Its worth the wait, here is Stewart's end of series summary:
It was 3am. I woke with a start and sat bolt upright. The back of my head felt cold. I grabbed it and my hand came away wet. My chest felt the same. A quick inspection inadvertently coated my hand in sweat. I allowed myself a Dennis Lillee flick of the forefinger to remove some. Had 70s cricket really reached that far into my being ?
I was cold all over. My pillow and the right side of my face were sopping wet, a combination of sweat, tears and saliva. I must have been dreaming.
In the distance I heard a car alarm, no, my alarm clock.
Whatever I was dreaming about had left me exhausted. My chest felt tight, nervous, worried.
A second later, the clock radio turned itself on.
I was awake.
Oh God, the Ashes.
It all flooded back.
It was 3am. I woke with a start and sat bolt upright. The back of my head felt cold. I grabbed it and my hand came away wet. My chest felt the same. A quick inspection inadvertently coated my hand in sweat. I allowed myself a Dennis Lillee flick of the forefinger to remove some. Had 70s cricket really reached that far into my being ?
I was cold all over. My pillow and the right side of my face were sopping wet, a combination of sweat, tears and saliva. I must have been dreaming.
In the distance I heard a car alarm, no, my alarm clock.
Whatever I was dreaming about had left me exhausted. My chest felt tight, nervous, worried.
A second later, the clock radio turned itself on.
I was awake.
Oh God, the Ashes.
It all flooded back.
*
I remembered the optimism of the morning and the majesty of Warne’s bowling. McGrath had taken a hat trick, removing the danger man Pieterson with the last ball of the three. Warne and McGrath had lead one final wondrous recovery from near disaster, pushing each other to further greatness with a bravely emotional, loving embrace as they walked onto the field. There were only two players as the team entered the arena that morning, two superstars with a faceless supporting cast. They wouldn’t let us down. I no longer wanted to be diplomatic, no longer wanted to acknowledge the other team’s good play. For an hour, I was another Ugly Australian, yelling at my TV and imploring my team to crush the other to make me feel good. We were on top again and I loved it. Across the country, the same scene played out across millions of households.
Then the dream crumbled.
Pieterson had taken McGrath’s hat trick ball on the shoulder, not the glove. Gilchrist had dropped Pieterson with a batsman’s keeping technique. The great warship, HMAS Australian Cricket, finally ran aground with Warne’s dropped dolly.
“Have we dropped the Ashes ?”, I had texted Dave.
“Hard to tell, long way to go”, had come his testy, nervous reply. I felt for Dave and Warne. Both had tried their guts out this series and both wanted it bad. Only one would prevail.
I had watched Ponting allow Lee to bowl England to the brink of victory. Pieterson had shown me some strokes that were as amazing as Ponting’s captaincy was quizzical. Steve Waugh would never have approved of smiling at the other team. He surely dropped dead at the sight of Ricky moving the field every second ball and listening to the 3 and 4 teammates gathered around him between overs, offering advice on how to run the team. I almost had.
All of that was a distant memory now. I had been asleep for over two hours. Anything could have happened. Surely we had won by now. Sleeping usually made scary monsters go away. I was ugly again.
I remembered the optimism of the morning and the majesty of Warne’s bowling. McGrath had taken a hat trick, removing the danger man Pieterson with the last ball of the three. Warne and McGrath had lead one final wondrous recovery from near disaster, pushing each other to further greatness with a bravely emotional, loving embrace as they walked onto the field. There were only two players as the team entered the arena that morning, two superstars with a faceless supporting cast. They wouldn’t let us down. I no longer wanted to be diplomatic, no longer wanted to acknowledge the other team’s good play. For an hour, I was another Ugly Australian, yelling at my TV and imploring my team to crush the other to make me feel good. We were on top again and I loved it. Across the country, the same scene played out across millions of households.
Then the dream crumbled.
