Geoffrey Boycott was on radio commentary when Sam Robson went to his first Test match hundred. It was an interesting moment because Boycott, in common with almost every expert pundit, had been dubious of Robson's credentials at Lord's. In fairness it was hard not to be: the lad had a horror of a match with the bat, and looked almost as adrift as Simon Kerrigan had with the ball at the Oval last Summer.
Before the applause for Robson had died down, Boycott was asked about his grip, left hand high on the handle, right hand low.
'I don't look at all that, how he holds the bat, whether he picks it up over gully, I just watch his feet, his head and where the ball goes.'
Geoffrey went into a long reverie about technique, taking in Bradman, who had brought the bat down to the ball in a semi-circle - 'no-one's done it since, but he did alright' - and then George Hirst, who had arrived at the Headingley nets from Kirkheaton and immediately started slogging the ball into the rugby club grand stand.
'Now then lad, tha better stop that...' said the coach.
'Look where the ball is...' replied Hirst.
'Everyone's different aren't they,' Boycott went on. 'The good players find their own way.'
It tied in with something I've been thinking about for a while, probably since I blogged this about the golf coach John Jacobs, and the wisdom of sixty years that he had distilled into a single sentence: 'you can tell everything you need to know about the golf swing from watching where the ball goes'.
This, especially in batting's new age, is surely becoming the defining criteria in coaching. The game and its methods are now too diverse to begin from anywhere else. Yesterday, West Indies needed to chase 93 in the fourth innings of their Test against New Zealand and Chris Gayle scored 80 of them from 46 deliveries, walking at the bowlers and baseball-batting consecutive sixes out of the ground from somewhere near the middle of the pitch. 'Look where the ball is,' you could almost hear him say.
England's new intake are symptomatic. Robson has a laundry-list of quirks from a low crouch and heavy head to that odd grip; Gary Ballance plays from so deep in his ground he's often driving with his front foot just past the popping crease; Chris Jordan's decelerating run-up is one of the great mysteries of modern times. Plunkett, who is almost new, has had to reinvent himself having been ruined by the era of bio-mechanics. Only Moeen Ali wears the air of a classicist.
As a credo, 'look where the ball is' means something else too, and that's not to rush to judgment. As poor as Robson appeared at Lord's, he has a Test hundred a few days later. Neither should have too much weight attached to them. Robson hasn't yet offered enough for there to be certainty as to whether he'll make it as a Test opener. If I had to, I would guess that he'll fall short against better bowlers than Sri Lanka's, when his methods get pushed out to their limits, but then I might well have been one of the idiots telling Bradman to bring his bat down straight too. For a while, we'll just look at where the ball ends up.
There is a wider point to be made about the mixed bag that is the nation's top five, and it it comes down to watchability. Cook, Robson, Ballance and Root are an offbeat combo of unspectacular grinders and/or accumulators, with only Bell to break them up. They won't empty bars, and they won't necessarily sell tickets either. It seems odd to say so, but there may be a commercial dimension to their future prospects.
Saturday, 21 June 2014
Sunday, 15 June 2014
Joe Root: nothing new to report
It would be unfair to start dumping on a player who has come through a desperate winter to make a Test match double hundred, but equally, it shouldn't be taken as a sign that the winter was simply an aberration. Joe Root's innings has yet to be contextualised by the match, the series, the summer and the future in the way that his 180 against Australia was last year. Describing his 200 not out as 'stunning' and 'masterly' as it has been on television is more a symptom of commentators reaching for empty adjectives that a genuine attempt to assess Root's innings or where he stands as a Test match batsman.
It was instead an innings that played into the enigma of his batting. It was most impressive in its opening passage, played when England were within sight of difficulties that, given the parlous state of their cricket, could have caused significant image problems. Yet at the start of the second day, when a seam bowling attack best categorised as of county div 1 standard went all Bodyline for half an hour or so, the deep-set problems in his technique came running back out. As all of cricket knows, Root can be forced back into his crease and squared up, and he'll waft his bat with his weight and body travelling in opposite directions. Sri Lanka's attack simply lacked the pace to exploit the errors. They are still there, waiting, like the troll under the bridge, for better men.
