I actually fell asleep before the late wickets of Cook and Finn on the penultimate evening, so imagine my displeasure when I awoke to see England had finished the day four down and believe I was in the overwhelming majority in that I didn't give England a cat in hell's chance of saving the game. I was resigned to the final day being a fairly short and unsatisfying listen. In the end, it panned out anything but.
One of the reasons why sport possesses such an enduring mass appeal is its great unpredictability and ever-evolving paradigms. Contrast this with other entertainment spectacles on offer such as music, film, theatre and art. Yes, there is the same level of appreciation of talent as in sport but, with the exception of improvised material, there is not the same excitement-causing uncertainty that is present in sport. Granted, you may not know how the song, play or film ends but you can be confident someone does (although, I must confess I have been on stage many times where I have been fairly confident no-one knows how it will end!). In sport, you can never be sure of the result (insert darkly humourous reference to Pakistani match-fixing here).Never has that statement, and the old adages that come with it such as never say never and fat ladies singing, been more appropriate than when watching the final day at Auckland.
In some respects, the day played out a lot like a classic novel or an epic piece of theatre. There were twists at every turn with multiple story lines intertwining and running alongside each other, different major players taking centre stage at different times.
The first act belonged mostly to Ian Bell, who here played the role of tragic hero. Bell is one of those (numerous) England players who it seems is constantly having to prove himself to someone or other. I theorise that people get frustrated at Bell getting out simply because that means they can no longer watch him bat, rather than any detrimental effects it may have on the team's innings. Bell can make any shot in the book look like fine art. When he is in full flow he makes even the crustiest of members purr and squeal like excited teenage fangirls. I am proud, and a little smug, to say that I have never been a Bell detractor. For me, his record and technique speak for themselves. It may seem that he hasn't played many backs-to-the-wall, Collingwoodesque rearguards, but precious few batters have and, for most of his career anyway, he has played as part of a very strong England team and has consequently not had his back up against the wall too often. If he was playing 16/17 years ago when backs-to-the-wall was the modus operandi for England batters, perhaps I would judge him differently.
In Auckland however, he was a model of grit and concentration throughout his innings, much of which was played with escape still an unlikely outcome. Although he heroically defended his wicket for the entire morning session the overwhelming feeling was that he was doomed to fail, his days were numbered and his end would eventually come. All this made his display almost romantic.
Alongside Bell fought the two fresh-faced rookies of the team, Root and then Bairstow. Root has been the young darling of English cricket for months now, the heir-apparent to multiple roles within the team. One of these roles is that of the scrapper, the fighter in the mold of Atherton. He displayed why he has been anointed with these preemptive titles for nearly all the morning session with a mature and determined knock. He was broken however, when confronted with a foe to which he could not measure up, that of Trent Boult with the new ball. The slim left-armer, equipped with the new cherry, was akin to a master villan entering the piece at just the wrong time for the batters, but just the right time to thrill a captive audience. The two dropped catches in Boult's next over provided a fittingly frenetic finale to Act I, after which everyone needed a cuppa and a bite to eat to calm down. No-one could wait for the next act of this compelling drama.
Looking back at the second installment of the day's play, I must wonder whether George Lucas had a hand in the writing of the script. There was a great deal of striking back done by the resurgent Kiwi stormtroopers. The rusty and understandably hapless Bairstow fell to the potent new ball attack and for the rest of the session the England batters were under constant bombardment, surviving numerous reviews, plays and misses and the closest of close calls when the ball cannoned back onto the stumps and failed to remove a bail. The recipient of this extraordinary bit of fortune was Matt Prior. It may be his balding head and nowadays not inconsiderable beard, but Prior always reminds me of the old war veteran, the Sergeant-Major who is so admired and always followed by the troops. It is mark of how well respected he is that, even in such a seemingly hopeless situation, his arrival was a reassuring sight for both players and fans alike. Bell however, the aging and ever-wearying hero of the first session, perished in dramatic fashion that befitted his epic struggle right at the end of the act.