Pieterson had taken McGrath’s hat trick ball on the shoulder, not the glove. Gilchrist had dropped Pieterson with a batsman’s keeping technique. The great warship, HMAS Australian Cricket, finally ran aground with Warne’s dropped dolly.
“Have we dropped the Ashes ?”, I had texted Dave.
“Hard to tell, long way to go”, had come his testy, nervous reply. I felt for Dave and Warne. Both had tried their guts out this series and both wanted it bad. Only one would prevail.
I had watched Ponting allow Lee to bowl England to the brink of victory. Pieterson had shown me some strokes that were as amazing as Ponting’s captaincy was quizzical. Steve Waugh would never have approved of smiling at the other team. He surely dropped dead at the sight of Ricky moving the field every second ball and listening to the 3 and 4 teammates gathered around him between overs, offering advice on how to run the team. I almost had.
All of that was a distant memory now. I had been asleep for over two hours. Anything could have happened. Surely we had won by now. Sleeping usually made scary monsters go away. I was ugly again.
*
I rushed the TV, fumbled for the remote and made it come alive. I saw covers on the middle of the pitch.
My heart sunk. They don’t cover a pitch at the end of the game.
Mark Nicholas sounded happy; joyous probably. The crowd were cheering. My heart sank further.
I remembered, earlier in the day, telling an English friend of mine, Andy, that I had calculated that he would be able to open the champagne at about 3am to celebrate an English series win. My phone glowed with a text from him.
“It happened almost exactly as you said it would”.
My heart hit bottom and bounced. My eyes filled. I knew I was being silly but I didn’t care. I couldn’t stop myself. For a second or two, I sobbed.
The phone wasn’t finished yet. Another text, this one from Dave.
“Sorry, Stewart but this is one of the greatest days of my life”.
Tough times in sport show character in the participants. Passionately barracking against true friends, whilst strengthening the friendship, does the same. It felt good that I could still feel good for my friends. I knew that this would make Dave and Andy happy. I valued their happiness. My spirits rose a little.
With almost no warning, the umpires began the walk from the grandstand, out, onto the ground. They were slow, ceremonial. I wasn’t sure what they were doing and I sure wasn’t listening to the commentary.
Their feet touched the grass and the crowd roared the roar of victors.
They seemed to slow down even more as they reached the middle. Savouring the moment no doubt, probably doing their best to add a little to the theatre of the occasion. They were dressed for the occasion in black and white dinner suits. Tuxedos with sneakers.
The camera angle changed. It seemed to be one of those hip mounted live action cameras. It reminded me of the Rugby World cup final. I ignored the irony.
The cameraman walked close behind the umpire and focused sharply on his hand as it reached down to remove the bails from the stumps at one end.
'AND ENGLAND”,
Boomed Michael Atherton, through a smile so bright that I could hear it,
“HAVE REGAINED THE ASHES”.
The bails were lifted and the stumps pulled out. Just like that, the series I had waited over two years for, the series that had generated more talk, more emails, more text messages, more conversation and more human interaction than I ever thought possible, had ended. The result I had been predicting for weeks had occurred. After all of my own build up, I wasn’t ready for it. I felt tired and deeply, deeply disappointed.
Funny, I have a picture perfect recollection of those final seconds of the series. One hand gently raising both bails, slowly and deliberately. I have little memory of what I did for the next hour and a half. No doubt I watched the English celebrations and texted Dave and Andy. I tried to remember what I was doing when England last won. I was not yet 13. I was now 31. It was a lifetime away. I felt old and depressed. My life had changed so much and yet so little.
Somehow, I ended up back in bed sometime after 4am. I dropped off about 5am after I finally got fed up with the birds heralding an English victory and popped in earplugs. I pulled the covers over my eyes to block out the freshly risen sun and crammed in 90 minutes of fitful sleep.
