The spirit of cricket - celebrating the noble failure

It’s the Boxing Day Ashes Test in 1982 and I’m 14 years of age.

I’m sitting in the family room of my boyhood home in Dural – with my parents and my brothers – and each of us are transfixed by the drama playing out in real time on our television screen.

It’s late on Day 4 and Australia needs 292 to win an epic Test and regain the Ashes urn which we lost, in the most traumatic circumstances, in the winter of 1981.

Mid-afternoon, at 3 for 170, the Aussies were making confident progress with Hughes and Hookes in apparent control. But young Norman Cowans – an English bowler with little to show for his innate potential – finds his groove and the Australians lose six wickets for 47 runs.

Jeff Thompson leaves the dressing room and makes his way onto the MCG. The purpose in his stride appears incongruous because Australia’s position seems hopeless; 74 still to get and the last pair at the wicket.

Yet outrageous hope still hums an upbeat tune in my optimistic boyish heart.

Alan Border is still standing.

Yes, he has been hideously out-of-form all summer and is lucky to be in the team, but he’s my hero and he’s still alive.

The camera focusses on Border’s helmeted face. As he surveys the scene, he holds his bat like a light-sabre against his left shoulder, ready to strike. Defiance shines in his eyes as his Charlie Chaplin moustache twitches to the rhythm of his calculating brain. It’s obvious that he has not given up and he’s formulating a plan.

But so are the English.

With Thompson at the crease, the Poms decide to keep Border off strike. Even if out-of-form, he’s a world-class batsman. Target the guileless Thommo and the game will soon be won.

Yet, as the overcast skies close in, the Aussie mice outsmart the English cat. Frantically run singles, padded legs pumping. Pushes to fielders in the outfield, somersaulted turns and back for two. Wide balls left. Searching balls parried. It’s all about survival and collecting runs when you can.

Just one more wicket and the game is lost.

By stumps, Border and Thompson have halved the last-wicket deficit. There are a mere 37 runs to win. But they will have to come back in the morning to collect them.

And then the full tragedy of the situation emerges. For me, at least.

The family trip to Avoca Beach, scheduled for the next day, is confirmed. Can I stay home to watch the cricket? Sorry son, we’re going to Avoca. I grizzle for awhile, but finally acquiesce.

I’m 14 years old and Cricket is my life; so, inevitably, the adrenalin in my veins prevents me from sleeping that night.

Thirty-seven runs and the Ashes are ours. I try to score them myself in the delirium of half-sleep. But, in dawn’s early light, there’s a harsh reality to be faced. It could all be over in a single ball. Those 37 runs seem too many; even for a clinically insane optimist like me. Surely, we drained our well of good fortune on that fourth evening.

And so, my brothers and I arrange ourselves in the back seat of the family Holden to head up the coast to Avoca. The television in our family room looks forlorn and neglected as we leave the house.

But Alan McGilvary, Henry Blofeld and a young Jim Maxwell accompany us on our ride; eagerly describing the perverse spectacle playing out in Melbourne; where 20,000 spectators have arrived to potentially watch a single ball of cricket.

Despite being denied access to a television, I can see Cowans in his athletic approach to the wicket and his explosive delivery stride. And I can see Bob Willis in his menacingly manic run-up; his right arm jerking back and forth behind his back like a gate being buffeted by a strong wind.

I can sense the venom in every deliver hurled down with hateful spite. I know that with a rap on the pads, an outside edge or a misjudged scurry down the pitch, the game may end suddenly and the sweat covering my palms will be for nought.

I have no difficulty envisioning Thommo backing away, as the leather arrows with determined ambition towards his stumps, and chopping the ball through the off-side field for precious runs. And I can visualise Border cover-driving with graceful fluidity, his follow-through pausing dramatically at the horizontal, as fielders scamper after the ball with bustling, urgent haste because now every run scored or saved alters the likelihood of victory or defeat.

In the stifling car, we are counting down the runs. The first eight takes the target below 30. After an eternity of endless anxiety, we are north of the Hawkesbury River and there are less than 20 to win. And then there are but 15.