Root has his first thousand runs in Test cricket at an average of 44, a return that suggests that his seamless upward climb from Boy Wonder to star player is still moving frictionlessly on, and yet he has made a third of those runs in two innings, and both at Lord's.
Part of his problem has been a pervading feeling from within the England set-up that Root had been annointed as a player long before his debut. It's built a sort of gentle resentment that might not be there had he been presented in a different light. The better we're told he is, the less good he seems.
England's batsmen essentially have a free pass this summer against Sri Lanka and India if they care to take it up. The wider narrative will be the reconstruction of the bowling, and how regularly they can take twenty wickets without Graeme Swann. Root certainly looks more comfortable at five than anywhere else he has batted, and it's a position that could in time allow him to boss the second half of the order in a way that Steve Waugh or Michael Hussey used to for Australia, when they looked at their line-up as having two cracks at a big score, the top order breaking the bowlers and then that second unit of players piling them on.
Alastair Cook grew up in an England side that made monolithic scores and used them to grind opponents down. On the slim evidence of one innings at Lord's he still likes the idea. It will be interesting to see whether the extra hour or so he batted to let Root get to 200 has any impact on the final outcome if England are racing to take wickets in the last session of the match.
The ultimate meaning of Root's innings may be as simple as a setting aside of the winter horrors. Cricket felt quiet and normal again while he was batting, and that will be of solace to a nervy captain. But it was a knock that told us nothing more than we already knew.
It was instead an innings that played into the enigma of his batting. It was most impressive in its opening passage, played when England were within sight of difficulties that, given the parlous state of their cricket, could have caused significant image problems. Yet at the start of the second day, when a seam bowling attack best categorised as of county div 1 standard went all Bodyline for half an hour or so, the deep-set problems in his technique came running back out. As all of cricket knows, Root can be forced back into his crease and squared up, and he'll waft his bat with his weight and body travelling in opposite directions. Sri Lanka's attack simply lacked the pace to exploit the errors. They are still there, waiting, like the troll under the bridge, for better men.
Root has his first thousand runs in Test cricket at an average of 44, a return that suggests that his seamless upward climb from Boy Wonder to star player is still moving frictionlessly on, and yet he has made a third of those runs in two innings, and both at Lord's.
Part of his problem has been a pervading feeling from within the England set-up that Root had been annointed as a player long before his debut. It's built a sort of gentle resentment that might not be there had he been presented in a different light. The better we're told he is, the less good he seems.
England's batsmen essentially have a free pass this summer against Sri Lanka and India if they care to take it up. The wider narrative will be the reconstruction of the bowling, and how regularly they can take twenty wickets without Graeme Swann. Root certainly looks more comfortable at five than anywhere else he has batted, and it's a position that could in time allow him to boss the second half of the order in a way that Steve Waugh or Michael Hussey used to for Australia, when they looked at their line-up as having two cracks at a big score, the top order breaking the bowlers and then that second unit of players piling them on.
Alastair Cook grew up in an England side that made monolithic scores and used them to grind opponents down. On the slim evidence of one innings at Lord's he still likes the idea. It will be interesting to see whether the extra hour or so he batted to let Root get to 200 has any impact on the final outcome if England are racing to take wickets in the last session of the match.
The ultimate meaning of Root's innings may be as simple as a setting aside of the winter horrors. Cricket felt quiet and normal again while he was batting, and that will be of solace to a nervy captain. But it was a knock that told us nothing more than we already knew.
Saturday, 24 May 2014
One (thousand) run(s) in May
Last season was probably my worst ever with the bat. I remember clearly driving home from the final game feeling relieved that it was all over. I've been long reconciled to the idea that I'm not going to get any better. But I didn't really plan on getting much worse, either. A sort of gentle decline which nonetheless contained flashes of old glories and was compensated by extra nous, by know-how and cricket awareness* was more what I had in mind.
