Some images from Saturday’s game linger in the mind. There were the ghostly faces of players shrouded in sunscreen. There was Mohammed Yousuf’s grim expressionless concentration, a man of fortitude and endurance at work. There was the close up of Harbhajan’s gleaming Kara, his hand cradling the green-stained ball that looked like a moss-covered relic from a bone yard. There was seventeen-year-old Mohammed Aamer blowing Gautam Gambhir a kiss, Tendulkar’s exquisite square drive, the whirl of Simon Taufel’s finger to signal yet another no-ball.
The surroundings played their part. As the stadium resounded with shouts, whistles, drums and music, the fierce light of a Highvelt midday seemed to belong to another continent entirely. Then slowly the Indian players’ uniforms began to turn darker shades of blue, night crept up unannounced and the broiling arena was transformed into a clammy, floodlit film-set.
It was compulsive television. And even though by the standards of one-day cricket, it was not a nail biter, you didn’t want to leave your sofa. We owed the players that much at least. They seemed to be walking on eggshells. Every movement, every gesture, every run, no-ball, misfield and stumble brought instant feedback from the crowd. The audience were part of this drama, not mere onlookers. The pressure was evident in the muted behaviour of the players, unleashed in moments of celebration and sometimes in wild, pleading appeals. India were the more inhibited team, made more bad decisions under pressure and so they lost.
And in the midst of all this sweaty tension, there were some bizarre musical interludes. A failed Harbhajan sprawl and claw at third man was greeted with the chorus to ‘Come On Eileen’. A short while later, RP Singh had only just begun to wipe the grass stains from his trouser knees after an inelegant fumble when Abba’s ‘Dancing Queen’ blasted out across Supersport Park. Either the DJ was a Pakistan supporter or he had a dangerously mischievous sense of humour.
Saturday, September 26, 2009
Thursday, September 24, 2009
The Good, the Bad and the Hairy
Let there be no doubt, cricket is men’s work. Women may be able to bat, bowl and field as well as the lesser sex, but there is one cricket skill at which, by and large, men remain pre-eminent: the rapid production of facial hair. And one man in particular, one selfless hero, has just raised cricket’s masculinity bar a notch higher. That’s right. Jesse Ryder has grown a moustache.
At the moment, it is hard to tell which way Jesse’s ‘tache will go. It’s something of a mini-Boon, but by the time the Champions Trophy comes to an end, he may be walking around with a full Zapata under his nose. Or perhaps he might go in for the waxed Hercule Poirot or possibly even a Salvador Dali. I’ll keep you posted.
Of course, as we all know, the moustache is the nuclear option when it comes to demonstrating one’s masculinity and it brings its own particular dangers. Admirable though it is, this extra infusion of hairy-lipped testosterone into the New Zealand squad could have repercussions. Indeed, I’ve suspected for a long time that we may be approaching a fashion black hole. Consider, if you will, Jacob Oram’s hair. At what point does deliberately messy become just plain scruffy? Before you know it, people will be sprouting sideburns, shirts will remain unfastened and we will be back in the dark, hairy and above all ugly seventies; a decade when even attractive cricketers looked like they’d spent their close season living in a ditch.
It was precisely in order to uphold the aesthetical purity of the modern game that I recently launched my latest campaign. I am proposing that tattoos are made illegal under Level 4 of the ICC Code of Conduct. We all know that there are only three kinds of people on whom tattoos look good: Maoris, Bronze Age tribesmen and nineteenth-century sailors. On everyone else, they look like the scribblings of someone who tried to cheat in their maths exam, failed and then forgot to wash off the evidence. It can surely be no coincidence that the two biggest troublemakers in international cricket - Andrew Flintoff and Brendon McCullum - are covered in inky dribble.
If we don’t make a stand then commentators will be next and before we know where we are, Nasser Hussain’s pitch report will end with him rolling up his trouser leg to show us something deeply personal. Someone needed to draw an imaginary line in the metaphorical sand. That person was me.
