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The figure of 45.65, judged at first glance and in a cricketing context, denotes a much better-than-average player in the batsmanship stakes.
Anything in the high end of the 30s and early 40s represents, over a decent length of time, a certain respectability. If the number exceeds 50, it’s a fraction more.
Off the top of my head I’m drawn to thinking of Alec Stewart and Mark Waugh for the former and Jacques Kallis and Sachin Tendulkar in the latter category.
Fine players all, but in a purely numerical focus it is difficult to judge the South African and Indian as anything but superior to the Englishman and Australian.
But, but…
Martin Crowe left the world this week, taken by lymphoma, which cares not for any batting average, and at the all-too-early age of 53. He had been ill for a while and at the World Cup last year it was apparent he had little time left, but the news of any sportsman or woman departing at an age most consider premature still has the capacity to shock.
We think of those we admire as carrying an cloak of invincibility, as though the gifts they were granted, the ability to grace and dominate the sporting arena of their choosing, renders them bulletproof to the slings and arrows of fortune the rest of us are forced to endure. Sadly, and desperately so, this isn’t the case.
When a sportsman dies, the reaction is generally one made with the benefit of rose-tinted spectacles. In fact, this goes for nearly everybody, with their achievements in life gaining additional traction once they are gone.
In a way, this is exactly as it should be. Why shouldn’t we remember the good in people and push the bad to one side? There’s enough ill feeling in the world to last for anybody’s lifetime, and if nothing good can be said about someone who has left us then perhaps nothing should be said at all.
Reading through a selection of articles on Crowe, it is obvious the feeling rarely deviates from the same path. He was a good man, an excellent author with an enlightened view on both the world and the game he played, and an excellent batsman.
Growing up, my interest in international cricket was sparked by not only watching England but by the respective oppositions’ premier performers.
When the sport itself and, more importantly, batting started to invade my life, it was all about those tasked with doing the run-scoring.
That meant Viv Richards when West Indies showed up, Allan Border once every four years for an Ashes summer, Mohammad Azharuddin and Tendulkar for the Indians, and when New Zealand were granted an audience it was all about Crowe.
There is something different about watching the player your team most want to see fail go about his business, a feeling of grudging respect in what they represent and what they do.
Richards was all shock and awe, his arrogance forcing those against him to wilt. Border oozed grit, his mantra being either get me out or drag me off kicking and fighting. Azharuddin and Tendulkar offered a more cerebral experience, with none of the raw physical nature of Richards and Border but with the wrists and flair to tease you into submission.
Crowe brought a statesmanlike aura to his work. Technically he was as pure as anybody, with the blade straight and the movements crisp, but as with the greats the gear changes were there if the situation called for it.
Above all else, and this is what I will always recall, he had time and plenty of it. The best players, to a man, all seem to operate in a form of slow motion, as though they can see what’s coming before it should really be possible.
The quickest bowling, the most demanding of surfaces, the wiliest of spinners were all countered with a state of ease, as if a different game was being contested.
Hooking the seamers with the audacity to test his mettle and stepping back to cut the spinners who dared to miss their length by a fraction, Crowe was a sublime exponent of the art of batting – his nation’s finest no less – and he was worth taking the time to watch.
That aforementioned average of 45.65 indicates very good, yet not quite anything more. But I’m not having any of it.
Martin Crowe was a great player.