It Takes All Sorts - Celebrating Crickets Colourful Characters [Peter Roebuck] (2)

IT TAKES ALL SORTS

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PETERROEBUCK

IT TAKES ALL SORTSCelebrating crickets colourful characters

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First published in 2005

Copyright Peter Roebuck, 2005

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in anyform or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher. The Australian Copyright Act 1968 (the Act) allows amaximum of one chapter or 10 per cent of this book, whichever is the greater, to bephotocopied by any educational institution for its educational purposes provided thatthe educational institution (or body that administers it) has given a remunerationnotice to Copyright Agency Limited (CAL) under the Act.

Allen & Unwin83 Alexander StreetCrows Nest NSW 2065 AustraliaPhone: (61 2) 8425 0100Fax: (61 2) 9906 2218Email: [email protected]: www.allenandunwin.com

National Library of AustraliaCataloguing-in-Publication entry:

Roebuck, Peter, 1956- .It takes all sorts : celebrating crickets colourfulcharacters.

Includes index.ISBN 1 74114 542 2.

1. Roebuck, Peter, 1956- . 2. Cricket players - Anecdotes.3. Cricket - Anecdotes. I. Title.

796.358

Typeset in 12/16 pt Galliard by Midland TypesettersPrinted by Griffin Press, South Australia

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CONTENTS

Dedication viPreface vii

1 Arrivals 12 Champions and their deeds 223 Soaring subcontinentals 414 Breaking barriers 625 To be an Englishman 726 Shafts of lightning 927 From the Caribbean 1028 From various angles 1189 From the Dark Continent 133

10 Salt of the earth 15011 Australians at work 15912 Reputations 18213 Leaving the stage 19514 Retirements 20615 Dealing with life 22016 Departures 231

Afterword 247Index 250

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This book is dedicated to:

Mohandas GandhiMartin Luther King, Jnr

Lech WalesaEdmund Dene Morel

Muhammad AliSeve Ballesteros

And my new family members,Diamond and Tonderai,

and my dogs, Mozart, Dylan and Tina

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Preface

Seinfeld says that research indicates people fear public speakingmore than death and points out that this means they wouldrather be in a casket at a funeral than giving the oration. Myown life has been not so much private as independent. My interest insport rests largely upon its revelation of character.

This book contains a selection of character studies in the form ofreports of men in action, constructed in the hurly-burly of a press boxwith deadlines looming, and contemplations written in the moretranquil atmosphere of a hotel room or a desk at home. They havebeen arranged to reflect the passage of life, both in terms of time andgeography. So the book starts with birth, more or less, and ends withdeath. Likewise, it begins with Sobers, or at any rate his mother, andfinishes with Bradman. If not quite as accomplished as these greatplayers, most of those in between are just as interesting.

It Takes All Sorts was chosen as a title because it was manifestlytrue, but against the wishes of the Melbourne intellectuals whoplayed a significant part in selecting the material. Matthew Klugmanand Alex McDermott might not care for their description, becauseit better reflects their role in the book than their devotion to mattersof the mind. Encountered during the course of the only print inter-view I have given (or been asked to give) in the last decade, theyhave subsequently spent much time trying to persuade your authorto write with greater profundity. Of course, the cause was long agolost! My erudition is not worn lightly. It does not exist.

Although thwarted in this regard, Matthew and Alex continued tospend many hours in libraries, digging out articles that might beworth revisiting. Insofar as this book provides satisfaction, a lot of thecredit must go to them.

Likewise, I have been fortunate in my editor. In his infinitewisdom, Patrick Gallagher, the senior man at Allen & Unwin, askedEmma Cotter to oversee the project, a task she carried out with theblend of patience, persistence and perception found in all the best

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practitioners of this problematic craft. That she afterwards fled toFrance was not taken personally.

I also wish to thank the newspapers and magazines that have givenpermission for articles to be reproduced. Changes have been made asseemed appropriate. For example, the line Warne is a goose andcould not dismiss my Aunt Sally was removed on the grounds thatreaders might conclude that the author was not, after all, infallibleand promptly put the book aside. Most of the articles started life inThe Sydney Morning Herald and The Age, but some first saw the lightof day in The Cricketer, Wisden, Wisden Asia Cricketer and the English Sunday Times.

Finally, I would like to thank readers of my various columns andbooks, without whom a fellow might have to stop spending his timeat cricket matches and go to work!

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1Arrivals

Cricket is a game played in the mind. Give a man confidence andhe will walk among kings. Drag him down and he will scurry

among crabs.

Nothing is more stimulating in cricket reporting than theopportunity to investigate the forces that combined toproduce the player. Inevitably, sports coverage concentratesupon the careers of those involved in an ever-changing scene, yet theperiods before and after are just as compelling, for then the sports-man lies naked before the examiner.

Nowadays, the best time to talk to a sportsman is before fame hasentered his life, with its agents, advisers and answers, or after thecircus has left town, for then voice can more easily be given to the thoughts and emotions subdued in the search for acceptability.

An interest in education and social history lies behind the articlesincluded in this chapter. Most particularly, the desire arose to showthat sportsmen emerge from all manner of nooks and crannies.Complacency persuades us that a blueprint can be produced outlin-ing the correct way of raising children. Parents straying from thatpath are condemned and the success and evident comfort of theirprogeny is dismissed as the exception that proves the rule. And soevery driving father is scorned and every indulgent mother is praised.

History indicates that humanity is not so easily contained. Ourworld is full of magazines and advertisements portraying a contented

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world, diverting our eyes from the struggles that take place every-where, even within those same walls once the illusion has beenremoved. In each study here the aim was simply to convey the truthwithout preconception. Bear in mind that these young men made thegrade. Sometimes it is a tale of triumph over adversity, sometimes acontinuation of an upbringing untouched by insecurity. Always thestories reflect the richness and variety to be found in life and the wayin which the determined and gifted child can overcome.

From Garry Sobers to Dewald Pretorius, from Tatenda Taibu toBas Zuiderent, from Waddington Mwayenga to Hansie Cronje, fromSachin Tendulkar to Shivnarine Chanderpaul, the range and richnessof the backgrounds detailed here is vast. From daily beatings to amothers love, from a thin mattress to a feathered duvet, from a back-water to the mainstream, from a village to a bustling city, the varietybears testimony to the possibilities of the human spirit.

By chance, most of the youngsters mentioned in this chapter areAfrican or Indian. But, then, that is where rawness endures, wherethe challenge is sharpest. Repeatedly, Western writers impose theirown standards, yet their world too is full of desperation. All of theyoungsters included in this section survived their raisings. The abusedAfrikaner had a miserable time, while the spoilt Dutch boy is notexactly full of cheer, but the rest made their way from family to thefraternity of sport.

Apart from Dewald Pretorius, none of the boys thought they hadovercome any serious hardship. Poverty was a shared experience andnot peculiar to them. Moreover, their expectations of life had notbeen raised by those convinced that constant happiness is no merepipedream.

Garry Soberss mother was wonderful, while Chanderpauls rela-tions were obliging and proud. Both continued to lead lives of highsimplicity. The Ricky Ponting interview was a bit of luck. Uponreturning to Australia after six months overseas, I rang KerryOKeeffe in an attempt to catch up. Kerry mentioned a lad fromTasmania who was worth watching and, as it happened, was playingat North Sydney Oval that very day. My newspapers were surprisedthat their correspondents first story of the summer concerned anobscure 17-year-old from Launceston, but published it anyhow.

Most of the rest of these articles were the result of relationships

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built during coaching trips to Africa and were, like many of myarticles, as much about injustice as sport. But, then, cricket is a meanswhereby youngsters can explore their talent and express theircourage, while older observers remaining within its precincts use it toexplore the wider interests that sooner or later enter the minds ofeven the most single-minded kicker of leather or hitter of catgut.

Sir Garrys mum

It was, in some respects, a pilgrimage. A visit to Sir Garfields mum.A phone call had been enough. Mrs Thelma Sobers? . . . Datsright. . . . Sir Garrys mum? . . . So they say. Come tomorrow,she said, any time at all.

And so we did, our knock being answered by a tall, thin, chuck-ling, energetic, hospitable lady, a little dotty perhaps, and worriedabout the camera. I dont photograph too well, she said. It was, wewere to discover, her only vanity. There was no other sign that shehad raised the greatest cricketer ever to set foot on this earth.

Thelma lives in a simple home with her granddaughter and great-granddaughter, spends her time listening to the races, laughing andwatching television. Until recently, she lived on her own, but shesgetting on a bit, 86 years young, and the family wanted to take careof her. Not that shes ill or aching or anything of that sort. Forget-ful, perhaps, but thats about it. Full of fun, though humble, and asgentle as can be.

Sitting down to talk was not easy for her. Like a bird, she wantedto twitter around, and her eyes and hands were restless even as shesettled. She had raised Garry and five other children (a sixth died inchildbirth) on her own, more or less, helped a little by her motherand by a small pension paid after her husbands death. He had diedduring the war, a torpedo sinking his ship as it took sugar andbananas to Britain.

