Greatest comebacks in cricket: From Kapil Dev's 1983 to the Wanderers in 2006

06/01/2016

Around a month or so back, watching the final few minutes of the second leg of the Liverpool vs. Borussia Dortmund Europa League quarter final clash, I suddenly realized how much I hate come-backs. I mean, once the match is over, and it officially acquires the status of a “come-back”, it becomes poetry in motion – there will be oceans of emotional fans still unable to believe what they have witnessed, there will be passionate team huddles, and coaches being carried by the players; and then the camera will capture someone from the losing side in tears, and may be someone from the winning side with an arm on his shoulder, and I will realize all over again why I fell in love with sports in the first place.

But all that comes “after”; for the course of such matches are usually tickets to one of those freakish rollercoaster rides in amusement parks for my nerves (as well as lessons in avoiding expensive manicures before them for me). Imagine the timeline of such a match – first, there is heartbreak following an apparently unassailable total or lead by the opponent (“It’s okay, I will deal with it”), then the faintest glimmer of hope which you superstitiously ignore (“No way, we are still losing”), a strike by the opponent that kills that faint anticipation (“See, I knew we are losing”), and then some teeth-clenching, valiant fight back that effortlessly transforms your resignation into hysteria (“Oh my God, could this be happening?”). This is a point of no return – it is possible to accept a crushing defeat, but never the heartbreak of losing after coming too close.

Every person my age must have grown up with stories of Kapil Dev’s legendary 138-ball 175* against Zimbabwe, in the 1983 World Cup, arguably still the greatest ODI knock of all times. A team tottering at 17 for 5 in the first innings, a match threatening to get over before lunch time, a rather inexperienced 24-year old on the crease, who had been force-fed the additional burden of captaincy just months back, and who, though an all-rounder, was primarily a bowler, and whose batting techniques were not known to be too traditional. It is said that Dave Ellman-Brown, the Chairman of the Zimbabwe Cricket Union, was approached by BBC at around this time, to do an interview, for it was taken for granted that Zimbabwe were advancing to the semis.

“The game isn’t over,” Ellman-Brown had said. And it surely wasn’t!

It is a pity that BBC was on a strike that very day, and no official video footage of this match is available. Some people claim it is poetic and fitting that the details of such a magnificent knock are left to imagination, rather than being dragged into pettiness by dissection at the table of cricket technicians. However, my voracious appetite is just not satiated merely by my father’s recounting that unbelievable day – I often wish to be transported in time to that quiet afternoon in Turnbridge Wells, when a man, with invisible costume and cape, effortlessly carried his hapless team into the semi-finals, and subsequently to a miraculous first World Cup triumph. Undoubtedly, cricket is a team game, but this has to be my favourite single-handed comeback ever.

The crown for the greatest comeback ever, however, should probably go to a match played almost a hundred years ago, between Hampshire and Warwickshire, in Birmingham in 1922. Hampshire was captained by Lord Lionel Tennyson, grandson of the fabled Alfred Lord Tennyson, and Warwickshire by Frederick Calthorpe. Warwickshire, batting first, scored 223 runs. Hampshire replied with a glorious 15 all out in their first innings, and for the record, 8 of the 11 players scored a duck. Following on, Hampshire needed 208 runs simply to avoid an innings defeat. It is said that before the beginning of the second innings, Calthorpe had suggested to Tennyson, that some of their amateur players should get together for a game of golf after the match, because evidently the match would not last more than two days.

Lord Lionel Tennyson.

One cannot be sure if Tennyson hated golf very much, or if he was inspired by the famous Charge of the Light Brigade, penned by his grandfather. Following on, Warwickshire batted with far greater conviction than expected, but they were still reeling at 274 for 8 with a mere 66-run lead. This was where this apparently routine match transcended into the realm of the extraordinary. Walter Livsey (who was Lionel Tennyson’s valet) and George Brown scripted an unprecedented 177-run partnership for the ninth wicket, with Brown scoring a majestic 172 before getting out with the score at 451 for 9. Livsey carried the baton forward with George Boyes adding another 70 runs to the total as well as scoring his maiden century, and Hampshire ended their second innings on an absolutely unbelievable 521 runs! From the surety of an innings victory, Warwickshire were suddenly set an absurd total of 313 runs to win. They scored only 158 runs before bundling out, and Hampshire won the match by 155 runs! I wonder if the game of golf was still played, and if it was, if Calthorpe was still a part of it.

Fantastic as this account may be, it does not probably appear very unique. 1922 may have been in some different era altogether, but we have our very own Legend of the Eden Gardens to convince ourselves that miracles still happen. To be entirely frank, Eden Gardens was the third time in international cricket history that a team won following on – England had already done it twice against the same Australia (Sydney, 1894 and Leeds, 1981). To me, however (as to millions of others, I am sure), this was the first cricketing miracle that I actually remember witnessing (besides Sachin Tendulkar, of course!), and will hence remain tremendously special.

It will be sacrilege to repeat the sequence of events in that match verbatim; as I am sure it is etched in every memory with their own flavors of fondness. I used to be a comprehensive diary writer way back then, and I was flipping through the pages of my 2001 volume the other day. Fresh into teenage, my language was ridiculously flowery, my grammar bad, my sentence construction patchy – but the emotions associated with the match still remain absolutely the same. The initial happiness, as Australia is reduced to 269 for 8, thanks to Harbhajan Singh's hat trick, transforming to frustration as Steve Waugh’s labored but highly effective ton pulls Australia to 445 in their first innings. The much-known disenchantment, as the Indian innings wraps up for a mere 171, and a silent prayer to let it not be an innings defeat at least. Both Tendulkar and Ganguly back to the pavilion with less than 250 runs on board, with Rahul Dravid and one VVS Laxman on field, and India looking to at least make Australia bat again.

