Dale Steyn silently smiles in his world of fantasy

Rivalries run across nations and the blood-spitting venomous battle draws parallel to the peaceful lines of harmony and brotherhood that is propagated by government houses all over. As the broadcasters begin the revengeful countdown for conquest, puzzled fans stare out in bewilderment and astonishment.

“Is the anticipated series such a vengeful one?”

“Is the mere contest between bat and ball being looked ahead in anger and disdain?”

“Will it be unpatriotic to forget all physical boundaries and just acknowledge the presence of Test cricket in its most unaltered form?” Without hatred and jealousy. Without the unnerving desire to come out trumps to correct the past records. Without hard-feelings and ill-will.

But, wait! Where were these emotions when the Indian Cricket Team was playing the Australian team in their own den just a few months ago? No protests had followed when the waves of competition had run forth back then. Then, it was all about scalping the Aussie bones one-by-one; a move that had hardly been countered. It was unanimously pledged- they would be sledged and hammered; defeated and battered.

But the South African cricket team is more like Sir John Falstaff- the affectionate rogue, who leads life dealing with merry-making and adorable riots in William Shakespeare’s Henry IV. As much as one tries to not see around his whims and fancies; as much as one tries to chastise him for the same, the feelings of biasedness always remain. He emerges an even more gleeful scoundrel; one that pleases and one who is pardoned for his misgivings.

And that is why, despite all of their brutal attacks on the Indian side, it is but difficult to view the Protean team in angst. The friendly camaraderie displayed by Abraham Benjamin de Villiers overpowers the friendly greetings by Hashim Amla. The energetic charisma of the whole team overruns their energetic vow to get back up after every competition in which they have choked and faltered in. The heart-wrenching sight of a crest-fallen Dale Steyn being brought back to his feet by New Zealand’s Grant Elliot in the semi-finals of the World Cup in 2015 has not only found a place amongst one of the most memorable sporting acts, it also goes on to define the fact that sport is not always meant to be a “bad” game with “bad” people running around with “bad” traits of aggression.

It does have a place for the fun-loving child-like personality; one who rises up again and again, without a word of solemnity spoken. It houses legends who get hurt and bruised but who never question the laws of fate. Through toil and hard-work, the road to recovery resumes yet again and if one is beaten again, it is resumed once more.

Maybe that is why the sorry plight of Steyn walking back to the doctor’s chamber after a hard-earned return to Test cricket brought with it sighs from all over. It was meant to be the innings when the ‘Phalaborwa Express’ showed his might to the cricketing realm once again. After facing a shoulder injury in 2016- his third injury in twelve months, the Indian tourney was the moment when the veteran would announce his return. He had gone entered the zone of the oblivion since the Test match in Perth and doubts over his full recovery failed to be quelled.

“Was Dale Steyn’s career over?”

“Will Steyn ever return to his menacing best?”

“How long can the 34-year old keep damaging his body? He has achieved enough and will be the best bowler of this generation. Maybe now he can rest and watch the likes of Vernon Philander and Kagiso Rabada following in his footsteps.”

Any other player would have been satisfied. 417 wickets at an average of 22.32 hardly deserved debates. He was one of the best and would remain so for a very very long period of time.

But that is what segregates the ordinary from the legendary. Even when he had the option of silently recuperating, he preferred the tougher way. A deadline was set and the journey from the sling to taking the field once more was replete with frustrations and depression; annoyance and irritation. Not only was he unable to bowl, he was also unable to venture out into the wilderness of the outside world. Fishing, trail-running surfing had gained as much prominence as bowling but now, cocooned in the four walls of his room, Steyn had more time to himself. Time to think of what cricket meant to him. Time to ponder over the scenarios that awaited him.

A steaming delivery at 150kmph. The short balls and the outswingers. The eyes focused on uprooting the middle-stump of the wicket. A smooth rhythm. A skiddy follow-through. A stern head and a magic wicket.

A celebration- muted but overwhelming. One that will not only be an answer to all the critics but also one that will reinforce his own presence on the big stage.

***

The eyes flash back open. The dream of bowling with the Table-Top sprawling across was a pleasant one indeed. He had ended up bowling a back-of-a-length delivery to Shikhar Dhawan, who had miscued his pull, only to see the ball land softly in the bowler’s outstretched palms. It had brought a smile. A quiet, silent smile, where Steyn was back racing at full fury on the pitch he had loved the most.

But now it is time. Time to go serve out his injury. He does not know how the target of his injury moved from the shoulder to the heel in his world of dreams, but he does know that soon he will return to stage yet another remarkable fantasy.