Notes From the World Cup: Glenn Maxwell, Holy Shit!
What did we just watch?
Cricket can be easy to follow but hard to fall in love with. On most days, it is the dullest thing on TV, and yet, there are some of us, glued to it as if John Williams is taking a lecture on music composition. I sometimes wonder if I would’ve been as allured if it was introduced to me in my teens or adulthood instead of the ripe age of four.
That ramen pot of anxiety and new choices, commonly known as teenage, is the least conducive environment for tedium. We try our absolute best to avoid long car journeys, walks, and three-hour, slow-burn movies. Even the books we pick up, or the music we listen to, have certain snappy rhythms. In everything we do, we feverishly look for hooks to latch on to.
In a list of the least hook-worthy sports, cricket ranks very high. Every ball takes nearly a minute to be delivered, very few fetch boundaries, and even fewer fetch wickets. Sometimes, the game goes on for an entire day and then the players return for four more days.
In September this year, my friend Shilpa was in Sri Lanka on a leisure trip. She used to be an athlete, so sport is part of her DNA, but thinks cricket cannot be taken seriously. In a stroke of luck, someone at the hotel got her tickets to the India vs Pakistan game in Colombo. “Sarthak, should I go?”
Imagine asking that. But, either way, she and her family went. And then the messages started.
In the game she watched, Virat Kohli and KL Rahul hit lovely, unbeaten, centuries, India scored 356-2, and then rolled Pakistan over. But the thing with those centuries was that you needed to be a cricket fan to truly appreciate them. Kohli and Rahul had to navigate sticky conditions and a rampant fast-bowling attack to build their innings. The flourish at the end took the score beyond 350, but it was preceded by an ODI-cricket masterclass in pacing. Not to sound esoteric, but I can see why many would’ve tuned out midway through this.
I don’t think Shilpa is ever watching live cricket again, at least willingly. But if I could bend time, I would take her to the Wankhede to watch Glenn Maxwell bat against Afghanistan. On the way, I would tell her about the enormity of what Afghanistan are achieving at this World Cup. A bit about their history will serve as a perfect contrast to their calculated deconstruction of England and Pakistan. She would already know about Australia as the powerhouse cricket team. And when they find themselves at 91/7, and as we wipe sweat off our brows, I would ask her to hold tight because her life was about to change.
One four, two fours, six!
Lol, just having some fun while they can. It will be over soon.
Some streaky shots, dropped catches, and close shaves. Mumbai is humid. In fact, too humid to watch an ODI game at the stadium. There is no inward breeze from the Arabian Sea.
Another six. Maxwell is climbing into Noor Ahmed. A few quiet minutes later, Maxwell climbs into Mujeeb ur-Rahman and Mohammed Nabi. He gets a century. Wankhede, including one Shilpa, stands up to clap. But Australia need another hundred.
Everyone at the stadium is supporting Afghanistan. They are now getting a little fidgety. Great innings by Maxi, but enough. Seal the game now, Rashid. The North Stand screams for Rashid Khan and Mujeeb. And why wouldn’t it? We have all seen enough Australian dominance and the Afghanistan story is heartwarming even if you have dropped blind into this World Cup. They aren’t supposed to be taking the mickey out of three, and soon four, previous World Cup winners.
Besides, Maxwell is cramping. This doesn’t look good for Australia. Even Pat Cummins, usually emotionless in the ring, has a furrowed brow. He and the bowlers are not going to get the remainder of the target, so Maxwell leaving essentially means Game Over. He has only recently recovered from a freak injury, so his body is screaming for a massage table instead of tightly strapped pads. Adam Zampa walks down from the Wankhede dressing room.
Alright then, this was fun. Should we book a cab?
Not yet.
Zampa is sent back. Maxwell will continue. Five minutes later, he smokes Mohammed Nabi for a four and a six. Wasn’t he cramping? Cummins plays the situation perfectly. Aware that there is enough time left in the game, he eschews all risk and calmly plods the Afghan spinners for dots and singles. He knows that Maxwell needs him as much as he needs Maxwell.
Maxwell hits Rashid Khan for a towering six, Afghanistan bring back their fast bowler, and Maxwell hits him for two fours. 60 runs needed in 60 balls.
Noor Ahmed bowls, four. Noor bowls again, Maxwell pushes for a single, runs, and falls over. For a brief, scary second, his body spasms as if going through electric shocks. The Aussie physio rushes to him. Zampa walks down again. Oh, no. The word struggle undersells what Maxwell is going through. And with him, to a minuscule degree, us.
Surely it is over now? Not yet.
Zampa walks back. Maxwell will continue. Cummins plays out the rest of the over. There won’t be any singles; doubles are out of the question. Azmatullah runs in for the next over. Maxwell first launches him in front, then hockey-flicks him behind the wicketkeeper. What the fuck?
Less than 50 needed now. Cummins, at this point a sage and guide, plays out a maiden. In the next over, Maxwell hits two fours and a six. 32 needed. New over. Six again. WHAT.
By now, adrenalin is oozing from his body, so much that I can feel some slip into mine. Maxwell is pumping his fists, running singles like a Charlie Chaplin impersonator with soaked clothes.
It is hard to watch this without squirming in your seat. From the corner of my eye, I can see Shilpa placing the bhelpuri packet to the side. She is crouching forward, hands over her mouth, eyes pinned to the pitch as if she is controlling the bearded man in canary yellow.
21 needed. Mujeeb ur Rahman, the man who dropped an absolute sitter off Maxwell early in the innings, is brought back into the attack. He needs a redemption arc of his own.
Six, six, four, six. Game over. Glenn Maxwell, on one functioning leg, has scored 201 runs in a target of 290, while navigating the chase from 90/7. He holds his arms aloft; we do too. Wankhede is bellowing “Maxi, Maxi” as loudly as possible.
Now, Shilps. Do you want to book the cab or let this sink in for a while longer?
If only I could bend time.
Sometimes, cricket is the best movie in town. Sandwiched between all the dullness and predictability, there are these moments, unscripted and laced with jeopardy, that take your breath away. Glenn Maxwell’s innings at the Wankhede was the kind of gateway drug you pass on to non-watchers and turn them into cricket fans. As a two-hour capsule, there is no greater advertisement for what cricket can do to your body.
Last night’s game was an event, a milestone in cricket history. Those who watched it will talk about it until their throats are parched, drink some water, and talk some more. And every conversation, as this article, will end with wide eyes and open mouths gasping the same expression: Holy Shit.
I was rooting for the underdogs all the way. And then as I found out, till the end. Underdog won.