Restiveness of resplendent charm

Steven Peter Devereux Smith

When he fell to the ground after being hit under the ear by a Joffra Archer delivery on a gloomy day at Lord’s during the 2019 Ashes, cricket lovers across the globe were as anxious as the men in action and those on the periphery of the stadium, especially given the distressing backdrop of the 2014 tragedy that claimed the life of Phil Hughes from subarachnoid haemorrhage.

Thankfully, the ripsnorter warrior, Smudge to his pals,  rose to his feet, as also to the occasion, stockpiling 744 runs and scoring three handsome tons in the series, despite missing part of the second test and the entire third.

Enduring the ‘dozen beers’ impact from the Archer blow, he thrived, more than survived, to emerge victorious, surely to guzzle many more beers with his mates in celebration of having retained the urn. ‘Bonza’, they must have hailed him in unison!

Aesthetics be damned, precepts be damned, optics be dammed, sceptics be damned; Smith continues to enthral us with his unique brand of shuffling stoicism, his seemingly edgy but undeniably edifying stroke play whenever he is on song at the crease, especially after his smart tweak that helped him reap rich dividends.

This elaboration by sports biomechanics expert Rene Ferdinands best unfolds the essence of Smith’s technique: https://www.abc.net.au/news/2019-11-20/the-science-behind-steve-smiths-test-match-batting-technique/11705118 International Society of Biomechanics

Never mind his umpteen thigh pad pats, superfluous glove and helmet adjustments, and ceaseless survey of field placements, watching this ‘shuffle master’ in action is a sumptuous treat for the unprejudiced cricket follower, a delight underscored by the unconventional arc of his willow, his unabashed  disdain for copybook stillness that most opponents (fatally) misread as nerviness, and his astonishing straight bat shots that demolish the popular impression that he is dolefully desperate to protect his pads and the prized furniture behind somehow, anyhow rather!

It is mostly in hindsight that bowlers, fielders and spectators realise how this restive wonder machine is unbelievably still in his mind; how he watches the ball intently with both eyes, whether delivered through pace or spin; how his bat meets the ball while he is an awkward half-squat-like position; how his feet are wide part to enable back and forth action at will, how he dexterously makes use of his hands in real quick time; how it is impossible to make sense of his flabbergasting back lift or the elusive swing of his bat; and how he resolutely steers clear of fishing outside the off stump while not sparing a single loosener of its royal treatment, celebrated beyond the ropes. Smith’s fielding feats comprise a bulky chronicle of mind-boggling run-outs, stunning catches and innumerable boundary saves.

Matched up to Share Warne on debut as a leg spin bowler, and later called the new Bradman when he rose to fame as a middle order batter, Smith has shown that he is a self-springing force ripe with tour de force, which has seen him amass 9685 runs with 32 tons and 41 half tons at a staggering average of 56.97, second only to Kumar Sangakkara and ahead of Jacques Kallis and Kane Williamson among batters having played 100 plus tests.

No wonder, Virat Kohli, another test cricket champion of exceptional calibre, has rated Smith as the best Test batsman of his generation, showering rich accolades for Smith’s consistency, adaptability and stupendous average.

Players like Virat and Steve have played a pivotal role in helping test cricket retain its place of pride in an era of carnival sport, brutally highjacked by the spin of vested commercial interests and the din of mindless crowds who simply want to see the cricket ball smacked to all corners at any cost.

Nothing could have been more heartening for cricket than Smith’s advent as the captain of the Washington Freedom outfit in the Major League Cricket. IPL miserably failed to make the most of his acumen – both as player and captain – and the US opportunity is god sent for both Smith and T20 cricket, where one has good reason to believe that he is on the verge of doing something special provided his team invests faith, ahead of expectation, in his ability and agility.