The ICC tend not to answer my emails these days, so I decided to go to the top. The modern globetrotting cricketer is a surly sort of cove and not easy to bring to heel. I needed the help of the only man they would listen to. I needed Lalit Modi.
As you might imagine, His Modiness is a tricky man to get hold of, but I find that if you grab him firmly by the Blackberry he eventually stops struggling. He was sympathetic to my request, but replied that he was in no position to take a firm stance on body art. To my mounting horror, he then began to slowly remove his shirt to reveal an enormous, slightly hairy, chest-size Lalit Modi portrait in ink and flesh.
I haven’t been able to sleep ever since.
At the moment, it is hard to tell which way Jesse’s ‘tache will go. It’s something of a mini-Boon, but by the time the Champions Trophy comes to an end, he may be walking around with a full Zapata under his nose. Or perhaps he might go in for the waxed Hercule Poirot or possibly even a Salvador Dali. I’ll keep you posted.
Of course, as we all know, the moustache is the nuclear option when it comes to demonstrating one’s masculinity and it brings its own particular dangers. Admirable though it is, this extra infusion of hairy-lipped testosterone into the New Zealand squad could have repercussions. Indeed, I’ve suspected for a long time that we may be approaching a fashion black hole. Consider, if you will, Jacob Oram’s hair. At what point does deliberately messy become just plain scruffy? Before you know it, people will be sprouting sideburns, shirts will remain unfastened and we will be back in the dark, hairy and above all ugly seventies; a decade when even attractive cricketers looked like they’d spent their close season living in a ditch.
It was precisely in order to uphold the aesthetical purity of the modern game that I recently launched my latest campaign. I am proposing that tattoos are made illegal under Level 4 of the ICC Code of Conduct. We all know that there are only three kinds of people on whom tattoos look good: Maoris, Bronze Age tribesmen and nineteenth-century sailors. On everyone else, they look like the scribblings of someone who tried to cheat in their maths exam, failed and then forgot to wash off the evidence. It can surely be no coincidence that the two biggest troublemakers in international cricket - Andrew Flintoff and Brendon McCullum - are covered in inky dribble.
If we don’t make a stand then commentators will be next and before we know where we are, Nasser Hussain’s pitch report will end with him rolling up his trouser leg to show us something deeply personal. Someone needed to draw an imaginary line in the metaphorical sand. That person was me.
The ICC tend not to answer my emails these days, so I decided to go to the top. The modern globetrotting cricketer is a surly sort of cove and not easy to bring to heel. I needed the help of the only man they would listen to. I needed Lalit Modi.
As you might imagine, His Modiness is a tricky man to get hold of, but I find that if you grab him firmly by the Blackberry he eventually stops struggling. He was sympathetic to my request, but replied that he was in no position to take a firm stance on body art. To my mounting horror, he then began to slowly remove his shirt to reveal an enormous, slightly hairy, chest-size Lalit Modi portrait in ink and flesh.
I haven’t been able to sleep ever since.
Tuesday, September 22, 2009
A Cure for Burnout
Burnout. It is the scourge of our times. And it can devastate lives. In fact, it struck this very morning. I had just sat down to my usual orderly breakfast, my eggs perfectly boiled, my toast symmetrically aligned and my butler standing ready with the Lady Grey. All that was missing was a crisp pile of fan mail. The clock ticked on inexorably. Eight thirty-one. Eight thirty-two. The toast cooled. Outside on the lawn, a cricket chirped. Silence reigned.
Then, instead of the comforting rattle of a brass letterbox, I was shaken by the shrieking of a polyphonic Freddie Mercury. I had received a text message from my local sorting office, informing me that my postman was unable to fulfil his contractual duties today. He had, it emerged, been delivering letters and parcels for fifteen of the last twenty-one days and the Post Office management had decided to give him a rest, lest his letterbox-stuffing career be cut short.