What happened over the next couple of sessions has become part of cricketing folklore. The world watched befuddled as these two lesser celebrated cricketers defied all odds to script one of the most romantic comebacks ever – both cautious at first, and then Dravid gradually slipping into the background in his signature style as his more flamboyant partner took center stage. It was a magnificent extermination of Australian dreams, and by the time the incredible 376-run partnership was eventually broken with both Laxman and Dravid departing to standing ovations, India had amassed 657/7, and Australia needed a ridiculous 384 runs to win in 75 overs. “Glenn McGrath was out leg before wicket to Bhajji, and it took me some time to digest that India had actually won the match,” reads my diary entry, and I do not exaggerate one bit when I say that closing my eyes, I can replicate the exact rush of emotions effortlessly in my mind even now.

Cut to a year later, the NatWest trophy finals vs. England in the “hallowed sanctum” of Lords, a match best remembered for a Salman Khan-like performance by Sourav Ganguly. The T-20 culture has probably made it a little difficult for us to fathom why chasing 326 runs in 50 overs was a big deal then, but I do remember thinking only a miracle could get us even close to the target. We had a prolific start, thanks to a first-wicket 106-run stand between a devastating Ganguly, and a slightly quieter Sehwag, but then both of them were dismissed in quick succession, followed pretty soon by Mongia, Dravid and Tendulkar, and we were reeling at 146 for 5.

If England had congratulated themselves on a job almost done, Yuvraj Singh and Mohammad Kaif, 21 and 22 years old respectively, decided to spoil things for them – and in what style! Initially Kaif let Yuvraj’s characteristic flamboyance take over, content to play sheet anchor, but when Yuvraj(69) departed with the score on 267, India still needing another 59 runs to win, Kaif(87*) slipped seamlessly into the role of the protagonist. With Harbhajan Singh first, and Anil Kumble in the end, he pulled India through with just 3 balls to spare.

I have often regretted not being able to appreciate the sheer quality of their fight back live, owing to mounting, edge-of-the-seat tension, the reason why I have watched replays over and over again – but in my opinion, this chase is somehow extremely underrated. Mohammad Kaif may have slowly faded into oblivion, but this one innings reserves him a special place in my heart.

I realize being an Indian cricket fan, most of these memories are from matches featuring India. The huge exception is the fifth ODI between Australia and South Africa in the Wanderers Stadium in 2006, better known as the “double-400-match”, and in my personal vocabulary, the “board exam match”. I had my ISC Computer Science exam the very next day, and to take a study break, I switched on the TV to check the score.

At first, I thought the scorers had made some kind of glaring mistake – what do you mean by Australia 395 for 3, with 3 overs still remaining? And then slowly, the enormity of it all struck me – I was about to witness the first 400 in the history of ODI cricket, and only divine providence had ensured that I arrived just in time to see it happen! It was a scintillating feeling, and when Australia ended the innings at 434 for 4, no one could have convinced me that South Africa had a chance.

Initially, I transferred all my books to the TV room, and watched the match on mute while studying, but Herschelle Gibbs and Graeme Smith were not going to let me have it that easy. I was like a pendulum, oscillating between the TV and my C++ programs, till Baba clapped the books shut.

“I have a feeling that such a match might never be played again,” he said, “Let’s just watch it!”

When I go back to that unreal night, only one word fits the bill – ridiculous. If my kid ever wants to know what team work means, I will not waste my breath on words – I will probably just play a video of this South African innings. The Proteas are probably the unluckiest team in the world, and they have lost matches in the most innovative ways possible, but that day, it seemed like nothing could stop them. “If there is ever a cricketing God”, I kept thinking, as wickets kept falling at regular intervals, “he will not bring a team this close to history, only to break their hearts.” As Mark Boucher sent the penultimate ball of the match to the boundary, history was created. Tony Greig could not hold himself down, “Look, there are tears, they are crying out there! The South Africans at the Bullring today have seen the best one day international ever played!” 872 runs in a single match, the 400-run mark crossed twice in the same match, the biggest run chase ever – all these are bare facts; that night made me realise sports speaks a universal language, and it is probably the second sweetest language in this world after one's mother tongue.

Hidden behind these prolific comebacks will always be a number of almost-comebacks - sagas of agony and disappointment, of coming within inches of something special and still not being able to touch it. Team India’s World Cup 2003 campaign was one such monumental heartbreak that I have never quite recovered from. The way the team fought back after a miserable start before being decimated in the final by a ruthless Australian side.

“Indian team loses the match, but wins our hearts,” read the newspapers, but who really cares about winning hearts when history could have been made? It actually took me weeks to get over this heartbreak; and even now, when we do have that elusive second World Cup trophy, I cannot bring myself to watch that 2003 final ever again.

This is probably the reason I dread fightbacks, because of the knowledge that life will not follow a movie-like script; that things can go either way. Then again, there lies the romanticism of sports, in that it mirrors the unpredictability of real life too. Sports, to some of us, are a vent from the monotony of the grinding routine of our daily lives; and faced with challenges, the memories of these valiant fightbacks probably gives us some hope, even if false, that if we choose to give things a shot, may be some magic is waiting to happen. Maybe some faith, that if they can, so can we...

As someone once said, "Do it; because they said you couldn't..."

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