This week Muttiah Muralitharan became the highest Test wicket-taker in cricket’s long history. It’s an extraordinary, heart-warming achievement that will be celebrated at length and in style in Sri Lanka and elsewhere in the cricket world. But there will be quarters, particularly in Australia, where it will be begrudged and depicted as tainted.
The allegation is that Murali throws rather than bowls, that he bends his elbow when releasing the ball.
It goes back to his being no-balled against Australia in 1995 — by Darrell Hair, the umpire who made the ball-tampering allegation against Pakistan at the Oval last year (which led to the Pakistanis refusing to play and forfeiting the match). Over the years Australian fans, commentators and politicians, notably outgoing Prime Minister John Howard, formed a chorus of detraction, branding Murali a cheat.
That Murali has overhauled Shane Warne, the most celebrated Australian of the age (whose total of 708 Murali passed on Monday to claim the record) — probably in perpetuity — will only further sour their mood.
No bowler’s action has been as intensively scrutinised as Murali’s. Again and again it has been declared within the law. Murali’s detractors argue that the law was changed to accommodate him and that he has been spared the rod because of the power of the Asian bloc. They are wrong on both counts.
What happened was that in examining Murali’s action, experts in human motion (not from the Asian bloc) discovered that many bowlers flex their elbow to some degree at the point of delivery.
There was a gap between cricket theory and practice. Just as the precise arrangement of a horse’s legs at the trot was undetermined until Edward Muybridge’s stop-motion photography in the 1870s, so advancing technology has revealed the complexities of the bowling action as never before. And the definition of a throw appears less clear-cut than was supposed. The authorities responded by revising the laws to allow a degree of flex. This has nothing to do with Murali’s feats: the law was changed to reflect new research, not to protect Murali.
In retrospect it’s clear that, far from enjoying preferential treatment, Murali has been singled out unfairly.
Just to add to his burden, for many years Murali has been the only Tamil in the Sri Lankan side. For some this made him a symbol of tolerance in an ethnically riven society. But the backdrop for Murali’s career has been ethnic hostility and civil war, more acute now than for many years, even as Sri Lanka’s favourite Tamil becomes a world record-holder. It was always naive to expect Murali or any cricketer to provide a counterweight to the belligerent forces on either side.
Many who cheer Murali vote for fiercely anti-Tamil politicians. Nonetheless, he has carried off this difficult role with dignity and scruple, and in an island where people agree on next to nothing, that Murali is some kind of hero is accepted near unanimously.
Anyone who cares for cricket should celebrate Murali’s achievement, which is the result of his own skill, accuracy, stamina, variety and ingenuity.
In his pomp, with the ball fizzing off the pitch — either way — he’s a magnificent sight. His whole body is involved in generating spin, yet he remains a marvel of balance in fluent motion, the eyes wide but sharply focused. And there’s the smile. Murali relishes his craft and workload, and has done so throughout his career.
He is proof that supreme competitive success need not be packaged with aggressive belligerence; not every triumph has to be celebrated with a vindictive roar and pumping fist. He’s not just a Sri Lankan hero; he belongs to us all. — Â