My breakfast was ruined. The eggs were two degrees below their optimum edible temperature and my butler had sustained third-degree teapot burns. But I was not angry. You see, dear reader, I felt that poor mailman’s pain. I too have fallen victim to the curse of burnout.
Yes, I am ashamed to say that mid-way through the recent Natwest series between England and Australia, I experienced what can only be described as a spasm of ennui. I simply couldn’t watch another nudged single or another clumsy fielding pratfall. I was running on empty. I knew that if I didn’t take a break, I would be placing my sanity in jeopardy.
So I took off to the races and asked a chum to help out. He dutifully stood in for me during the fifth and sixth (or it may have been the ninth and tenth) matches, allowing me to return fresh and invigorated to catch the seventeenth game of the series and England’s statistically inevitable victory.
And it was whilst standing on the heath at Newmarket, watching those beautiful, athletic thoroughbreds galloping up the Rowley Mile that a solution to the problem of player burnout occurred to me. Racehorses are sensitive, intelligent creatures. They are only in it for the hay and yet in order to entertain us they are forced to run and run and run and occasionally thwacked with a leather whip, through no particular fault of their own.
So I have contacted the ICC’s disciplinary department to suggest a similar motivational tool for recalcitrant freelancers and lazy-arsed franchise employees. Take that, Mr Anderson and get moving! Your job is to play cricket. We pay money. You play. That’s the deal. No, Mr Collingwood, I’m not interested in your bruised thumb, your dicky knee or your general feeling of world-weariness. Just shut up and play. And while you’re at it, do it better, too!
Then, instead of the comforting rattle of a brass letterbox, I was shaken by the shrieking of a polyphonic Freddie Mercury. I had received a text message from my local sorting office, informing me that my postman was unable to fulfil his contractual duties today. He had, it emerged, been delivering letters and parcels for fifteen of the last twenty-one days and the Post Office management had decided to give him a rest, lest his letterbox-stuffing career be cut short.
My breakfast was ruined. The eggs were two degrees below their optimum edible temperature and my butler had sustained third-degree teapot burns. But I was not angry. You see, dear reader, I felt that poor mailman’s pain. I too have fallen victim to the curse of burnout.
Yes, I am ashamed to say that mid-way through the recent Natwest series between England and Australia, I experienced what can only be described as a spasm of ennui. I simply couldn’t watch another nudged single or another clumsy fielding pratfall. I was running on empty. I knew that if I didn’t take a break, I would be placing my sanity in jeopardy.
So I took off to the races and asked a chum to help out. He dutifully stood in for me during the fifth and sixth (or it may have been the ninth and tenth) matches, allowing me to return fresh and invigorated to catch the seventeenth game of the series and England’s statistically inevitable victory.
And it was whilst standing on the heath at Newmarket, watching those beautiful, athletic thoroughbreds galloping up the Rowley Mile that a solution to the problem of player burnout occurred to me. Racehorses are sensitive, intelligent creatures. They are only in it for the hay and yet in order to entertain us they are forced to run and run and run and occasionally thwacked with a leather whip, through no particular fault of their own.
So I have contacted the ICC’s disciplinary department to suggest a similar motivational tool for recalcitrant freelancers and lazy-arsed franchise employees. Take that, Mr Anderson and get moving! Your job is to play cricket. We pay money. You play. That’s the deal. No, Mr Collingwood, I’m not interested in your bruised thumb, your dicky knee or your general feeling of world-weariness. Just shut up and play. And while you’re at it, do it better, too!
Fear Of Fred
I’m troubled, cricket chums.
In less than three weeks time, the inaugural Champions League Twenty20 tournament will begin. Naturally, I assume you will all be watching. In these parts, the whole shebang is to be broadcast by British Eurosport, something of a coup for a channel more accustomed to bringing us the Baltic Wood-Chopping Grand Prix and Snail Endurance Racing from Calais.