I tell him, Thelma says without any hint of anger, if I was he Iwouldnt go nowhere. But he like the sea. He said he had to go. Hehad to work for the chilren. God take him away.

He was the churchgoer, a serious and just man, who nevergambled. She was vital, easygoing, and her famous son took after her.

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Thelma did not remarry, concentrating instead upon raising thechildren who had come along one after another. My home wasalways full of them. They had me all of the time. Their home was litby an oil lamp and warmed by a coal pot. There was no iron or fridgeor electricity. Meat was salted and kept in an icebox. It tasted realnice. Yams, potatoes and porridge were put upon the table. But thisis no tale of hardship. They were a happy family, lively and loving.The eldest went to sea and the youngsters played their sport.

Garry was four when his father passed away. Sometimes Dad hadbrought balls back from the sea and the boys had played with them,in the road outside their house at first, and, when they were oldenough, in the nearby field. He loved the ball when he small,Thelma recalled. He study a little, but he live for cricket. I couldntdo anything with him. Cricket had he all the time. He wanted to playbad. They couldnt get he out.

Not that she tried to drag her son away from sport. She likes cricket,enjoys listening to it on the radio. But she prefers racing. Thelma waslucky with her children. They never worry me. Some chilren, theyfight. We had none of that. They never go against anybody at all.

Soon enough, people began to take notice of Garrys cricket andthe Police Club signed him up, saying he could play in their band. Noone recalls seeing Garry playing an instrument, though; only cricket.Sometimes, to get a game, he would cycle across Barbados and playunder an assumed name. He would lash the bowling all around untila friend wandered past and called, Hi, Garry! whereupon everyonewould twig him. Then an umpire would give him out.

And Garry had lots of friends.Mrs Sobers did not interfere with her boys cricket, had no reason

to. This is no fierce matriarch driving her son in the absence of afather. Rather, a likeable mother, twinkling and loving, letting heroffspring loose upon the world. She has only seen him play two orthree times.

Thelma remembers Sir Frank Worrell and says he was a great man.He wanted Garry to take up the captaincy, but he didnt really wantto. He never did it. Daughter Sonia points out that Garry did, infact, lead the region for some time. This surprises Thelma. Datright? she asks, and laughs again. Golly, her son had captained theWest Indies. Shes not the sort to make a fuss.

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When they wanted to fly her to London in 1975 for Garrys ThisIs Your Life, she resisted. I dont like aeroplanes or any of that. Idont even like the sea much. Eventually they talked her into it.Moved and surprised to see her, Garry asked, How did you do it?

A picture forms of a sweet upbringing in one of the poorer partsof St Michaels, an upbringing that produced a balanced, even-tempered son. Thelma is remarkable because she is unaffected, almostunaware. But then, of course, they say the same about Sir Garfield.He hasnt changed a bit, they say. Sometimes they wish he had.

The fishermans son

As Shivnarine Chanderpaul, a waif with a pixies face, was stroking hisway to 62 on a Test debut made on his home pitch in Georgetown,Guyana, in 1994, a female voice cried out across the ground, If thisChanderpaul think he marry a foreigner, he don think again.

Another woman, selling biscuits and sweets by the side of apotholed road, said, I like dis boy, he so young and he play all deshots. And it was the Afro-Caribbeans who invaded the pitch as thefrail teenager of Indian descent reached his fifty. Guyana had takenChanderpaul to its heart.

He is a local lad, born into a humble fishermans family in a fishingvillage, Unity, an hours drive along the sugar-beet coast of a countrywhose population hugs the seas, the interior being thick with forest.Unity is a subsistence village; its wooden houses are built on stilts andits hospital and leper colony closed long ago, times having been hardin Guyana. Apart from a small field, it has no sporting facilities. YetUnity has produced two Test cricketersColin Croft and ShivnarineChanderpaul.

The latters cricketing pedigree was promising, if not immaculate.Kemraj, his father, played good cricket and kept wicket to Croft, wholives a sand wedge away. Both uncles played for strong clubs andDavi, his sister, wielded a fine bat. They could pelt it as hard as theylike and she stand up. But her shoulders slim and there no ladiescricket round here, recalls Kemraj.

From the start, Chanderpaul was a cricketer. When he in hismothers belly she bowl to me, says his father, whereupon Uncle

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Martin adds, When he a boy I soak de bat and he drink de oil.Thereafter, it seems, a life in cricket was inevitable.

At the age of eight, he started practising in the local communityhall, which is not as posh as it sounds. I start he inside, says Kemraj.I heard Kanhai practised on concrete. Its the same idea. We got ourown calculations here. Finally, we had to stop because de damage tode balls got expensive. So I took he outside.

But outside there were no nets, no pitch, just a small field of roughgrass upon which goats and cows periodically grazed. Undeterred,they rolled and cut a pitch and sewed a net from the ones Kemraj usesevery day to catch bottlefish for the overseas market. The wicketremains muddy and bumpy. Its all dis rain, and cows and peoplewalking through, Kemraj says.

By now Chanderpaul was batting three or four hours a day. Hedgo to school with his bags and bat and ball, throw his bags away andrun to the nets. The teacher wasnt pleased, Kemraj says, but hepleased now.

At thirteen, the boy left school. He play cricket all de timeanyhow, says his father. The entire village was behind him, volunteersbowling morning, noon or night, the boy practising in rain or shine.On match days, theyd crowd around him so that he hardly had roomto breathe. Long ago, he learnt to live with pressure.

Kemraj used to talk to his son late into the night. I tell he to watchthe footwork of Kallicharran. I tell he Gavaskar never go out in denineties. I tell he, if you afraid get hit, stop playing de game. Littlechildren go out and play all kinds of things. I tell he marbles nevercarry you nowhere. He concentrate on cricket since he small.

Taking his fathers advice, Chanderpaul began to run 40 timesaround de ball field, and decided to aim for the top. His father saidhe must try to play for Guyana while still a youth and then to knockdown de door of de West Indies so he can go in.

Chanderpaul rose quickly, joined the prestigious GeorgetownCricket Club, scored 117 on debut and left saying something wrongwit my batting. He did not like club practices because he could batfor only ten minutes, compared with three hours at home. But hepersisted, and word of him soon spread.

By now wed drunk lots of coconut water and talked for hours andit was time for a lunch of rice, chicken and roti. Then Chanderpaul

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wandered in, for it was the rest day. He had come home on one ofthe minibuses upon which all except the rich travel, but he had nothad to pay his fare.

Chanderpaul is shy but ready to smile. He was a little embarrassedthat his relatives were displaying an exercise book with cuttings gluedin. He confirmed he didnt like getting out, saying, if ball hit me,nothing wrong. Cant out. He added, When I get mad, I hook offde front foot.

He sleeps in a small room with a mosquito net, a chest expanderand lots of cricket bats. He had not expected to play in the Test andthinks reaching de side is one thing, staying in it is de main thing.He had been pleased to score 62, but was extremely vexed at failingto reach three figures.

The sigh of disappointment when Chanderpaul lost his wicket toa long hop could be heard across Georgetown. The boy was furious,his father understanding.

Already, he has achieved much. Chanderpaul knew his selectionwas controversial. He also knew an entire village and half a countrywere watching, expecting him to do well, for as his father says, sincehe small de whole island know he.

The thin boy with a gentle smile had taken it all in his stride, andscored 62 in his first Test. He is a determined, level-headed young-ster and more will be heard of him.

Young man in a hurry

Ricky Ponting may be the best thing since thick-cut marmalade. Heis seventeen, wears a tiny, defiant goatee beard, a shadow of a mous-tache, has a pale face and feet that skim across the turf. Already he isa batsman of intuition, power and confidence, one with a sense ofstillness and space and a glint in his eye that belies his origins inLaunceston, the country cousin of a country cousin.

Last year, aged sixteen, he was the second highest scorer in theAustralian under-19 carnival, two runs adrift of Anthony McGuire ofWollongong, both players averaging 60. As a 12-year-old he scored100 and 70 in an under-16 carnival, at eleven he hit four hundredsin five innings during an under-13 Cricket Week. He admits all this

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in the quiet, matter-of-fact voice of a bloke who cant stand fuss butis not afraid of his record, or of the treacherous step between promiseand fulfilment.

He can certainly bat. Colleagues call him Sachin, after Tendulkar,and one says he is easily the best cricketer of his age group in thecountry. A week ago he scored 150 as the Cricket Academytrounced Queenslands Second XI. Runs did not flow so freely after-wards against NSW, but he did play some searing back-foot shots andstraight drives, did once move out to a spinner and, finding himselfshort, used arm and wrist not to scotch but to guide gently past mid-off to the fence. He batted with maturity in the four-day game untilbeing given out caught behind for 37, while in the 50-over contesthe forgot the old adage that it is with our passions as it is with fireand water, they are good servants but bad masters.

Since April, Ponting has attended the Academy in Adelaide.Leaving school early did not worry him because he was not a dedi-cated scholar. It wasnt much of a contest between homework andcricket training. I copped it a few times, but mostly got away with it.I left school as soon as I could, he says.