Instead, what was in my mind was a kind of white noise, brought on by a series of dismal, self-inflicted failures which had culminated that day in hitting a knee-high full toss straight to square leg. There was no common factor to them that I could figure out, except an increasing desperation. I've always had a rough game-plan to get to twenty and then see what comes. For some reason, probably dating way to back youth cricket, twenty always seemed like the liminal point between failure and success. Twenty wasn't great but it wasn't terrible either, and more often than not, you can go on from it. It's when batting always began to feel enjoyable.
Because I kept failing to get there, it became a thing, self-sabotaging and damaging. On the way to games I'd imagine unlikely scenarios - hitting five fours in the first over I faced, for example - just to be past the hurdle and into the sunlit uplands of a half-decent score. It threw me out. I lost sight of what I'd always been alright at, which wasn't hitting lots of boundaries right away but getting in and set, at riding out the early angst.
On that drive back after the last game, I turned it all over in my head. It was hard to think of a way forward. But as winter came the angst kind of drained away and some good vibes returned. I could start to imagine how it felt to play well again, and I decided that next season would be different. I'd be willing to accept failure - after all, there was nothing riding on how I batted. There are far better players than me in our side, and we'd won plenty of games that I'd contributed very little to. I'd just get out there and enjoy it.
I had a bit of luck too, in that Newbery got in touch through my blog and offered me my first ever free bat - their stunning new Kudos - to play with. 'At last,' I thought, on the smug drive back from their showroom at Hove, 'Sponsored... Exactly as I should be' (I'm not really. They've given me one bat not six, and I somehow doubt they're going to give me another one either, but in my head, it's a sponsored bat).
So, some lovely willow, a new season, a team that, of all the teams I've played for, I love the most. And as we reach the end of May, I have, so far, made one run. Not a thousand. Not even a hundred. In fact not even ten. One. And as today's game is off and we don't play again until next sunday, which is June 1, one it shall remain.
It's happened like this. First game at the end of April - rained off. Our second game, played out in the shadow of Windsor Castle versus the Royal Household CC, was as majestic in setting as it was disappointing in outcome. They had several fearsomely young and hard-hitting South Africans and Australians, one of whom got 140-odd, and who it transpired, didn't actually work for the Royal Household.
That's right, even the Queen has ringers.
I got a four-ball duck. I played back at the first, which ran down the bat face and bounced over the stumps. In my new mood of carefree abandon I drove hard at the second, which was wide, and missed it. I left the third and was bowled by the fourth. It seemed to keep low, but as Jammo, who'd been batting at the other end, pointed out, I'd just not moved my feet. Classic early-season dismissal. I could live with that.
Third game was cancelled, and in the fourth I got in for the last over after some excellent batting from the skipper and others. My job was simply to get that apparent ever-present in my new batting life Jammo back on strike, which was accomplished with a first ball prod to extra cover. One not out (I did get a bowl though. Bowling - it's so stress-free...)
Fifth game - cancelled.
Yes, that's it. Newbery, that's your return. One run in May (the bat has, however been much admired in warm-ups, and the middle really goes).
We all have our dreams, fed by the game. Mine are still there. I can feel those runs, just around the corner. Serendipity, come my way. Bring on June, flaming June. I'm ready...
* It's this year's 'executing your skills'. Cheers Nasser.
Instead, what was in my mind was a kind of white noise, brought on by a series of dismal, self-inflicted failures which had culminated that day in hitting a knee-high full toss straight to square leg. There was no common factor to them that I could figure out, except an increasing desperation. I've always had a rough game-plan to get to twenty and then see what comes. For some reason, probably dating way to back youth cricket, twenty always seemed like the liminal point between failure and success. Twenty wasn't great but it wasn't terrible either, and more often than not, you can go on from it. It's when batting always began to feel enjoyable.
Because I kept failing to get there, it became a thing, self-sabotaging and damaging. On the way to games I'd imagine unlikely scenarios - hitting five fours in the first over I faced, for example - just to be past the hurdle and into the sunlit uplands of a half-decent score. It threw me out. I lost sight of what I'd always been alright at, which wasn't hitting lots of boundaries right away but getting in and set, at riding out the early angst.
