Letter from Melbourne

The classic conundrum

Rajan Iyer

For me, it was somehow reflective of the lessened sense of optimism of the South Africans when the vendor of Biltong (and his hand lettered sign proclaiming 'Pure Bull') was not to be seen as we trudged up the footbridge on Sunday to enter Colonial Stadium.

The tie on Friday was not convincing. To strike a golfing metaphor, it defied belief that Australia would do a Greg Norman. Especially after a purposeful victory first up that espoused talk of how disparate the teams were, and authoritative re-affirmations of Australian cricketing superiority.

The most positive comment that could be made was that the South Africans had had a lucky escape. Thus the sense of inevitability for the final game as we sat up in what would be called the bleachers, but with the numbered seats in this sparkling new stadium that is a non-sequitur.

Australians like being thought of as battlers struggling against adversity. This leads to an admirable tradition of support for underdogs, so in evidence when Australia 'A' was pitted against Australia a few seasons ago. This famously drew the ire of Mark Taylor who objected to being barracked against in his own country.

The South Africans today found themselves being supported in the stands today. And not just by the South Africans. Hard, flinty eyed men that they are, they would have much preferred to be seen as equals and barracked against. Certainly supporting them were the Sri Lankans sitting next to us; particularly when their old nemesis Darrell Hair lent a hand in the Lance Klusener dismissal.

The ground still sported a palimpsest-like quality, threadbare sections mingled with fresh turf; the vestiges of the previous sponsor's logo seeming to throw into relief the current one's. It was also damp. Ponting, Bevan and Shane Lee and later Nicky Boje were reduced to toddlers in their attempt to give chase. This led to deliberations in the stands if there would be underground heating to speed up the drying process. The travails of a rich country!

Jason Gillespie, he of the wild eyed appeals, however is looking fighting fit; his loping run and wolfish countenance intact, the odd delivery too fast for mere batsmen, he certainly adds to the problems of plenty that Australia currently faces. Of particular interest is that his run-up is shorter than Brett Lee's in so doing.

This leads to an idle observation that electronic scoreboards either abbreviate names to apparent acronyms like TMCHS or change ethnic origins altogether. Ian Chappell, in the days of World Series Cricket became an Italian called Chappelli, a moniker that has stuck fast. Today, a novice would have thought that a Vietnamese called B.Le was opening the bowling for Australia.

And for a while in the middle, especially when the Proteas were crawling along and we were wondering if we would be out by 1630h, there was nothing to do but idly observe.

Would that pigeon, sitting high up in the roof structure, accurately surprise its namesake McGrath, fielding directly beneath at third man?

Why did the Gestapo have to descend in such large numbers to bundle out the young man who had sneaked in his Video Camera?

How many in the crowd were Software Professionals fresh from India? (Easy to spot. They were the ones with the wispy moustaches.)

Tiring of all this we turned to celebrity spotting, and were immediately rewarded when we almost heard him before seeing him - Merv Hughes, in the players' dugout, corpulent as ever, nary a wispy whisker on him, leading with a guffaw and the Aussies predictably falling about him.

But of course, by now man of the series Nicky Boje began sweetly striking sixes and the innings was gathering a momentum of sorts to finish at a seemingly insufficient 206/8. When it was announced that Australia were being docked 2 overs for a slow over rate, a palpable sneer went around.

With the Olympics fast approaching, the TV news nowadays features the progress of the Olympic torch around Australia with luminaries as well as ordinary tax payers running the torch relay to its destination-Sydney the harbour city.

Well, at lunch time in the stadium we had our own spoof 'torch relay'. This was run by a few knock about youths who stacked all their used beer cups (and a sizable stack it was too), stuck a bit of orange paper in it and ran through the crowds holding each others' shirt tails.

As Gilchrist began methodically laying about the South African bowling, the lacquer on his bat agleam, that exodus at 1630h looked a certainty. The public stretched lazily, the lady sitting in dutiful accompaniment with her spouse seemed torn about whether or not she ought to shut her copy of Anita Desai's 'Fasting, Feasting', others drank a last coffee and glumly contemplated the prospect of renewing hostilities at work on Monday.

Consider then the extraordinary turn of events afterwards, culminating in an improbable, series levelling South African victory. From an Australian perspective, the fitting phrase would be 'snatching defeat from the jaws of victory' but that has of course been patented by Indian and Pakistani sports editors.

What renders these last two games incredible is the opinion in the minds of unbiased, impartial observers of the game about which way the last two games should have gone.

Is this not the classic conundrum then? In Australian eyes, there will be no question about the probity of these games. Indeed one can be certain that there will be a cricketing explanation to the extraordinary results we saw.

It was a veritable tower of Babel as we streamed out, as the various strains of English mixed it with Afrikaans, Sinhalese, Tamil Hindi and a host of other languages.

As we left behind the beautifully lit lines of this gleaming edifice, how strange that we become so irrationally nostalgic I thought, as some more of Henry Graham's lines, redolent of a simpler past, washed up.

And now nothing left
But memories
Of a setting sun, sounds
And smells across
The shadowed field,
White on green, my hands
Held out for the catch
That never came.

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