That same England that we fans were cursing found a higher-astral-plane cruising-mode to render everything a nonsense, earlier. Of course they did. Because a) everything IS a nonsense, b) this was a semi and c) THEY ALWAYS WERE #thebestteamintheworldthatisntAustralia.
Yes. They were. Even when Shrubsole and Brunt looked painfully out of sorts, the coach looked weirdly like a mildly disinterested knitting champion and Wyatt, Jones and everybody but Sciver and Dunkley looked like toast-in-the-waiting. In short, even when England were ’embarrassing’, those of us who have been paying attention (over days/weeks/years) knew that they had ‘performances in them’. That they really were better than India/WIndies/South Africa – that they were, in fact, the only meaningful challengers to the Aussie juggernaut.
Does this mean I/we take back our vitriol, from the last month? (Even the frankly unkind stuff about Shrubsole’s condition?) No. ‘Fraid not. Despite the thrilling excellence of Anya’s opening burst – despite, even, the fine, diving grab for the Wolvaardt wicket, Shrubsole is not absolved. She like every other International Professional Athlete should be ticking the I.P.A box in terms of fitness and agility. Likewise Jones and Wyatt (etc, etc) should be ticking the Avoid The Ludicrous Lazy Gift box, when wielding the willow of Ingerland. This stuff matters: there are responsibilities in play, yes?
But ‘end of’. Look at the scoreboard; look at the table; look at the history books. They already say ‘Holders, England are through to another final’. I’m bloody delighted to see that. What’s more, I think they have a chance of raising the trophy at the end of all of this: they can’t be favourites but they have a chance because England have come through, ultimately, in real, important, creditable style… but yeh, they were crap for toooo long, in this event.
Wyatt seized the day. She swished and cut and drove compelling (but not flawlessly) to a hundred and more, piercing the field with that characteristically lithe power, but also teasing them with the occasional near-fatal miscue. (Bottom line, she should have been on her way but for some poor efforts to snaffle an admittedly wind and/or spin-affected ball. Even the god-like (goddess-like?) and god-loving Kapp was guilty of a strangely discordant fluff. Wyatt swatted on).
Seasoned watchers will know that despite some evidence to the contrary, in #CWC22, it is England’s fielding that sets them apart and above the ‘minor players’ in the hierarchy of the world game. They are generally at a higher professional level: perhaps they should be, given the relative investments – the ‘resources’. However the keys to this semi-final were fundamental, not general. Wyatt and the now convincingly prolific Dunkley batted best; Ecclestone’s bowling was just too good.
Beaumont biffed the very first ball from Ismail to the boundary but was then in a pickle. Knight, though understandably fixated on batting long, got utterly stuck, failing to hit anything for an age, lest she offer a chance, then falling plumb for a disconcerting and potentially demoralising single run scored. Sciver smashed a stunning pull shot, nuttily, beautifully, then was cramped to another short one from Kapp, and merely spooned it to the ring. Jones, for the umpteenth time, threatened to unleash some quality but managed instead to ‘fail’ and fall, in another gift-wrapped, despairing moment.
In the middle of the night I had posted my own target before a tactical (3 hour, work-necessary) retreat: on this pitch, England must get 260 or 70. The pitch was obviously true-ish. Somebody was obviously going to go biggish. I hoped – but then daren’t hope – for more, from the women in blue.
When I re-emerged at 6 am, coincidentally bang on the start on the South Africa reply, I was wondering if Wolvaardt might ‘do a Wyatt’ and make 120-something. She felt like a threat. Shrubsole’s completely predictable but nevertheless thrillingly challenging inswing soon undid that storyline. A further early wicket – that of Lee, caught Sciver, at short midwicket – put England in command, particularly as the batting team felt light, or lighter than England, beyond that opening pair.
None of Luus, Goodall, du Preez or Kapp failed; they all got into their twenties or a little beyond. But in the early-middle overs Cross and Dean, despite the latter being mixed, made key inroads before the Ecclestone Parade came to town.
The young woman is a phenomena. Firing in those arcing or spearing mace poles. Relentlessly and somehow joyously. At you – at your toes! Irresistible. That speed, that parting of the curtains, pre-delivery. Mind-scramblingly good.
From about the sixth over it felt a little like the Ecclestone Moment might come, might sort this. (Knight, perhaps teasing out the the drama, kept us waiting). Whether this was some sublime instinct or (more likely) simply and prosaically A Plan, we will never know. In the event, it worked.
The last knockings of the South African innings became – either traumatically or deliciously – a rout. Six wickets for the Tall Girl from the North. A ‘shush’ to send off the (presumably previously lary?) Ismail. Theatre. With all this pressure on her, the ‘Best Bowler In The World’ unfussily performs. It becomes a right thrashing. England are there.
Australia are the best side in the world: England next best. It’s good that they meet. Haynes, Healy, Lanning, Mooney and Perry out-gun their English equivalents – certainly in terms of consistency. And Brunt and Shrubsole and even Ecclestone are less likely to repeatedly dent that winning machine. But this now is a final. And there will be nerves. And there may be sublime inspiration. I’m hoping it comes from England.
Knight *is due*.