None of this is a problem. I’m a broadminded kind of guy; I can live with getting my fix of the pyjama game via a rickety studio in Luxembourg. Anyway, thanks to the marvels of modern day capitalism, I have no choice.
No, what is troubling me is the news that England’s very own Freddie Flintoff is to be part of the commentary team. Now Fred is a nice bloke, he does a good line in post-match self-deprecation and I understand he has some interesting things to say on the subject of post-millennial immigration and its impact on standards of service in the hospitality industry.
Nevertheless, for all of his merits, he has one fault that renders him a commentary liability. He sounds exactly like Ronnie Irani. This is no trivial objection. For the last six months, I have been running a support group for traumatised IPL viewers suffering the effects of Post-Irani Syndrome. The symptoms they describe are invariably the same. Victims report seeing a yellow haze that they slowly recognise as the Setanta studio. They hear a man talking. The voice gets louder. They can make out the words, “I tell you what…” Then they wake up screaming.
The thought of this much-anticipated tournament being played out to a sound track of Lancastrian platitudes is enough to keep me up in the early hours, gnawing my pillow with anxiety. We can only hope that Freelance Fred is not being paid by the word.
In less than three weeks time, the inaugural Champions League Twenty20 tournament will begin. Naturally, I assume you will all be watching. In these parts, the whole shebang is to be broadcast by British Eurosport, something of a coup for a channel more accustomed to bringing us the Baltic Wood-Chopping Grand Prix and Snail Endurance Racing from Calais.
None of this is a problem. I’m a broadminded kind of guy; I can live with getting my fix of the pyjama game via a rickety studio in Luxembourg. Anyway, thanks to the marvels of modern day capitalism, I have no choice.
No, what is troubling me is the news that England’s very own Freddie Flintoff is to be part of the commentary team. Now Fred is a nice bloke, he does a good line in post-match self-deprecation and I understand he has some interesting things to say on the subject of post-millennial immigration and its impact on standards of service in the hospitality industry.
Nevertheless, for all of his merits, he has one fault that renders him a commentary liability. He sounds exactly like Ronnie Irani. This is no trivial objection. For the last six months, I have been running a support group for traumatised IPL viewers suffering the effects of Post-Irani Syndrome. The symptoms they describe are invariably the same. Victims report seeing a yellow haze that they slowly recognise as the Setanta studio. They hear a man talking. The voice gets louder. They can make out the words, “I tell you what…” Then they wake up screaming.
The thought of this much-anticipated tournament being played out to a sound track of Lancastrian platitudes is enough to keep me up in the early hours, gnawing my pillow with anxiety. We can only hope that Freelance Fred is not being paid by the word.
Sunday, June 21, 2009
World Twenty20 Day Seventeen
Sunday’s final began on a serene afternoon with the odd white cloud placed tastefully about the sky and just sufficient breeze to agitate the assembled flags and freshen the faces of spectators. But though the scene may have been idyllic and though we may be poised betwixt Royal Ascot and Wimbledon, this was no genteel county-themed snoozefest. The crowd at Lord’s had come to have fun.
The face-painted and be-wigged citizens who occupied the twenty-eight thousand, five-hundred seats made an awful lot of noise. Really, an awful lot. The racket that ensued when Tillakaratne Dilshan guided the ball to Shahzaib Hasan in the first over had the same decibelic impact as a space shuttle launch. Yet three hours later, with the game still undecided, murmuring silence reigned. Pakistani supporters lining the roof gardens of buildings off St John’s Wood Road looked anxious, squinting into the fading sunlight, their green and white flags twitching fitfully in the evening stillness.
Tense, but not heart-breakingly so, this was a hard-fought game between well-matched competitors. A stirring start from Mohammad Aamer and Abdul Razzaq was met with Kumar Sangakkara’s patience and guile. Then came a run chase in which Pakistan painstakingly stalked the required run-rate. But, fatally, Sri Lanka could not lock down the irrepressible Shahid Afridi. When, in the seventeenth over, they ran out of world class bowlers, Mr Boom Boom crashed a mighty six and a searing four and the throat-tightening tension eased.
