You are puzzled, you try to work it out. Australia, 289/9, declared. Ah right, of course, you think – this is the Bazball era, sporting declarations are your everyday occurrence now. But, blinking, you focus on the scorecard and realize why this seemed to catch your eye. Australia, 289/9, trailing by 22, declared. You quickly check that this wasn’t on account of injury, concussion, Covid, etc. No, it turns out, nothing like that. Beautiful, gentle, ever-smiling Pat, still trailing, has declared the innings with one man in the shed and about 40 minutes’ play left on Day 2. You recall just then, a snippet from Season 1 of The Test, where the current Australian captain had the following comment on a first innings declaration by their then opposition: “…A declaration normally means you’re in front of the game... They’re confident they can win the game if they declare it.”
But they’re trailing, you splutter. Even in a day-night Test, even with the pink ball whizzing past noses at the Gabba, even against a rather…let’s say, ‘youthful’ West Indies side that were predictably blown away by the World Test Champions at Adelaide; even so, you think, this is yonkers…
Unless, of course, as Pat Cummins had said, Australia not only believed they were ahead, but so far ahead of the game, that 22 runs: gold-dust, or rather fat gold ingots in any close match, were worth foregoing for an 8-over crack under lights at a brittle batting line-up. Tottering at 64/5 in their first innings, the Windies had already staged a classic jailbreak to rise to an unlikely 311. That, you reckon angelic Pat thought, was their 15 minutes of fame in the match, possibly the tour, already done and dusted.
Only, man-crush aside, the vibe with Pat is now distinctly un-angelic. The nonchalant arrogance of this declaration is palpable in the stifling Brisbane air as the Australians swagger out, pink cherry in hand, ready to do the business on their spirited but unsung opposition. Is it Pat you see leading them out, or Ponting? You’re not quite sure.
You sigh and text your cousin. Arre yaar, this Australia. Man can’t stand them, he says. Now they’ll reduce West Indies to 30-5 or something. 100-type chase in the fourth innings, you gripe. Irritation aside, there is a distinct undercurrent of grudging admiration for the Australians in your brief exchange.
24 hours pass. In Melbourne, the ageless ageing master was shown the door by a young Italian whose compact, attractive game and endearing humility had you wondering whether there is someone after Federer after all; a crafty, tenacious Russian prevailed over a shell-shocked German. In Brisbane, the West Indies are taking guard at 13/1, an overnight score you find quite impressive, the 22-run lead making it sound so much better at 35/1. Brathwaite and McKenzie take a minute to settle in, but soon, crisp boundaries – each stroked with a Caribbean flourish that is somehow instantly recognizable but indescribable – start to flow. The lead rises steadily, swells to 70, 80. There is no panic on the Australians’ faces, but you get the sense that it’s not going exactly to plan. You loll in bed during the early part of the first session and clap, whoop, cheer each run. You expect the inevitable, of course, but that’s a problem for later in the day. For now, you’re just happy to be taken along for this ride – a slighted XI, out to avenge the humiliation of the (un)sporting declaration by trying to force the match into a genuine fourth innings. You seethe with them, for them. Having witnessed several crucial knocks by no. 11s over the years – instrumental, if not in stretching the team into a slender lead, then at least in bringing down a deficit – something about this declaration has irked you to the core. It smacks of a disrespect that the Australians have been proud not to display for quite a while.
Come noon, you’re no longer watching, having been pulled into some untimely pre-scheduled concalls. But you’re keeping tabs through commentary. Wickets begin to fall, as they must. But the lead, too, crosses 100 and ticks along. The Windies are scrappy: certainly not getting knocked over, but absent a repeat of the first innings’ heroics (no longer on offer as Da Silva and Hodge fall cheaply), not comprehensively challenging a straightforward Australian win either.