By sixteen he was working as a groundsman and as a cricketer,representing Tasmania at under-17 and under-19 carnivals. He ismindful that good and bad springs from his birthplace. You getnoticed more quickly in the sticks, he says. But we dont play posi-tively enough in Tasmania because we dont think were as good asthey are. Take our under-19 game with Victoria last year. At tea weneeded 100 with six wickets left and lost by three. From his neckhangs a miniature cricket bat and in his eye is a look that says andthat wont happen again.

After his outstanding under-19 carnival, Ponting was invited to attend the Academy in Adelaide, which now runs from April toDecember, thereby allowing students to return to their clubs andstates. Ponting was picked to tour South Africa last autumn and found it sensational, seeing other ways of life, seeing how theblacks are treated, which isnt good is it? We did some coachingclinics and theyre certainly talented. If they get the opportunity.

Then it was back to Adelaide and early mornings, swimming andtraining, and practising cricket in the afternoon. Ponting believes hisfitness has picked up a lot and hes also found the psychological

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instruction valuable. I didnt use to think about it a lot, about havinglittle goals through the day but feeling happy with yourself as youwalked off if it had gone well. It sounds nothing but it means some-thing to me.

It has not all been muscle and sweat. Ian Chappell taught him toattack spin by using his feet to dominate, and Rod Marsh has alsogiven a tip or two. Not too much coaching, though, because there isno blueprint. Not all coaches agree with that. My old Somerset coachonce told a boy he was holding the bat wrong. But sir, said the boy,this is how Don Bradman held it and he scored lots of runs. Yes,lad, replied the coach, but imagine how many hed have scored ifhed held it right.

In many respects, Ponting is a typical young Australian. He maybe just the cricketer Tasmania and Australia needs, aggressive andexciting. But it is a long and rocky road.

A young man seeking a better life

Waddington Mwayenga has taken five wickets for 21 runs forZimbabwes under-19 team in the tournament taking place in NewZealand, a youth World Cup no less. According to reports, he is ayoung pace bowler of admirable accuracy. Always on the spot, heripped through the top order, bowling his 10 overs straight through.Even against stronger opponents than Kenya he has held his own.

He is a promising bowler, Waddington, a tall 17-year-old with arhythmic action capable of landing the ball on his countrys shrink-ing dollar. But his achievements go beyond the matter of bowlingfigures and even the manifest qualities of the young man in question.

Waddington sleeps on the floor in a small, hot room, betweenelder brother Allan, no mean bowler himself, and young Nicky, an engaging individual currently negotiating the hurly-burly ofadolescence.

The Mwayengas live in a stone shack amid a cluster of similarabodes tucked away behind the plusher buildings of a private schoolin Harare, St Johns College, an establishment attended by MurrayGoodwin and Scott Brant. Mr Mwayenga works as head of groundsat the school that provides his home and can be seen rolling the

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wickets at dawn or playing soccer with his workers in the lunch hour.He is a grave, occasionally laughing man who has found a job, fed hisfamily and educated his sons.

Previously, Waddington and his brothers attended a state schoolseveral miles away and at first light began the journey on foot, carryingbooks and sometimes kit. It was a common experience. They are good-natured fellows, full of laughter yet with a slight hurt lingering beneaththe surface, the hurt of those who seek an explanation. Their faith isstrong and in the African way they show respect for elders and educa-tion. Their family is warm and possessed of a quiet yearning.

Soon the middle son passed a few exams and was offered a placeat the school where his father worked. Doubtless the school wantedto help a valued employee while strengthening its cricket team.Money was found for these purposes. Although Mr Mwayengainsisted that his boys attend to their studies, he realised the possibil-ities to be found in sport. From their earliest days, Waddington andhis brothers practised in the school nets, using the roughest balls and rudimentary bats, or those discarded or bestowed by wealthierchildren. Not long ago, a black schools First XI was stunned to seean opponent changing bats mid-innings. This fellow had two bats?

Allan lacked the special talent needed to secure a place in thetraining squads. Waddington improved as he grew, and did both byleaps and bounds. He took wickets for the school, turned up in hisblazer and kept his counsel, for he does not say much. At night hedreturn to sleep alongside his brothers. He has a dignity about himthat runs in the family.

Next, Waddington was chosen for the under-19 trials, where hisefforts were almost rewarded. A year later, he was back and this time his stamina, bounce and pace were recognised. When his inclusion in the squad was announced, a beam fell upon his fathers face. That night,Mr Mwayenga and I went back to his shack and drank Castle beer and an altogether livelier concoction contributed by the proud parent.

Sachins early days

Sachin Tendulkar has always had his feet upon the ground. He comesfrom a professional family and might have become a lawyer had not

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cricket claimed him. Not that he was a dedicated student, for hecould not wait to return to the fields. He was fortunate to be raisedin a close family in which learning was respected and sporting prowesskept in its place. Happily, Tendulkars father also had the wisdom toencourage his son to play cricket and even advised him to pursue thegame, pointing out that there are thousands of lawyers and only afew truly gifted batsmen.

From the start, Tendulkar was devoted to the game. In his earlydays, hed join hundreds of boys for coaching at the famous nurseryin Shivaji Park, where the fundamentals of the game were drilled intogenerations of boys, including Sanjay Manjrekar, Ajit Wadekar, SunilGavaskar and Vinod Kambli. Shivaji Park was, and remains, typicallyIndian. Those arriving early for practice might find a light misthanging over a park about twice the size of a proper cricket field.They would see old-timers walking around the park on their morningexercise and were advised to take off their shoes and join thembecause walking barefoot in the dew was deemed good for the soul.Sometimes the RSS, the militant wing of the Hindu fundamentalistparty, would be completing its drills. In summer the earth was hot,baked red and full of pebbles, but after the monsoon it was lush and fresh.

Ramakant Achrekar and Das Shivalkar were the presiding coaches.Achrekar instilled the finer points in a select group of older boys andis remembered as Tendulkars first coach. Shivalkar has been forgot-ten but did most of the early work, coaching the boys till they reachedten, whereupon the cream of the crop were passed on to his superior.Shivalkar was a character. He would turn up in slippers and a longshirt and sometimes his students swore there was a whiff of alcoholin his breath. As David Innis, a contemporary, recalls, though, hecould bowl a wicked off-cutter and ran a hard school. As the onlyChristian in the group, Innis was often made captain. He was alsomore willing than his shy Indian friends to change and shower in therudimentary pavilion that was Shivajis only building, a roughconstruction in the corner of the field where, for a small fee, the boyscould deposit their kit and school clothes till practice was over,whereupon, by way of replenishment, they could go to a little stall tobuy sweet tea, puffed rice, buttered buns and, for those with money,an omelette spiced with peppers hidden in its folds.

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Practice started at 6 a.m. as Shivalkar split the boys into pairs.Soon matches began and everyone was given a chance to bat.According to Innis, the rules were simple. Whether you hit the ballor not, you had to run. If you didnt, you were out. Tendulkar wasin his group, and swiftly learnt to find the gaps. About twentygames would be played at the same time and a lad fielding at thirdman had to keep his eyes open because he was also leg-slip inanother contest. Fieldsmen kept their ears open for calls of Look!,an abbreviation of Lookout!! whereupon everyone in the areacovered their heads.

Even then Tendulkars dedication was legendary. Innis recallsarriving early one morning and chatting to his coach when a small,curly-haired child appeared complaining that the maalis wouldnot put up the nets until six and could Sir Shivalkar please tell themto put them up or alternatively authorise him to erect them himself?A few years later, Tendulkar travelled through the night with ayouth team, arrived at their destination at 3 a.m., practised in thecorridors till dawn and then woke up his coach at 5.30 and said hewas ready to go to the ground as he was not happy with his batting.In those days his captains and coaches used to send him to thirdman because he was full of suggestions and it was the only way tokeep him quiet.

Shivalkar coached Tendulkar and Vinod Kambli and wonderedwhich might rise furthest. Kambli used to hop onto a lorry bringingfruit and vegetables to the markets. Shivalkar worried about Kambli,the precocious left-hander, because he came from a lower caste,might not be given the chances he deserved and might not be ableto take success in his stride.

Shivaji Park was Tendulkars academy. As informal matchesproduced so many West Indian cricketers, so these early mornings inBombay were a testing ground for numerous aspiring cricketers inIndia. Innis recalls Shivalkar fondly, says he loved the game, instilledan aggressive attitude in his charges, brooked no nonsense and gaveof himself willingly. Tendulkar was fortunate to meet such a man inhis formative years. Shivalkar and Achrekar were lucky to have sucha committed student. Doubtless it was a reward for all those earlymornings as the sun rose over Shivaji Park and hundreds of hopefulsarrived eager for instruction.

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More young men in a hurry

Dewald PretoriusThis is the story of a young man named Dewald, a battered whitechild who opened the bowling for his country on 8 March 2002.