The alarm clock radio woke me up in what seemed like, well, close to 90 minutes. Instantly someone, Bumble or Agnew, I forget which, was interviewing Flintoff in the English dressing room. My mind reeled. Surely I was dreaming. I wasn’t.
I had been woken up with a passionate Flintoff relaying how it felt to have regained the Ashes. Less than ideal in the circumstances.
I felt fuzzy and disorientated, a hangover with no drinking. It seemed as if I had been inside for days, a week since I had been at work. I must have shaved, showered and dressed. Why had Freddie felt the need to make sure he woke me up personally ?
Down the stairs I floated, through the front door and out into the light. It was too bright to be respectful. I drove in a haze to the station. A few minutes later I was standing on the platform; normal spot, normal time, abnormal morning.
Part of me was angry that the other hundreds of commuters seemed like they had slept a full 8 hours, with not a care in the world. Why had the entire place not stopped, why was everyone else not feeling the same pain that I felt ? I wanted to grab people and shake the apathy out of them, one by one.
The other part of me was embarrassed that I was thinking like child. “Its just a few games of cricket”, I repeated silently to myself. “Surely you don’t still take it that seriously at your age” I cursed. Worse still, deep down I was ashamed that the last time I had felt quite like this, like the world should stop turning out of respect, was the morning after my grandfather had died and like the overly dramatic 17 year old that I was, and still am in lots of ways, mused that perhaps the sun shouldn’t have risen that awful morning. I hoped the lack of sleep was making me overly emotional. I still hope so.
*
I rushed the TV, fumbled for the remote and made it come alive. I saw covers on the middle of the pitch.
My heart sunk. They don’t cover a pitch at the end of the game.
Mark Nicholas sounded happy; joyous probably. The crowd were cheering. My heart sank further.
I remembered, earlier in the day, telling an English friend of mine, Andy, that I had calculated that he would be able to open the champagne at about 3am to celebrate an English series win. My phone glowed with a text from him.
“It happened almost exactly as you said it would”.
My heart hit bottom and bounced. My eyes filled. I knew I was being silly but I didn’t care. I couldn’t stop myself. For a second or two, I sobbed.
The phone wasn’t finished yet. Another text, this one from Dave.
“Sorry, Stewart but this is one of the greatest days of my life”.
Tough times in sport show character in the participants. Passionately barracking against true friends, whilst strengthening the friendship, does the same. It felt good that I could still feel good for my friends. I knew that this would make Dave and Andy happy. I valued their happiness. My spirits rose a little.
With almost no warning, the umpires began the walk from the grandstand, out, onto the ground. They were slow, ceremonial. I wasn’t sure what they were doing and I sure wasn’t listening to the commentary.
Their feet touched the grass and the crowd roared the roar of victors.
They seemed to slow down even more as they reached the middle. Savouring the moment no doubt, probably doing their best to add a little to the theatre of the occasion. They were dressed for the occasion in black and white dinner suits. Tuxedos with sneakers.
The camera angle changed. It seemed to be one of those hip mounted live action cameras. It reminded me of the Rugby World cup final. I ignored the irony.
The cameraman walked close behind the umpire and focused sharply on his hand as it reached down to remove the bails from the stumps at one end.
'AND ENGLAND”,
Boomed Michael Atherton, through a smile so bright that I could hear it,
“HAVE REGAINED THE ASHES”.
The bails were lifted and the stumps pulled out. Just like that, the series I had waited over two years for, the series that had generated more talk, more emails, more text messages, more conversation and more human interaction than I ever thought possible, had ended. The result I had been predicting for weeks had occurred. After all of my own build up, I wasn’t ready for it. I felt tired and deeply, deeply disappointed.
Funny, I have a picture perfect recollection of those final seconds of the series. One hand gently raising both bails, slowly and deliberately. I have little memory of what I did for the next hour and a half. No doubt I watched the English celebrations and texted Dave and Andy. I tried to remember what I was doing when England last won. I was not yet 13. I was now 31. It was a lifetime away. I felt old and depressed. My life had changed so much and yet so little.
