To write like Neville Cardus…

It’s said, and I say, that T20 games can turn on a single ball. Really, it’s that micro; incredibly unpredictable—who would be a coach, forget it, oh, to be a player? And the back-pocket envelopes are fatter!

A week last Wednesday, in a sweaty Durban, Australia ran T20 rings around an under-strength South Africa in the first of three T20 internationals—it should be said that the visitors were also undermanned. Further, it’s becoming increasingly difficult in the T20 format to get a read on what a team’s ‘full strength’ really looks like.

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Kingsmead is a wonderful cricket ground, nestled close to the Indian Ocean in the vibrant city of Durban. Decades have passed since my first visit, and watching the recent T20 series, it has clearly retained many of its endearing features. For the batters, it’s primarily in the form of inviting boundary dimensions; for the bowlers, in this format, it offers next to nothing!

In a conversation with a friend recently, we concluded that South Africa has some of the best cricket grounds—not stadiums—in the world. The criteria for rating included pitch variation, ground size, crowd engagement, and geographic diversity. Kingsmead and other major South African venues like Newlands, the Wanderers, and St. George's Park offer unparalleled supporter experiences. And, not discounting, there is always cold Castle lager readily available.

And what's not to like when you learn it's the home of the 'Hollywoodbets Dolphins? I'm not sure if cricket has yet been acknowledged by progressive marketing!

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Back to ‘that ball.’ How can a single ball have such an effect?

Well, while watching that Wednesday night, I had an unusual epiphany. I’m not normally afflicted by such emotions; however, I was.

I found myself drawn back to my youth in Manchester, in particular a place called Rusholme.

Its proximity to the city centre of Manchester is similar to Kingsmead and Durban. I remember in part for its proliferation of South Asian restaurants and, of course, the incomparable pipe-wielding Neville Cardus, who was born in Rusholme 135 years hence. His story is extraordinary, and he’s writing better.

Credit: The Manchester Guardian

What would Mr. Cardus make of a game (format) that, in his eyes, would be over before it began? Cardus could barely find time to construct an opening stanza without his editor at the Manchester Guardian demanding his copy be filed and printed. "Wait what happened?"

So, in keeping with its ‘micro format, I thought I might ask Mr. Cardus to describe but one shot from the over-sized blade of Tim David, Australia’s most finely-tuned T20 practitioner. And, then, I might take a shot myself.

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From the desk of Neville Cardus:

George Coetzee ran away from the press box, still reeling from the previous delivery. Tim David, an imposing young man with bat in hand, had ceremoniously dispatched the hapless Coetzee via the cover region to the rope in a matter of seconds. It resembled a scolded feline seeking cover. What this stroke lacked in aesthetic quality, it most certainly compensated for in braun. Nobody was left in thought as to David’s intention—especially Coetzee.

Back to his mark, Coetzee looked troubled, albeit from a rear view; I held fear for this delivery also. David, again, stood like that fine New Yorker, Babe Ruth, prior to a home-run swing—I must say, the methods employed by these batsmen seem at odds with what Hutton and co. have delighted us with for an age.

This oddly coloured ball was delivered from a high arm; everything looked in order for Coetzee. The trajectory was toward a perfectly respectable length, and aimed at the off stump, he had every right to be optimistic about its outcome. With this happening, David remained in his Babe Ruth-like pose; I worried he might not have time to bring the willow down to the ball. It all looked terribly awkward and manufactured.

What transpired allayed my pessimistic tone. Instead of the conventional prop forward with a straight bat meeting the ball in unhurried harmony—as Hutton had shown us for an age—all manner of things went the way of an eloping imposter.

David swung the bat in a strange horizontal motion, meeting the ball close to his right knee. Suddenly the ball had changed direction; it looked lost, not sure where to go. Well, instead of falling gently back to the puzzled Coetzee, it headed off at a rate of knots toward the square leg region. Its ascent was steady; the velocity was another matter. As it hit the grandstand, the ball was maintaining an upward trajectory and gathering speed. I feared for the spectators in-situ. It made an awful crashing sound on impact.

The ball, still oddly coloured, altered direction again after its meeting with the grandstand; it aeroplaned further into the Durban night, never to be seen again, like a hopeful eloper would wish for.

This kind of optimistic cricket might catch on; I hope there is more at hand soon.

Cardus

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A hacker’s effort: So, my account!

Tim David, Australia’s late-innings enforcer, stood tall and ready, waiting for the willing Coetzee. I had to be the wide yorker, making David hit to the wider side with no chance of elevation. Presumption says Coetzee missed his target; it was on speed, off stump line, and the length was perfect to access the shorter leg side boundary.

David’s bat plane swung rapidly from off to leg, and the contact point was perfect—adjacent to the right knee. The sound resembled an automatic firearm going off. If it wasn’t for the grandstand roof, I’m not sure this ball would have stayed in Durban—it was outta here.

Tim David wouldn’t have hit a sweeter ball in the thousands that have come before in his quest to be a T20 batter of the future.

Coetzee said cheerio to that ball; there’s always another in this format. Ten had come from the first two balls, and the 6-foot-5 David remained on strike. Such is T20 cricket.

Oh, not to be a bowler!

Speak

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So they you go; it was but one ball, described in two very different ways.

And, my comment to Cardus’ editor after reading his account in the Manchester Guardian the following day,

Dear Editor,

Reading Cardus' description of that single delivery from Tim David's bat, one can't help but be in awe of his incredible ability to bring such a brief moment in a cricket match to life through evocative prose.

In only a few short sentences, Cardus transports the reader to Kingsmead, putting them willingly beside him in the press box. His skill at capturing even the smallest of details and using rich imagery to describe the unfolding action leaves me feeling like I too witnessed the ball sailing long into the Durban night.

May you leave him to explore the hospitable environs of South Africa for a while longer.

Sincerely,

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It's easy to understand why Cardus was regarded as one of the great writers on cricket during his lifetime. Even after over a century, his writing remains remarkably insightful and engaging. I continually read and re-read his work.

While the rapid-fire nature of T20 cricket may have seemed foreign to someone of Cardus' era, his talent for storytelling surely would have allowed him to do justice to this modern short-form format. I can't help but admire the legacy of Neville Cardus and his truly unique ability to paint a picture with words on the page.

And of course, he’s from a place just five miles from where I grew up.

Have a great weekend, everyone.

Credit: Ideogram