On that drive back after the last game, I turned it all over in my head. It was hard to think of a way forward. But as winter came the angst kind of drained away and some good vibes returned. I could start to imagine how it felt to play well again, and I decided that next season would be different. I'd be willing to accept failure - after all, there was nothing riding on how I batted. There are far better players than me in our side, and we'd won plenty of games that I'd contributed very little to. I'd just get out there and enjoy it.
I had a bit of luck too, in that Newbery got in touch through my blog and offered me my first ever free bat - their stunning new Kudos - to play with. 'At last,' I thought, on the smug drive back from their showroom at Hove, 'Sponsored... Exactly as I should be' (I'm not really. They've given me one bat not six, and I somehow doubt they're going to give me another one either, but in my head, it's a sponsored bat).
So, some lovely willow, a new season, a team that, of all the teams I've played for, I love the most. And as we reach the end of May, I have, so far, made one run. Not a thousand. Not even a hundred. In fact not even ten. One. And as today's game is off and we don't play again until next sunday, which is June 1, one it shall remain.
It's happened like this. First game at the end of April - rained off. Our second game, played out in the shadow of Windsor Castle versus the Royal Household CC, was as majestic in setting as it was disappointing in outcome. They had several fearsomely young and hard-hitting South Africans and Australians, one of whom got 140-odd, and who it transpired, didn't actually work for the Royal Household.
That's right, even the Queen has ringers.
I got a four-ball duck. I played back at the first, which ran down the bat face and bounced over the stumps. In my new mood of carefree abandon I drove hard at the second, which was wide, and missed it. I left the third and was bowled by the fourth. It seemed to keep low, but as Jammo, who'd been batting at the other end, pointed out, I'd just not moved my feet. Classic early-season dismissal. I could live with that.
Third game was cancelled, and in the fourth I got in for the last over after some excellent batting from the skipper and others. My job was simply to get that apparent ever-present in my new batting life Jammo back on strike, which was accomplished with a first ball prod to extra cover. One not out (I did get a bowl though. Bowling - it's so stress-free...)
Fifth game - cancelled.
Yes, that's it. Newbery, that's your return. One run in May (the bat has, however been much admired in warm-ups, and the middle really goes).
We all have our dreams, fed by the game. Mine are still there. I can feel those runs, just around the corner. Serendipity, come my way. Bring on June, flaming June. I'm ready...
* It's this year's 'executing your skills'. Cheers Nasser.
Thursday, 8 May 2014
One of the greats, DIG?
The post a couple below this one wondered about the last great batsman that England produced (as opposed to those developed outside of the system). There were some tremendous tweets and comments in response and one name came up repeatedly: that of David Ivon Gower.
To digress briefly, the point of a blog (to me at least) is that it's written quickly, a sort of instant repository for a passing thought. Admittedly, the lack of research is a good get-out for whatever glaring omissions come along but when I wrote the post in question I'd thought of Gower, and had an undeniable flicker as I went to type his name alongside those of Geoffrey Boycott and Graham Gooch - and then didn't.
I've had to question why. Statistically, Gower's Test match average of 44.25 sits perfectly between those of Gooch and Boycott, as does his total of 8,231 runs. Many England fans, perhaps a majority, would pick Gower ahead of both in a heartbeat, and it's easy to understand that. His languid, trippy batting was hardly difficult to love.
Gower's Test career was the first that I saw from start to end. I can clearly recall watching his first delivery, a pirouette pull for four from Liaqat Ali, a seamer who bowled left-arm over. It remains the one thing anyone remembers Liaqat for: from the beginning Gower was sprinkling stardust from his hem.
His batting lives in the memory as something shimmering and ephemeral. He used a wafer of a bat, the Gray-Nicolls GN400, a four-scoop version of the legendary GN100, and he hardly seemed to swing it, yet the ball whispered to the boundary. Watching him live, his pick-up and follow-through both felt late: the gods had given him time, and he understood how to use it. He was a dream.