Dewald Pretoriuss troubles began before he was born, because hisfather had a child by another woman and ran off with her. Even now,Dewald only knows scraps about him. His mother remarried and thestepfather was a brute who belted his stepsons every night, grabbingthem and thumping them with a plank. We lived in fear, Dewaldrecalls. We hated it when 5 p.m. came, because he was on his wayhome. They could not bring any friends back, and no one visited.We tried to run away, but they always brought us back. The boysran wild and were hungry, bruised and in rags.

For ten years this wretchedness continued, the mother cowering,the boys angry and despairing. And then the stepfather did notcome home one night. Dewald and his brother, three years older,waited with trepidation and then relief as they went to bed unpun-ished. Next morning, he still wasnt back so they went to school.After two or three lessons, the headmaster called us in, Pretoriusremembers, and told us hed been murdered. It was hard not to behappy. He pauses and adds, almost reluctantly, We hated him.There is no other word.

Care became an issue and counsellors appeared. Fearing separationfrom their mother, the boys refused to see the doctors so the policewere called and they were taken away, passing their mother andscreaming as she slumped on the pavement. The boys were taken toa place of safety and stayed there for seven months till their case washeard. It was a violent place. Every Sunday, the lads were made tofight till one bled and then the victor fought till he bled and so on,seniors urging them on, supervisors turning a blind eye and nocomplaints allowed, for they brought retribution.

Next the Afrikaner youngsters were put in a hostel in Kroonstaad,their home town in the Free State, where Dewald stayed till he wasthirteen. Officials decided they could not live with their motherbecause they looked hungry, though Dewald says this was thehostels fault. Their mother decided her boys would be happier at anorphanage in Bloemfontein.

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Dewald had known no warmth or met anyone who believed inhim. Both at the orphanage and at Dr Viljeons School, he foundconcerned adults who provided love and encouragement.

They told Dewald, You can make something of your life, and hecommitted himself to passing his exams and leaving the orphanage asits outstanding product, and achieved both. His brother was not solucky. He was sent to a reformatory and came back worse andnowadays tramps the country in rags. Dewald found him a job, but itdid not last. He says, You can only help those who help themselves.

At thirteen, Dewald discovered cricket and my whole life startedthen. Friends were playing and he joined in, not wanting to returnearly to the orphanage. He found he could bowl faster than anyoneelse and was immediately put in a team, an enormous boost to hisconfidence.

Bloemfontein is a small town and word spread about his pace andenthusiasm. Corrie van Zyl, then the provincial coach, took aninterest, as did Hansie Cronje and Allan Donald, who providedguidance and help, saying, You just keep going. Pretorius regardsCronje as the best man he has met.

Pretorius took a job at Free States ground and practised everynight, determined to play for his country. Last week he made it.Things did not go so well, but he says, I promise you Ill be back.Afterwards, he saw his girlfriend and then visited the orphans.

Pretorius has come a long way. He worked for three years as ahostel father at the orphanage and tells the children, You just keepgoing. You can make something of your life. And then he goes backto the nets, utterly determined to fight his way back into the Testteam.

Tatenda Taibu and Stuart MatsikenyeriIn 1995, two primary school boys went to watch their country playPakistan at Harares main cricket ground. Accompanied by their friendsfrom the poorer parts of town, the boys cheered as Zimbabwe recordedtheir first victory in Test cricket. Tatenda Taibu, the youngest of thepair by eleven days, turned to his friend Stuart Matsikenyeri and said,One day we must play together for Zimbabwe.

Taibu has kept his part of the bargain and nowadays serves as hiscountrys vice-captain and wicket-keeper, a task he performs so

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skilfully that an umpiring mistake alone prevented him breaking aworld record of his own in Perth. The only byes conceded in Austra-lias massive innings came from an inside edge. Matsikenyeri hasbatted gamely for Zimbabwe in one-day cricket and is pressing for aplace in the Test side. Taibu has thrown so many balls to him, he says,that his arm must be falling off.

Taibu and his comrade grew up together in Highfields, a heavilypopulated suburb in the nations capital that contains both stonehouses and tin shacks. Taibu says that it is a good place, and that hedid not suffer any particular hardship. His father owned a barbersshop, but passed away when the boy was thirteen. His mother diedin 2001, leaving the teenager to take care of himself and his youngerbrothers.

Cricket came into Taibus life in his junior school days. SteveMangongo and other coaches appointed by the Zimbabwe CricketUnion were trying to spread the game in the high-density areas andTaibu liked the look of it. Mangongo, he says, taught us to view lifein a tough way. We had to be brave. His father was pleased with hisnewfound enthusiasm because it would help him avoid drugs,alcohol and other mischief.

Meanwhile, Matsikenyeri was growing up with his parents in apolice camp, where he lived until his father passed away. Soccer washis strong point, and they called him Maradona, but he was smalland did not want to get roughed up by the big boys. He saw a bunchof fellows playing cricket and decided to join them. He has beenplaying cricket ever since, even surviving the calamity of breaking awindow in his house. He did not want to go home that day! Taiburecalls. His mother wanted him to concentrate on his books, but hisfather knew the game was keeping him out of trouble.

Soon the lads joined forces. Helped by their friends, the boysdeveloped their own ground. The council decided to plant trees ontheir version of Lords, a turn of events that displeased them. It wasnot good news, Matsikenyeri chuckles. We didnt approve at all.The solution was simple. Every day, the boys surreptitiously removeda tree until the area was flat again, a strategy that resulted innumerous hidings and a satisfactory cricket arena. Thereafter, theboys would rush home from school to practise. It was cricket,cricket, cricket, Taibu says in his well-modulated voice. Next came a

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scholarship to Churchill School, which has become a cricketingstronghold. Cricket, not money, was on their minds, Taibu confirms.We had not even thought about the education that came our way.He rose to be Zimbabwean captain and man of the tournamentduring the under-19 World Cup. Taibu believes that better days lieahead for him. Just watch, he says, with a smile.

He is likewise confident that Hamilton Masakadza will succeedonce he returns from university. Matsikenyeri remembers their firstever practice on grass. Masakadza was hit on the eye and forced toretire. Some of the boys were hurt and did not come back, saysMatsikenyeri. Hamilton was hit hardest, and he returned next week.

No sooner had the Perth Test finished than these young men wereback in the nets. Matsikenyeri is searching for a balance betweentechnique and aggression. He knows that sometimes he gets carriedaway, but believes that everyone has his own style. Fighting againstit can bring you down. His foundations are strong and now it is amatter of fighting for his place.

These days, Taibu and Matsikenyeri share a house in Harare andlaugh when cooking is mentioned. Taibu reminds his pal of thepromise made all those years ago and points out that it is still to bedone. Matsikenyeri says Zimbabwe must win. He wants moresuccesses for our country because then people go around with smileson their faces.

Bas ZuiderentBas Zuiderent is the youngest cricketer at the 1996 World Cup. The18-year-old Dutchman played against New Zealand on Saturday and kept his wicket intact, as well as taking two boundary catches andgenerally looking like a cricketer.

Next month he returns to school in the Netherlands to launch hissecond assault on his leaving papers. Examiners found fault with hisprevious attempt and said he thought too much about cricket and toolittle about Latin. In June it will be cricket again. He can play, too.Single-minded, passionate, raw and skilful, it had taken him only amonth of practising on grass to start scoring runs in good company.

Zuiderent, a tall, strong lad, had not wanted to play cricket inearlier days. At twelve, I didnt like the game, he says. None of my friends played. Soccer and hockey were our games. Then one day

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my mother took me to a practice. I was so angry I almost cried. Shesaid, Just try it. He can remember every minute of that firstpractice. I took some catches, tried to bat and bowl. It was so enjoy-able. I have some ball sense, but it wasnt that, it was the game.Soccer is so straightforward. Its always the same: there is the field,there is the ball. In cricket you can rise so high and fall so low.

An intelligent boy had found a game that suited him. He seescricket as a box. Every time you play, you put something into it, butthe box is never full. Once Zuiderent started playing, he could thinkof nothing else. He practised with older players, and friends thoughthim odd. Disregarding their opinions, he followed his calling withthe utmost dedication.

Until I was sixteen, I was so focused, didnt drink, wasnt inter-ested in girls, didnt go out. At fourteen, everyone is drinking beerin Holland. I just wanted to do well at cricket. I was a dull boy, I suppose.

Nor was it easy for him. His standards were higher than hiscontemporaries were capable of conceiving, let alone delivering. I was captain of a team. It was not nice. Mothers kept asking whywasnt their son batting, why was I bowling? They were really angry.

Zuiderent was bewildered by this fury. He just wanted to winmatches. And then came some comfort from Stephen Lubbers, theLowlanders experienced captain. Lubbers heard his story and said,We have a saying in Holland, Big trees catch wind. Zuiderentkept playing and improving. He grew in confidence, on the field andoff it. At sixteen, I started growing and started seeing girls. Now I love going out. My friends dont recognise me.

It did not affect his cricket. At sixteen, he represented his countryin the under-19s, and last year scored 100 against Canada, pulling amuscle along the way. We were playing England next day and it wasour big match. I so much wanted to play, so I showed no pain in thewarm-up, even did some sprints. Then the manager asked, Are youfit? I said, What do you think! He said, Youre not playing. Wetalked for thirty minutes and I was crying. I didnt want to give in.