In many ways the home of cricket is an odd venue for such a high profile international game. Venerable, cramped and ornate, for the players it must be like playing in a museum foyer. But it is a museum that has accommodated many tourists over the years and today the elaborate stonework absorbed a battering of Pakistani joy. They were worthy winners. Falling to the turf to thank Allah for their success, they were humble in their moment of triumph, none more so than captain Younus Khan, a man who surely epitomises dignity.
And the tournament, well organised in an old-fashioned, unobtrusive kind of way, also managed to keep its dignity. Yes there was music, but aside from a couple of wild nights at Trent Bridge, there was nothing to frighten your grandparents. Yes there were dancers, but they wore astonishingly sensible clothes and were rarely on our screens. Yes there were commentators, but they were allowed to call DLF maximums by their traditional name. And I only saw Lalit Modi once.
It has been a bracing mixture of old and new; as though someone had poured an energy drink into a pint of English ale. And yet it turned out to be pleasantly palatable, with a satisfying aftertaste. Let’s call it Blighty’s Old Peculiar.
The face-painted and be-wigged citizens who occupied the twenty-eight thousand, five-hundred seats made an awful lot of noise. Really, an awful lot. The racket that ensued when Tillakaratne Dilshan guided the ball to Shahzaib Hasan in the first over had the same decibelic impact as a space shuttle launch. Yet three hours later, with the game still undecided, murmuring silence reigned. Pakistani supporters lining the roof gardens of buildings off St John’s Wood Road looked anxious, squinting into the fading sunlight, their green and white flags twitching fitfully in the evening stillness.
Tense, but not heart-breakingly so, this was a hard-fought game between well-matched competitors. A stirring start from Mohammad Aamer and Abdul Razzaq was met with Kumar Sangakkara’s patience and guile. Then came a run chase in which Pakistan painstakingly stalked the required run-rate. But, fatally, Sri Lanka could not lock down the irrepressible Shahid Afridi. When, in the seventeenth over, they ran out of world class bowlers, Mr Boom Boom crashed a mighty six and a searing four and the throat-tightening tension eased.
In many ways the home of cricket is an odd venue for such a high profile international game. Venerable, cramped and ornate, for the players it must be like playing in a museum foyer. But it is a museum that has accommodated many tourists over the years and today the elaborate stonework absorbed a battering of Pakistani joy. They were worthy winners. Falling to the turf to thank Allah for their success, they were humble in their moment of triumph, none more so than captain Younus Khan, a man who surely epitomises dignity.
And the tournament, well organised in an old-fashioned, unobtrusive kind of way, also managed to keep its dignity. Yes there was music, but aside from a couple of wild nights at Trent Bridge, there was nothing to frighten your grandparents. Yes there were dancers, but they wore astonishingly sensible clothes and were rarely on our screens. Yes there were commentators, but they were allowed to call DLF maximums by their traditional name. And I only saw Lalit Modi once.
It has been a bracing mixture of old and new; as though someone had poured an energy drink into a pint of English ale. And yet it turned out to be pleasantly palatable, with a satisfying aftertaste. Let’s call it Blighty’s Old Peculiar.
Saturday, June 20, 2009
World Twenty20 Day Sixteen
Awards. Everyone likes awards. For instance, I was delighted this week to learn that I have been nominated for ‘Most Trivial Internet Feature By A Complete Nobody’. Apparently I’m up against a woman from Nuttyville, Utah whose blog, ‘Obama’s Pyjamas’ showcases her designs for Presidential nightwear and a retired Mongolian civil servant who posts a daily count of the number of yak he has seen going past his yurt. According to bookmakers, I’m the outsider of the three, but I’m hopeful.