Somehow, I ended up back in bed sometime after 4am. I dropped off about 5am after I finally got fed up with the birds heralding an English victory and popped in earplugs. I pulled the covers over my eyes to block out the freshly risen sun and crammed in 90 minutes of fitful sleep.
The alarm clock radio woke me up in what seemed like, well, close to 90 minutes. Instantly someone, Bumble or Agnew, I forget which, was interviewing Flintoff in the English dressing room. My mind reeled. Surely I was dreaming. I wasn’t.
I had been woken up with a passionate Flintoff relaying how it felt to have regained the Ashes. Less than ideal in the circumstances.
I felt fuzzy and disorientated, a hangover with no drinking. It seemed as if I had been inside for days, a week since I had been at work. I must have shaved, showered and dressed. Why had Freddie felt the need to make sure he woke me up personally ?
Down the stairs I floated, through the front door and out into the light. It was too bright to be respectful. I drove in a haze to the station. A few minutes later I was standing on the platform; normal spot, normal time, abnormal morning.
Part of me was angry that the other hundreds of commuters seemed like they had slept a full 8 hours, with not a care in the world. Why had the entire place not stopped, why was everyone else not feeling the same pain that I felt ? I wanted to grab people and shake the apathy out of them, one by one.
The other part of me was embarrassed that I was thinking like child. “Its just a few games of cricket”, I repeated silently to myself. “Surely you don’t still take it that seriously at your age” I cursed. Worse still, deep down I was ashamed that the last time I had felt quite like this, like the world should stop turning out of respect, was the morning after my grandfather had died and like the overly dramatic 17 year old that I was, and still am in lots of ways, mused that perhaps the sun shouldn’t have risen that awful morning. I hoped the lack of sleep was making me overly emotional. I still hope so.
*
The train stopped, I pushed my way in and it set off towards my work and my responsibilities for the day; responsibilities in a world where Australia was the second best cricket team in the world and we no longer held the Ashes.
My country and my people seemed very small all of a sudden.
*
The company I work for is not good at systems or process. Instead, it relies on people to overcome most things. Our people are important and it is important to keep them happy. One way we do this it to have a raised table in the kitchen area that is stocked every day with at least 3 different newspapers. People can often be found glancing at them for a few seconds before their meeting room is ready for them.
A few days before the final test started, I walked past the newspapers and saw a guy reading the sports pages; cricket of course. I had never spoken to him before, never really seen him before actually. I decided to spend the few days before the test started trying to understand how people felt about the impending loss. If nothing else, it might be good for Dave’s Blog.
I approached the newspaper reader, peered over his shoulder and said
“We are in trouble I think”.
Well, off he went. He had many opinions, not all of which I agreed with but all I which I was excited about. A total stranger felt so strongly about this series that he and I talked like old friends. I never asked his name and I have seen him since but neither has the acknowledged the other. We have no need to. Cricket bonded us briefly. The series over, the bond is broken.
Andy Richmond, of the 3am text message fame, was experiencing the Ashes a little differently. Andy has been in Australian for 5 years or so now. He has an Australian wife and an Australian child (almost 2 by now I think). He enjoys living in Australia but, understandably, remains passionately English in many respects. He is the only person I know who would move to Melbourne and declare that he loved it because, “It has real cold, just like home. I even get to wear big heavy jackets”
Everyone he comes into contact with loves Andy. His happy, outgoing personality lets him get away with all manner of things that most other people would pay dearly for. So, when Andy told me that he had 3 cases of beer riding on the result of this series in multiple bets with multiple people from work, I could imagine the grief he was giving out, and no doubt receiving, during the final days. Andy’s build up to the final test was intense. He was outwardly confident but inwardly hoping like hell that his team won because he knew that weeks of jokes lay ahead of him if they didn’t. Andy was a crash or crash through sort of guy. He was hoping not to crash.