Still the Pommy bowlers charge in. Still Thommo and AB bunt and run.

Now we are through Gosford and on the final approach to Avoca. But there are less than 10 runs between us a famous victory; between us and the Ashes. Can we do it? Who will prevail? Have the Poms given up?

The excitement in the commentators’ voices are palpable. So is the thump of my heart. This is Ashes history. No matter what happens.

As we approach our friend’s holiday house on the hills overlooking Avoca Beach, Australia needs just three runs to win. The over ends and Thommo will be on strike. We hear that Botham has the ball to commence the next over.

Decision time. Do we stay in the car or rush into the house? The game could end on the very next ball with either a wicket or a boundary. In a moment of remarkable family accord, we decide to make a run for it.

We dash into the house. Unsurprisingly, our friends are watching the action. To my dismay, however, the English are cavorting from the field like a band of demented whirling dervish. Botham is pumping his fists to the sky and roaring at the heavens.

He’s in a moment of such blind religious fervour that he continues galloping across the MCG grass despite carrying David Gower on his back.

What happened? How can this be?

Soon enough, I see a replay of the terminal stroke.

Beefy Botham lobs a venom-less half-tracker outside off stump. Thommo plays a half-hearted fencing stroke with an angled bat, the ball catches the outside-edge and travels – in a graceful parabolic arc – towards the chest of the hapless Chris Tavare, who demonstrates the reflexes of a drugged sloth; the ball hits his palms, avoids his fingers, and lobs over his head; Tavare twists, both feet still planted in their original positions, and his despair turns to euphoria as he sees Geoff Miller scoop up the falling ball and run from the field with his arms over his head in joyous celebration.

Thommo and Border both look forlorn. I feel the same way. It would have been more humane if we’d been put out of our misery the previous afternoon. To fight so hard and fall so short; it was just cruel.

Our sense of devastation was not aided by the sight of Botham still carrying on like he’d just been called from the crowd to contest ‘The Price is Right’.

Fully aware of my passion for the game, my Dad places a gentle hand on my shoulder and says, ‘bad luck, son’, before suggesting we grab our surf mats and head down to the beach.

Australian cricketer Allan Border (Photo by Adrian Murrell/Getty Images)

Noble defeat
Jeff Thompson and Allan Border shared a partnership of 70 runs and fell just four runs short of an epic victory.

Despite the fact that they ultimately failed – and Australia lost the Test match – that gallant partnership remains one of my favourite reminiscences in a deep ocean of memories collected across a lifetime watching cricket.

It was a fight against the odds. That the odds ultimately proved too high does not diminish the nobility of the fight.

The Boxing Day Test of 1982 is not the only loss I – and other Australian Cricket tragics – celebrate.

Though we were pummelled, almost beyond recognition, by the unbridled West Indian juggernaut of 1984 / 1985, that summer enjoys a place in my heart because the Aussies ultimately fought hard – and earned respect – against one of the greatest teams in Test Cricket’s rich history.

I believe that the success Australia enjoyed from 1989, and throughout the 1990s, was born in the scalding cauldron of that punishing West Indian summer.

And though we ultimately lost, I still regard the Ashes series of 2005 as the greatest Test series in my lifetime. Again, there was nobility to be found in Australia’s defeat. After the narrow loss at Edgbaston – echoing the heroics of 1982-83 – there was an almost pre-ordained, celestial momentum favouring England.

The Poms were destined to win that series. Yet, until a dropped catch at slip just before lunch on the final day of the final Test, the Aussies had a genuine chance of squaring the series and retaining the Ashes.

We hung in there.

Doubtless, cricket is not the only sport to cherish the noble defeat. There’s the tennis player who battles deep into the fifth set before being overpowered. There’s the football team who fights back in the second half but falls short. Our American cousins eulogise the ninth inning rally.

But, when compared to other sports, cricket tragics, I believe, have a greater capacity to remember contests they lost with affection.

And that is why I believe that finding cause for celebration in a noble defeat remains a tenet of the Spirit of Cricket.