I don’t like cricket anymore. Don’t watch it a lot, unless forced to. Don’t really talk about it either, unless forced to. The sport has become alien to me. I started watching because it was, wait for it…a game of uncertainties. Now, it’s just bland…bleh!
Enter a security guard from Baracara. By the way, I have no clue where Baracara is and before mid January this year, I had no idea who Shamar Joseph was. I have never seen him play. I don’t watch any leagues. I am not a social media tactico or a talent scout. But this young guy from Baracara made an almost 40-year-old lazy as fuck human get up at eight on a Sunday morning, switch on his TV and grin throughout his entire spell.
Cricket, nowadays, is a batsman’s game. The sound of the ball hitting the middle of the bat is a dopamine hit and watching it fly over is proper entertainment. It’s fun when Glenn Maxwell wields his willow to do unspeakable things to Afghan bowlers, but fast bowling is a spectacle. There’s no denying the sheer beauty of a cover drive, the jaw-dropping audacity of a Dilscoop, the complete authority of a thumping pull shot, or the insane art of spinning a ball right across the body to knock over the off stump but…Pace is pace, yaar!
Ian Chappell once said, “Genuine fast bowling can change a game or a series quicker than any other skill in cricket.” But skill aside, watching genuine fast bowling is pure adrenaline. The thrill of a tearaway quick wrecking batting orders is inexplainable – the flying stumps, the nerve wracking whacks on the helmet badge, the dull thuds on the chest guard, the ouch when the ball hits the area between the arm and the elbow. It’s music. It’s savage. It caters to the hidden animal within us that, over the years, has been trained to hide its blood thirst and become classy while applauding the vintage off, cover, straight and on drives.
Fast bowling is also the ultimate manifestation of what a human body can achieve when pushed to top speed. Humans are not built for it, it’s not normal. Our frames shouldn’t hurtle in at 100km/hr, our knees don’t have shock absorbers to soak the continuous jerks of a 30-yard long run up. The spine isn’t designed to arch like the string of a bow while the body is in air, and the ankles are definitely not supposed to slam down bearing a load of 2.5 times our body weight. And the shoulders? Let’s not even talk about hurling a piece of cherry at insane velocity from around 20 yards.
Shamar Joseph did all that, and more. And he did it with a broken toe. He not only wreaked havoc with the ball, but also made Australia twitch. He took a bagful of wickets and just like a genuine fast bowler, he induced a sense of panic in the incoming batsmen and started the whispers in the Aussie hut. They walked out gingerly with beads of nervousness on their brows under the helmet and an uneasiness of fear in their eyes.
Shamar’s spell was old school. It didn’t care about glamour. It couldn’t give a toss about match-ups. It fucked with data. It stripped the game off its cosmetic makeovers and brought it down to what it really is – either me or you! He prevailed. He prevailed against a physical disadvantage, he prevailed against history, he prevailed against reputations, he even prevailed against a maverick, Steve Smith.
“I’m not afraid to say this. There will be times when T20 cricket might come around. Test cricket will be there. And I will say this live. I will always be available to play for the West Indies, no matter how much money it takes or come towards me. So, I will always be here to play Test cricket…”
Shamar won’t be able to keep that promise. He’s destined to wear the prestigious blue and gold of the Mumbai Indians, or the ultra glam red and black of RCB. He will bowl four overs, pick up a side strain and skip a Test series. Maybe he will go on to become the best T20I bowler, or maybe some random 360 degree kid from South Africa will tear him into shreds on a flat Bengaluru deck. But till then…
Shamar Joseph, I will remember your name!
The Sports Outcast 
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