Damien, Damo, Hocking, was having a similar, yet different experience to Andy. Damo was a gifted cricketer. I played half a season with him and couldn’t understand why the team kept calling him “The Wizz”. Then I kept to him.
Damo had arrived at the ground “A little under the weather”. The true distance below the weather is best not described here. It suffices to say that a very grey looking Damo was made to take the new ball into the wind in 41C heat as penance for not arriving in top fitness. He bowled 9 overs of pace, moving the ball late in the air both ways at will, bowling bouncers and cutting the ball in and out, all without really opening his eyes fully or waking up. He had 3 for not many by the time he started vomiting at the beginning of his run up and the captain finally thought he had learnt his lesson. I later batted with him and his technique was straight out of the cricket academy.
“The Wizz” of course stood for “The Wizard” and a wizard he was. Could have worked a little on his out of match lifestyle though.
In the week leading up to the final test, Damo was living in London. Another “just going for 3 weeks this time” had of course turned into a few contracts and a year quickly being mapped out. In a cruel twist of fate, Damo had just started a contact with Channel 4. In true Damo fashion, he had easily gotten into the swing of things, ending every email sentence with “cause I’m in Telly now”.
Like Andy, Damo is well liked by everyone who meets him. Like Andy, Damo was living in opposition turf. Like Andy, Damo had of course been giving as good as he got.
“We had better win otherwise I will be the butt of jokes for weeks to come”.
Unlike Andy, he was at the wrong end of the result and is finding life a little difficult at the moment.
Crash or crash through is usually only advisable if you can count on crashing through. Damo crashed. Andy crashed though. All depends on your point of view I guess.
*
Generally people in Australia seemed to be prepared for a series loss. We had been outplayed and no one really thought we deserved to win. Not everyone was going to accept the loss the same way though.
In those final, optimistic days, people broke into 3 camps. First, the small group that hated everyone for seeming to will the old enemy to victory. Second, the “It will be good for cricket” group. Thirdly and lastly, The Blamers. This last group knew we were going to lose but wanted someone, anyone, to blame.
My mate Alex’s Dad David seemed to be firmly in the first camp. A few of us exchanged emails and most, especially Jason, were firmly in the “Good for cricket” camp. David was copied on a few emails and finally could hold back no longer.
“Is this what you wanted Jase ? Is this really what you wanted ? For England to win ?”
David, not unfairly, remembered Botham calling us convicts and taking the final catch to stop Alan Border once pulling a test out of the fire with Jeff Thompson. I am sure he remembered Chris Tavere as well. Heck, we all remembered Chris.
David wasn’t alone. A minority of Australians definitely didn’t want to lose and wanted no part of the “good for the game” group.
The “good for the gamers”, of which I was a member until the optimistic, heady first hours of the final day, spent the week before the final test telling anyone that would listen that whilst they wanted Australia to win, it didn’t really matter if England won because …
'It would be good for the game”.
Members of this camp usually delivered the speech a little too quickly, like medicine that had to be taken because it was good for you, but which you could never quite understand the need for it to taste so damm bad. They wore a fixed, slightly crazed smile that showed lots of teeth and their eyebrows were sitting noticeable higher on their head than normal. Those smiles had falseness and panic written all over them. If a visitor from a non cricket playing country arrived at the house of someone from this camp, they would have been excused for calling the police to report that David Icke had possessed their friends.
I think most Australians found themselves aligning with The Blamers by the time the test started. The most famous set of Blamers had their own TV show, Under The Grandstand. This is not the easiest television show to explain.
Every Saturday and Sunday night during lunch in the Test, we crossed to the bowels of the grandstand at Waverly Oval. Waverly Oval is the headquarters of one of Sydney’s grade clubs (people who play first grade for these clubs are eligible for selection in the NSW side). This suburban grandstand was well maintained and had 2 large rooms beneath it, one of which had a bar.