This drives at the heart of the arguments about him. I've always been fascinated by the role that aesthetics play in sport. Who can objectively know whether Gower found the game easier than Boycott? It's like trying to discover whether we all see colours the same. What's possible to perceive is that Gower made it appear easier. By physiological fluke, through the notions of art and beauty, he looked better.
Once this was established a whole series of prejudices begin to apply. Gower's public persona as the gifted dilettante was set. Like Kevin Pietersen, he didn't seem overly bothered by getting out. Like generations of gentry, he appeared to regard cricket as a diverting way to pass the time, rather than an all-consuming obsession. Last in the nets and first out, that was David.
His county career pales when compared to Boycott's or Gooch's. He was apparently dropped from his school rugby team for 'lack of effort'. In his long-standing role as a TV presenter, he conveys the impression that the gig is another extension of an enviable lifestyle. As with his batting, charm is persuasive.
And yet... You don't score all of those runs without wanting to. No-one goes 119 Test innings without a duck by not being switched on from ball one.
Gower faced some fearsome attacks. His average and hundred count against Australia compares well with Boycott and Gooch, but against West Indies he made just one century and averaged 32, compared to Gooch's 44.83 and five hundreds, and Boycott's 45.93 and five tons. They both opened, too. It's here, against the best of all, that perhaps Gower falls short.
What is greatness anyway? It's easy to grasp when a player is considerably superior in terms of stats and longevity and success, less so when they play for a weaker side or burn bright and short. Ultimately, Gower's batting spread joy and grew a love for the game in those who watched, and that is an enduring legacy.
It's the best answer I've got, too...
To digress briefly, the point of a blog (to me at least) is that it's written quickly, a sort of instant repository for a passing thought. Admittedly, the lack of research is a good get-out for whatever glaring omissions come along but when I wrote the post in question I'd thought of Gower, and had an undeniable flicker as I went to type his name alongside those of Geoffrey Boycott and Graham Gooch - and then didn't.
I've had to question why. Statistically, Gower's Test match average of 44.25 sits perfectly between those of Gooch and Boycott, as does his total of 8,231 runs. Many England fans, perhaps a majority, would pick Gower ahead of both in a heartbeat, and it's easy to understand that. His languid, trippy batting was hardly difficult to love.
Gower's Test career was the first that I saw from start to end. I can clearly recall watching his first delivery, a pirouette pull for four from Liaqat Ali, a seamer who bowled left-arm over. It remains the one thing anyone remembers Liaqat for: from the beginning Gower was sprinkling stardust from his hem.
His batting lives in the memory as something shimmering and ephemeral. He used a wafer of a bat, the Gray-Nicolls GN400, a four-scoop version of the legendary GN100, and he hardly seemed to swing it, yet the ball whispered to the boundary. Watching him live, his pick-up and follow-through both felt late: the gods had given him time, and he understood how to use it. He was a dream.
This drives at the heart of the arguments about him. I've always been fascinated by the role that aesthetics play in sport. Who can objectively know whether Gower found the game easier than Boycott? It's like trying to discover whether we all see colours the same. What's possible to perceive is that Gower made it appear easier. By physiological fluke, through the notions of art and beauty, he looked better.
Once this was established a whole series of prejudices begin to apply. Gower's public persona as the gifted dilettante was set. Like Kevin Pietersen, he didn't seem overly bothered by getting out. Like generations of gentry, he appeared to regard cricket as a diverting way to pass the time, rather than an all-consuming obsession. Last in the nets and first out, that was David.
His county career pales when compared to Boycott's or Gooch's. He was apparently dropped from his school rugby team for 'lack of effort'. In his long-standing role as a TV presenter, he conveys the impression that the gig is another extension of an enviable lifestyle. As with his batting, charm is persuasive.
And yet... You don't score all of those runs without wanting to. No-one goes 119 Test innings without a duck by not being switched on from ball one.
Gower faced some fearsome attacks. His average and hundred count against Australia compares well with Boycott and Gooch, but against West Indies he made just one century and averaged 32, compared to Gooch's 44.83 and five hundreds, and Boycott's 45.93 and five tons. They both opened, too. It's here, against the best of all, that perhaps Gower falls short.