He is made of the right stuff. Last week he played against Kenyain a friendly. Scored 47 and lost his wicket trying to chase the sevenruns an over needed for victory. Colleagues said he should have prac-tised his batting. It didnt sound right to Zuiderent. He wants to win.

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Team-mates tell him he thinks too much, but it isnt possible to thinktoo much, only too badly. Zuiderent played a poor shot in the netsand thought about it all day and all night, finally awakening with anunderstanding of his mistake.

More will be heard of this young man. After his exams, hes off toplay cricket in England (he thinks his girlfriend will understand). Hewants to give his cricket and himself the chance both crave.

Hansie Cronjes dad

Ewie Cronje, the father, sits in his office at the university where hehas worked for 34 years, one meeting completed, another awaitingand in between a chance for cigarettes, chips and conversation. Ewiehas not talked to journalists for 22 months because everything seemsto get turned around. He has been burning, though, and sooner orlater the longest fuse runs out.

First he talks about the start of it all, Piers and Estion Cronje,setting sail from Normandy and arriving in Cape Town on 3 Septem-ber 1698, French Huguenots searching for freedom. And then hethinks about another pair of brothers, Frans and Hansie, the elderorganising a walk for Jesus and ringing his mother to ask howeveryone can sleep after a hundred miles when they cannot carrysleeping bags, the younger down in George and trying to rebuild his life.

Ewie puffs on a cigarette, wrestling with himself, wanting to talkand not to talk. Again he thinks back to those brothers arriving inSouth Africa 305 years ago. Estion died before marrying and Piers isthe forefather of all the South African Cronjes, eleven generationsnow that Frans has produced children. Piers was granted land nearPaarl on the south coast and the Cronjes were farmers for 250 yearsuntil Ewie took up a position as sports administrator at the univer-sity. I couldnt farm because I played too much sport. Even now, I am an outdoor teacher.

Gradually the Cronjes moved north, to Swellendon and then toColeburg and, in 1819, Ewies great-great grandfather startedhunting in the Southern Free State. Ewies father studied sheep andwool at the technical college in Sydney in 192526 and was the first

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South African to be asked to judge sheep and wool at the SydneyRoyal Easter Show.

Ewie discovered cricket as a 6-year-old. When the hotel managerin nearby Bethulie raised a team to play against Brenfontein, 25 milesaway, he went along for the trip. I saw the game and loved it, hesays. We started playing with a tennis ball with the black labourerson the farm and later we came to Bloem to buy a cricket bat.

He saw the Australians in 1949, went to high school in 1951 andended up playing for the province. Naturally, his sons took up thegame, and Hansie started as Free State captain when he was twentyyears and 30 days old (Ewie has a head for figures).

Muleleki Nkalas ambitions

Luke Nkala has an uproarious laugh, fourteen children, a couple ofwives and a son regarded as the most promising black cricketer inZimbabwe. Muleleki, the aforementioned offspring, will not playagainst Australia this time because he is busy studying Shakespeareand the mysteries of higher mathematics by way of satisfying hisexaminers. Afterwards, though, he will return to the game he loves,a game whose books and magazines and ways he has devoured, agame his father came to know only by the sound of breakingwindows. Already, the boy has played once for his country, taking thewicket of Sachin Tendulkar.

Muleleki is a Matabele raised in a cosmopolitan style by a fatherwho brought me up to cope with white society. He didnt want to shut me off. His life is a mixture of traditional customs andmodern ways. His father makes his own beer and the sons wear orna-ments and clothes signifying their tribe. But they also listen to ravemusic and took immediately to the white games, playing themendlessly in the garden, especially cricket, which they liked becauseits different and, anyhow, the ground was too hard for rugby.

Nkala senior owns shops in the rural areas where his grindingmachines were popular. Now he is pursuing one of his schemes.Obviously, he could not afford to educate his entire collectionprivately, but their talent was spotted and sponsors stepped forwardto send the boys to Falcon College, alongside half the Zimbabwean

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team. Muleleki says attending a private school was important becausehis cricket could not have developed otherwise. He says cricket isnta game you can learn overnight because it involves the spirit and themind. Its a way of thinking, he says. It isnt just a matter of findingtalented boys and lobbing them onto the field. You need to see thingsthe right way.

Muleleki studied the game and practised endlessly. He watchedvideos, especially the film of Ian Botham demolishing the Australiansin 1981. Taking his chances, he rose through the ranks and captainedZimbabwes under-19 side a year ahead of time. He is an all-rounderwith a purposeful off-side game and a bowling action reflecting hisprowess at athletics and football. His main weakness is that he isprone to injuries. Recently a luggage trolley rolled over his foot,thereby incapacitating him. Team-mates tease him about this habit ofbreaking down.

Naturally, Muleleki realises the importance of black cricketersemerging in his country. But he doesnt ever want to be a token. Itis vital that indigenous players do well, but its more important thatthe team does well. Heath Streak is a hero amongst my people. Still,itd be good to have a few of our boys doing well because it showspeople what is possible.

Muleleki believes that the quota system has a part to play becauseit encourages the boys who are struggling upwards. It can help inyouth teams, but its different with first-class cricket. Then the playersmust be good enough. If they arent, they will know it. These fellowsarent foolschoosing them ahead of better players puts them underpressure. It hurts everyone.

He argues that the main handicap for young cricketers inZimbabwe is a lack of exposure, and he is pleased to hear thatdomestic cricket is being widened to include five teams. Last year heattended the Australian academy and thoroughly enjoyed himself.Nor can rumours that he left his heart in Adelaide be entirelydiscounted. In January he will captain the Zimbabwean under-19team at its World Cup in Sri Lanka. After that, he wants to attend thecricket academy in Harare and challenge for a place in the Test team.

He thinks South Africa can learn from the Zimbabwean experi-ence. Weve been independent a lot longer, he says, and it took along time for black cricketers to get into the team. You need to be

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patient. His uncle was in Mugabes first cabinet, but he keeps quietabout that.

Muleleki is a determined cricketer capable of realising his ownambitions and the hopes of his people. He wants to play for hiscountry again next year. After that, he will get married. One wife willbe enough, he thinks, and just a handful of children.

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2Champions andtheir deeds

At the highest level, sport is not a matter of moments but ahardening of mind and body in a concerted effort to reach a peak.

Only the fancy talkers think otherwise.

Sport conveys greatness in action. Whereas in the fields ofacademe, science and statesmanship, greatness indicates asuperior intellect, with sport the matter is altogether morecomplicated. Not that even the greatest statesman lacks vanity, calcu-lation and the other foibles detected in the rest of mankind. Often heseems a mightier figure in history books than in contemporary news-papers, let alone around the breakfast table.

Nevertheless, sport is almost disconcertingly non-judgemental inits bestowing of gifts. As Neil Marks often remarks as he watches acricket match unfold from the lofty perch of the Sydney CricketGround (SCG) press box, God likes to play tricks on ushe givestalent to blokes without brains and nothing to those who can think.Whether or not the film Amadeus is accurate cannot be said, but thesupposed relationship between Mozart and Salieri has many echoes insport as the intelligent mediocrity contemplates the wanton genius.

It is the aim of this chapter to show that it is not as simple as that.The characters portrayed are exceptional in many ways and not justin the execution of a particular skill. There is a lot more to sport thanmere performance. It is one thing to be born with a gift, another totake it to its fulfilment. Courage is needed, for along the way failure

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is encountered and then comes the temptation to cut losses and tosettle for something less. Only the most remarkable competitors keepchasing the end of the rainbow. Most of the rest reach a point andthen settle for something less. A mans self-esteem can only absorbso many blows.

Moreover, cricket champions come in all shapes and sizes. There is no formula, except a certain hand and eye coordination and birthin a country where the game is popular. In the assessment of thesuccessful individual, a lot depends upon interpretation. Nor is it fairto expect full maturity from a brilliant young man when it is sportitself that has removed him from everyday life and thrown him intothe honey pot.

Steve Waugh can be viewed in various lights, as single-minded orselfish, as generous or mean, open-minded or cantankerous, as anattacking captain or as a ruthless destroyer. Even his most fiercecritics, though, concede that he had extraordinary determination.Nor was this a mere gift from the gods. Rather, it was a creation ofhis mind, a choice he took never to take a backward step, never tothink a cause lost. Now and then, many of us rise to these heights,only to fall back next day as something goes wrong or doubt entersthe mind.

Waugh was different because he was always like that. His heroestold the story. Early in his career, he wanted to be Doug Walters.Later, he preferred the explorer Lord Shackleton. If he was great, itwas because he chose to be, dared to be. Of course, he had also beenblessed with lots of ability, much more than was generally admitted.After all, the Waugh caricature did not tolerate unusual ability. Hisinnings at Old Trafford in 1989 contained all the elements that madehim such a force in the game.