The lead limps on to 170-odd with just about 4 wickets to go. You fantasize about a fourth innings target of 250, but the score appears stuck at the mid-180s for an hour. Some scampered runs, a solitary boundary, and the lead crosses 210. But you’re shocked to see, some moments later, that the innings closed at 193/9 on the back of a Mitch Starc no-ball – surely not a tit-for-tat declaration?!?! But no. Wincing, you read of the searing toe-crusher that split the batter’s toe (in two? you block out that information), retiring him out. You shake your head and wish Shamar Joseph well.
Here are the things you know about Shamar Joseph until Sunday morning: he dismissed Steve Smith with his first ball in Test cricket; he once used to work as a security guard; he made some useful runs in the first Test at Adelaide. But you haven’t seen much of him in action, and, checking on your own toe subconsciously, you rue that you won’t for a while.
Chasing 216, Australia are resuming at 60/2. Time is aplenty, the weather is clear, Steve Smith is still at the crease, and the West Indies are a bowler short. Hardly the circumstances to compel anyone to question the declaration from two days ago, already fading into distant memory. You are tied up with some work, but keep a casual eye on proceedings through commentary. Smith and Green start briskly and the Test match trundles on to its conclusion.
The day, and the long weekend, are slowly getting away from you. But you remember to check the score now and then. Australia canter along, unhurried. Smith seems to have finally found his feet as an opener, another inevitability that was much remarked upon when he put his hand up for the role. Arre yaar, these Aussies. Moving from one room to another, you happen to refresh the page, and yelp in delight when the score registers. 4 down. Joseph – of course, the tall, grim and brooding Alzarri Joseph, heavy on the bat, had to get in on the act at some point.
You move quickly to tune in, but are disappointed. The stands are empty, there’s hardly a buzz around the ground. The public have chosen a Sunday snooze, or perhaps they’ve hopped over to Melbourne. Still, even the muted energy of the place seems to be converging on one man, charging in to bowl with the determination of a bull but the fleet-footedness of a gazelle, instantly reminiscent of Usain Bolt. You stare, open-mouthed, at Shamar Joseph. You can swear you saw a picture of him, face contorted in pain, being carried off the ground by a couple of team-mates from just a few hours ago: innings, match, series, tour, all seemingly done, or undone, by one mean yorker.
Smith is still around, though, you note, and Australia only around a 100 away. Big Mitch Marsh strides out and strokes a few quick runs. You panic and turn off the TV. But deep down in your gut, that latent cricketing bone that tingles pleasantly on days and at matches like this, has told you that something special is brewing at the Gabba, but also sternly instructed you to keep away to make it happen. You think back to the declaration – has it begun to play on Pat’s mind yet? – and decide to happily oblige. You don’t know the story yet. You know that there is one to know behind this remarkable cricketer’s astonishing return to the field to give his team a fighting chance at eking out the unlikeliest of victories. But for now, you are content to wait. Wait, refresh, wait some more.
At 6 down, you give in. Shamar has two more. The broadcasters can hold their excitement no longer. Yet, brief highlights of the mesmerizing spell apart, you only manage to catch Mitchell Starc smacking a couple of cool, authoritative boundaries off the very bowler who’s just handed Travis Head a king pair. The man can bat. And there’s still Smith, eyes laser-focussed, at the other end. Just about 60 to get. You deflate and turn it off again.
After this, things are rather blurry. Shamar has bowled and bowled and bowled, but you’ve barely watched anything. 6 wickets fall in the session – all to Shamar – but you’ve not caught a single one live. Australia go into the dinner break at 187/8, 29 away. If, as cricket fans sometimes believe, you can genuinely support a team more by not watching, you’re certainly playing your part.
At 20 runs/1 wicket to go, you lose your will again, only to witness Steve Smith calmly step across his stumps and execute a scoop off Alzarri Joseph which is so perfectly timed that you don’t need to follow its arc to know that it’s been launched into the meagre crowd, brought alive by the spectacle unfolding before them. The commentators can’t stop gushing over the skill behind the shot; rightfully so, you concede. One of them remarks that the 14 runs and 1 wicket apart, we mustn’t lose sight that Smith is just 13 short of a magnificent century. You curse, and walk away once more. You want to believe, but the chasm is simply too narrow at this point. And of course, the poetic justice of a 22-run loss is no longer possible.