Still, I have to say that I am appalled by the quality of award-ware doled out to those fine sportsmen who through their athletic endeavour and occasional practice earn the right to call themselves The Man Of The Match.
“Who’s the MOMmy?” cries Tillakaratne Dilshan, as he returns to the pavilion.
“You are!” chorus his teammates, “Again.”
“So where’s my prize?” asks the tousle-haired one, forlornly.
It’s a good question, Tillakaratne. Where are all the prizes? Surely, David Morgan you are not telling me that the little white box slipped furtively into the hands of the victorious gladiator as he approaches Nasser Hussain’s microphone is a prize? How much bling can you cram into a box that size? At the IPL they got shiny motorbikes. In the World Series, the MVP gets a small Pacific island for his trouble and Christiano Ronaldo doesn’t get out of bed if there isn’t a fresh Ferrari on his porch every morning. You need to show these people some love, Morgan, they are our futures.
So to show the way, I have commissioned my own awards, with financial backing from the Bank of Antigua, to honour the heroes of this and future ICC World Twenty20 competitions. Ten metres high and cast in solid bronze, they are so heavy that they have to be mounted on wheeled platforms and it takes an entire sub committee of ICC officials to move one. Each magnificent diamond-encrusted trophy depicts an enormous batsman standing with his legs wide apart and his eyes closed, having a heave. They have to be seen to be believed.
And so to the prize-giving. When Shahid Afridi paused in the heat of a semi-final battle to blow Jacques Kallis a kiss, billions of television viewers wept openly at the beauty of the moment. It represented everything that is pure and noble in the modern game. In fact, if only Don Bradman had been secure enough in his sexuality to do the same to Douglas Jardine, that whole Bodyline thing might never have happened. So, the inaugural Hughesie goes to Mr Shahid Afridi; for keeping the love flowing even during the Powerplay.
Still, I have to say that I am appalled by the quality of award-ware doled out to those fine sportsmen who through their athletic endeavour and occasional practice earn the right to call themselves The Man Of The Match.
“Who’s the MOMmy?” cries Tillakaratne Dilshan, as he returns to the pavilion.
“You are!” chorus his teammates, “Again.”
“So where’s my prize?” asks the tousle-haired one, forlornly.
It’s a good question, Tillakaratne. Where are all the prizes? Surely, David Morgan you are not telling me that the little white box slipped furtively into the hands of the victorious gladiator as he approaches Nasser Hussain’s microphone is a prize? How much bling can you cram into a box that size? At the IPL they got shiny motorbikes. In the World Series, the MVP gets a small Pacific island for his trouble and Christiano Ronaldo doesn’t get out of bed if there isn’t a fresh Ferrari on his porch every morning. You need to show these people some love, Morgan, they are our futures.
So to show the way, I have commissioned my own awards, with financial backing from the Bank of Antigua, to honour the heroes of this and future ICC World Twenty20 competitions. Ten metres high and cast in solid bronze, they are so heavy that they have to be mounted on wheeled platforms and it takes an entire sub committee of ICC officials to move one. Each magnificent diamond-encrusted trophy depicts an enormous batsman standing with his legs wide apart and his eyes closed, having a heave. They have to be seen to be believed.
And so to the prize-giving. When Shahid Afridi paused in the heat of a semi-final battle to blow Jacques Kallis a kiss, billions of television viewers wept openly at the beauty of the moment. It represented everything that is pure and noble in the modern game. In fact, if only Don Bradman had been secure enough in his sexuality to do the same to Douglas Jardine, that whole Bodyline thing might never have happened. So, the inaugural Hughesie goes to Mr Shahid Afridi; for keeping the love flowing even during the Powerplay.
Friday, June 19, 2009
World Twenty20 Day Fifteen
Generally, I’m not a fan of sea-faring metaphors. Like Sri Lanka and the Caribbean islands, Britain is completely surrounded by the salty stuff and the temptation for writers to dabble in nautical nonsense is ever present. But I hope on this occasion, you will forgive me, because I’m going to do it anyway.