We have a lot of people and places to thank for making Steven Smith the exceptional cricketer that he is today. Prime among them,

his chemistry graduate father and London-born mother who have made him a epitome of cultured behaviour on the cricket field,

his native, scenic and multi-cultural Southern Sydney suburb of Kogarah from New South Wales, which must have kept him rooted to a soil that was home to legends of the likes of globally acclaimed musician Ray Burton, renowned critic and commentator Clive James, and legendary poet Kenneth Slessor,

his coach Trent Woodhill who rescued him from the eddy of over-coaching, doggedly endorsed his unique batting style, and was also instrumental in Smith leaving school at the right time, rather than brood over the failure mark in a key English assignment that denied him his higher school certificate,  and,

his family friend Tony Ward who helped Smith look beyond Surrey’s princely offer which otherwise would have surely made him an English cricketer, more than just a British passport holder.

The nickname that Mike Hussey gave him in jest has a metaphorical significance!

Steven Smith’s nonchalance and non-conformism comprise the allegorical soot on his face; this priceless make up is an integral part and parcel of his cricketing gear, which has helped him rise from the ashes of the sandpaper scandal, an ugly episode that needlessly took him back at a time when he was destined to soar higher.

In the coming time, we can expect Smith to unleash himself in inimitable style, with many a memorable inning that would enrich the cricketing memorabilia.

Word-playing on one of his legendary self-sledges, we can only exclaim aloud “Yeah, let’s have more of them Smudge!”

Dignity on deathbed

Micheal Hanake's Amour (2012)

Probing the agonizing process of disease-stricken death, ahead of the event that it finally becomes, is a valiant endeavour, whether in life, literature, or the visual arts including cinema, given that it is one of the fiercely discarded taboo topics worldwide by unanimous choice.

No surprise that a film theme revolving around a death from progressive disorder has few takers, which makes it an inherent risk for a guild that ultimately survives and thrives on the patronage of the audience, not award fests. And yet, certain mavericks choose to deep dive into the petrifying phenomenon called death, which is way more than simply a cessation of life, to re-examine some of our cherry blossomed, cherished beliefs like eternal love and togetherness, romanticised to glory by umpteen makers across the globe since time immemorial.

Austrian film maker and screenwriter Micheal Haneke is one such dissident whose masterpiece ‘Amour’ (love in French) vaguely reminds the sensitive viewer of Victor Frankl’s idea of ‘tragic optimism’ as also historian and philosopher Will Durant’s post script that it is the mood of the strong man who seeks intensity and extent of experience, even at the cost of woe. Well, as a viewer, one is indeed expected to cultivate that mood if it isn’t naturally forthcoming, before watching the film which squarely highlights the tragic inevitability of life, as also the extreme options masquerading as choices at one’s disposal to arrest a cold-blooded, vicious loop of indefinite windups.

Amour is the poignant story of an octogenarian music teacher couple -  Anne (‘Hiroshima, Mon Amor’ fame Emmanuelle Riva  and Georges (‘The Conformist’ fame Jean-Louis Trintignant) that begins with the end: Anne’s stench-filled, lifeless body amid withered flowers scattered on the bed, discovered by firemen breaking into a claustrophobic Parisian apartment in emergency mode.

The next frame is a piano performance, with the camera panned on a regaled audience throughout, expecting us to spot a duo but making no explicit attempt to help us do so. Most of us don’t, I for sure didn’t, and it was the Roger Ebert review that urged me to go back to the frame and savour the delight in hindsight.

Well, following the normal course, it is only when the scene shifts to Anne’s and Georges’ residence, we know both were part of the enthralled audience, and the performer was Anne’s student.

The elated couple is in a playful mood, reflective of their wholesome approach to autumn years. Sadly, this phase is short-lived and Anne’s momentary frozen stance on the breakfast table – apparently symptomatic of lewy body dementia - sparks off a fatal spree that goes downhill into a pitiable pit of many a false bottom.

