a day for the statisicians

What is cricket?

A game.

But no, what is cricket?

Life. A game.

Watching Cook all day long reminded me of the way cricket used to be, the way in which it used to be played, the old ways and the old style. There he was, in the zone, carving out a mental space for himself, like a monk who's forgotten the world; pure concentration on the 'one thing needful'. Awful and fascinating at the same time: the single-mindedness of a killer. The creation of an immense world in that small space, impenetrable like a diamond. The stolen singles, the dabs to on-side, the utter devotion to blocking out risk, to finding one's tempo and one's style and then sticking to it come what may. The calm stillness of someone who's playing within himself, who's become a master because he knows his limits.

Comparisons are unfair. Each player is unique, brings something to the game. A shot is played. The end result is the same but the way in which it is achieved can be vastly different. Only the result will be recorded, not the flair or panache of a player. Think back to Viv Richards, without a blemish, apart from his friendship with I.T. Botham and his arrogance; the expansiveness of his play; so much so that you felt as if everyone was involved in the game, brought within the circle of his mind, whereas with Cook you feel as if everyone is slowly being poisoned to death. Then think of that drowsy, lazy genius of Inzamam who played it late, as if he had all the time in the world. At the time of delivery he raises that dull eye, looks up with that grumpy, slightly tortured expression on his face, as if he's just been unceremoniously woken up and is seeing for the first time what's before him, realising that he's really here: a moment of awareness. In that huge, slow body of his there's a spark somewhere, like a distant star in a creaking universe that explodes at just the right moment, firing his imagination: is it instinct or learned? He sleepwalks through the innings, showing flashes of intermittent brilliance.

At the end of watching Cook's innings you return to life, grateful that there are mundane things to do in the world, like boil a cup of tea.