Did that really happen?

We got out early for a walk so we didn’t miss too much of the cricket first thing. I had little expectation for the day, but it was impossible not to plan around watching, just in case a miracle happened. With the boys playing cricket themselves yesterday—resulting in Roam adding his name to the number of broken men in the household—none of us saw the rearguard effort of the previous afternoon. A number of Forrest’s teammates had tickets for today. Talking to them yesterday afternoon, by which time England had already slumped to 15 for 2, they were bemoaning our performance and the likelihood of only getting to see the agonising death throes of the whole Ashes series. They were almost at the point of hoping we’d get bowled out quickly so at least they could get their money back. But, against the odds, Root and Denly held firm, and then Ben Stokes dug in to ensure our two best batsmen would start this morning at the crease. They dangled out hope for the faithful. 

Much as though I love my cricket, had I been feeling more mobile, I’m sure I’d have been out in the Dales somewhere, enjoying the incredibly beautiful weather. My beaten-up faith doesn’t run too deep these days. It was kind of a crime to be inside. But there we were. A little over 200 runs to win, seven wickets in hand. A forecast of warm sunshine. A day for batting not bowling. It was surely possible—except for the years of painful experience that said it wasn’t. England had never chased such a total in the final innings. On the other hand, it was not a final-day pitch and we could cast our minds back to 2001, at the very same venue, when I took Forrest and Roam into Leeds for their first taste of test cricket. We saw England score 315-4 to win the match, Mark Butcher getting a famous big hundred. We dared to believe that day. We dared to believe again.

We missed the first four overs. They were all maidens. No runs added but at least no further wickets had fallen. It was weird to see Ben Stokes encased in such a defensive shell. When we saw him score his first run of the morning it was something like three from sixty-odd balls. At some point, we had to start getting some runs. With two whole days left there was no rush, but the more balls you face as a batsman, the more likely it is that one will arrive with your number on it. That seemed to be in Root’s mind when he danced down the wicket to loft Lyon over mid-wicket. Sadly, he ended up putting his own number on that particular ball, in mid-flight. He shouldn’t be criticised. Some positive intent was necessary.

It was clear then that luck was not going to be on our side. So much depended on the captain and he’d only managed to add a couple of runs to his overnight score. Why had we been foolish enough to believe? We never learn. Blip helped bring another precedent to mind. Less than two years ago at Adelaide, the second test of the last Ashes series. England started the day on 176-4 chasing 353 to win. Root was on 67, carrying all our hopes. It was an almost identical setup. Look at how that turned out. Patterns repeat. We were doomed. At least we could get out and enjoy the sunshine this time. 

And then something remarkable happened. The new ball was taken and instead of blowing us away, as the Aussie quicks did with devastating precision in our first innings, they were a little wayward and off the mark with their skills. Bairstow scored quickly and injected some momentum into Ben. He started to score some runs too. It wasn’t just the odd single that brought the crowd to its feet. We dared to believe once more. Of course, it’s a familiar scenario in Ashes cricket. There is a certain cruelty to the way hope gets dangled before you, only to be snatched out of reach the moment it starts to crystallise into something substantial. Bairstow went and then Buttler a few balls later, run out. He was my banker, the man who always stays so cool in the big moment, one of the great finishers in the modern game. It was such a shocking waste of a dismissal. In my mind, right then, it was all over. I went into the kitchen to do the washing-up. I needed to reset my head. Woakes went quickly and then Broad. Just one wicket left. It truly was all over. The terrible disappointment I felt clearly testified to the strength of my earlier faith. I actually had believed. What was I thinking?

A few cheers came from the living room and it was obvious that Ben was kicking off. At least that might be fun for a few minutes. There were still some 70 runs needed. There was nothing to lose at that point.

The rest is, of course, history. The most astonishing piece of cricket history. The magic was even more special for being able to share it with the boys. I can see Forrest and Roam telling their grandchildren about this day, the day they witnessed Ben Stokes play possibly the greatest test innings of all time, in what will surely be regarded as the most astonishing test match of all time. It’s the context that gives me confidence in saying those things. The whole series was at stake. One mistake and the remaining two matches would have been stripped of their meaning. Cricket would have been consumed by football. Few people would have cared any more. As it now stands, tickets for the match at Old Trafford are going to be virtually priceless. 

It is impossible to describe how ridiculous that performance was. It is impossible to describe how thrilling it was to witness and it was desperately sad that it wasn’t available for all to see. It was—quite literally—like watching the impossible happen before your eyes. The audacity of the shots. The awareness of the situation. The ability to keep a clear head when every other head was getting scrambled by the pressure. All those moments when destiny was very nearly derailed: the missed catch, the shots only fractionally clearing fielders, the fumbled run-out, the lost lbw review. Just like the World Cup six weeks ago, you’d be laughed at if you came up with such a script. There is no comparison in excitement to any other sport. As we drew closer to the denouement, with belief kicking in one final time, we’d suddenly gone from ‘nothing to lose’ to ‘everything to lose’. Such were the stakes and the gulf between the two possible outcomes that my stomach churned with butterflies and in a far worse way than during the super-overs of the World Cup. That had nothing on this. In every delivery was condensed all the history of the Ashes and the greatest international rivalry in any sport. It was sensational.

There are some that claim that the short form of the game is ruining the longer form. I’ve never had any patience for that argument. Cricket is unusual in having three different formats, the varying demands of which make for three quite different ways of playing the game. The modern generation of player is having to adjust to switching between these formats and the different skills required. It’s not easy. They’re still learning how to do it. But I believe it’s making the sport ever more thrilling to watch.

The way this test match unfolded, with huge ups and downs and ebbs and flows, is a demonstration of the greatness of the long form of the game. And I believe it’s being made even greater for the new one day skills that are now being demonstrated at this level. It feels like the bowlers are ahead right now—as illustrated by our 60 all out in the first innings. Bowlers are developing new skills and tricks, combined with increased levels of fitness. Fielding is becoming more athletic, even acrobatic. The balance between risk and reward—the equation at the heart of the sport—is getting ever harder to judge. The batsmen will catch up. The evolution of cricket has been amazing to witness these last ten years. Every form of the game is essential for the health of the sport as a whole and I love them all in different ways. But test cricket rules supreme. I’ve been watching cricket all my life. I’ve never seen anything as good as what we got to experience today.