Every lunch, these 2 rooms were filled with about 100 fans, a band, host Steve Abbott and co host Indira Naidoo. Somehow, 25 minutes of live, unscripted, uninterrupted television was broadcast. Host Steve had been a qualified umpire and he wore a track suite with “Relax, I’m a qualified cricket umpire”. Throughout the show, he continually broadcast footage of him with various Australian players saying “I’m relaxed”. Stuart McGill was the most adventurous, sitting on a sofa saying, “I’m relaxed” whilst a completely naked Steve Abbott sat next to him with legs open wide at the camera. It was that sort of show.
After weeks of watching our test team crashing to defeat after defeat whist all the while declaring that they were relaxed, I couldn’t help question whether we really prepared as well as we could have. After all, every piece of footage seemed to be from inside a hotel bar. Anyway, I digress.
At lunch on the 4th day, the band struck up a song, the main lyrics of which were
“It’s un-Australian not to blame someone,
It’s un-Australian not to blame someone,
It’s un-Australian not to blame someone,
It’s un-Australian not to blame someone”
At the same time, host Steve ran around the room and asking various audience members who was to blame for our impending doom. There were diverse reactions, from drunken ramblings(yes, it really was that sort of show) to the captaincy to McGrath’s mucking around before the 2nd test to host Steve for “relaxing” the team too much.
“Good to see that the country is trying to cope”, I thought.
The 25 minutes of manic television ended as it always did with co host Indira, tongs in hand, manning the large double BBQ at the back of the grandstand, ably assisted by whomever was the special guest that night while Steve said goodbye and then tried to throw down the stumps that the camera had parked itself behind. Unlike most nights, neither the ball nor the stumps were alight. Like most nights, Steve missed but was at least fully clothed.
I played my first day of cricket after the series loss yesterday. The consensus of the dressing room was that Flintoff seemed likeable but Pieterson was “a wanker”.
We batted first and I opened. I was bowled by the second ball of the match by a kid not much more than half my age. Pitched on leg, cut away and hit the top of off. He ran towards me, fist pumping and mouth curled into a snarl. “Good ball”, I mouthed, doing my best Matty Hayden.
We were bowled out for 110 with the highest partnership being the last.
We bowled and lacked intensity. My keeping started like my batting with one that didn’t carry hitting something and getting past me for one. A full one down leg from our quickest bowler hit a funny spot and reared over my head for 4 byes. The same bowler pushed another one way down leg. I dove but couldn’t get across far enough to stop the wide. It went for 2. The umpire, the same kid that bowled me, signalled byes. I yelled at him, politely enquiring as to the basis for his small error in judgement.
“Swung when it went past the batsman”.
I ended the day with a duck from 2 balls and 7 byes in an hour out of a score of 1/41.
I finally finished my Ashes series, 5 days after they officially ended, with yet another text to Dave. I outlined the day’s misadventures and ended with
“Is this how cricket is going to be now that we don’t have the Ashes ?”.
I didn’t wait for the reply. I took myself of the bed and was still mumbling when I dropped off.
“It’s un-Australian not to blame someone,
It’s un-Australian not to blame someone”
I didn’t wait for the reply. I took myself of the bed and was still mumbling when I dropped off.
“It’s un-Australian not to blame someone,
It’s un-Australian not to blame someone”
*
How they fared
Increased their reputations
Langer – Got runs and looked comfortable against the best all round attack in a decade. Showed how determined and slightly crazy he was when he declared that he was aiming to return in 2009.
Strauss – Came into the series quite overrated I thought. Looked average at first, with a back foot aiming at cover, waiting for the short ball and without much in between. Came back to score 2 centuries and form a very solid first wicket partnership for England.
Trescothick – I still can’t understand how anyone with feet movement likehis can play test cricket but ….. far outperform his last Test series against Australia. Looked a solid test player and got noticeably less edges, at least early in his innings
Vaughan – Had trouble placing him. Played only one real innings of substance throughout the series but captained far above the level that I thought he would operate at.
