Hail to the coach!
FRANK KEATING
The Ashes cricket series was unimaginably compelling from first day to last. At Lord’s on 21 July England began their challenge by bowling out the world champion Australians for just 190 to kick-start the turbulent rollercoaster, and in the following 54 days of beguiling intensity and speculation the whole cricket world — and far beyond it became engulfed in the flamboyant ride right up to the barmy damp-squib ‘bad-light’ ending. The best team deservedly won. The losers, surprised by such a sustained challenge, fought like cornered cats, then gave generous best. Cricket folk had to half-close moist eyes and summon thoughts of Jessop’s imperishable century on the very same wide field all of 93 years ago when England’s irrepressible fancydan, the South African Pietersen, piebald coiff aglow, rode in, first on his white charger, then on the overwhelming tide of emotion, as well as, most certainly, his luck. It was a truly unforgettable innings for cricket’s all-time lore and legend. What’s Afrikaans for Bravissimo? Sure, the extended opera — hymns and arias, solos and chorus, tumbling upon each other for passage after passage, day after day — did cricket the world of good. Sport as a whole also came up beaming to take a bow. Undoubtedly players and followers of other games, professional or amateur on vast packed arenas or village ‘recs’, were forced to look at themselves and take serious note. Challenge, defiance and character, entertainment, enjoyment — and valour. The honouring of the foe has been the template these last few weeks; the chivalry and nobility of both sets of cricketers has been heartwarming, edifying and salutary.
Hosannas all round, ancient and modern. Apt that at the final sponsors’ collection of dues at the Oval — the post-match prizegiving jamboree — someone popped up with the Compton-Miller medal to be awarded for the player of the series. (My word, how those two best of matey enemies of half a century ago, DCS and KRM, would have revelled in and relished this late, warm English summer of 2005). I know those two beloved luminaries would have insisted their prize be shared, for right up to Monday’s last palpitating afternoon, only two giants were vying for it — the extraordinary Oz spin bowler Warne, peerless, combative, and indefatigable maestro of con trol, variation and venom, and England’s shining new knight, the ebulliently bold and bonny all-rounder Flintoff. In his first Ashes series, the bounding Freddie inspiritingly put to bed any wavering doubts that England had at last found its copper-bottomed replacement for Botham. In that beefy champion’s two resplendent Ashes series, six Tests were played, not the conventional five as this year. In the first five Tests of 1981 Botham scored 380 runs and took 24 wickets; in 1985’s first five, he made 238 runs and took 25 wickets. In this summer’s five, Flintoff scored 402 runs and took 24 wickets. Enough said.
The summer has been a resounding triumph for Fletcher, England’s coach from Zimbabwe, a man who makes gleamingly original and real the clichéd phrase ‘shy and retiring’. The lemon-faced tub makes reticence an art form and if he lacks social graces outside the lockerroom, then he sure has some potent pep inside it — as Britain’s most engaging woman sportswriter Tanya Aldred nicely remarked in the Guardian, Fletcher’s ‘mysterious behindthe-scenes charisma should be released as both an eau de toilette and perfume in time for Christmas’. He deserves to make a fortune from it — certainly if the Home Secretary continues to refuse him a British passport.
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