Winner of the World Cup, confronter of Darrel Hair, defender of Muttiah Muralitharan’s action — Arjuna Ranatunga is an elder statesman of cricket. When he speaks, people listen. Of course, they only listen because they’re trapped next to him on the bus, pinned into their seats by his girth and missionary zeal. And like most elder statesman he is a blustering anachronism, wheeled out of a cobwebby corner to support the policies of the day, and then returned to his dotage.
Whatever Ranatunga is selling, most observers aren’t buying. Apparently hell-bent on bringing about the annihilation of Australia and all who sail in her, his sporadic accusations have by now lost their impressive spleen, and today seem merely ragged and disconnected fragments of bitterness. Most involve latent Australian racism and flagrant Australian arrogance, but one gets the feeling he’d be as happy to bitch about Richie Benaud’s hair or a particularly unpleasant sardine he once ate in Tasmania. And once infected with arbitrariness, criticism is rendered irrelevant.
Some weeks ago, no doubt prompted by accidentally tuning into The Man from Snowy River, Ranatunga launched another intellectual blancmange at the Australian camp, something about them being overrated, brittle, incestuous and satanic. As bad luck would have it, it was the same week that Graham Smith decided to have another go at psychological warfare, having practised for a long time in front of a mirror.
It took considerable chutzpah to expound on the limitation of Australia, given that Sydney is still echoing with derisive laughter and the faint pistol cracks of Ricky Ponting’s bat. But as coach Mickey Arthur adoringly revealed in an interview this week, Smith has proved more than adept at getting under the skins of the opposition. It seems that the Proteas are, for now, being captained by a splinter.
It should have been typical trash-talk, macho nonsense from a bumptious young sportsman saying what was required of him. But appearing as it did simultaneously with Ranatunga’s wheeze, one couldn’t help but draw parallels between the two men. Then Kepler Wessels suggested that Smith was unfit, and the local press had to bite down hard on a leather strop to resist the urge to run banner headlines reading GIGANTIC BLOB SMITH TOO FAT TO BAT or BLOATED BIFF’S BLUBBER BALLOONS IN LARD SHOCK ROW SCANDAL.
Thus besmirched by association with Ranatunga, Smith’s opinions have taken on a faintly comical air; and it would have been difficult to hide the giggles had Sri Lanka not aped its former captain and turned from cricketers into circus freaks in Adelaide last week.
Ten overs and a couple of mathematical high jinks away from a spot in the final, Sri Lanka needed 40 off 35 deliveries, with five wickets in hand. Tillikeratne Dilshan, solid if not attractive, needed to nudge ones and twos while shepherding the tail, accept the odd streaky boundary, grab a stump and have a shower.
Thirty-five balls later, Dilshan had faced 14 and scored eight runs. If South Africa ever choked, as the Australians are so fond of insisting, it was nowhere near the levels of amateurish ineptitude plumbed by the clueless Sri Lankans. Smith’s team has been unable to create opportunities on this tour, but they still know how to seize one when it’s handed to them on a silver platter: Andrew Hall obliged, proving resoundingly that one professional is worth three amateurs. To snatch victory was gratifying. To do it by bowling a maiden over was fiendish.
A week later, and the newly inaugurated chokers were at it again, clutching at their craws, the strategy that has carried them for a decade (Jayasuriya wallops, Murali strangles) no longer backed up with opportunism and common sense. Five Sri Lankans run out in two matches speaks of a team battling psychological demons, and suggests that the finals should be an all green-and-gold affair.
The king is dead. Long live the king. The mantle of choker has been passed to the Sri Lankans. Long may it remain with them. Now let’s all stop gabbing and play some rollicking one-day cricket.