Lindsay’s Blog: The Cape Escape

I finally succumbed to my feelings of guilt at 3 o’clock on Thursday afternoon.

For four days I’d procrastinated, coming up with a variety of excuses for not attending. Too hot, no tickets available, parking too awkward, personal admin to clear up, and other lily-livered fabrications.

But with England seemingly assured of saving the 3rd Test at Newlands, and with my beloved Barmy Army happily sauced up and in fine voice, I received a text from a friend saying the following:

“On my way to Newlands with my boys. You coming?”

And so I pulled on my Ashes Series Barmy Army shirt, doffed my 2004/5 South Africa tour Barmy Army cap, fashioned a sarong out of my flag of St. George, and off I went with my heart on my sleeve and occasionally transferring itself to my mouth.

The ground was almost full, although some fair weather South Africans were drifting out to the strains of the Barmy Army’s “We can see you sneaking out”, sung to the tune of ‘Bread of Heaven’.

The Barmy army was mainly congregated under the main scoreboard by the railway line, and of course, next to the beer that was being doled out at Castle Corner.

They’re a peculiarly and uniquely English bunch of fanatical supporters and keen tourists, often unfairly associated with certain unsavoury elements who follow the English football team. Nothing could be further from the truth. Yes, we sing a lot, and yes, we’re boisterous and childish and drinks lots of beer, but it’s all very good natured and designed to lift the spirits of the team, as well as showing how poor a lot of the local support is.

“Ee-aye-ee-aye-ee-aye-0, it’s off to Jo’burg we will go, we can’t lose the series, so this is what we sing, ee-aye-ee-aye, ee-aye-ee-aye, Colly is our king”.

5 wickets in hand, a couple of hours to go, and the match was saved. All but a couple of hundred of us had started to sit on the grass and watch the game with an indulgent eye, saving themselves for the celebrations at 6 o’clock.

However, the increasingly beleaguered looking Graeme Smith and his team had other ideas. A couple of wickets fell, and then the fielders surrounded the bat. Bell went caught behind, and Broad was caught of his glove having challenged the original decision. This referral system is not only a brilliant innovation but adds hugely ot the tension and atmosphere of the game. Suddenly it was Cardiff and Centurion all over again. Suddenly everyone was standing again, and while we were still pretty upbeat, I have to say the old strawberry tart had abandoned the sleeve altogether and had taken up permanent residence in my North and South.

Having not drunk beer for four months, I fled to Castle Corner for a much needed tissue restorer. Two more followed in quick succession, and my beer consumption was doing a passable impersonation of England’s tailenders; going down easily.

Suddenly England were doing their best to snatch defeat from the jaws of a draw, and we began cheering wildly after every safely negotiated ball.

“Dot ball to the England!” was the new song.

Graham Onions, Durham and England opening bowler, was to face the last over from that giant farm boy Morne Morkel.

I was remarkably calm as he steamed in from the Kelvin Grove End, remarkably. You see I’d been watching the South Africans during any period of particularly loud or humorous chanting by the Barmy Army, and M&M was always the one who turned round to look at us. He seemed either bewildered, distracted, or disarmed by the racket we were kicking up, and I felt confident he’d buckle under the pressure of having to deliver those last 6 balls.

Ball 5 produced a referral scare, but Onions did it. England saved the Test. We went mad.

I asked my hoarse friend when he thought we’d give up this lunacy and go to a corporate box or watch it at home on the telly, like most blokes approaching 50.

“These moments are defining” he replied. “There’s only one way to experience them, and that’s with your own supporters. We’re English, this is the way it is and always will be”.

I was very quiet at Kelvin Grove as I enjoyed a post match snifter. The last few hours had been sensational. Lots of thoughts swam around my slightly befuddled head.

England should have won the Test on the first morning. South Africa were 1-1, and Onions induced an edge from Smith. It sailed at the perfect height to Swann at third slip, and he dropped it. 1-2, the captain out, a crushing defeat in Durban still in their minds would have been too much for the Proteas, and they would have buckled.

As it happened, Smith went on to make 30, but more importantly he didn’t take a duck into the second innings and the team was galvanised.

I also thought of cricket itself, and all the talk of the demise of the 5 day Test. What preposterous nonsense. The Newlands extravaganza is precisely why Test cricket will outlast the lottery that is Twenty-twenty. Cricket in its purest and most beautiful form, although i do believe the authorities should divisionalise the game so that there’s more of the big teams playing each other and less of the Bangladesh and Zimbabwe type commitments fixtures that clutter up the season. The small teams must earn the right to play at the highest level.

So on we go to The Wanderers. England looking to secure another series on South
African soil, the Proteas desperate to draw level, and the Barmy Army intent on cementing their position as the world’s finest and most fiercely loyal set of sports supporters on Earth.

For what it’s worth, England will win the toss and bat. A massive score will be amassed as Strauss effectively puts a South African victory out of reach. South Africa are made to follow on, and ultimately lose the match by 10 wickets.

But then I’m barmy.

This entry was posted on Friday, January 8th, 2010 at 12:43 pm and is filed under Blog, News. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed.