There are endings that feel ordained and others that feel orchestrated by cosmic mischief. The conclusion of the fifth Test between England and India at The Oval was emphatically the latter. It unfolded like a fever dream—delirious, improbable, and unspeakably human.
India’s six-run victory, their narrowest ever in Test history, emerged not simply from the hands of Mohammed Siraj or the missteps of England’s middle order, but from the alchemy of sport itself—the convergence of exhaustion, absurdity, brilliance, and error into something that can only be called Test cricket.
This series, already heavy with subplots—injuries to Jofra Archer and Jasprit Bumrah, the emotional entropy of Ben Stokes, the volcanic emergence of Shubman Gill as captain, the absurdist pantomime of the Fortis-Gambhir spat—found its crescendo on Day Five, where the players limped into history on bloodied boots and blistered willpower.
The morning began as it often does in English cricket: with the gods asleep or drunk. The sun, out too late. The rain, gone but threatening. The crowd, half-believing. England needed 35 runs, India four wickets. Somewhere, in the bowels of the Oval, the ghosts of Cowdrey, Botham, and Laxman were shifting nervously in their invisible seats.
And then came Siraj.
This was not a spell of cricket. This was penance made flesh. His face still bore the psychic scar of stepping on the boundary rope the day before, turning a wicket into a six, a moment that might have defined the match had Siraj not insisted on writing a different ending. He began the final act like a man late to his own redemption, conjuring both movement and menace as the old ball kissed and cut its way back into the game.
His first scalp—Jamie Smith, drawn into a wide drive and caught behind—was surgical. But it was the aftermath, the shift in air, the sudden awareness that this game had become alive in a new, more volatile way, that truly changed the tone. Every ball thereafter felt like a coin flipped at the gods’ mercy.
It’s easy to romanticise Test cricket’s fifth days, but seldom does one deserve it so completely. This wasn’t just attrition or skill—it was performance art. Jamie Overton’s boundaries off Krishna were defiant, but Siraj struck back, his lbw dismissal of Overton squeezed from the cold stone of a DRS review. Then came Josh Tongue, yorked by Krishna, the stumps splintered like narrative finality. And then there was one.
Chris Woakes, one-armed and freshly bandaged, walked to the crease like a Shakespearean ghost—symbolic, tragic, nobly doomed. Much like Colin Cowdrey in 1963, he arrived to bear witness more than to wield influence. But what theatre it made. Each of his flinches, the wince on his face as his arm jostled from its sling, was worth volumes. At the other end, Gus Atkinson swung hard and missed harder. England crept toward the total. Each run now felt weightier than the innings that preceded it.
And then—fittingly, brutally—Siraj bowled the perfect ball. A full, arcing yorker, straight and swift. Atkinson missed. Off stump splayed. Victory. Catharsis. Pandemonium.
Siraj, the Series' Soul
If a single figure could personify the mad beauty of this series, it would be Siraj. In a contest bursting with characters—Brook the elegant outlaw, Gill the patrician stylist, Root the quiet surgeon—it was Siraj’s blood-and-thunder presence that provided its emotional core. His figures—30.1 overs in the final innings alone—reflected a stamina that bordered on spiritual. There is no stat for a man refusing to lose.
And yet the match was not his alone.
Harry Brook’s 111 in the fourth innings was a modern-day masterpiece—a collage of invention and abandon, of risk made rational. The lofted cover drive off Akash Deep, one of the more surreal moments in the annals of cricketing aggression, was less a shot than a declaration of belief. A conviction that scoring, even in such tension, was not only possible but necessary.
In contrast, Root played the long symphony—technically assured, emotionally unflustered, his 105 a reassertion of classical virtues amidst the din. But both fell, and with them, England’s hopes.
Bazball: A Philosophy Under Trial
What will be said of this era—this high-octane, lurching revolution that calls itself Bazball? Is it bravado or brilliance? Does it summon glory or fragility?
Here, perhaps, we found the limits of the aesthetic. For all its dazzle and daring, it leaves little room for compromise. The absence of Stokes’ fielding, the multiple dropped chances, the gaps in composure—these were not just tired bodies but also the product of a doctrine that sometimes trades tension for thrill. You live fast. You fall hard.
And yet, what theatre. What gall.
England’s collapse—47 for 4 from a position of command—wasn’t a failure of method as much as a failure of margin. India held tighter lines. England blinked first. Sometimes it’s that simple.
Of Groundsmen and Gods
It would be a mistake not to mention the strangest subplot of them all: Lee Fortis, the Oval groundsman, catapulted from the periphery of cricket’s subconscious into the cultural spotlight following his confrontation with Gautam Gambhir. The incident was comic, yes, but also deeply telling. In an era where cricket is increasingly commodified, where power resides with boards, broadcasters and brands, this was a turf war in the literal sense. And how ironic that Fortis’ pitch, green and uncompromising, produced a final act for the ages.
A Test series to Relish
The 2025 England-India series, by any measure, now joins the pantheon of modern epics. From Headingley to Manchester, the storylines have multiplied—comebacks, centuries, injuries, rainbreaks, politics, pitches, dropped catches, and divine reversals. The cumulative emotional toll has been extraordinary.
And yet, what end could be more fitting than one that tips into myth? 35 runs needed. Three wickets in hand. One arm in a sling. And a man with unfinished business steaming in to bowl.
The gods, it seems, were not angry after all. They were just waiting for a better story.
Thank You
Faisal Caesar
