Typically changeable Cape Town weather, the pragmatists would have said as the skies opened over Newlands last week, forcing the final Test against India into a gripping if soggy final act. There’s always one rainy day around New Year, the veterans would have pointed out. Nothing out of the ordinary.
But one couldn’t help thinking: Pakistan did this.
One day science will turn its analytical eye towards the phenomenon that is Pakistani cricket, and will unravel the physics behind the pandemonium. Perhaps they will discover ways of harnessing the dark energy of chaos, and Shoaib Akhtar will be plugged into Pakistan’s national grid to keep the nation’s hairdryers going.
But whatever they reveal, it will be extraordinary; for it beggars belief that so much sub-atomic upheaval can be caused simply by a dozen men co-existing in the same time and space.
Which was why, as the freakishly ill-timed shower moved over Newlands and Shaun Pollock batted with a majesty worthy of his uncle, one had to wonder whether or not the remarkable — and quite unpredictable — events in Cape Town were being influenced by a general disturbance in the cosmos, its epicentre in Gauteng.
Pakistan had arrived. Odd things were bound to happen.
And odd things are bound to keep happening, over the next few weeks, as the second instalment of the summer’s entertainment gets under way.
The Indian series ultimately followed the ordained script, even if Rahul Dravid’s team briefly tossed its lines aside at Johannesburg and upstaged the South African lead. But with the divas of international cricket in town, even with their wilfulness greatly toned down by the stern, paternal influence of Inzamam-ul-Haq, expect 15 days of adlibbing.
Which is not to say that they are rabble. The stately Inzamam has reportedly instilled far more discipline and steel into a team notorious for its glamour boys and rock stars, and while Bob Woolmer has not been entirely successful at hacking through the Gordian knot of Pakistan’s sporting politics, his canny scientific approach can only have helped the team.
But even Woolmer, as close to the action as anyone outside the first XI can be, has an air of serene detachment about it all. Perhaps this is a survival strategy, which allows him to do everything he can for the team but to switch off when the finger-pointing starts and the hard yards are undone by ego and chaos.
To stay fully engaged in Pakistan, one suspects, is to burn out or be deported after a screaming fit at a net session.
Certainly he and Inzamam have been dealt some bitter blows this week. Mohammed Yousuf was coming to South Africa as a record-breaking batsmen, a monster of accumulation equally capable against pace or spin, at the height of his form. But a difficult pregnancy for his wife has ruled him out of at least the first Test, leaving the Pakistani batting order severely exposed. It is a gigantic — and potentially series-deciding — blow.
Younis Khan and Inzamam are stars in their own right, but the captain has never prospered on South African pitches, stumped twice in past Tests as he lashed out at spinners, having been bogged down by line and length.
Add to this historic weakness, a decidedly depressed run in recent outings, and Pakistan’s top order is starting to look like a one-pony show.
Naturally there is the young opener Imran Farhat to contend with, a left-handed stroke maker able to dictate terms on his day; but despite some solid showings against the West Indies recently he will still essentially be playing for his place in a famously fickle set-up, a position that never helps nerves, technique or form.
South Africa would be foolish to underestimate the tourists’ batting, but secretly they must be wondering about just how long the top six will last if the combative Khan is snuffed early.
Meanwhile, South Africa have emerged from the Indian series shaken but stirred. Much of that survival was due to Graeme Smith’s bloody-minded refusal to fail and Ashwell Prince’s newfound role as a batsman willing to bore bowlers and spectators to death in the name of national pride.
And while Smith is still streaky, and Prince genuinely dreadful to watch, they are providing much-needed cement in a house that has for too long been made of straw.