The quick-witted Anne soon becomes aware of the impending horrors en route her approaching mortality and hence is vehemently opposed to the idea of shifting to a nursing home post the diagnosis of her terminal disease. Georges respects her decision which means he must not only see her wither away into nothingness – first on the wheelchair and finally on the bed - but also withstand the umpteen ugly turns that will make her stubborn and stroppy way beyond his imagination. Georges admirably comes to terms with the fag-end reality of his life and does all he can to nurse his wife in the vain hope of a reversal in the name of recovery, as also keep her away from her growing suicidal tendencies.

Both are all alone in this losing cause – their standoffish daughter, accommodating neighbours, well-meaning pupil, caring attendants, callous ushers – none can help – whether or not they mean to. Worse, the bond that holds the couple together is itself in question: what with one partner first deprived of her raison d'etre and then her dignity, and the other at the end of his tether in coping with her loss, which is a bigger loss to him as he is tasked with the onerous responsibility of having to measure it inch by inch.

With the protagonist duo endorsing the maker’s conviction in full measure, there’s not a single moment that appears theatrical or overtly clinical. Haneke makes use of a tottering pigeon, scampering for safety within the confines of the couple’s lifeless abode, as a telling metaphor to convey larger truths surrounding Georges’ decisive moves that bring down the curtain on two lives well lived till the point where life becomes a graveyard bereft of dignity.

The end is allusive, with a few cues furnished to help us imagine what transpired, but it is futile to indulge in conjectures on ‘what’ and ‘how’, given that the ‘why’ is amply clear.

Amour is cinema at its very best, where it asks questions of life that we don’t in real life.

If one believes cinema is also meant to be a dissection of reality more than its mere representation, and that serious, introspective cinema has a place of pride like spine chillng adventures, murder mysteries, retro offerings, grand biopics, no brainer comedies, and melodramatic family sagas do - Armour becomes a must watch!

Ministry of Class

Just like their entrepreneurial brainchild, the seafood connoisseur chain ‘Ministry of Crab’ that serves fresh cuisine with a no-freezer policy, this dynamic duo has delivered oven-fresh, delectable batsmanship in a glorious stint, which is now an integral part of the cricketing folklore worldwide.  Their playground feats, which can only be described as ‘Ministry of Class’ exudes a classic, sophisticated Sri Lankan charm, adorned with an assortment of exquisite shots to match the crab, prawn, clam, and oyster varieties of their restaurant.

There are few cricketing pairs to match the magnetic charm of Kumar Chokshanada Sangakkara and Denagamage Praboth Mahela de Silva Jayawardene, fondly known to the world as Sanga and Mahela. The very mention of the names brings to mind scores of classy knocks including the epoch-making 624 runs for the third wicket (at 60 + strike rate spanning two and a half days and a mammoth 157 overs) against South Africa at Colombo’s Singhalese Sporting Club ground. The colossal record stands to this day, even as both players have long retired and now watch cricket from the stands.

Both had their trademark ways at the crease. Mahela seemed to have some secret pact with the scoreboard, he kept it ticking with hardly anyone noticing until he had scaled significant scores and milestones. His brand of aggression was matchless, punishing marquee bowlers with copybook technique and near-orthodox improvisations.

His left-handed mate always greeted the opposition with a sumptuous treat. How Sanga watched the ball intently even as it left the bowler’s hand, how his legs swiftly changed positions in real time to create the perfect poise, and how the ball briefly met the open face of his bat before flying to the ropes with gay abandon was an Eastman colour spectacle!

The twosome bumped into each other during school-level cricket games, Sanga representing Kandy and Mahela playing as a Colombo lad. This starry-eyed interaction was the god sent foundation for their Fevicol bond later in the national team, whether as peers or as trusted soldiers under each other’s captaincy. Their chemistry at the crease, one feels, could also be partly attributed to the fact that Sanga is ambidextrous, who despite being a southpaw, is in perfect sync with the right-handed Mahela. No wonder, the collective flair and fluency have created many a memorable knock by the two.

