Good morning Barry, good morning everyone.
And that sound, which seems to occur every morning, (they always give Richie Benaud the opening shift, so that people are trapped by the brilliance of the cricket by the time Mark Nicholas appears), scared me. For on no fewer than four of the five mornings of the Test Match it meant doom. Which of course, meant that the first day lulled one into a false sense of security. England had nearly won the Test Match by midday on Thursday, but it came back to haunt them. And us.DAY ONE
Snick. Snick. Boom. Snick. 21-4. In favourable bowling conditions- South Africa batted. Quite correctly. In the previous Test Match, where the toss decided the match, England won. Coming into this Test Match, Graeme Smith, disingenuously, and with a bad lack of grace which will serve him ill when they lose to the Australians, claimed South Africa had not lost a cricket match in this series, only a toss.
But the same could be said at Headingley.
At midday on Thursday, such a proclamation may have been greeted with the kind of cynicism usually reserved for Dermot Reeve. England where the mighty Spartans, Greeks, Ottomans, Germans. And yet all these empires fell back, invaded by irrelevant, powerful forces. Regardless of England's dominance, the fact that they should back last remained crucial. The toss still won the match. And yet, as Jack Bauer might say, there were 'factors'. Kirsten caught off a correct but pedantic Flintoff no ball, avoiding a rout. All Hand Zondeki, the debutant, nay, debutante, dancing his way to a fragile, flawed fifty. Kirtley being on and off. And what if Gough had delayed his retirement. In harness with magically repaired Caddick and Hoggard, a 200 West Indies scoreline. 80 all out. The destroyed trudge of the beaten colonials. Instead. Flintoff on a hat-trick around his bloated tea. Foiled by Zondeki. Kirsten's hundred worthy of Atherton. Or Butcher's 173* against Australia in 2001. And yet Butcher in firm still to come. 256-7- balanced, but with South African momentum
SECOND DAY
If nothing else, memorable for umpires. Imagine ultra-Toby. You have reached my Father. Now imagine, if you will, ultra-Toby's-Father. And you reach Toby's Uncle. Like Stephen, (as I have told Stephen on MSN), but 62. And so my little, innocent, alcoholic little step-sister, 16, GCSEs permitting-happy, comes to watch a regatta and is bored... to death by Ultra-Ultra-Toby. And retreats to Toby himself. Who carefully introduces cricket.
Cariacatures needed while subtlely escapes. So James Anderson is Mohican Man. Harmison, Flamingo Man. And Darryl Hair, Pie Man.
Pie Man catches on. Questionable lbws turned down for South African pie bribe.
But for Headingley, Pie Man dismissed. The Claw introduced. Billy Bowden- the exhibitionist, the super-hero. And Simon Taufel, who could be a Greek dip.
And on the second day, the Claw strikes, but not to soon. The ominous 'Good morning, everyone' signals another 86 runs for only three wickets. South Africa make 342, the second highest core in the match only to themselves. Of which more later.
There's not to make reply
There's not to reason why
Tennyson. As usual when it comes to patriotism and one has an understandable distaste for Kipling. At half four, Trescothick, champagne batsmen and not quite suited to this Headingley Gin pitch, comes off with England in command and with momentum, on 170 odd for 1, for Vaughan only, and even that an unlucky dismissal. A poor bad light decision, if not one that, as Mark Nicholas later, simplistically and typically posits, a match-losing one. When they return, Kallis takes a caught-and-bowled christened by genius. One of those dismissals one gapes in awe at before remembering 'That ain't my team'. And Tres goes. Followed by lame discipline by Butch. And the momentume, like non-first syllables of words, goes. England reach 196-3. And it's all a bit frustrating.
THIRD DAY
'Good morning everyone', comes the chant, becoming almost an antiphon for Fate, to reply by giving South Africans a Christmas gift those months early. Ed Smith, callow, insecure, dropped, in the selection not the slip sense, out first ball. Flintoff hits a gallant 55 as Hussain is out to Rudolph's second ball in Test cricket. The underdog leg-spinner come good. Rudolph, the red nosed batsman, You'll go down in History. And so on, even in August. England's tail crumbles under the new ball. Compare these figures, then
SOUTH AFRICA: 142-7, 342-10
ENGLAND: 284-7 307-10
And need one say more, particularly after Hall's 99*. It's not a talent thing. Ntini and Pretorious can't bat, and Zondeki has the Luck of Waugh. It's persistence. And so South Africa have the advantage. Gibbs goes quickly, still not really wanting to draw attention to himslf after the match fixing thing. Even when Gibbs centuried, Smith beat the record South African score. They call it understated. Kallis and Kirsten, the Special Ks, put on 96, but England close in, leaving South Africa stuttering innocently on 164-5 at the close. 199 the lead, and a tail end fold would make the match fascinating to its end.
FOURTH DAY
And yet the invocation does the job again. 'Good morning everyone'. And Mackenxie clips Stewartly off his hips for four. This groove swings, and instead of a Hunt, it becomes little more than a Samba. Or something. Hall gets a spritely 99. Like Boucher, he's an irritating little man that you'd treasure like Jack Russell were he British. But as he's foreign, you simply, blandly hate. 99 comes with a spirited display. Yet the * is crucial. Pretorious gets bowled by the mediocre Kirtley at the vital moment. Hall grins with the grin of a number 8 who'll have another chance to get a century. Were that were true of Bicknell or Giles. 366. Extraordinary resilience. But dreadful, dreadful bowling by the opening pair of Kirtley and Bicknell, and Mohican Man slinging down leg side. Flintoff keeps it unrespectable rather than dreadful, but it's the worst English display since the '99 World Cup on that Sunday morning.And England respond with a mini-collapse, reaching an unhealthy 90-5. Butcher and Flintoff, the two iconic batsmen of a woeful display, add a charitable 70 to leave England rhapsodying unrealistically. 160-5.
FIFTH DAY
'Good morning everyone'. I love Richie Benaud like I love jelly, and yet, this incantation is starting to incite me. With the first ball, Butcher clatters Kallis through the covers for four. I'm amused. With the second, he edges to the unctuous, oleaginous Hall. I'm gutted. And England collapse like a bream sans intestines. A limp display, but it was lost by Sunday morning and the Claw's no ball.
And so Vaughan blames it on county cricket. It would be barely less fair to blame it on Mercury. A mercurial Test Match full of finely wrong decisions by Vaughan and slightly under-par performances. Complete the following sentence: "Were Hussain batting, England would be...". And instead, we move the blame in a way memorable to all those depressed people who watched Atherton conferences. Neither of the Lancastrians is half the man Hussain was. They whine where Hussain raged.
Smith discredited, but at least winning. Vaughan with a lot of my credit gone. Flintoff, the eloquent lumberjack is the English Hero. The crew cut Hall the South African. Gary Kirsten, that admirable barnacle, that Yorkshire spirited Springbok, takes an undisputable man of the match. In Kirsten, as in Flintoff and Hussain, South Africa have a real man. If they could only find it, like England, before Smith and Vaughan, opening batsmen with class and no captaincy skill, dribble all over beautiful cricket.
Back to main index