To paraphrase the opening scene of The Spy Who Loved Me, “Oh Jimmy, words cannot describe how I feel about you.” Well, let me expand my vocabulary.
The Greatest Day In English Cricket (possibly, depending on how they bat tomorrow) began for me in a freezing car being driven from a balloon debate at Lord’s where England’s finest cricket captain, Mike Brearley, had been roundly and unjustly trounced.
The omens were therefore not great, but our producer Tom managed to shriek down the phone that Katich had been run out. He rang back 45 seconds later to inform me that Anderson had done for Ponting first ball and we hadn’t finished the first over of the match.
I arrived at the studio just in time to see what I thought was a replay but turned out to be Clarke snaffled at slip. Australia 2-3 and the loss of the toss was starting to look like a blessing in disguise.
Of course once I’d got myself settled I was treated to the sight of a very fluent Watson and a very rugged Hussey putting the early insanity into dismal perspective. Naturally, I blamed myself, despite the sage certainties of the pundits who had assured us that Adelaide was a 500+ wicket.
After a truly lovely chat over lunch with internet sensation @theashes (an American lady with a fortunate Twitter handle), I settled down to what I expected to be a strong Aussie fight back and my chance to witness Hussey’s grit and determination for the second time in a week. Oh goody.
What unfurled was a wonder to behold.
It wasn’t so much a collapse as an inevitable demise. Watson gifted his wicket with a loose shot to gully immediately after being thwarted by the same fielder the previous ball. It smacked of petulance, though frustration was perhaps nearer the mark.
North and Hussey attempted to repair the damage, but Finn, Broad, Swann and the peerless Anderson bowled with admirable parsimony. Strauss’ field settings gave not an inch and neither batsman could truly break the shackles.
Sure, wickets weren’t tumbling, but runs weren’t flowing either. North, who either gets over 70 or under 30, was crawling to an unconvincing 26 from a tortured 93 balls before a shot of epic woefulness gifted an edge to Prior from the resurgent Finn.
Again, spirits might have dampened at the sight of Haddin joining Hussey so soon after that morale sapping stand of 307 at the Gabba, but somehow this time it was different.
Strauss eschewed slips and stuck to relentless containment. Eventually Swann reaped the dividends as Hussey was defeated by a properly turning off break that he could only guide to slip. When Harris fell next ball we knew we were witnessing a potentially pivotal shift in the long term balance of power.
The rest of the innings was a dismal calamity. Doherty (or X-Do) managed to run himself out through hesitation and indecision and the remainder were more hopeless than we dared to imagine.
Haddin tried to conjure a counter attack but with only Siddle and Bollinger for company even the most ardent pessimist (like me for example) knew the innings was not long for this world.
So was it the pitch? The bowling? Bad batting? A combination of the latter two, I fancy.
The pitch had some life early on, but credit, must go to England’s bowlers, especially Anderson. Actually, scrub that. A knighthood, a ticker tape parade and a round the clock manservant should be acquired out of state funds for the brilliantly attritional line and length all the bowlers employed (barring a brief poor spell from Finn).
Even Strauss’ captaincy hit the mark for once. Did Saker and Flower cook up this scheme? If so, it was genius.
Certainly a few of the Aussies will be despondent at their dismissals; Watson in particular. But the sustained lengths and suffocating fields starved the belligerent Aussies.
It was glorious stuff, but eerily reminiscent of Brisbane day one. A mirror image if you will. There is time for England’s batsmen to foul it up, and for Ponting and co to stage a recovery as Cook, Strauss and Trott did earlier this week.
But something strange happened today. England weren’t hanging on, they were dictating the play. And it wasn’t one session of mayhem a la The Oval in 2009. It was sustained domination. There was even time for Ponting to have a tantrum about who knows what.
Maybe words won’t do it after all. Just an enormous grin and a low moan of prodigious contentment.