I have spent the last two days at Trent Bridge watching the first Ashes Test.
On the morning of the first day, as the strains of Jerusalem played out, as the Aussie cricketers ran purposely onto the pitch, as the atmosphere crackled and as 14 wickets fell on an improbable but always captivating day’s play, little did I realise we would be talking about a 19 year old who, in the best three hours of his life so far, is now known all around the cricketing world and beyond.
Ashton Agar. Whatever happens in the rest of this match, in a year’s time, in 20 years’ time, hell, for as long as Ashes cricket is played and talked about, this young man with a shy smile and a batting talent so far removed from the banal reality of a number 11 batsman will be celebrated for his achievement on day two.
As the sun returned to Trent Bridge after the muggy closeness of Wednesday’s impenetrable cloud cover – and even muggier shot selection from batsmen of both sides – the narrative early in the first session of the second day appeared to be one of doughty resolution and a battling rear-guard action.
Steve Smith deservedly reached his half century and, even as sun cream was being eagerly applied in the crowd, we wondered just what the Australian deficit would be.
The loss of five wickets for nine runs in 32 balls merely confirmed what we all knew: England would start their second innings with a substantial lead. A man in front of me under the winged roof of the Fox Road Stand, on seeing the unfamiliar tall figure of Agar walk out to bat said to his friend, “I’ll get us a beer and meet you in the concourse during the changeover in a minute.”
His confidence was understandable. Agar had played three games for Henley; genteel, Home Counties Henley. He had taken seven wickets but had batted only once. And scored four.
He was 19, playing in his first Ashes Test. He was playing in his first Test. He was batting at number 11. The same number as the entire number of first class cricket matches he played.
Jimmy Anderson was reverse-swinging the ball almost at will. We had already seen the ball of the series in Anderson’s wicked removal of Michael Clarke the day before, which sent the team, the stands (I noted beer, papers and beach balls hurled simultaneously in the air at that moment), and the country into raptures.
Phil Hughes, showing the talent many knew he had but even more failed to believe in, actually protected young Agar at the start. Little did he know. Little did we all know.
The bloke came back after ten lonely minutes in the concourse with two flat pints. “I got tired of waiting,” he said a little sheepishly but with the air of a man who knew it wouldn’t really take long to skittle out the last wicket partnership.
As the sun grew hotter, the light flatter and the bowlers grumpier, it started to dawn on a few people that actually, this lad had a good defence, a calm head and an array of shots we thought simply impossible for a Test number eleven to have.
The talk on TMS was of the stumping dismissal that never was. Again the general consensus was that although he should have been given out, in the scheme of things England were still overwhelmingly on top.
As Agar started to pull Steven Finn prolifically and with impunity, the first concept that a Test half century might be a possibility began to rise. People started to focus a little more on his batting rather than licking their lips at England commencing their second innings before lunch on the second day. We even stopped joking that those with fourth day tickets were starting to make other plans.
The extra half hour ahead of lunch was taken but the truth was starting to dawn on us. This was a lad who could bat.
He reached his 50 without too much fuss, yet it wasn’t the pinnacle – it was only a route stop. On and on he went, fluid, confident and composed. If that wasn’t enough, a flamingo shot late in his innings was redolent of Kevin Pietersen himself.
(Incidentally, there were some great KP stories flying around yesterday but my lips are sealed. Well until you ask me in the pub anyway…)
The crowd were beginning to realise what we were seeing was not only youthful flair and no small amount of panache and courage in equal measure, but the fact that history was being made.
Agar flew into the 90s, claiming Tino Best’s world record Test score by a number 11 of 95. It was only then that the enormity of what he had done hit him.
After a couple of injudicious shots that would have caused a ripple of derision and knowing nods had it come when facing his first two balls – instead of genuine surprise that this 19 year old had finally succumbed to a poor stroke – we feared the worst. Well some of us in England colours at any rate.
One of the many beauties of cricket is that you are allowed to appreciate fine play from the opposition. You are allowed to praise the bravery, tenacity and spirit of the team you are also trying to crush. You are even allowed to cheer for them if they are doing something outstanding. And what young Agar did at Trent Bridge was outstanding.
At 98 the fairy tale couldn’t last and fairy tale it was, for it was so unbelievable there was no other option but for it to be listed in the works of fiction. He holed out to Graeme Swann from an insipid Stuart Broad.
Some people round me cheered as if they had actually won the Ashes. I didn’t feel like that. I looked at Swann’s reaction and was disappointed at failing to spot even a glimmer of irony in his excessive fist pumping celebration. Others looked confused as to what their reaction should be.
My friend and I were simply and utterly gutted. I wanted nothing more than this precocious teenager to be rewarded with a century for his efforts and was devastated when he failed in that ridiculous, outlandish and splendidly entertaining ambition.
As Agar walked off jauntily as if he was playing for his local pub team on a hot lazy Sunday afternoon, my friend spotted him smiling. I – with increasingly fallible eyes, being hot, disappointed and vaguely annoyed at his dismissal – failed to notice until I watched his reaction on TV some hours later. It was true he actually smiled. And then I smiled with him.
What are the gods thinking when they give youth to the young? Are they undertaking some sort of joke at our expense? There are many who have long gone past any semblance of youthful optimism, who have come out the other side knowing that life is hard, it is tough, it is a struggle and things aren’t always achievable, even on hot sunny days with a bat in your hand.
As he walked off to a rapturous ovation, a moment that will be elevated into the pantheon of immortal Ashes moments, I actually envied young Agar. Not for his innings – although that was reason enough – no, what I was jealous of was the fact that I would never again know the feeling that anything was possible. That youth was all that you needed to make anything likely. That experience was massively overrated – it only brought fear and insecurity – and all you really needed to succeed in life, in sport, in Ashes cricket was a shy smile, and intuitive audacity masked as a carefree teenage attitude.
Ashton Agar I salute you. I salute your improbable, mesmerising innings that I will tell my grandchildren about, but most of all I salute the sheer dizzying weightlessness of the unpredictable certainty of youth.
And just as I will tell my grandchildren I was there the day Steve Waugh hit a four off the last ball to reach his century at the SCG in January 2003 (apparently Agar, in a respectful nod to cricket’s rich heritage, mentioned Waugh’s great innings in his post-match interviews yesterday), I will also be telling them that I saw your 98.
Soon no doubt to be changed into the definitive article and christened ‘the’ 98.
Richie Benaud said it must be difficult to live your life knowing you’ve already reached an unsurpassable peak – the context he was referring to was KP’s immortal Ashes winning 158 on the last day of the Oval in 2005. I hope it isn’t the case with young Ashton. But never again will he have the anonymity to be able to surprise us like that.
It was three hours of fragile, devastating beauty from a number 11 that we will never again see in our lifetimes.
Ashton, it was a privilege to say I was there watching you in the flesh yesterday.
But enjoy the moment.
Whatever you do from now on nothing will be as sweet or innocent as your innings that day. Life will never be the same again.
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