Down but not out

Never bet against world champions is the sage ringsider’s timeless rubric. Certainly not when they look to be cornered and groggy. In what is already the most imperishably thrilling cricket series staged in this country since the whole motley began 123 years ago, to regain the Ashes England need only to draw the final match, which begins at the Oval on Thursday, while Australia, strutting world champs for the past dozen years, must win it. Having humiliatingly lost the first of the five Tests at Lord’s in July, the intense euphoria of outrageous subsequent victories (by just two runs at Birmingham and three wickets at Nottingham) has had Englishmen forgetting how whisker-close on each occasion they were to losing. In between, the palpitating draw at Manchester tellingly summed up the overall state of the contest — that is, that England can readily win most rounds on points, but find it awfully difficult to land a conclusive knockout blow. So the Australians come to Kennington, bloodied and black-eyed for sure, but clear-headedly aware that one big belter of a punch can still preserve their title. It is absurd to presume that the crack batsmen in the baggy green have each, simultaneously, forgotten how to play a brutal match-turning innings; and with the ball, the pitilessly unforgiving McGrath is back to rage alongside the furies of bluechip sidekick Lee and, of course, the peerless, fuming warrior Warne. Never bet against world champions.

Acclaiming Dickens, Chesterton wrote, ‘There is a great man who makes every man feel small. But the really great man is the one who makes every man feel great.’ For English cricket you would say the same for Grace and Compton and Botham. Suddenly, nonesuch prodigy Flintoff demands to join that company.