When I first fell in love with cricket, the global pantheon was dominated by three giants: the West Indies, Pakistan, and Australia. The player who captured my imagination was none other than Sir Vivian Richards—a cricketer who batted as if he owned time. My father, a purist of the game, reminded me that I was watching an ageing Viv, a version no longer lightning-quick, his reflexes dulled slightly by the passage of time. Yet, even at 35 or 36, what Viv could do with the bat remained beyond the reach of most. His swagger, his brutality, his intent—few could rival it. Gordon Greenidge perhaps came closest, but even these titans had their off days.
And when
they did, it fell upon the stabilizers—the unsung heroes. Larry Gomes, Richie
Richardson, Gus Logie, and Desmond Haynes: the builders, the fortifiers. They
held the innings when flair failed, rotating strike, absorbing pressure, and
forging resilience one run at a time.
In another cricketing colossus, Pakistan, stood a man named Javed Miandad. Unlike Viv, he wasn't a picture of elegance. His technique didn’t draw awe. But what he did possess was steel. Miandad was the heartbeat of the Imran Khan-led side—a gritty lifeline who dragged Pakistan out of ditches time and again. He wasn’t flashy, but his mastery of placement, strike rotation, and innings construction made him indispensable. With little consistent support outside Imran himself, Miandad bore the burden of an entire batting lineup, match after match, innings after innings.
Meanwhile, in Australia, Allan Border was the left-handed version of Miandad.
Such
batsmen are craftsmen. They understand that batting—particularly in Tests and
high-stakes ODIs—is about endurance, patience, and adaptability. And in today's
cricketing world, where the blitzkrieg of T20 often overshadows such nuance, it’s
easy to forget that old art.
In the post-Miandad era, Steve Waugh, Mark Waugh, Inzamam-ul-Haq, Graeme Smith, Michael Atherton, and co stuck to the mantra of Miandad.
At Lord's Markram decided to follow the mantra of the gritty legends of yesteryear.
The Markram Moment: A Modern Masterpiece at
Lord's
On a
luminous day at Lord’s—the cathedral of cricket—Aiden Markram resurrected the
age-old virtues of Test match batting. It wasn’t just an innings; it was an act
of defiance, of history rewritten in whites. In the World Test Championship
final against defending champions Australia, Markram didn’t just chase runs. He
chased ghosts—those of past South African heartbreaks on the grandest stage.
He began
with a flick—a gentle stroke off Hazlewood’s pads through midwicket. But that
simple shot set the tone: composed, purposeful, grounded. Then, raising his bat
and eyes to the skies, Markram let emotion stream down his face. A century—yes.
But also, redemption.
At the
other end, Temba Bavuma—South Africa’s stoic captain—watched on with quiet
pride. His hamstring failing but his resolve firm, he mirrored the innings'
heart: grit amid fragility. Their partnership wasn’t just tactical—it was
spiritual.
Markram’s
unbeaten 102 at stumps on day four was already being spoken of in reverent
tones. But he wasn’t done. “It’s not over yet,” his eyes seemed to say, even in
the fleeting joy of reaching three figures. Sixty-nine more runs stood between
South Africa and immortality.
The Craft Behind the Glory
Let’s not
romanticize this into myth without acknowledging the method. Markram came into
the final under pressure. A duck in the first innings. Inconsistent recent
form. The burden of expectation. But from his first ball—a soft push to get off
strike—he signaled a shift in mindset. No more passivity. No more retreat.
South Africa would chase with intent.
He pounced
on width, punished over-pitched deliveries, and bided time when bowlers tested
his patience. His offside play—long considered his strength—was vintage: cuts,
drives, and late dabs all flowed. Yet, what stood out was how he adapted.
Against Lyon’s turn, against Cummins’ precision, and in the face of Bavuma’s
injury, he recalibrated his game. His focus narrowed. He played closer to the
body, resisted the temptation of expansive strokes, and anchored the innings
like a veteran.
Markram
didn’t just survive—he orchestrated. He was a composer and conductor, setting the
tempo of South Africa’s most significant chase in memory.
Deliverance
The final
morning at Lord’s dawned with nerves in the air. 213 for 2. Sixty-nine runs to
glory. Still, doubt lingered.
Markram
answered it with authority: drives through the covers, pulls off short-pitched
bowling, and the maturity to absorb spells from Australia’s finest. When the
second new ball arrived, Hazlewood bent his back—but Markram bent the moment to
his will. One flick off the pads, then another. And then it was nine to win.
Eventually, it was Kyle Verreynne who struck the winning runs, but it was Markram’s 136 that had already carved itself into the marble of South African cricket history. A victory was finally sealed. A final was finally conquered.
Beyond the Numbers
This wasn’t
just a century. It was the silencing of decades of near-misses, collapses, and
chokes. It was the moment when the weight of being "the golden boy"
finally became wings instead of chains for Aiden Markram.
In the
shadow of past legends, he created light of his own.
Final Thought
In a sport
increasingly obsessed with the rapid, Markram reminded us that endurance,
intent, and elegance still matter. His innings, much like Miandad’s grittiness
or Richards’ dominance, will be remembered not just for the score, but for what
it stood for—a resurrection of belief.
On that
Saturday at Lord’s, South Africa didn’t just win a Test. They won history.
Thank You
Faisal Caesar
