Sir Donald Bradman: a hero to us all

Sir Donald Bradman needs no resumé. His rendezvous with history was unique, and is still without parallel. So will it always be: for today, and tomorrow. Legends are made of such stuff, and Bradman was, doubtless, a true legend.

More importantly, it was not for small things, but for great, that God, or the game of cricket, created Bradman, and blessed him to [re]discover the very zenith of the magical willow’s sublime harmonies — one that did not remain fully satisfied by anything limited, howsoever great that thing might be.

With his phenomenal and compelling presence on the playing arena, Bradman surveyed an entire age. And, nearly six decades after he called it quits to the game, and his passing away, a few years ago, he still commands worldwide veneration and admiration — more so, from an entirely new generation of cricket fans that never saw him hold the bat in his hands. It is something that exemplifies the obvious: that the Don has been canonised, in cricket’s own temple, where only the greatest are allowed to tread. Bradman was not only Australia’s history; he’s, indeed, cricket’s incomparable parable.

Born on August 27, 1908, Bradman strode over the cricket world, for 20 years, like a giant. He would have, doubtless, created a host of more formidable records, if only Adolf Hitler’s blitzkrieg had not intervened for seven long, and cruel, years: at a time when he was almost unstoppable.

On the other hand, it may, perforce, be simple logic, if not poetic justice, to believe, that, it was a blessing for the ‘hapless,’ if not helpless, bowlers who had received enough flak, till then, from the punishing blade of Bradman — the short-statured batting monarch!

Bradman’s enormous prowess with the bat was evident when he posted his first century in schools cricket, in New South Wales, at age 12.

Five years later, he was a star in his own right. Scores of 320, 300, and 230, in successive matches, tell a story of their own much better than a thousand words put together.

Critics were overjoyed — and, bowlers began to pull the alarm-bell — as Bradman demonstrated what was in store for them. Would you believe it: that he played for over two years, thereafter, without once losing his wicket? Call it genius, or what you may.

In 1926-27, Bradman made his entry into big-time cricket. In his very first match, he made a ton. He skippered New South Wales, the following season, and typical of him, he scored a century in his first match as captain. Inference: posting tons with both classical aplomb and ease became a habit no less for his quintessential talent, or psyche.

Expectations were, therefore, very high when he made his debut in Tests, against England, in 1928. He didn’t disappoint; yet, he was dropped after his first game, thanks to ‘conventional’ wisdom. He was recalled to the side in the Melbourne Test, in the series.

He responded as only he could, or knew: 79, followed by a century. Delightful knocks both.

Thereafter, his place, in the Aussie Test side, was as secure as the Bank of England, despite the trauma he was to face in the wake of Douglas Jardine’s infamous strategy, ‘Bodyline,’ which was specifically engineered to stall, and destroy, his wonderful run-getting abilities.

Bradman’s success, in reality, is the success story of cricket as a game per se. His batting was efficient and prolific, rather than elegant; it did not possess the classy touch of Hobbs, and the stunning power of Victor Trumper.

Yet, Bradman’s genius challenged analysis. Behind his runs were some of his outstanding assets: his awesome eyesight, ability to concentrate for long hours — Bradmanesque concentration — quicksilver reflexes, a fine repertoire of strokes, so very elastic that those gaps always seemed to be there, complemented by immense determination, intelligence, cool head, and inexhaustible physical and mental endurance.

Add to this his sense of easy adaptability to changing circumstances and different wickets, his indomitable will to succeed, come what may, and brilliant footwork, which compensated for his otherwise short frame, and you have a great script — a scrawl like no other.

Bradman, who made news headlines even when he scored a ‘duck,’ could sight the ball quite early like all great batsmen — perhaps, better. He had enough time to think, attain the right position, and balance, to ‘effecting’ the perfect stroke — as perfect as perfect can be.

His best form of defence was based on aggression; its method being both imperious and neat in its execution, and plan.

Bradman was an excellent captain, too. And, he was blessed with an excellent side — possibly, the finest ever in history — where each man knew his job to the last detail. His team-mates were all brilliant players, all right — not an easy appointment for any leader, since it’s relatively easier to skipper an average and dedicated team than one with redundant talent.

That Bradman could control and make his players fit into his scheme of things was his most singular achievement. Not that there weren’t any hiccups. But, in the ultimate analysis, Bradman, being Bradman, always prevailed.

What was Bradman’s philosophy? He always thought that matches were meant to be won; and, every ball sent down by the bowler deserved a beating from the blade. Not that the Don scored a four of every ball he faced in first-class cricket, but he hit more balls he received to the ropes than any batsman in history. What about his standard of excellence, or enterprise?

The great English mathematician, and cricket cognoscente, Hardy, who often used cricket similes in his papers, once elevated Bradman to a mathematical summit — the highest degree of excellence — although he himself was a committed Hobbs fan: “Bradman’s a whole class above any batsman who ever lived; if Archimedes, Newton, and Gauss remain in the Hobbs class, I have to admit the possibility of a class above them, which I find difficult to imagine. They had better be moved from now on into the Bradman class.”

The only batsman to have scored a triple-century in Tests twice, till Brian Lara emulated him, including the one he posted in only a single day’s play, Bradman, in 52 Tests, recorded a staggering 6,996 runs with the aid of 29 hundreds, at an average of 99.94.

His overall first-class record was no less stunning: 338 innings; 28,067 runs; 117 hundreds; 95.14 average. If Eric Hollies had not got him out for a ‘duck,’ in his last Test innings at the Oval, in 1948, but given him just a boundary, Bradman’s average would have been precisely 100!

Perish the thought, if you can. For one simple reason: Bradman has remained unsurpassable. His incredible record has stood the test of time — for yesterday, today, and also tomorrow.

Bradman, without an iota of doubt, was the one-man nuclear taskforce of his time — and, beyond. As The Yorkshire Post put it so succinctly: “… the champion of champions… a textbook of batting come to life with never a misprint or erratum.” Not that Bradman was infallible.

Witness, his brush with the selectors, his ‘rift’ with a few colleagues etc., which, fortunately, never came into the open, and his very reclusive existence, both as a player and gentleman — they all underline the human side of a genius. Still, his sense of logic was always impeccable. So also his wisdom. When he spoke, Bradman weighed his words — without hype, or hoopla. It’s simply to the point — straight, and spot on.

Among his most topical, and rare, insights, which has been well sculpted by his biographer Roland Perry in Bradman’s Best, his temporal reference to India’s pocket-dynamite, Sachin Tendulkar, has been as fresh as the first drops of rain, or early morning dew.

The Don was of the firm opinion that Tendulkar plays his cricket almost like he did in his prime. It’s something that Tendulkar can, with pride, relate to his grandchildren.

Yet, one thing remains indisputable.

Bradman is not only immortal, but also impossible — a pastoral, divine composition of transcendental effulgence, never before incarnate in the game of cricket.
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Rajgopal Nidamboor is a Mumbai-based writer-editor, and author of “Cricket Boulevard.”

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