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My dad always taught me that the best way to avoid disappointment in sport was to lower your expectations.
As a man who not only lived through the mid-80s wasteland of Australian, but who has also supported the Parramatta rugby league club for more than thirty years, he knew what he was talking about.
When your expectations are low, you’re bound to either be pleasantly surprised, or simply have your beliefs confirmed. It numbs you nicely.
But I’ve never gotten the hang of it. Sport – and in particular, cricket – has always teased me, keeping my hopes alive to the bitter, devastating end.
It’s like a beautiful woman who leads you on, forever promising something magical, but ends up stabbing you in the neck and throwing you in the river. The 1989 grand final was especially similar to this situation.
And Test cricket is the worst game of all for this, because almost nothing is impossible.
A man can walk out and miss his first ten balls, and edge the next ten inches wide of fielders, but it doesn’t mean he won’t get a hundred.
A team can cruise to 1-300, but it doesn’t mean they won’t be bowled out for 320.
A team can be nine down and 98 behind when a teenager debutant walks out for his first Test innings, but it doesn’t mean they won’t take the first innings lead…
The first Ashes Test was breathtaking, unbelievable Test cricket, and by that I mean it was the most painful thing to watch I can imagine.
In classic Test style, it teased, raising hopes, then dashing them, then raising them again, then dashing them, then taking a few minutes to laugh derisively at me, then raising them again…
In all my time watching Test cricket, Australia has been the champion of losing close matches. A couple of two-wicket wins in South Africa, when Pat Cummins stunned everyone, and back when Ian Healy smacked a six over square leg, were exceptions, but
generally it’s been a disaster for our boys when things are tight – even in the years when the team has been generally dominant. From McDermott’s “maybe it hit the glove, maybe it hit the helmet” to Kasprowicz’s “maybe his hand was on the bat, maybe it wasn’t” to Lyon’s “OK his stumps are all over the place, he’s pretty much just out”, stirring last-wicket partnerships have made us all believe in miracles, only to subject us to the violent face-punch of disappointment.
And when the boot is on the other foot, as in Mark Taylor’s first Test as captain, what came to be known as the Karachi Kalamity, of course the stirring last-wicket partnership wins out, Inzamam and Mushtaq putting on 57 and Healy missing a stumping to gift them victory. I just can’t stand it.
In the first Test, it seemed that every time I’d come to terms with Australia’s basic inferiority, they pulled a surprise out of the hat to prove me wrong. And every time I was convinced I’d been wrong, they poked a hole in the hat to prove me right again.
First with wayward bowling on the first day and a serene-looking English batting line-up – here we go again – but no! Peter Siddle roars in, bangs the ball down, and suddenly the Poms are skittled! Hooray! Maybe we can win the Ashes!
But then we fall apart to 4-53. Nope, turns out we still can’t cut it. Oh well, the Ashes are gone, let’s get used to it.
But no! Steve Smith and Phil Hughes, whose positions were most uncertain before the match, play a steadying partnership that begins to bring things back to somewhere near level terms. Maybe, after all –
No! Bang! Bang! Bang! Smith is out and Australia falls in a screaming heap! 9-117 and a deficit of nearly 100. Just another humiliation coming then. As the 19-year-old making his Test debut against all expectations and even logic walks out to bat, we resign ourselves to a winter of pain.
But no! Ashton Agar starts stroking the ball with impossible elegance to all corners, flashing through the covers like Sobers, hitting thunderclap pull shots like Gilchrist, thumping it down the ground like Hayden and even late-cutting like a left-handed Trumper, and he, along with Hughes playing with a cool assuredness that we all thought beyond him, breaks records and sends the score scurrying past England’s.
He’s out, tragically, for 98, but still, 65 ahead and bang! Bang! Mitch Starc has two wickets in the blink of an eye, and England is on its knees begging for mercy. Revenge is about to be extracted. This whole series is turning on its head. Miracles DO happen!
But no! Cook and Pietersen slowly and remorselessly grind away and they are going to put this match out of reach and –
No! They’re out! And two more with them! Agar has two! The quicks are on fire! Watson is miserly! The advantage only needs to be pressed home, and Australia have this game. We were, after all, right to not give up hope.
But no! Edges are dropped, and one edge is caught, but apparently doesn’t count, and Bell plays superbly and Broad, for whatever reason, remains on the field, and England powers away and out of sight. But…the tail falls quickly…maybe a glimmer of hope? But, 311 runs…on a wearing pitch…beyond this team’s reach surely? Still…a glimmer…
Yes! More than a glimmer! Watson and Rogers set about fulfilling their destiny, playing with ease and authority. At 0-84 the Aussies have the momentum and 311 suddenly looks quite tiddly. Here we go, here we go, here we go…
Oh. They’re out. Watson’s missed one and Rogers has chipped a sitter, and in between Ed Cowan has reaffirmed his inexplicable love of lavish cover drives played at precisely the wrong moment, and…does the glimmer remain?
It does! For Clarke and Smith dig in and slowly, surely, pull us out of the mire, and hope springs eternal…
But no! Clarke goes. Smith goes next ball. Hughes an over later. Six down, only halfway there, and all hope lost.
Unless Agar does it again. Promoted three places in the order, he plays some lovely shots, and Haddin looks secure, and maybe, just maybe…
Nup. Agar’s gone. Starc follows him quickly. It’s all over.
But wait! Siddle is useful, and he’s cracked a couple of fours, and AHA! Cook drops him at slip! The gods are with us boys, we’re heading to glory! Especially after this flowing, Cowan-esque drive Siddle is unfurling zooms through the covers…
Cook leaps like a salmon and holds on to an even faster bullet than the one he missed. Siddle’s gone. It’s nine down. Agar’s not out there, it’s Pattinson. Eighty to get. Pattinson and Haddin. Stick a fork in this Test match, it is done. We were idiots to ever think it would end any other way. It won’t even be close…
But…Anderson’s tired, and Finn replaces him, and Haddin smashes him far and wide. Pattinson is getting behind everything. Haddin sweeps Swann to the rope, and again, through Finn’s despairing hands. The ball flies for byes. Pattinson steps out and hammers Swann into the crowd. Anderson goes off the field. England are frayed. Haddin and Pattinson look secure. The target is under twenty.
It’s going to happen. It’s really going to happen. Surely this time. After Adelaide 93 and Edgbaston 05, surely the universe owes us this one. And these two are playing beautifully, and after lunch there’s just a handful to knock off, and this will be a FAMOUS victory.
And now only fifteen to get, and Anderson’s back on, and he bowls, and Haddin drives, and…
Finally, hope dies.
No other game could possibly have dealt out the five days’ worth of twists and reversals that this Test did. No other game could have exhilarated and devastated so often, ignited the flame of hope after extinguishing it so many times.
It’s why Test cricket is the best game, and the worst game. The most thrilling, and the most painful.
It’s why I’ll be riveted to the second Test, sure all the way through that Australia can’t win, and sure all the way through that hang on, they just might.