19 June 1999
South Africa robbed and mugged on the same day
Giles Smith
I don't wish to sound like a hair-splitter: the World Cup semi-final
between Australia and South Africa at Edgbaston was broadly agreed to
have been one of the most exciting cricket internationals ever, and
to have been there at all was a privilege. But an issue is an issue,
and for those of us with access to a corporate hospitality marquee,
the duration of the luncheon interval at one-day matches is nothing
short of an outrage.
Forty-five minutes! Forty-five minutes! Call that a carnival of
cricket? Why, the salmon had only just been cleared away and one had
barely finished ladling one's couscous salad on to one's plateful of
prime roast beef before play started up again. Frankly one fears for
the sport as a whole. How can cricket hope to prosper if it isn't
mindful of the needs of its traditional fanbase: the soaks and
spongers on company jollies?
That said, even the most heroically committed diner will have had his
or her work cut out missing the business end of Thursday's match -
the final over. Personally, I'm not sure how many more big finishes I
can take. After Manchester United, after Carlisle and Manchester
City, and now after this heart-pumper, many of us, I expect, could
use a long quiet summer of small finishes, a gentle and restful
succession of foregone conclusions.
Even before the final inferno, the match had crackled and flared. At
times it was a demonstration game in the fine art of fielding. Here
were some cricketers who possessed - as cricketers generally don't -
the throwing skills of American baseball players. In fact, both sides
exuded an alertness and focus in the field that you just don't get
from the more bored-looking teams, mentioning no Englands.
The ending, however, threatened to eclipse what had gone before. If
you were chasing a fairly tall total in a short time (16 from eight
balls), you'd probably be happy to have Lance Klusener out there.
You'd probably be less delighted if you were down to your last man -
and if that last man was Allan Donald, who is not widely hailed as a
legend with the bat. Fate positively beamed on South Africa when
Donald came out and was obliged to go immediately to the non-strike
end. Ideally, this is where you would play Donald all the time.
Klusener managed to keep him there. By the end, Klusener had struck
31 in 16 balls, but the exact degree of his control, his consummate
cool, was most apparent when he hit a single from the last ball of
the penultimate over to keep strike. At that point, you could not
have backed him to lose the plot; he was writing it by himself.
Nine to get, six balls remaining. Wasting no time, Klusener clobbered
two fours from the first two deliveries. But the third ball was
non-scoring and, following some natty fielding, Donald was almost
run-out after venturing too far up the wicket - a clammy-palmed
moment for both batsmen which almost certainly affected what happened
next.
Klusener hit the fourth ball towards a fielder at mid-on and in the
split-second available to him, must have weighed the following
options: sneak the winner on a half-chance or use one of the two
remaining balls to clout the matter beyond doubt? Klusener set off on
a run which would carry him eventually to the pavilion, without so
much as a second look over his shoulder. We can only imagine how the
anticipation inside his stomach as he set off must have turned heavy
and rolled over into despair as his run progressed. It's what
sportsmen mean by being "sick".
Klusener's gambit had depended on the alertness of Donald. Now, if
ever there was a moment not to be practising Scottish dancing, this
was it. But Donald, responding, we must assume, to some internal
accordion which only he could hear, hotched, bopped, stepped forward,
performed a 180 degree turn and took two steps back again. Perhaps
the memory of that near run-out now divided his mind. Clearly some
kind of short-circuit was taking place under his helmet, because, for
no good reason that anyone could see, he chose this point to drop his
bat.
How unjust that Donald should be the butt of this joke ending. At the
conclusion of the Australian innings, he had left the pitch a hero:
four wickets for just 34 runs in his 10 steaming overs. And now there
he stood, the incredulous hulk, his eyes seemingly focused on his own
ankles, as if willing them to do something. Perhaps he didn't hear
Klusener; he certainly didn't see him until his partner's bat arrived
in the crease at his feet. Finally, forlornly, and above all
batlessly, Donald set off down the wicket, not running but drowning,
the ball mockingly passing him, going the same way. He never even
made it beyond the Australians at mid-wicket, piled up on top of each
other in celebration.
Those Australians, along with the two umpires and a small number of
Wisden-wielding sociopaths in anoraks, formed part of a very select
group within the ground who actually knew, at this point, what the
result of the game was. Even Klusener had consulted the square-leg
umpire during the last over, presumably because he wanted to be
absolutely sure what his target was. If Klusener had questions, then
so certainly did the crowd and in the seats a strange atmosphere
prevailed. You knew you had witnessed something incredible, but for a
while you didn't quite know what it was. Accordingly, joy was
bounded. You weren't sure whether to laugh, cry or phone up Bill
Frindall. Not since Michael Schumacher won the British Grand Prix on
a technicality while stationary in the pits have so many stood so
clueless for so long.
And there was no big voice from above to help us. The Edgbaston
Tannoy, which had been busy all day telling us exactly where we could
get ourselves photographed with the World Cup (an opportunity which
Donald probably now regrets declining) and quaintly appealing for our
"good manners" to prevail over our baser instinct to invade the
pitch, was now silent. Eventually the video screen read
"Congratulations Australia", but a lot of us were still wondering,
"Congratulations for what?"
Elementary logic implied that we had just witnessed a South African
victory; the scores were tied, but the South Africans had bowled out
the Australians quicker than the Australians had bowled out the South
Africans. Two balls quicker, to be exact, but a better performance on
the day, however slight.
But this is one-day cricket, so there's no place for elementary
logic. To understand in full the rules of this World Cup, you need,
at the very least, a maths doctorate and a working knowledge of
string theory. Then you need a background in showbusiness. The law
whereby Australia triumphed on Thursday on account of a better record
than South Africa's in the previous round was a nice bit of theatre
management - a piece of engineering enabling the Super Six stage to
be perceived, not as a canny exercise in game-spinning, used to trick
out the tournament by another week, but as a crucial part of the
competition with potentially profound consequences at the
tournament's peak.
South Africa robbed themselves of victory. And then they got mugged
all over again by the rules. A bad day's business, perhaps, though
none of us who watched will ever want to forget it.
Source :: The Electronic Telegraph