Richie Benaud did Australia a quiet service before a ball was bowled. In furnace-like heat he won the toss, a decision that looked merely practical at the time but would later feel strategic, even protective. Batting first was never easy, yet Australia’s innings unfolded in uneven phases—industry without fluency, purpose without dominance. They slid to 251 for eight, the kind of total that promised competitiveness rather than command, before Colin McKay and the debutant Ian Martin added a vital 97 that restored shape and substance.
Martin’s selection was ostensibly for his left-arm slow bowling, but it was his batting that announced him. His fifty, compiled in barely seventy minutes, was brisk rather than brutal—an innings that carried the energy of a player unburdened by Test history. Alongside him, McKay provided ballast. Alan Misson, also making his first appearance, was part of an Australian side quietly renewing itself even as it defended old standards.
West Indies’ reply began under an ominous sky and ended in worse spirits. Joe Solomon fell to the last ball of the day, and when Conrad Hunte was dismissed with the third ball next morning, the tourists were suddenly two down for one—an opening collapse that felt less like misfortune than fragility exposed. Rohan Kanhai, however, refused to let the innings dissolve. With Basil Nurse he stitched together a recovery built on elegance and authority. Kanhai dominated the narrative, his wrists and timing bending Australia’s plans, and by the time rain intervened West Indies had reached 108 for two, momentarily reclaiming control.
Yet the interruption proved deceptive. Though the pitch was covered, heavy rain seeped through, subtly altering conditions without rendering them unplayable. The surface asked questions but did not dictate failure. What followed on the third day was less an indictment of the pitch than of the batting. Kanhai and Nurse extended their partnership to 123, but once separated, the innings collapsed with startling finality. The remaining nine wickets contributed just 25 runs—a collective unraveling that spoke of poor judgment and eroded confidence rather than unavoidable difficulty.
A crowd of 65,000 returned to see West Indies asked to follow on, 167 in arrears and already burdened by the weight of repetition. Their second innings carried moments of the surreal as well as the defiant. Solomon was dismissed hit wicket when his cap fell onto the stumps—a moment of almost comic misfortune in a match otherwise defined by stern inevitability. Hunte stood alone amid the wreckage, batting with resolve and restraint until Alexander joined him when five wickets had already fallen for 99.
Together they resisted with purpose, lifting the partnership to 87 the next morning, but the mathematics of the contest had long been settled. Australia required only 67 to win. Wes Hall, summoned for one last act of defiance, bowled at full throttle and briefly unsettled the chase, claiming three wickets for 30 with raw speed and hostility. It was resistance of pride rather than consequence. Simpson and Favell closed the match with composure, steering Australia home without further drama.
In the end, the scorecard recorded a straightforward Australian victory. Beneath it lay a deeper story—of heat and judgment, of resistance offered too briefly, and of a West Indies side undone not by conditions or brilliance alone, but by its inability to sustain defiance once pressure truly arrived.
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