The West Indies need one wicket. They have 9 runs to play with, and Shamar Joseph is running up round the wicket to bowl at Josh Hazlewood, batting for the first time in the match. You know none of this. You are skulking about your desk, refraining from refreshing the online commentary for fear of facing the result of this nerve-wracking match. A minute passes. You submit to the agony and hit refresh.
For a few minutes after a final wicket falls, the Espncricinfo commentary reflects a team’s score as 10 down. It soon corrects itself to show just the runs the team scored. The winning team remains in bold text, the losing team is un-bolded. What you see in that split second, before you make the mad dash to the drawing room, is Australia: 207/10.
You can’t wait any longer; you tune in on your phone even as the broadcast loads on TV. You are clapping and cheering in pure, unadulterated joy. The declaration, which seemed to drive much of your interest in the match, is forgotten, zapped into unimportance by the passion and pride on display by a team you know so little about, but which you – and the entire cricketing world, you trust – feels so much for.
And finally, you feast your eyes on the man whose iron will, softened only by his boyish smile, brought them to this moment. His face still isn’t quite imprinted on your memory, and he doesn’t help your cause – a blur as he races around the Gabba on those lightest of feet, having bowled a mere 12 overs in a row at 140km+ to singly uproot an Australian line-up that were coasting even until the last possible moment. You watch as roars, grins, gets photographed, and makes exaggerated, jaunty bows to the crowd and camera, maroon cap in hand; you laugh uproariously at the innocence of an unseasoned superstar when, cornered by a broadcaster and asked how he feels, he puts a hand up and takes his time to wipe his face down with a towel.
You finally partake in the story, as told by Shamar Joseph himself – that he wasn’t supposed to be there; that the support staff suggested he come to the ground even just to cheer on the team; that the doctor did something (he doesn’t know what) to mend his toe just enough for him to be able to bowl, and bowl, and bowl. They had belief, he says. He cried when he got the 5-fer, he says, but for now he is all smiles.
You have comprehensively missed this match, but you couldn’t be happier. Even the outcome of the Australian Open men’s final – another great match yet to even begin, another great champion yet to announce himself – has faded into relative unimportance. There is a long wait before a good enough highlights package is put up for you to savour at leisure; even that, you know, will only infinitesimally capture what this Test match has been, and what it will stand for for a group of islands which do not even claim a common nationhood.
Cricket, and Test cricket in particular, will always need such stories for the game – always seeming to shrink rather than expand year on year – to grow and endure. For this match, the end was just the beginning. In the days and weeks to come, stories will be told, interviews held, revelations made. No aspect of Shamar Joseph’s life will be too small to dissect, and the legend will grow. Much, you suspect, will also be written and said about how this match exemplifies the beauty of Test cricket and makes a strong case for revamping the current Test structure and allocating more games to teams outside the Big Three. But for the moment, this is not about cricket, Test cricket, or the survival and growth of the game. This is about a team, now-famously called ‘pathetic and hopeless’, that believed and fought, and fought and believed, and simply refused to give up; and about a young man who rose out of obscurity and heroically overcame debilitating physical pain to will them to victory. To wrest the narrative away from the West Indies in any fashion, including by dwelling on a declaration that you now feel is a mere footnote in this match that offered so much more, is to do a cruel disservice to the skill and courage of the better team on the day.
You don’t know yet where this will all land, and like all of the Caribbean, can only hope that this sparks a revival of the Windies, the likes of which the cricketing world has been yearning for for decades. But for the moment, you can, as their cricket anthem so sweetly implores you to do, rally ’round the West Indies. And to recast those immortal words, screamed out at the end of a similarly significant but, you feel, lesser victory (and think that the speaker of the words might well agree), now and forever – Shamar Joseph: remember the name.