What is greatness anyway? It's easy to grasp when a player is considerably superior in terms of stats and longevity and success, less so when they play for a weaker side or burn bright and short. Ultimately, Gower's batting spread joy and grew a love for the game in those who watched, and that is an enduring legacy.
It's the best answer I've got, too...
Thursday, 1 May 2014
Pete and Ali's first day, brought to us in partnership with Waitrose
Pouring money into Team England is no longer a frictionless exercise in logo-led corporate brand recognition, as the supermarket Waitrose are discovering. Today was the launch of their partnership with the national side and a jolly morning it should have been, hosted at their kitchens in central London, with lots of photo opps of Alastair Cook cooking and maybe even feeding Peter Moores with a long spoon while cracking a few gags about their recipe for success.
It was Moores' first public engagement since his reappointment was made official at Lord's and with a fresh ODI squad due to be announced too, all was set for a good news day - the first for a while.
Within minutes though, they were announcing the sacking of Graham Gooch, a parting that may have been inevitable given England's diminishing returns with the bat, but one that immediately cast minds backwards rather than towards the future. There was no replacement lined up to leaven the news, no full reshuffle of the backroom staff to be presented as a progressive move.
Alastair Cook was soon on Sky Sports News, Waitrose logo shining from his shirt, explaining the decision to part with his mentor. Perhaps it was designed to show a decisive kind of toughness. It really didn't. Humiliating a 61-year-old man who has given his life to the sport - and it's hard to imagine that having your sacking announced to the nation at a media launch is anything other than humiliating - seems like a callous misjudgment.
Cook has been let down here - and again it was he, rather than Moores, who was explaining the decision. Far better advice would have been to begin the new regime with good news, perhaps the ODI squad announcement with the accent on a couple of young guns being given their chance.
Moores and Cook could have appeared strong and decisive had they waited until the backroom staff had been fully reshaped and then presented them to the nation as a brand new team. Now, any further changes will start to feel like death by a thousand cuts. Cook endured the indignity of having a facetious Tweeted application for the batting coach's job from Kevin Pietersen read out to him during his live Sky Sports interview. The feeling of day-to-day chaos continued.
Waitrose must be wondering what they have let themselves in for. All they wanted to do was sell a few more groceries.
It was Moores' first public engagement since his reappointment was made official at Lord's and with a fresh ODI squad due to be announced too, all was set for a good news day - the first for a while.
Within minutes though, they were announcing the sacking of Graham Gooch, a parting that may have been inevitable given England's diminishing returns with the bat, but one that immediately cast minds backwards rather than towards the future. There was no replacement lined up to leaven the news, no full reshuffle of the backroom staff to be presented as a progressive move.
Alastair Cook was soon on Sky Sports News, Waitrose logo shining from his shirt, explaining the decision to part with his mentor. Perhaps it was designed to show a decisive kind of toughness. It really didn't. Humiliating a 61-year-old man who has given his life to the sport - and it's hard to imagine that having your sacking announced to the nation at a media launch is anything other than humiliating - seems like a callous misjudgment.
Cook has been let down here - and again it was he, rather than Moores, who was explaining the decision. Far better advice would have been to begin the new regime with good news, perhaps the ODI squad announcement with the accent on a couple of young guns being given their chance.
Moores and Cook could have appeared strong and decisive had they waited until the backroom staff had been fully reshaped and then presented them to the nation as a brand new team. Now, any further changes will start to feel like death by a thousand cuts. Cook endured the indignity of having a facetious Tweeted application for the batting coach's job from Kevin Pietersen read out to him during his live Sky Sports interview. The feeling of day-to-day chaos continued.
Waitrose must be wondering what they have let themselves in for. All they wanted to do was sell a few more groceries.
Monday, 28 April 2014
Who was the last great batsman that England produced?
