For much of the final afternoon, Sri Lanka seemed destined to script a historic victory in their inaugural Test against South Africa. The tourists, teetering at 138 for six—still a daunting 226 runs adrift with three hours remaining—appeared broken in both resolve and technique. Yet, from this precarious stage, Jonty Rhodes, hitherto uncertain and unconvincing in his brief Test career, constructed an innings of defiance and artistry. Supported by the lower order’s quiet resistance, he reached his maiden century, an act of survival that transformed the contest into a meditation on endurance itself.
The seeds of this drama had been sown even before a ball was
bowled. On inspecting the Galle pitch the previous day, the South Africans
misread its temperament. Expecting a treacherous turn, they invested in spin by
awarding debuts to Pat Symcox and Clive Eksteen, leaving out the seam-bowling
all-rounder Brian McMillan. Sri Lanka, too, adjusted their hand—introducing
keeper Pubudu Dassanayake and left-arm spinner Don Anurasiri
Wijetunge—believing the toss they won would dictate the narrative. But it was not
spin but pace, raw and searching, that dictated Sri Lanka’s first innings.
Allan Donald’s removal of Hathurusinghe for a solitary run epitomized the
torment; only the composure of Mahanama, the brio of Ranatunga, and the
near-elegance of Tillekeratne—who fell agonizingly short of a century—offered
resistance.
South Africa’s reply mirrored the host’s unease. Seam, not
spin, again shaped the tale. After a steady beginning, the tourists succumbed
dramatically to the second new ball, collapsing in a flurry of wickets.
Symcox’s belligerent strokeplay delayed the inevitable, but when he struck
twice in his first over with the ball, Sri Lanka held the advantage, leading by
90 at stumps.
The following day brought a passage of cricket that lingers
as the match’s aesthetic high point: a partnership of 121 in just 103 minutes
between Aravinda de Silva and Ranatunga. Their contrasting styles—De Silva’s
effortless strokes and Ranatunga’s muscular improvisation—wove together a
tapestry of command and flair. Ranatunga’s eventual 131, laced with 18 fours
and a six, carried statistical significance as well: he became the first Sri
Lankan to surpass 2,500 Test runs. Yet even his achievement was marred by controversy, for television replays suggested a missed opportunity when Cronje nearly caught a return ball while Ranatunga was still on 58.
The declaration, bold in intent, set South Africa 365 to win
in 115 overs—a target rendered quixotic by a deteriorating surface. Early
wickets confirmed the improbability of pursuit; Hudson, Cronje, and Wessels
fell cheaply, and the final day seemed destined to crown Sri Lanka with a
famous win. Even as Cook and Cullinan mounted dogged resistance, six wickets
down became the scent of blood in Sri Lankan nostrils. Victory beckoned.
But cricket, in its cruellest and most beautiful form, often rewards not dominance but defiance. Rhodes, stepping beyond his previous reputation as a fielder of brilliance but a batsman of fragility, unveiled the innings of his life. His supple footwork, subtle manipulation of length, and quiet mastery of time itself frustrated Sri Lanka’s spinners. Symcox offered 76 minutes of belligerent company, Eksteen defended with monk-like patience for another ninety, but it was Rhodes’ four-and-a-quarter hours of unbroken concentration that turned a lost cause into a salvaged draw. His 101 not out, peppered with 14 fours and a solitary six, was less an innings than a statement: that survival, too, can be a form of triumph.
Thank You
Faisal Caesar
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