Minstry of Crab team: Sanga and Mahela with celebrated chef and restaurateur Dharshan Munidasa

The super athletic frame of Sanga and super functional fitness of Mahela made for a potent right hand left hand combo marked by such silken grace and panache that left the opposition more amazed than annoyed, watching their cover drives rush to the boundary along distinct trajectories. Their field exploits, one behind the stumps, and one in the slips, were sights to behold, so was their clockwork collaboration with Murali, one of the greatest spin wizards the game has ever seen.

To the distant but discerning observer, Mahela’s face wore a staple pensive expression, hinting at a man who is amid the crowd but not exactly part of it. One initially attributed this aspect of his persona to reticence, but it was much later that it was put into perspective, when media reports revealed his personal tragedy: the untimely demise of his cricket prodigy brother Dhisal from brain tumour at age 16. Thankfully, timely counsel from a revered temple monk and persistent persuasion from legend Arjuna Ranatunga made Mahela shun his decision of quitting the sport post the irreparable loss. It is plainly apparent that Mahela continued his innings to bring Dhisal’s unfinished mission to fruition, and thank god he did!  There couldn’t have been a better tribute to his departed brother than Mahela’s venerated success at the highest level. And there couldn’t have been a better tribute to Mahela that Naseer Hussain’s empathic compliment when the former scored a terrific ton in the World cup final against India in 2011: ‘High class innings from a high class player!’

Sanga, a violin player of some repute and a tenacious law student, is in a zone and league of his own. He understands the game really well, and he had all the hallmarks that he appreciates in the batting greats; just that being the unassuming great that he is, he never attributes them to himself – whether rock-solid defence, bewildering judgement of length, astute rotation of strike, smart manoeuvring of the ball into thin gaps, and a masterful negation of LBW possibilities.

Instead, he laments on not being a master of sweeps and is all praise for superlative exponents like Younis Khan. All his career, he never looked like playing for reputation which is precisely why he had no qualms hanging up his boots while he could still run with ease. As regards his holistic vision, he has few parallels in sport. The dollops of wit and wisdom from his 2011 MCC Spirit of Cricket Cowdrey Lecture were a perfect blend of classroom knowledge and playground learnings; given how he succintly traced the genesis and evolution of Sri Lankan cricket and his candid commentary on burning issues facing cricket:  role of technology, governance of the game, future of test cricket, and the bane of corruption. {I loved the way he underlined the common genesis of Colin Cowdrey’s and Sri Lanka’s love for cricket, which was the addictive aromatic beverage called tea}

Post retirement, the Sanga-Mahela partnership continues unabated… managing business ventures, contributing to charitable causes, providing aid to social development foundations, organising relief work during natural disasters, bridging rural-urban disparity, and running empowerment centres for their fellow countryfolk.

Sanga in the comm box was one of the best things that happened to cricket on the sidelines in a long time. His actionable insights on the art and science of batting and wicketkeeping are refreshingly original, unlike the rehashed sermons of many so-called luminaries who happen to share box and screen space with him. Mahela’s reassuring presence in the Mumbai Indians dug out has been a redeeming feature of the franchise amid the mayhem that transpired in the season gone by. Mahela may not be a gifted orator like Sanga but he speaks from conviction, reflective of his substance. He probably left the style confined to his playing days with the bat.

Hope our learned observers and renowned experts don’t overindulge in stupid endeavours like pitting the two against each other, or the two against other legends, for the sake of ludicrous comparisons, hope they also stop short of reading too much into subjective aspects like the duo’s relatively average run outside the subcontinent, a chink in their armour which is a function of many factors – both controllable and uncontrollable - but doesn’t take away even an ounce of the pair’s unique credence and universal significance. 

The Sanga-Mahela friendship saga is indeed ripe with rich cinematic ingredients that can easily make way for a global blockbuster hit. Hope film folks – Hollywood, Bollywood or any other wood - wake up to the humungous class and mass possibilities and produce an engaging motion picture, unlike the artificially sweetened, badly bloated biopics we have endured till date in the guise of solemn tributes. 

Pic courtesy: https://www.ministryofcrab.com