Crooked knees, creaking jaws and an indefatigable spirit

Not for the first time was he batting to save the game. Donning a custom-made glove that made provision for his broken little finger, and loaded with the single point agenda of not losing his wicket, he took guard, determined to see off last 8.2 overs of the match. He blocked out pain. He blocked out possibilities of being hit again at 140mph and beyond. He hung around for 17 balls- cringing, but not flinching.

The arm hurt with the impact of the recoil every Aussie thunderbolt on his willow made. Eventually, with just 10 balls remaining, Mitchell Johnson got him through the gate, but by then, an indelible mark has been made. Smith walked out to applause from Rickey Ponting’s men, even as an appreciative SCG stood in admiration.

Sachin Tendulkar plays a shot on the leg-side at the SCG

The last time Sydney was captivated thus was when Tendulkar denied off-side seductions to score a treatise on denial five years back. Smith’s school of courage was generally built on old fashioned doughtiness where what you did mattered over how you did. At some points, the two converged. Sydney 2009 was one. Mirpur 2014 could well be another.

Of all the mavericks cricket world has produced, Sahibzada Mohammad Shahid Khan Afridi can safely stake his claim to ultimate eccentricity. Everything, including his commitment, has been so random over the 18 years that he has regaled us for, that the thought of Afridi batting through pain never once crossed our minds, until Mirpur happened. Afridi cramped. No, not for room outside off, but he cramped, simply, like lesser mortals.

Pakistan skipped a beat, gaped in shock, and presumably broke into fervent prayers as Afridi decided not to throw it away. He played a dot ball (really), watched a skier being dropped (customary), thwacked yet another six (expected) and got out (yawn). He blocked cramps, not deliveries, and in managing to be himself, he ensured he brought about Pakistan’s highest ever run-chase. While battling cramps is not exactly what many would tick-off as courageous, the fact that Afridi – often pilloried for his recklessness – did it speak of something. What, we are not so sure; you can never be sure with Afridi.

While they may not have noticed, in their own isolated attempts, Marshall and McCosker, Sachin and Smith, Afridi and others have come to define the famed spirit of this wonderful little sport. The beauty of this game, not always (certainly not alone) lies in the sight of ball meeting the middle of the bat, or for that matter, beating it. Technical tom-tomming makes the game look pretty, but what enriches it is, unbelievable as it may sound, the sight of imperfect men churning out perfect tomes on pre-requisites of an indefatigable human spirit.

Like gladiators of yore, they fight their demons. Like the proverbial phoenix, they rise when hopes subside. And quite like they alone can do, underneath the bruises, despite the gashes, battling through blood, gore and creaking bones, they define courage.