The run-up is angular, deliberate, almost ritualistic. There is no wasted motion. The eyes — bright yet unyielding — remain transfixed on the target. At the crease, the body pivots, and the wrist, supple as silk, conjures flight. The ball arcs high, teasing above the batsman’s eyeline, daring him to trust his instincts, to gamble against guile. Facing Muttiah Muralitharan was never a contest of strength, but of faith: faith in one’s reading of the hand, of the dip, of the turn. And for those who faltered even for a heartbeat, there was only silence, the final punctuation of an innings.
At The Oval
in 1998, England discovered this truth in its most unforgiving form. A spinning
pitch, as though borrowed from Colombo, became Murali’s theatre. Out of
England’s 20 wickets, 16 were his. A single bowler, armed with little more than
wrist and will, reduced one of cricket’s oldest fortresses into a playground
for artistry.
The
First Act: England’s False Comfort
England
began with substance. Graeme Hick and John Crawley, fluent and purposeful,
shepherded the side to 445. The surface, though, betrayed them. Spin whispered
its presence from the opening day, and Murali, grinning as ever, answered the
call.
The
debutant Steve James was first to err, looping back a gentle return catch.
Ramprakash soon followed. For every moment of Crawley’s defiance — stepping out
to meet the turn, smothering spin with purpose — colleagues were fumbling. Hollioake beaten by drift, Cork undone by a sliver of daylight
between bat and pad, Salisbury lured too far across his stumps. Murali was not
bowling at them so much as dismantling their certainties, one by one. By
stumps, his 7 for 155 had turned England’s bulwark into a brittle wall.
Sri
Lanka’s Answer: Thunder and Silk
If Murali’s
bowling was subtle sorcery, Sanath Jayasuriya’s batting was a hammer. His 213
came with an abandon that mocked England’s toil. At the other end, Aravinda de
Silva carved 152 of sheer grace. Together, they built a lead of 146 — more than
enough for Murali, less a cushion than a canvas.
From that
moment, the Test narrowed into inevitability. Ranatunga, shrewd as ever,
tightened the noose. He placed men close under helmets, crowding the batsmen
into claustrophobia. And at the centre of it all, Murali — the quiet tormentor
— began again.
The Long
Ordeal
Mark
Butcher tried rebellion, charging down the track, but the ball dipped wickedly
and he was stumped mid-stride, undone not by rashness but by the illusion of
freedom. Hick, England’s centurion, was dismantled in minutes. By the fourth
evening, England were 54 for 2, clinging to hope more than belief.
The fifth
day was meant for survival. England required not runs, but hours. James
resisted briefly, only to perish at silly point. Stewart, the seasoned hand,
ran himself out in a flash of thoughtlessness. From there, the collapse
unfurled like a slow tragedy. Crawley, so assured earlier, was beaten in the
air; Hollioake was bamboozled first ball after lunch. At 116 for 6, England’s
task became less about saving the Test than enduring humiliation.
And yet,
stubborn defiance flickered. Ramprakash, dogged and lonely, found unlikely
company in Darren Gough. For more than two hours, the fast bowler became an
accidental batsman, his blade a shield against inevitability. Together they
pushed England into the lead. But fate, like Murali’s doosra, was waiting
around the corner. Ramprakash, after 220 minutes of resistance, fell to a
bat-pad catch. Gough followed next ball, bowled by one that turned like a
riddle unsolved.
Murali
finished with 9 for 65. Sixteen wickets for 220 in the match. At The Oval, on
foreign soil, the spinner from Kandy had rewritten the script.
After
the Storm
For
England, the defeat stung. For Sri Lanka, it was a landmark, proof that their
cricket had stepped out from the margins of the game’s elite. For Murali, it
was affirmation: genius needs no endorsement, though it must often fight
suspicion.
David
Lloyd, England’s coach, muttered about “unorthodox” actions, reigniting old
controversies. Such barbs were familiar to Murali. They followed him through
his career like shadows. And yet, his answer was never in words but in overs —
relentless, probing, endless overs.
The
Lasting Image
Years
later, Steve James recalled the ordeal: “It was a mental trial beyond
comparison. No physical threat, just an unremitting battle against a bowler of
supreme accuracy and stamina.” That was Murali: no menace, no malice, just an
overwhelming persistence, as though time itself were conspiring against the
batsman.
He would
retire with 800 Test wickets, a number so vast it belongs almost to myth. Yet
The Oval, 1998, remains among the brightest jewels in that crown. Sixteen
wickets, conjured not through mystery alone but through belief, stamina, and
the artistry of a man who turned bowling into a form of storytelling.
The history
of Sri Lankan cricket will forever reserve a gilded page for that summer’s
triumph. And at its centre will always be the smiling assassin, wrist whirling,
eyes fixed, a sorcerer at The Oval.
Thank You
Faisal Caesar
No comments:
Post a Comment