Is there any greater pleasure in the game than watching Virat Kohli bat? Only one, perhaps, and that's watching AB de Villiers bat. This blog has often dwelt on the emerging state of the New Batsmanship, its first intimations coming with the cult of Sehwagology and its immortal, irreducible credo 'see ball, hit ball', and on through its power-fuelled expansion: Gayle's vision and its currency of six-hitting; the re-evaluation of wicket as 'resource', a new disposability, the age of McCullum's 'I'm coming anyway' and so on; the switch-hit, the Dilscoop, the ramp... Warner, Sammy, Maxwell, and into a brutal future where a double hundred in a T20 innings feels vaguely possible, or at least plausible.
And yet something strange and unexpected - at least to me - has happened. Kohli and de Villiers have assumed mastery of all three forms of the game with a technique I'd describe as Heightened Classical. The odd backhanded swipe or head-high smear aside, their batting has a framework that adapts to all scenarios: the shorter the game, the more of it they use. Both will be all-time greats.
Watching them prompted another question. Who was the last great batsman that England produced? The simple answer would be Kevin Pietersen, except that England didn't produce him. So if not KP, then who? Ian Bell has a technique comparable to Virat or AB, but not that extra gear that gives them such edge, such life. Michael Vaughan was a classicist too, and touched the heights until his knee gave way and the captaincy came along. Alastair Cook's volume of runs will brook little argument once his Test career is complete, and yet his batting doesn't reach across formats.
England produced great teams under Fletcher and Flower, but, Pietersen aside, there was no dominant player in the way that Australia had Ponting, India Sachin, South Africa Kallis, West Indies Lara, Pakistan Inzamam and so on. The fractured 90s gave us men of grit cast against overwhelming odds: Atherton, Stewart and Thorpe played great innings but it's hard to set them amongst the gods.
For all of their faith and investment, England may have to go back to Gooch and to Boycott to find batsmen of unequivocal, home-grown greatness. Gooch made his Test debut in 1975. Boycott's was in 1964. It has been a long wait, and it's hard to see an end in sight: would you put your money on Root or Buttler? Not now, not yet.
The truth that coaches don't want to hear is that great players produce themselves. It is a light that comes from within. England's wait goes on.
And yet something strange and unexpected - at least to me - has happened. Kohli and de Villiers have assumed mastery of all three forms of the game with a technique I'd describe as Heightened Classical. The odd backhanded swipe or head-high smear aside, their batting has a framework that adapts to all scenarios: the shorter the game, the more of it they use. Both will be all-time greats.
Watching them prompted another question. Who was the last great batsman that England produced? The simple answer would be Kevin Pietersen, except that England didn't produce him. So if not KP, then who? Ian Bell has a technique comparable to Virat or AB, but not that extra gear that gives them such edge, such life. Michael Vaughan was a classicist too, and touched the heights until his knee gave way and the captaincy came along. Alastair Cook's volume of runs will brook little argument once his Test career is complete, and yet his batting doesn't reach across formats.
England produced great teams under Fletcher and Flower, but, Pietersen aside, there was no dominant player in the way that Australia had Ponting, India Sachin, South Africa Kallis, West Indies Lara, Pakistan Inzamam and so on. The fractured 90s gave us men of grit cast against overwhelming odds: Atherton, Stewart and Thorpe played great innings but it's hard to set them amongst the gods.
For all of their faith and investment, England may have to go back to Gooch and to Boycott to find batsmen of unequivocal, home-grown greatness. Gooch made his Test debut in 1975. Boycott's was in 1964. It has been a long wait, and it's hard to see an end in sight: would you put your money on Root or Buttler? Not now, not yet.
The truth that coaches don't want to hear is that great players produce themselves. It is a light that comes from within. England's wait goes on.
Monday, 7 April 2014
Don't worry Yuvi, we've all been there...
It wasn't hard to understand how Yuvraj must have felt during his short but catastrophically not short enough innings against Sri Lanka yesterday: it was one of those experiences common to professional and amateur alike. The stage and the standard may differ, but the emotions - and the clammy, creeping dread - are all too universal.
I don't have to think very far back for an example. Last season, and a game we had in the bag but that had somehow crept down to the last couple of overs with twelve needed, me on strike having been in long enough for not many. Nine deliveries left and the bowler sends down a short one wide of off stump, a ball that I probably would have paid him for, given the chance. There was a backward point, a man at slip and a great green gap between them to a boundary that sloped helpfully downhill. When I'm playing the cut shot well, I hit it late - get it past that fielder and it's four, no problem.
