Before the start of the series won on Wednesday night by the resurgent South Africans your correspondent forecast that India would be lucky to win two out of the five matches. In retrospect that prediction has been proved hopelessly off target: a whitewash is what they deserve, and if they scramble together a win at Centurion on Sunday, Graeme Smith’s team will feel justifiably robbed.
The prediction was easily made. India have always been weak tourists, and a recent slump in their performances, most notably a particularly impotent showing at the Champions Trophy, suggested only bad things for their South African trip. But now that the dust has settled, one has to admit that India have been startlingly rotten.
One can’t do anything about form, of course, and the visiting batsmen have perhaps been exceptionally unlucky in being deserted by theirs en masse, with not a man spared to prop up his floundering colleagues. The washout at the Wanderers would not have helped nerves either, and those are clearly frayed, as evidenced by Sachin Tendulkar batting with a chest protector at Durban, a bizarre sight that suggested the maestro had already been beaten by the blowtorch intent of Makhaya Ntini without having faced a ball.
But the extent to which the Indians are in tatters wasn’t clear until Wednesday night, when, at a post-mortem press conference, opener Virender Sehwag told a journalist that he still had high hopes. ”When we get a good opening partnership it will be a different game,” he said, at which point it became abundantly clear that India have gone to that place where all losers eventually wind up once they’ve taken enough hits: the land of whimsical fantasy, a cocoon of schoolboy mayhap.
Ah yes, how different the game will be when India get a good opening partnership. Perhaps they’ll reach 300/0. Maybe 900/2. And they’ll each be given an Aston Martin full of champagne. And a tiger on a leash. Although to be fair, if they only get to 550-ish, they’re more likely to be given a Toyota full of Pepsi and a shrew on a string, but that would still be fine …
It wasn’t surprising that the Indians had disappeared down the rabbit hole. Their three defeats have been savage, and they have been put through the wringer by some extremely hostile stuff from Ntini and Andre Nel.
What was surprising, however, was that they should have bolted mentally and emotionally so soon in the tour.
More surprising, however, was that Smith hasn’t found his own hidey-hole — or sinkhole — to fling himself into. Never one to tap dance about in the crease, his footwork has recently begun to resemble that of a woolly mammoth that has gravely misjudged its stroll through a tar pit. Add to this a severe problem with balance (manifested as an apparent attempt to head-butt backward point) and one has a batsman incapable of opening a soggy packet of slap chips, let alone an innings.
In past seasons, these wretched efforts would have elicited a torrent of commentary from Smith, somewhere between an auctioneer’s gabble and a stream of consciousness beat poem. Hundred percent, bounce back, iron things out, committed, niggle, swings and roundabouts, confident, faith in the coach, faith in myself, modesty, honesty, integrity …
And yet Smith has remained remarkably, admirably, silent. If he has mentioned Brave Cricket, it has been as honest and justifiable praise for the fighting knocks of the South African lower order, the most marvellous being Justin Kemp’s lone gunslinger act at Newlands. He has simply got his duck, trudged off, and started working out his bowling options.
By ”options”, of course, one is referring to Shaun Pollock: Smith may have been doodling permutations of spells and overs, but given the veteran seamer’s current form, it’s far more likely that Smith’s notes read something like ”Throw ball to Polly, get Jacques to wake me when they’re 20/3.”
Ntini has been vicious and probing, a genuinely dangerous customer, but Pollock has been transcendent. It is sure to be a very different story in the Tests, when batsmen can leave or defend all day, but in the shorter game Pollock is at the very peak of his powers. Indeed, the 32-year-old veteran is enjoying his best year ever in one-day cricket.
Back in his 25th year, when he was still a pigeon-toed goofy kid with drooping shoulders and a wicked bouncer, he took his wickets at a fractionally quicker rate, but this year’s average and economy rate have plunged into uncharted territories. (Waxing lyrical about economy rates may consign one to that corner of the room reserved for raincoats and post-nasal drips, but nonetheless it should be pointed out that conceding 3,05 runs per over in the modern game, as Pollock has done this year, is roughly equivalent to a batsmen making 50 every time he takes guard. It’s good.)
The series won, the prospect of the Centurion game is not oozing glamour. Besides, one knows what will happen: Smith will be LBW for 3, and the Proteas will win by 700 runs, and all be given tigers and leashes. Maybe.