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In the second Test against South Africa in Port Elizabeth, the Aussies were bested by their own hubris as much as the gorgeous reverse swing of Dale Steyn.
Six Test wins in a row against two respected rivals, built on the back of a hirsute fast bowler. Expectation had crept back in to our consciousness.
The appalling collapse resurrected the nightmare of Durham. Nine wickets in a session. Nine! This doesn’t happen to Australia.
They were both performances unbecoming of a nation used to success. Fighting to save the match, the meek capitulation could only have been worse if it were against England.
And it is in this context that the pain is slightly dulled.
Cast you mind back to Centurion and one of the great sights of the summer – watching Mitchell Johnson brutalise the South African batsmen. Compulsory viewing.
Wickets aside, the super slow-mo replay of him hitting Hashim Amla in the head is mesmerising. The gentleman’s game had become the Hunger Games, and Johnson had fuelled our blood-lust as Australian sporting fans.
Amla is a fine batsman and a respected cricketer. Additionally, he’s not a bad bloke.
Watching the umpteenth replay, a thought occurred to me – what if it was Stuart Broad? Would we enjoy it more?
I suspect the answer is yes.
Despite the fact that the Proteas are the No. 1 ranked side, we still take greater satisfaction from beating England. But why? Surely we take greatest pride in toppling the best?
In short, we do, but history lends meaning to the contest and England is always personal. Which is why our capitulation in Durham will forever be a deeper cut than the one inflicted by the No. 1 side in the world.
We have a begrudging respect for South Africa.
As a nation who is trying to rise from the ashes of its sordid political past, there is a sense that they play the game like us. A colonial outpost, like us. Sporting prowess is stitched into their national identity, like us.
If they lose, they may blame the pitch, but their fans will not diminish the contest.
England fans on the other hand, will downplay the importance of the event by putting sport in a broader ‘cultural context’. This was plainly evident when the Poms were our whipping boys for 15 years.
It’s a familiar tune – “Australia has no culture”, “All you have is sport”.
Englishmen who dredge up tired arguments of boganism and lacking ‘culture’ conveniently turn a blind eye to Essex. Never mind that we are home to the oldest known culture on the planet.
They do this when they lose, convincing themselves that inventing the sport is satisfying enough.
Despite this obstinacy, the English hate losing to the Aussies. Each loss loosens the grip on the empire. It cuts to the core of their identity. When they cease to be first world competitors, it castrates them.
And I’ve yet to hear a compelling reason why sport being central to national identity is a bad thing.
You can’t tell me that a significant number of Britons wouldn’t sacrifice St Paul’s Cathedral, The Beatles, Joseph Turner and Shakespeare if it meant back-to-back World Cups.
Sporting triumphs pin us to a point in time and all the accompanying feelings – collectiveness, joy and ecstasy forever linger.
Mitchell Johnson will not cure cancer, but by God he makes you feel good when he rips through a batting order.
And there’s the rub. If the purpose of life is to feel happy, to feel part of something, then this success is wholly legitimate.
The problem for England is this – elitism and colonial hauteur still pervade our relationship. Entitlement is in their DNA.
The same cannot be levelled at South Africa, and we as Australians recognise this.
Why does an Ashes series draw more crowds and TV viewers than others?
Our rivalry is spiced by the fact that we are the subjects of a foreign unelected monarch; a figurehead that figures in the Barmy Army’s tune God Save Your Queen. On a subconscious level, this is a brickbat to our self-respect.
Beating England is dignifying in a way beating others is no.
Beating New Zealand is like vanquishing your little brother in the back yard; South Africa is akin to your schoolyard rival.
Losing to England stings just that bit more than losing to even the best or worst in the world.
So to the Aussie fans, it could be worse. Should the unthinkable happen and we get rolled in Cape Town, seek solace in two things: 1) he Proteas will use the lavatory at the conclusion of the match, and 2) at least they are not England.
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