I swung hard and waited for the feel of ball on bat. It didn't come. Instead it was in the keeper's gloves. I couldn't even say whether it had gone under or over the bat. There were a few shouts of encouragement from the pavilion. The fourth ball came down, shorter and wider. I swung again, missed again. More shouts, this time exhorting some kind of contact, any kind of run. I tried to work out how the hell I'd missed two such easy shots. Seven balls left and still twelve needed. The last delivery was again short and wide. 'Just hit it,' I thought. I missed.
I was gripped by the fear. I felt the dread and the shame. I felt the uselessness. I was like the over-the-hill boxer who can't get his shots off any more. First ball of the last over was a single. I was back on strike. I eyed the impossibly distant boundaries, surveyed the packed field. Were there really only nine of them? I heaved at one and it went straight up in the air. I felt my pad come loose. The fielder dropped it. Pad flapping, humiliation from the terrible slog and the three missed cut shots burning, I got about halfway down before the wicket was broken.
'Don't worry,' said the skipper, in a way that made it clear I should worry. We lost. I knew that my innings had cost us the match. Even as it was happening, I understood that I should have got out and walked off but I just couldn't do it. I thought about it for days.
I'll never hit Stuart Broad for six sixes. I'll never strike a ball with the imperiousness of Yuvi, never know how it feels to have such mastery of a difficult game, but his struggle to do something he has done hundreds of times before but just can't summon at a moment of need?
Ah yeah, I've been there, and so I suspect have you.
NB: I wonder how long before players in circumstances like Yuvraj's, with just a few deliveries to go and many wickets in hand, will simply retire themselves: it's not against the laws, and would have implications only in a Duckworth Lewis game. I should have done it. I will next time.
I don't have to think very far back for an example. Last season, and a game we had in the bag but that had somehow crept down to the last couple of overs with twelve needed, me on strike having been in long enough for not many. Nine deliveries left and the bowler sends down a short one wide of off stump, a ball that I probably would have paid him for, given the chance. There was a backward point, a man at slip and a great green gap between them to a boundary that sloped helpfully downhill. When I'm playing the cut shot well, I hit it late - get it past that fielder and it's four, no problem.
I swung hard and waited for the feel of ball on bat. It didn't come. Instead it was in the keeper's gloves. I couldn't even say whether it had gone under or over the bat. There were a few shouts of encouragement from the pavilion. The fourth ball came down, shorter and wider. I swung again, missed again. More shouts, this time exhorting some kind of contact, any kind of run. I tried to work out how the hell I'd missed two such easy shots. Seven balls left and still twelve needed. The last delivery was again short and wide. 'Just hit it,' I thought. I missed.
I was gripped by the fear. I felt the dread and the shame. I felt the uselessness. I was like the over-the-hill boxer who can't get his shots off any more. First ball of the last over was a single. I was back on strike. I eyed the impossibly distant boundaries, surveyed the packed field. Were there really only nine of them? I heaved at one and it went straight up in the air. I felt my pad come loose. The fielder dropped it. Pad flapping, humiliation from the terrible slog and the three missed cut shots burning, I got about halfway down before the wicket was broken.
'Don't worry,' said the skipper, in a way that made it clear I should worry. We lost. I knew that my innings had cost us the match. Even as it was happening, I understood that I should have got out and walked off but I just couldn't do it. I thought about it for days.
I'll never hit Stuart Broad for six sixes. I'll never strike a ball with the imperiousness of Yuvi, never know how it feels to have such mastery of a difficult game, but his struggle to do something he has done hundreds of times before but just can't summon at a moment of need?
Ah yeah, I've been there, and so I suspect have you.
NB: I wonder how long before players in circumstances like Yuvraj's, with just a few deliveries to go and many wickets in hand, will simply retire themselves: it's not against the laws, and would have implications only in a Duckworth Lewis game. I should have done it. I will next time.
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