Here's to more crash, bang, wallop at WACA

Is it just me? Or can you feel it too? That tingle in your dodgy knee. That fidgety feeling that has you reading and re-reading yet another article about ‘Our Mitch’.

That sudden desire to get down the nets. And the slightly disconcerting thought that maybe a moustache wouldn’t be such a bad idea?

There’s something in the air, I tell you! It’s like I can hear the song – ‘Marshie’s taking wickets, Hookesy’s clearing pickets’. Test cricket has come alive. And the Aussie team is finally its old self again.

And even as far from the battle as we all are in our living rooms, you can feel that something significant has changed. It’s like we’ve got a part of ourselves back. Like something sacred has returned. Like we’ve reclaimed a vital piece of our national identity.

It’s that competitive spirit – that hard, bullish, tough as teak attitude that attacks its way out of a bad situation, instead of trying to minimise the damage. That attacks even from a strong position, to really pile on the pain.

That walks with swagger, and plays with aggression.

It’s this that has us putting off the housework.

Has us keeping the radio on at our desks. Has us yelling out ‘got him!’ in the most inappropriate of situations.

Suddenly it’s not just cricket anymore. It’s Australia v The Old Enemy. And no longer is it ‘the Australian cricket team’ doing battle, it is simply ‘us’ once more.

And how much have we missed it.

We are a country forged in conflict. Some say that the birth of a true Australian national identity only came in the Boer War – courtesy of our uncommonly tough soldiers.

And you only have to say the word ‘digger’ to watch an Australian stand a little straighter, and look a little sterner.

ANZAC spirit. The Rats of Tobruk. Gallipoli. I don’t know about you, but those words do something to my brain – suddenly I’m six foot seven, and half as wide across, and ready to take on all challengers.

Wanting only to be as Australian as they were.

We love the scrap. We love punching above our weight, and showing the rest of the world what they could do if they’d just man up. We love taking down the big guy, especially the one that thinks he has a right to win.

Our sporting emblem is the boxing kangaroo. And in many ways it touches the Australian psyche more poignantly than the national flag.

Because it says something about us. It reflects who we believe we are. A nation of fighters.

The Australian cricket team – for as long as I’ve been watching anyway – has been that boxing kangaroo for us.

And seeing it hit the canvas time and again over the last six or seven years has been painful for reasons I couldn’t quite understand until now. We need the Australian cricket team to punch in our place.

Like the All Blacks are so much more than a rugby team to our friends over the ditch, and the haka as much a national anthem as ‘God Defend New Zealand’, our men in whites are a representation of our fighting spirit, resolute character, and determination through desperate situations.

We see ourselves in the unbreakable focus of Mike Hussey. In the scowling steel of Allan Border. The chest-out machismo of Dennis Lillee. The ‘come at me’ defiance of Steve Waugh.

We are a sporting nation – a nation of competitors. People that believe in digging in, stopping at nothing, and giving the other fella hell. So while we respect talent, admire skill, and feel for the underdog, the ones we truly love are the take-no-prisoners fighters.

That’s why, as much as it sounded unsavoury at the time, I think hearing Michael Clarke encouraging Jimmy Anderson to quit stalling and ‘get ready for a broken f*cken arm’, was actually music to all our ears.

This was a man in the full flush of battle, going for the throat, leading by example and backing his mates to finish off the enemy.

It was anything but charming, but by Jove was it Australian!

And just like that everyone realised why they liked Michael Clarke – always had done, too.

It’s been a long time since we’ve had this feeling of anticipation and eagerness going into a third Ashes Test.

I reckon the last time was 2006, the year the Aussies – still at the peak of their powers – galvanised themselves to cleanse the record of their defeat to England the year before.

That was the year of Amazing Adelaide, where no matter how far behind we got, we refused to accept anything other than victory. Five days in which we were simply irrepressible, indefatigable, and undeniable.

And then it was Perth, and one of the greatest sights I’ve ever seen on a cricket field.

After a duck in the first innings and already more than 400 on the board in the second, and with every excuse in the world to phone it in, Adam Gilchrist decided to put the match beyond doubt, hitting the second fastest century of all time in surely the most spectacular of displays.

If the Englishmen’s spirits weren’t broken after losing the unlosable in Adelaide, witnessing Gilly tee off on Monty Panesar must surely have done for them.

This time round, and you just know something equally stupendous is going to happen. Because the boys have got their swagger back.

This is not a team in the league of the one that swept the 2006 series 5-0. But they have every opportunity to achieve something similar over the course of the next three matches. And it’s all thanks to their rediscovering that Australian spirit.

There could be no more telling example of the revolution at hand than the buck-toothed wet week mummy’s boy that has picked himself up off the canvas and turned himself into Australia’s great white hope.

Make no mistake, Mitchell Johnson is as much the defining factor in this series as the winged keel was in the 1983 America’s Cup. And he’s on the verge of not only winning the urn for Australia, but unbelievably, taking his place as a genuine Ashes great.

And all the more joyous, it’s raw pace that’s doing the damage. It’s the return of striking fear into the opposition.

It’s glares and threats and moustaches and chest hair and strange gold chains. It’s out and out aggression. It’s tough and it’s hard and it’s unflinching.

It’s Matthew Hayden facing up a foot outside his crease.
It’s Dean Jones vomiting on the pitch rather than calling it quits.
It’s Jeff Thomson sending down sandshoe crushers.
It’s Rick McCosker batting on despite a broken jaw.
It’s Steve Waugh going for the century on the last ball.

It’s Australia, dammit.

And it’s what we’ve all been waiting for.