- Regretting the Rain: An Unfulfilling Conclusion to the Ashes
- Reflecting on the Unpredictable Nature of Cricket
- Celebrating the Unforgettable Moments of the Ashes Series
The Manchester rain that prevented a potentially electrifying fifth Test decider should be viewed with regret, not contempt.
Open the blinds. The circles on the surface of the canal immediately give the game away. Miniature compact discs of calamity. There is a group of men standing outside the hotel, with one of them using an Uber app and another using a weather app. Inspection at eleven o’clock, says one. Possibly clear by noon, says another. In four minutes, Ahmed will arrive, says another.
By the time they reach the earth, they will be aware that the 11 a.m. inspection has been postponed, and a gradual decline will ensue. The person operating the large screen begins to enjoy themselves. “Please stay hydrated.” There are water receptacles located throughout the concourse. “Join The Cloud’s wifi network.” In front of the burrito stand, a game of plastic cricket breaks out. Brendon McCullum gives slip-catching practice while attempting not to appear like a man whose trousers are getting wet.
Splish, splosh, trickle, drop, and for the next three years, the Ashes continue to leak away. The inspection begins at 12:15 pm. An early supper was consumed.
In the absence of further precipitation, play will begin at 1 p.m. Rain falls. In Manchester, over 20,000 people are waiting to view some Ashes cricket, and the further away it appears, the longer they wait. First, 1 p.m., then possibly 2 p.m., followed by the realization that it won’t be until 2031.
Cricket has a ruthless way of emphasizing the passage of time. Long nights spent in hotel rooms and long days spent huddled by concession stands, sipping steaming lattes while aging gradually. My life has been measured with coffee cups. They are currently displaying 2005’s highlights on the large screen. Shane Warne ripping the ball out of the rough, Andrew Strauss raising his bat in jubilation, and a jubilant Babe Ruth cheering from the bleachers. The radiance of vitality and a blazing sun. Where has the time gone?
Then you recall that this was another Ashes series that would have likely ended differently if not for the weather. Australia’s players are wearing sunglasses, while England’s supporters raise their umbrellas. England came within a half-hour of being rained out at Adelaide in 2010-2011; consequently, they will likely enter the fourth test trailing 1-0. Then there is Old Trafford in 2013, where England is 37 for three while pursuing 332 when the clouds break. The point is that these events occur. Eventually, given sufficient time, the arc of English cricket bends towards rain.
Certainly, it is possible to begrudge the Australians their victory, which was earned not through superior talent with bat or ball but through hydrology, the random dots on a weather radar.
Australia wins by a margin of two wickets, 43 runs, or three centimeters of water. Pat Cummins, climate defender, the climate has finally come to your aid. By the same token, it is easy to curse England for their earlier wasted opportunities: the arrogant first-day declaration at Edgbaston, their collapse from 279 for four to 325 all out in the first innings at Lord’s, so many dropped catches and so many dreadful dismissals.
In reality, however, both responses feel equally ungrateful, as this series has provided us with so much: unforgettable memories, unimaginable drama, a complex tapestry of human flaws, and superhuman resilience. Australia has retained the Ashes as a result of their two brilliant, nerveless performances at Edgbaston and Lord’s, their ability to score first-innings runs, and their smart tactics and ability to break the major partnerships. Even before the rain began to fall, they were required to bat for 71 overs under intense duress, where a weaker team would have capitulated.
England, for their part, came close to carrying off one of the most audacious thefts in Ashes cricket history. They learned from their errors, resisted introspection and despondency, and pushed their bodies to the limit and beyond. Ninety minutes of clear weather was all that stood between them and a confrontation in south London, a Test match that would have been one of the most electrifyingly thrilling sporting events since the London Olympics. The fact that it will not occur should be a cause for regret, not condemnation.
Therefore, the team that never draws has finally drawn. The team that believes it can win from any location on the map will eventually confront an impossible situation.
The team sworn to amuse and excite is compelled to shake hands on a day of unrelenting gloom, surrounded by empty seats. Not that everyone has left: perhaps the most uplifting sight of the day is the father and son who spent the entire day perched at the very top of the temporary stand, 80 rows into the heavens, umbrella swaying dangerously in the wind, boundlessly optimistic to the very end.
Eventually, however, they abandon hope and scramble down the slick stairs. The coffee queue gradually empties. One of the finest contemporary Ashes series concludes with a splash of water. The hypothetical Test match now exists only in the imagination: Mark Wood steaming into Mitchell Marsh, the swell of noise, the crash of stumps, and the sweet scent of two wickets apiece. But cricket doesn’t always give you what you want, and I suppose the same holds for life.