Brian Lara is another case, yet his greatness as a batsman has beenconfirmed time and again. At his best he can achieve wondrous featswith the bat, at his worst he can seem surly and self-indulgent.Whereas Waughs greatest performances came in adversity, Lara wasinclined to lead from the front. His match-winning innings inBarbados is recorded in this chapter alongside a colder reflectionupon his character.

Sachin Tendulkar and Glenn McGrath are the other playersmentioned in this section. McGrath has bowled so many beautiful

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spells, yet his famous catch could not be allowed to pass forgotteninto time. Tendulkar has long been a particular favourite and his longand careful innings in Sydney seemed to signify more than the endingof a bad patch and the silencing of his most demanding critics. Heseemed to be moving from the playfulness of youth and entering acautious world in which less reliance is placed on instinct and moreupon method.

Brian Lara

Brian Lara is the batting genius of the age, the third to appear sincethe Second World War. He has followed in the footsteps of GarrySobers and Graeme Pollock and has much in common with them, notleast a spirit that defies containment. Lara and his predecessorsemerged in precocious youth and unleashed upon a game thatseemed to course through their veins. Scintillating and sporting, theycompiled huge scores at pace and made it appear effortless. Theyplayed strokes and innings beyond the conception of the commonman. Off the field, they could not quite sustain their reputations.Admired for their cricketing feats, they have been unable to find thewords and deeds to command the same attention elsewhere. It is the fate of genius to be patronised, for it discovers not the wisdom ofthe ages but the glories of youth.

Lara has been the most frustrating of these extraordinary left-handers because something more than genius was needed from him.West Indian cricket yearned for a man of stature and found instead abatsman of brilliance. Unwilling to trust the passing of time, clingingto youth as if it contained his precious talent, the Trinidadian resistedhis maturity. No day, though, can be judged till night has fallen. Lararemains a wonderful batsman and talks more often these days andwith apparent sincerity about his desire to bring West Indian cricketback from the brink.

His batting remains formidable. At the ripe old age of 34, Laracontinues to dazzle and occasionally to crash. Awaken his spirit andhe will bat as few men have ever batted. He continues to play inningsthat demand the concentration and eyes of a younger man. In 1994,Lara broke the batting record at 24, and a decade later broke it again.

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Between times, he infuriated and delighted. Perhaps his mammotheffort in Antigua heralded the end of his personal journey and thestart of his emergence as a man. After all, he has nothing more toprove, as a batsman anyhow.

Laras career has been characterised by the contrasting forces ofcommitment and capriciousness. His inconsistency has mystifiedthose incapable of batting as he can, like a bird soaring through theskies. For an unconscionable time he was held back by a fitfulness thatdelayed the development of the man even as it periodically toleratedthe performance of the genius. Since his return from a retreat moreemotional than cricketing, the Trinidadian has belatedly started toaccept his responsibilities. On the way up, a man thinks only of him-self and his place in the rankings. Eventually, he looks around andrealises that there is more to life than runs on the board. Finally, Larais starting to think about his legacy.

Of course, he was not solely to blame for the unsatisfactory natureof his early years. His first misfortune is that he has played his cricketin the age of scrutiny, so that his lifestyle has been subjected tounsympathetic examination. Bradmans idiosyncrasies were notmentioned. His country needed to establish itself and soften theblows of depression. Lara has played in a time of prurience and Puri-tanism.

Laras second stroke of bad luck lies in the mediocrity that hassurrounded him, indulging him because it depended upon his excep-tional abilities. West Indian cricket lacked the strength of purposerequired to absorb its prodigal son. Exquisite at the crease, Larastiming has let him down off the field.

Self-absorption is often detected in those blessed with exceptionaltalent. Lara craved the freedom of youth, wanted to follow his whimsas so many of the legends of Caribbean cricket had done before him.He had heard the stories. None of them were saints. In Lara the friv-olous existed alongside the brilliant, as a counterpoint to it. He wasa star, the only one in the West Indian firmament. Could he not actas he pleased?

During his wonderful innings in Antigua in 2004, Lara seemed tobe reaching beyond himself in an attempt to restore not merely hisreputation but the pride of West Indian cricket. Afterwards, hepointed out that the series had been lost 3/0. Naturally, he was

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determined to recapture the record, yet he seemed to set about thetask as much to lift his team as re-establish his supremacy.

Lara has always been capable of extraordinary feats. Not evenBradman could have batted better in a series than Lara did in SriLanka and against Australia in the Caribbean. Yet there has been afragility about him, a wilfulness that can produce magnificence uponthe field and foolishness off it. Whatever happens hereafter, Lara willgo into the books as one of the greatest batsmen the game hasknown. As far as epitaphs go, it is fine but insufficient. The restdepends upon the resolution of the internal conflict between theeternal child and the reluctant adult.

The greatest chaseBrian Laras unbeaten 153 against the Australians in Bridgetown in1999 is widely and justifiably regarded as the greatest chasing inningsthat Test cricket has known. Throughout this epic performance, theTrinidadian knew that he could not afford to make a single mistake.Throughout, the Australians fought for his wicket like mongrels overa bone, but Lara refused to oblige. Instead, he constructed a master-piece of batting that turned impending defeat into sudden and unexpected victory.

As ever, the innings is illuminated by its context. Before the seriesbegan, Lara had been as close to disgrace as any cricketer who has notoffended a steward at Lords. West Indies had lost heavily in SouthAfrica in 1999, hardly putting up a fight. There was worse to come,as his team was trounced by the Australians in the first match of thisseries. Lara appeared incapable of stopping the slide. At last heresponded by scoring 213 in Jamaica, an innings that caught theAustralians off guard and allowed the hosts to square the series. It wasthe start of an astonishing sequence of innings from Lara. His rangewas extraordinary, like an actor who plays drama, tragedy and comedyin successive performances and triumphs in them all.

Australia dominated the opening three days of the Third Test.Steve Waugh set the tone with a rugged 199 as Australia scored 490.West Indies subsided to 98/6 before the fightback began with a part-nership of 153 between Sherwin Campbell and Ridley Jacobs. Thenext day, West Indies continued its resurgence by bowling theAustralians out for 146, leaving the hosts needing 308 runs to secure

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an incredible victory. When three early wickets fell on the fourthnight, it seemed the cause was lost. Overnight Lara was 2 not out.

West Indies position continued to deteriorate on the finalmorning till the scoreboard read 5/105. Now Lara made his move,slipping through the gears, pressing hard upon the accelerator, takingthe corners as fast as he dared and hoping that colleagues couldsurvive in his slipstream. Jimmy Adams obliged, defending ob-durately for 170 minutes as the score mounted. Meanwhile, theground was filling as news spread that West Indies was putting up afight and that Lara was still batting.

Gradually the tension mounted and the noise rose as spectatorslived and died with every ball. West Indies suffered further setbacksand Curtly Ambrose arrived at the crease with 60 runs needed andonly two wickets remaining. Ambrose rose to the occasion, defend-ing doggedly for 82 minutes.

Meanwhile, Lara drove and swept and pulled and calculated, avibrant figure, a flashing blade and a ticking brain. Australia surgedagain, fighting to save the day. Lara edged and his head recoiled inrelief as the ball eluded Ian Healys gloves. Ambrose fell andCourtney Walsh appeared, a lanky, improbable figure and not at all areassuring sight for thousands of supporters, let alone an exhaustedcaptain needing a further seven runs for victoryso near and so veryfar! Somehow, Walsh kept out a searing inswinging yorker, the ballof the series, and then the Australians must have suspected the gamewas up. A wide followed, and a no-ball as the bowlers strained mindand muscle. Walsh endured, Lara took strike and smashed thewinning runs through cover. Only in this moment of victory did heshow any emotion, not that he had much choice as team-mateshugged him. As Wisden put it, he had guided his team to victory asthough leading the infirm through a maze.

Steve Waugh

Stephen Rodger Waugh starts his last match for his country as thegames most respected player. Wherever cricket is played, his nameevokes the image of a man refusing to give in, a man who will not beintimidated by any opponent or daunted by any situation. His deeds

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have been recorded in the books and Waugh has taken care that thefigures confirm his standing, because they alone walk unmolestedinto history. More important, though, have been the defiant inningssummoned at the critical hour and the bold interventions when amatch has hung in the balance. Only in these hard times can theAustralian captain be properly appreciated and he has needed themas his side has needed him. Waugh is released in a crisis, drawn fromhimself and his insecurities so that he becomes an extrovert, a match-player, an actor upon a stage. In a tight spot he becomes a betterperson and usually prevails. Captaincy has had the same effect uponhim, letting loose parts of his character that might otherwise haveremained dormant.

Waugh has seemed like a cricketing machine, coldly calculatingevery move, but it has been an illusion. Failure has only ever been amistake away. Cricket is not a game of bat and ball. It is an internalstruggle, a war waged between a man and himself. The opposition ismerely a convenience. Spectators have sensed Waughs vulnerabilityand have accompanied him on his journey. Former cricketers havebeen harder markers because they know the darkness to be foundnear the heart of every player and see it nakedly exposed in Waugh.Throughout his career, Waugh has been condemned and praised to adegree beyond reason and bewildering to outsiders. Throughout hiscareer, he has been fighting the white-anters who have been nibblingat him since he first appeared as another golden boy from Sydney.

