waiting for the lions to come out. Australia has its own Lyon. The ball skids, slams into the pad. Siraj is plumb. There is a review, but the Aussies know they have it. Lyon runs off like a little kid full of red lemonade. Siraj and Sundar trudge away. Cricketers, runners, golfers, synchronised swimmers, hockey players, triathletes, cyclists, everyone, EVERYONE is taken in by the moment. Sport at its finest. A contest the ebbed and flowed and ebbed again. Punch and counterpunch. Heroics and foolishness. Skill and the exuberance of youth. Strength and weakness. Cunning and blunt force. Just extraordinary.

 

 

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