Pieterson – I personally thought he would be well and truly found out in the Tests. How wrong I was ! It seems amazing to think now that a few short months ago we were discussing whether he should play or not. Had a form dip in the middle Tests when he forgot to play himself in before unleasing. His 158 saved the final match and won the series for his adopted country. Provided great amusement by dropping 6 out of 6 catches.
Flintoff – Aside from Warne, he was the player of the series. Michael Clarke described him as the best bowler he had ever faced. I thought he would be a bit hitting batsman capable of a 50 here and there and a lug of a bowler who could bowl some short stuff. Wrong. He was a genuine batsman with good technique and the best quick bowler in the series.
Warne – To break your family up before the series started and then take 40 wickets, the first time ever in a 5 test series, as well as playing some innings of substance including a 90 was absolutely incredible. I am sure he was captaining the team at stages. I used to think that he was an idiot who played good cricket. In this series he proved to me that he was truly the greatest spinner that ever played. Without him, we would have lost 4-1.
Giles – Got into the top category as most outside of his team mates rated him very, very lowly indeed. Showed he could take wickets in good company and even scored a few runs here and there.
S Jones – The king of swing. Has made a wonderful recovery from a terrible knee injury. Made Australian batsmen look silly.
Kept their reputations solid
Clarke – Never really hit his straps aside from a 91 that he threw away being impetuous. Looked like he has a test career ahead of him but needs to keep working and perform.
Katich – Really struggled to place Katich. Eventually placed him here as before the series started I felt he needed to prove himself as a test player. Didn’t really do anything to change my mind.
Lee – I always felt that Lee was overrated as a Test bowler and this series didn’t nothing to dissuade me. Was very effective at times and then others was too short or too full. Needs to start performing or will have a shortened, unfulfilled career.
Hoggard – Hoggard showed that he could be a wicket taker when conditions suited him. Pipped Gillespie for the Worst Hair Cut in the Sporting World record.
Harmison – Had a peerless first session of the series and some other good moments. Not a lot of brilliance in between but was usually solid.
McGrath – Took an average of 6 wickets a test in the 3 tests that he played. Showed he still has something to give in the first test. Responsible for the all time most stupid thing ever said by a professional sportsman : "5-0"
Had their reputations diminished
Hayden – Looked totally lost until the final innings of the series. Was never able to cope with the swinging ball and firmly established himself as the king of the flat track bullies.
Ponting – Captaincy really came under the microscope for the first time since taking over and he was unfortunately shown to be well short of the standard that we have come to expect. Played one innings of substance but only one.
Martyn - Got some dodgy decisions but played weakly and softly. Tour summed up when he was “jogged out” by Vaughan, hardly the best fielder in the English team.
Bell – A little harsh probably but came into the series with a great deal of promise. Unfortunately left it looking like he needed some time against a county attack.
Gilchrist – Batted like he was playing one day cricket against Zimbabwe. Needs to remember how he used to get Test runs, by building an innings and then exploding once he had runs on the board. Keeping was brilliant at times and well below Test standard others.
G Jones – Can Test keeping droop any lower ? Honestly, his keeping was just woeful and his batting not deserving of a place in the side on its own. Made Gilchrist often look like a great Test keeper, which usually takes some doing and speaks volumes.
Tait – came into his first test with a reputation for extreme pace and wicket taking balls. After his second test, I found myself agreeing with an English assessment of “Pie Chucker”. Needs to bowl less tripe which will be a struggle with his action.
Gillespie – Was treated with absolute disdain by the English batsmen. His career in finished unless something very big changes. Lets start with that haircut hey Dizz ?
Kasper – Never looked like a serious test bowler in this series. His may have played his last Test. Kasper, why didn’t you duck that bouncer in the second game ?!
posted by DaveT at 7:05 AM
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