This terrific photo taken just after his dismissal is a perfect portrait of tragic noble defeat. The spotlight would fall on him in this pose while the orchestra would come to a devastatingly melancholy cresendo. Then the curtain would fall and there would not be a dry eye in the house. With only Broad, Anderson and Panesar to come, the audience took their teatime intermission with the gloomy belief that this piece would end the most tragic of tragedies.
The final episode of this marvellous piece of entertainment was watched and listened to by many eyes and ears that were excrutiatingly tired, people only keeping going on the pure adrenaline caused by the excitement of it all. No-one (who wasn't Kiwi anyway) was left disappointed however, as the day concluded with a crescendo that Spielberg, Wagner (the composer not the bowler) or Tolkein would have been proud of. A new character was introduced at the beginning of this act. Stuart Broad could be classed as the archetypal Byronic hero. Talented, cavalier and passionate yes, but prone to childlike petulance, brilliance only sporadically and a certain disregard for authority. He also possesses that most vital of Byronic traits, and even I can tell this, dashing good looks. England fans are notoriously polarised when it comes to virtually any player, but with Broad the stereotype is even more exaggerated. The most vitriolic of Broad critics must have been uplifted by his innings however, as it was a gloriously ungainly coming-of-age fight against himself as much as against the Kiwi bowlers.
Never has the phrase over my dead body been more apt as he came crouching across his stumps, determined to play as close to his nose as possible, his eyes never leaving the ball, save to look to his wicketkeeper for encouragement. That wicketkeeper continued on his swashbuckling way to a magnificent hundred that surely must be his best, guiding his less able partners along the way, coercing here, comforting there. He looked for all the world like a patient and experienced father assisting his children with their first drive or fishing trip. Just when we thought the ending could be called however, there came the final twist in the tail. Brendon McCullum, who in order to keep this loose tangle of analogies going, must be the chief villan of the piece and the hamstring injury added to this image. He limped around the field like an Antipodean Richard III, marshalling his troops with a great deal of cunning and a healthy dose of daring. His master stroke was to bring on that unlikeliest of assassins, Kane Williamson. Broad, although having redeemed himself in the eyes of many with his gritty and determined showing, could not see the job through. Anderson, who had himself been the hero in a similar production held in Wales four years ago, was relegated to the bit part of rabbit-in-the-headlights for this performance. Enter Monty. It is perhaps too easy to cast the distinctive and endearing left arm spinner as the fool but my word he did look foolish when he mistimed that dive!
What a beautiful thing that was. That, in amongst all this tension, two professional sports teams playing some of the most compelling cricket there could be, every player concentrating with all his might on executing his skills to the best of his ability, there could be a moment of such pure hilarity. Jonathan Agnew's incredulously joyful 'He's fallen over!' coupled with Michael Vaughan's uncontrollable cackling reaffirmed to me that not only is Test cricket the most exciting and skilful sport there is, it is also simply the nicest. Monty topped up his already overflowing cult hero status when he negotiated (played and missed) the first two balls of the final over and calmly stole a single from the third, leaving Prior to see England home and dry. Prior was no doubt overcome with relief and delight but, like any good Sergeant-Major, he kept his cool and his steely expression, offering a simple raising of both arms in celebration. Monty, in completely opposition fashion, careered down the pitch to embrace his great friend and Sussex teammate.
We the audience could all breathe freely again. Everyone who had undertook that journey on the final day, whether they were there watching live, on TV, listening on the radio or just following text updates, knew they had witnessed something special. England would have time to analyse why they had to grind out the tensest of draws against the 8th best team in the world and New Zealand would at some point seek an answer as to why they couldn't complete the kill, but these post-mortems could wait. For now the fans, and players despite what they would state in interviews, must just bask in the glory of a wonderful Test match and confirmation once again that Test cricket is the pinnacle. Only it can produce days such as this. A day of prolonged, dynamic excitement that nothing can rival. I am confident, confident enough to write it on my obsure cricket blog, that Test cricket will never die out. It always has and always will be capable of producing spectacles such as this, and we should be grateful for it.
