To Test Cricket, with love

There's a thin volume on my bookcase, among the other books about cricket, and it has been there for about 20 years. The book is penned by Ian Brayshaw and is about the Chappell brothers, but the opening pages of the book contain just about the best description of the first morning of a Test match one could hope to read.


It describes the walk down King William St over the River Torrens to the Adelaide Oval. But is also describes the feeling of anticipation and excitement that surrounds the hours before the commencement of that longest of sporting contests.

There is the weather to consider. Early humidity and cloud cover can affect the shiny, red sphere of leather differently than a blazing Australian sun accompanied by a spotless blue sky. There are the teams, and anyone who thinks that this is not much of a consideration should look back to Australia's most recent Test match, when Daniel Vettori pulled up hurt during pre-game warm-ups and was replaced by a pace bowler, which despite Vettori's auspicious record, probably benefited the New Zealanders.

And finally, there is the pitch. So much that happens over 30 hours of cricket depends on the horticultural conditions of 22 yards of rolled turf. Is there moisture? How long will the moisture keep the pitch “lively”? Is there a green tinge? Is there rolled-in grass cuttings? Will the ball start to turn and spin on the latter days as the pitch wears and dries out? These are the sort of things that make this gardening philistine think wistfully about dropping everything to become a country cricket ground curator.

And then, when the game begins, among the excitement, the seemingly infinite possibilities (look at the India/West Indies Test from last month for an example of those possibilities), there is the space. The space to think, the space to breathe, the space to share, the space to talk. This space does not exist in the other forms of the game. If T20 cricket is Phil Spector's Wall of Sound, then Test cricket is the music produced by George Martin; sparse in places, action filled in others, always interesting, never the same twice.

According to their coach, the newborn Melbourne Renegades of the T20 Big Bash lost Thursday's game in 21 balls. No Test match can be decided in 21 balls. This is a decidedly good thing.

At a Test match, one can discuss many things while never dismissing what is happening on the field. Batsmen can get through good spells of bowling with patience, resilience and nous. Bowlers can think a batsman out, taking time to craft a plan in their head and implement it. Not all cricketers were born as naturally instinctive and wise for the game as Shane Warne.

One of my favourite hours of Test cricket was Ishant Sharma's spell to Ricky Ponting in 2008. Ponting fought bravely against a viciously moving ball for 50 minutes, while Sharma probed the Australian captain's defences. Eventually Sharma got his man, and the wicket was well earned.

This enthralling episode would simply not happen in the shorter forms of the game. The pace of the game, the pressing need to set a target rather than survive, would have meant that Ponting would have probably surrendered his wicket quickly and foolishly. His shot would not have been worthy of the delivery.

Many lament the state the longer form of the game is in. Only in England and Australia is Test cricket consistently well attended, and even in Australia it only demands good crowds from the three oldest venues, Melbourne, Sydney and Adelaide.

I make no such lament. So much can happen in five days, so many changes in the complexion of a match, whether they be small or significant, so much can be speculated and chewed over with a quiet ale or roast chicken sandwich, that the gift of Test cricket keeps giving right through the duration of a match.

This is what makes Test cricket the most unique sporting contest in the world. To compare it to any other single sporting contest in the world would be inaccurate: it plays out more like a NBA playoff series or an entire tennis tournament.

The fact that the best attended Test match every year occurs in my home town only deepens my love for the game. I'm pretty sure I know what will happen Christmas morning. But I don't know what will happen Boxing Day morning, or over the next five days. And I love it.