But, then, Waugh has been a cricketer of paradox. Far more thanhis manner suggests, he has been guided by his spirit. Although hegives the impression that ice flows through his veins, his career tellsa different tale. Repeatedly, he has started badly and prospered onlyonce the nerves have settled. He has not been a Botham joviallystorming the barricades, but a shy, gifted young man overcomingobstacles. Waugh has never stopped fighting, for runs, wickets andcredibility. He has never trusted the game enough to lower his guard.At once he has been the warrior walking into the furnace and the waiftaking guard amid a mass of hostile mankind. At once he appearsimpregnable and fragile.

Of course, Waughs background and early experiences have influ-enced the shaping of his character. Like so many young Australiancricketers, Waugh began in a backyard, hitting a ball dangling from

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string or else engaged in cutthroat contests with his brothers. Atheart he has remained a backyard cricketer obliged by the times andan emerging worldliness to make concessions to correct conduct.When people think of Waugh, they forget about the family: the hard-talking, fiercely competitive parents, the twin brother whosevagueness has been a quiet protest, another brother known for hisbatting, smoking and impersonations and a fourth whose cannyspinners helped secure a first-grade title last year. Steve Waugh is theproduct of a remarkable family whose strengths he expressed andwhose boundaries he expanded. Of course, the same could be said ofhis contribution to Australian cricket.

Waugh has been an astonishing cricketer whose teams win most oftheir matches. From schooldays onwards, he was committed to thegame, and dedicated his entire character to succeeding within itsconfines. In many respects, his life has been typical in that youthfuldrive has been slowly supplanted by maturitys widening as thevarious attractions of the world came into view. Waugh has beendifferent only in the intensity of his focus. In adulthood he hasmanaged to be both single-minded and broad-minded.

Not until the captaincy of Australian cricket was entrusted to himdid Waugh finally let himself loose, whereupon he emerged as anindependent and radical thinker able to penetrate to the core of thegame in search of its essential truths. Waughs captaincy has not beengiven its just desserts, not least by the cricketing crowd. Indeed, therehas been a curious reluctance to praise his performance as a leader.But the facts speak for themselves. He has been the most successfulTest captain in the history of the game. Moreover, his team hasscored its runs faster than any predecessor. Waugh challengedorthodox thinking by regularly forcing opponents to bat first and byallowing players to relax both before and during matches. Attackingfields were set in one-day cricket, the green cap was worn on the firstmorning of matches and bowlers held aloft the ball upon taking fivewickets in an innings.

Nor has it merely been a matter of cricket. Waugh has welcomedfamilies, so that team hotels resemble creches. His teams have touredwith an open mind, and trips to India have been regarded not asburdens to be endured but as opportunities to play in front of wildlyappreciative crowds. All this from a backyard in Bankstown.

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Most particularly, Waugh has been able to identify and unleashthe cricket in previously unsung competitors like Matthew Hayden,Justin Langer and Andrew Bichel. It is easily forgotten thatHayden, especially, owes his career to the faith shown by a captaincapable of detecting strong points in a player otherwise regarded asordinary.

Waugh has made another contribution that has been neglected,though he mentioned it at his press conference announcing his retire-ment and is clearly proud of it. He played a strong role in the disputethat arose between the Australian Cricket Board (ACB) and theplayers at the turn of the century. Of course, he was condemned asselfish and stirring. Documents were leaked showing how much hestood to gain, an old trick played by most dismal employers. In fact,Waugh risked losing sponsorship, popularity and the captaincy, andpursued the claim because he could and the cause was right. Alwayshis outlook has been the same. If not me, whom? If not now, when?

Waugh goes into retirement as a happily married and wealthy manwith an outstanding record as player and captain and with a charac-ter stubborn with flaws and blessed with strong points. His career incricket is almost over, but he has a lot more to contribute. Waugh hasdone his bit by the boy in the backyard and is now the master of hisown destiny.

Waugh at Old TraffordSteve Waughs century upon a demanding Old Trafford pitch in1997 must count among the finest of his career. Certainly, it was hisbest effort in English conditions. He had to fight for it, every inch ofthe way, because this was not the old profligate, distracted, disheart-ened England but a host nation focused upon its task and confidentof its accomplishment. At times it seemed the pie-chuckers werethrowing grenades.

This was an innings embracing all of Waughs familiar traits: stub-bornness, defiance, chiselled defence, drives punched down theground without fuss or apparent effort, a scurrying between wicketsand an occasional flamboyance outside off-stump with ears pinnedback in the way of his more dramatic youth.

It was a pinched, capable innings, a Victorian innings entirelywithout the colour of the Georgian age or the showmanship of current

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times. In other words, it was Waugh at his absolute peak, a discrimi-nating appearance against which opponents hurl themselves with allthe lowly expectation of a spaniel barking at a Rottweiler.

Waughs innings could not have been more timely. Had he failed,Australia might have fallen with him, putting the Ashes upon Englishplates. Wickets had tumbled again as the home bowlers put to enthu-siastic use a pitch livelier than had seemed likely. Throughout, Englandbowled with movement and hostility and only a remarkable batsmancould have stood firm against this onslaught. Only a batsman of theutmost accomplishment and formidable mental powers could haveprotected his wicket so long with his team in such dire straits.

Somehow it seemed inevitable that Waugh would score runs. Hehad been having a quiet time, a circumstance for which he does notgreatly care, besides which Australia needed him, a call that rings loudin his ears.

Its hard to recall an appeal or a moment of serious inconven-ience during those long hours of occupation. His technique wasadmirable. From first to last, he moved into line and drove the ballwith the full face of the blade. Colleagues are more inclined tostretch forward or to angle their bats, an approach that mightsucceed upon a hard pitch but is powerless on such a testing surfaceas Old Trafford provided.

Long before Waughs innings was completed, England must havebeen thoroughly fed up with the sight of that wide and unyielding batand an opponent that gave away nothing, not even a hint of concernor fallibility. Why wouldnt the blessed fellow lose his head just for amoment? Why couldnt England shake his concentration? The Ashesdepended upon it. And theres the answer.

Seldom have Waughs powers been so starkly in evidence. Heappears to anticipate every ball as he walks to the crease, so that hecan seem a robotic cricketer whose movements are tuned and trained.Nothing is left to chance, nothing is taken for granted. It seems astraightforward matter, but no one else can do it because no one elsehas such absolute control over his emotions or such a meticulouslymatured game. Waugh is a master craftsman with the mind of aruthless killer. He scorns indulgence, scorns excess, refuses to strayfrom his own game. He sings his lines, does the job and leaves thestage the better for his withering presence.

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England hurled itself at this steadfast figure and repeatedly waspushed back. The bowlers searched for a crack and could find not themerest hint. Waugh was a sphinx-like batsman, a wraith with a bat,moving relentlessly behind the ball, stifling the good ones andpouncing upon anything erratic.

Unerringly, he moved to 50 and, in the twilight of another chillyafternoon, he scored another hundred, pocketing the runs in themanner of a materialist putting dollars into his wallet against a rainyday that will not come.

And so the performance continued, Waugh against himself,Waugh against the bowlers, Waugh upon England. The scoreboardrecorded the gradual victory of the great resister. As he has done sooften, Waugh gave heart to his colleagues, renewed hope in a causethat had hung in the balance.

Glenn McGrath

Glenn McGrath looks like a monk, periodically behaves like anenraged chook and bowls like a Swiss clock. His idea of entertain-ment is to reduce the wild pig population pottering around outsideNarromine, NSW. His bumper is lame, he sends down a yorker aboutonce a week and cannot swing the ball in either direction. He has notscared anyone since his last Christmas pantomime. He is so slow thathe reckons the measuring machines are crook. He cannot bat andfields as far from the action as possible. Keith Miller he is not. Oh,yes, and he is about to play his 100th Test match.

On paper he is a basket case. On the field he is the best pacebowler of his generation, among the finest to appear since the SecondWorld War. Ask any modern batsman to name the bowlers he leastlikes facing and chances are that McGrath will be mentioned early inproceedings. Some bowlers can strike terror in the heart. Others candazzle. This blighter just gets you out cheaply.

Of course, he has had a few things going for him, not least longlimbs that allow him to make his deliveries jump like surprised cats. His wristwork, too, was outstanding even in those distant dayswhen he was more concerned about opening cans of Spam and knocking the heads off batsmen than removing the off-bail, the

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days before he realised that he had been blessed with skill and notbrute force.

In many respects, he is the most improbable of fast bowlers, themost unlikely of champions. Everyone could appreciate Dennis Lilleewith his moustache, scowl and thunderbolts. Jeff Thomson, MalcolmMarshall, Wasim Akram and the rest had something special evidentto the naked eye. Beside them McGrath is a medium-pacer. But theeyes deceive and the figures tell the tale. He belongs in their companyand is among the best of them. Lillee did not trouble the Pakistanibatsmen in 1979. Craig McDermott perished in the graveyard thatwas India in 1986. McGrath averages 16 on the subcontinent and 22 overall in this age of batting.