You see, from the moment that Sanath Jayasuriya played his first air shot on Friday evening he seemed like a hapless extra in a Jaws sequel; a man overboard, thrashing about frantically as he strove to avoid the inevitable. It was an agonising experience watching him call out for new bats, shaking his head in bewilderment, playing blunt cut shots and even attempting a hopelessly vague reverse sweep. All the time, he wore a frantic, desperate look. Eventually, mercifully, he was gobbled up at fine leg.
Then there was Chris Gayle. Trinidadians and others will say he batted for himself. Jamaicans will say he was abandoned by his teammates. Neither is really true. The West Indies were wrecked in their first over and if you ever wanted proof of the existence of fate, surely this was Exhibit A. The gods chose humble Angelo Mathews as their instrument and with two innocuous seamers and a leg side wide, he shattered the stumps three times. From then on, the game had a hollow, broken feel. As Murali and Mendis scavenged amongst the wreckage, the ship went down, with Gayle standing motionless on the burning deck.
Gayle’s restrained power was outdone though by Tillekaratne Dilshan who played like an angel in possibly the prettiest Twenty20 innings there has ever been. Whilst his teammates wielded their bats as though they were mere lumps of wood, Dilshan flourished his magic wand, lapping the ball here, tapping it there, gliding it where he wished. Such was the contrast between his efforts and theirs, it was as though he was playing in digital whilst his teammates were struggling to tune in their analogue wavelengths.
And before we leave South London for the last time this tournament, we should show our appreciation for the real stars of the Oval: the pigeons. On Friday, they had moved from their regular haunt at short midwicket to field in the deep. But they still managed to flap into shot at every opportunity. And why not. There are those who like to believe that these mottled grey outfielders are the reincarnated souls of Surrey cricketers long departed. And if that really is Jack Hobbs pecking away at square leg, then he deserves his share of the Twenty20 birdseed.
You see, from the moment that Sanath Jayasuriya played his first air shot on Friday evening he seemed like a hapless extra in a Jaws sequel; a man overboard, thrashing about frantically as he strove to avoid the inevitable. It was an agonising experience watching him call out for new bats, shaking his head in bewilderment, playing blunt cut shots and even attempting a hopelessly vague reverse sweep. All the time, he wore a frantic, desperate look. Eventually, mercifully, he was gobbled up at fine leg.
Then there was Chris Gayle. Trinidadians and others will say he batted for himself. Jamaicans will say he was abandoned by his teammates. Neither is really true. The West Indies were wrecked in their first over and if you ever wanted proof of the existence of fate, surely this was Exhibit A. The gods chose humble Angelo Mathews as their instrument and with two innocuous seamers and a leg side wide, he shattered the stumps three times. From then on, the game had a hollow, broken feel. As Murali and Mendis scavenged amongst the wreckage, the ship went down, with Gayle standing motionless on the burning deck.
Gayle’s restrained power was outdone though by Tillekaratne Dilshan who played like an angel in possibly the prettiest Twenty20 innings there has ever been. Whilst his teammates wielded their bats as though they were mere lumps of wood, Dilshan flourished his magic wand, lapping the ball here, tapping it there, gliding it where he wished. Such was the contrast between his efforts and theirs, it was as though he was playing in digital whilst his teammates were struggling to tune in their analogue wavelengths.
And before we leave South London for the last time this tournament, we should show our appreciation for the real stars of the Oval: the pigeons. On Friday, they had moved from their regular haunt at short midwicket to field in the deep. But they still managed to flap into shot at every opportunity. And why not. There are those who like to believe that these mottled grey outfielders are the reincarnated souls of Surrey cricketers long departed. And if that really is Jack Hobbs pecking away at square leg, then he deserves his share of the Twenty20 birdseed.
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