In truth he is a creation not of the body, or even the spirit, but themind. His greatest asset has been that, from the start, he understoodthat his strength lay not in the extent of his abilities but in theirprecise application. Nature prevented him bowling fast. Try as hemight, he could not get the ball down to the other end at the speedrequired to make batsmen hop around. And he did try. Pace bowlersresemble gunslingers. They like to create fear in the neighbourhood.

But the facts had to be faced. McGrath went further, turning themto his advantage. As a result, he has not needed to change his gameas he has aged. If anything, he has been a yard faster since comingback from the ankle injury that had prevented him flowing throughat the crease. In the old days, he would look at the results of the speedgun and shake his head in that puzzled way that also appears when aball somehow manages to elude his defensive bat. Now he smiles as135 km/h is flashed on the screen. Not that it is exactly electrifying.Nor is it the speed of a man on his way out. McGrath has not lost ayard of pace as time takes its toll. He did not have it in the first place.

Denied the ability to bowl fast, McGrath concentrated on master-ing his craft. He became the most subtle and sophisticated of bowlers.Considering his origins and temperament, it is a remarkable achieve-ment. It is the quality he has in common with Shane Warne, a brightspark who also grasped the need to study his calling.

McGrath is an acquired taste. Every ball needs to be seen in itscontext. Whereas the excitement of seeing Shoaib Akhtar in full flightcomes from the raw energy released, the New South Welshman offersthe pleasure to be gained from following a plan from conception to

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execution. He depends upon the careful, considered destruction ofthe cornered opponent. He is ruthless and unrelenting. He might notintimidate batsmen, but he takes their most precious possession: theirwicket. Often they do not quite know how.

Not so long ago, Michael Atherton, his most regular victim, inter-viewed McGrath and asked almost pleadingly whether his nemesishad developed some cunning plan especially for him. McGrathreplied that he had simply put the ball on the spot and kept it there.But it is not as easy as he made it sound, or the entire world could doit. After all, the spot is the size of a saucer and the ball must movearound unpredictably, bounce steeply and defy those trying to adjusttheir stroke at the last instant, the technique upon which the English-man depended. Michael Vaughan had a better idea. Stop trying tokeep him out. Start counter-attacking, particularly with the pullstroke, a strategy designed to force McGrath to change his game. Noone has played him better.

Clearly, McGrath is much more than a medium-pacer capable ofkeeping a line and length. His deliveries do not move around atrandom. Nothing is left to chance. It is not a question of hit the seamand hope. He makes the ball respond to his desires by ripping hisfingers across the stitches. It is a devilishly hard skill to execute once,let alone every ball, in both directions and at a lively pace. That is whyno one else has been able to do it. McGraths whole has always beengreater than his parts.

He has been the most consistent of pace bowlers. WheneverAustralia has been in trouble, the captain could throw him the ball,confident that it was in good hands. He has matched himself againstthe best batsmen around and usually has prevailed. If the method hasnot been spectacular, it has been effective. He has been, and remains,a professional attending to his duties. He takes wickets economically,leads the attack responsibly, regularly separates the openers and oftendismisses the oppositions most dangerous player. It is not a badcombination.

If a statement of excellence is needed, then it came in the space ofthree balls during the Perth Test against West Indies in 2000. First,McGrath exploited Sherwin Campbells habit of shuffling across hiscrease with an outswinger pitched to a fuller length than usual. BrianLara appeared. McGrath adjusted his line, slightly reduced his length

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and cut the ball across the left-hander. Lara disappeared. JimmyAdams came next. It must have been tempting to try the same ball.After all, he was on a hat trick and it had been good enough for Lara.But Adams was a different case. McGrath knew that he squared upagainst lifting deliveries directed at his body. Pinpoint precision wasneeded. The deed was done.

McGraths hat trick was a statement of greatness. Every ball wassuperbly conceived and executed. It was a definitive moment, a satis-fying and conclusive demonstration of the abilities that have set himapart and brought him to this happy station in life. In Nagpur on 26 October 2004, McGrath had the honour of becoming the firstpace bowler to represent Australia in 100 Test matches. It is no morethan he deserves.

Glenn McGraths catchGlenn McGraths catch on 24 November 2002 pinpointed thecontinuing strength of this Australian outfit. Englands fifth-wicketpair had been mounting the sort of defiance expected from deter-mined men with their backs to the wall. After taking an early wicket,Steve Waughs team had been frustrated for 100 minutes as theclouds grew more threatening. Shane Warne had been bowlingaround the wicket to Michael Vaughan, a mark of respect for anaccomplished opponent. Clearly, the leg-spinner remembered thepunishment he had taken from this batsman in the first innings andwanted to hold him in check.

After an hour or so of stalemate, Warne went over the wicket andthe Yorkshireman seized his chance with a sweep placed into theregion forward of square. Hitherto, McGrath had been patrolling the region behind the umpire, a tranquil location where a man mightgraze without fear of interruption. Had the lofty paceman fallenasleep, he might have been forgiven. Had he missed this call to arms,even harsher critics would have understood. Instead, McGrath imme-diately sensed a chance and set off at a gallop. Hereabouts he wentinto a reverie from which he was not to emerge for several seconds.Meanwhile, time stood still in the stands as the parabola of the ballwas followed as if it were a shell. Warne stood in position, his earlyhopes fading as the distance between ball and pursuer and theidentity of the fieldsman became apparent.

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McGrath was not so easily discouraged. Upon reflection it is hardto recall him grassing a catch, but he still gets lumbered with theimage of the butter-fingered paceman with big boots. Certainly the pessimists were predominant as the fateful moment approached.Long odds were being offered against the ball being reached, letalone held. Then came a blur, a dive, a long man reaching out to graba ball an inch from the turf, a landing, a slide and then astonishmentin the stands and delight on the ground. McGrath rose, grinned anddusted himself off with the air of a man offended that his prospectshad been doubted.

Sachin Tendulkar

For fifteen of his 30 years, Sachin Tendulkar has lived with theworship of a cricket-mad public that wants him to be infallible,ruthless and destructive, supporters inclined to forget that heemerged from a womb and not from the pages of a comic book.

Fame fell upon Tendulkar at an age when most boys are eyeing upthe girls, or smoking behind a shed. As a teenager, he carted theAustralians all around in Sydney and Perth in displays that told ofmaturity and fighting spirit. Responsibility put its hand upon himbefore he had time to breathe and there has been no escape from itsexamination. Tendulkar did not have adolescence; he had a cricketmatch.

Incredibly, he has survived the pitfalls of this perilous existence toemerge as a family man with a stable life and a couple of children. Heis a more remarkable man than has been acknowledged. In manyrespects, Tendulkar has taught the next generation how to managethe scrutiny and opportunities experienced by those whose gifts takethem at a tender age into the world of luxury. Many students of thegame analyse his footwork, range of shots and the way his bat appearsas broad as an elephants tongue. His attitude to life also meritsconsideration.

During the course of those fifteen years, Sachin Tendulkar hasbecome and remained the outstanding sportsman of the age. Hiscontribution to his countrys cricket has been immense. Moreover, herepresents the new Indiacomfortable, free from the anger that

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burned inside the post-colonial generations. His quiet manner tells ofan affluent age and his confident blend of East and West speaks of anation taking its place in the world and insisting that its voice beheard. No one any longer thinks of India as a land of squalor andcurious customs. Rather, it is accepted as a distinctive member of anever-changing scene.

Whether he is aware of it or not, Tendulkar has played his part inthis change of perception. He is cosmopolitan, has no hint of rage,does not speak of politics or regard the British as saviours or devils.He has made a lot of money and does not hide or flaunt it, prefer-ring to concentrate on his cricket and to lead a settled life.

Of course, his brilliance on the field has also been important. Curi-ously, there has been a reluctance to acknowledge his contribution inhis home country, possibly because even more has been expected.Sometimes it seems everyone wants Tendulkar to be like them, areversal of the usual role of the hero who has generally been the expres-sion of our aspirations. Since no one quite knows what Tendulkar isprobably because he is simpler than we are prepared to alloweveryone seeks to put their own imprint upon him. When he fails torespond as expected, he is chastised. It is a game he cannot win.

Accordingly, frustration sits beside admiration in Indias assess-ment of its greatest batsman. Although his mastery is conceded, hisstature is questioned. Not that his batting could easily becondemned. After all, he has proven his worth often enough, withboyhood centuries in Australia in 1992 and, more than a decadelater, an assault on the Pakistani bowling in Pretoria during the 2003World Cup that counts among the most thrilling seen on a cricketfield. He has scored almost 70 international hundreds for his countryand played his part in building the strongest side India has everfielded, a side capable of reaching a World Cup Final, holding theAustralians on their own patch and beating them at home. Fromanyone else it might be considered enough. From Tendulkar evenmore is demanded. It is hardly fair. He is only human. At last his bodyis breaking. It is astonishing that his spirit did not yield long ago.

If it is needed, the case