Bazball becomes Badball as England left in panting pursuit
There were a few dimbulb boos as he continued on his way: there are, in England, always some. It was a key moment in the contest, Australia having lost its openers either side of lunch; it was a key moment also for Smith, who had scrounged and scavenged his few runs at Edgbaston, and even batters as great as he live a little on their nerves.
Marnus Labuschagne was 5 off 22 balls, almost as though he didn’t want to get started without his friend and familiar, like a diner reluctant to order before their companion arrived. Smith was not in a hurry, but nor was he waiting.
The surface held few terrors. No Jofra Archer awaited him this time. Instead, Smith punched a floaty half-volley down the ground for 3, nailed a pull shot then a couple of cover drives, and within a quarter of an hour the game had a new complexion.
The previously-becalmed Labuschagne got moving, driving Broad precisely through the covers, and flicking away some generous leg stump half volleys.
Between times, the communication, the seemingly madcap gesturing that is this pair’s personal semaphore, providing each other with realtime data on the bowlers, the pitch, their respective states of mind, their pleasure in each other’s company etc.
It proved, largely, Australia’s day, despite England’s efforts at the toss to seize the initiative in overcast conditions, and despite two wickets against the run of play after 6pm. Smith remained in harness at the end, 9000th Test run behind him, thirty-second Test hundred beckoning, his average again past 60.
The lights blazed throughout, and there were multiple interruptions, including catching practice for Jonny Bairstow with a protester soon after the start.
Fortunately, Bairstow was not required to dive to his left, as he again failed to do when Khawaja (1) edged Anderson, replaying the first over of the second innings at Edgbaston – the chance to Root went begging.
The pitch proved a sheep in wolf’s clothing, offering minimal seam movement, little pace, lacklustre carry. Broad’s first delivery, delivered at gouty 77mph, bounced thrice on the way to the keeper. There was, at least, swing in the air and slant from the slope.
Warner was beaten, semi-regularly, but usually managed to keep his defensive shape, and when he did not was dropped by the unreliable Pope at fourth slip, so avoiding a sixteenth dismissal by Broad.
Warner’s 66 was a busy innings – if not skittish then certainly fizzy with ideas, moving this way and that round the crease, fetching off side balls to leg, standing forward of his ground but seizing quickly on the short ball. Taking singles, he still explodes like a sprinter from the blocks; coming back for second and third runs, he is so swift he appears always to be running downhill.
As noon approached, so did Josh Tongue – another of those monosyllabic names, along with Broad, Brook and Root, that invests England’s team sheet with such a wholesome earthiness that you hanker for Wood and Stone, and fantasise of cricketers called Field and Wild.
From over the wicket, Tongue started wide to the off and short on leg, and was dobbed for six as Warner reached his half century. But he settled in round the wicket and posed problems with the incline before Smith and Labuschagne combined for their ninth hundred partnership.
England were tighter after tea, but the ball was softer, the light better, and Travis Head there to do Travis Head things – to punch straight, to plink to leg, to prey on width, and help add 50 in 52 balls.
Smith played his best shot, an imperious straight drive from Tongue to go to 61; in the same over, Head played his, a muscular pull, that raised his 50 in 48 balls. Just after 6pm, however, Head lost his, charging Root, and Green miscued to mid-off.
England hardly deserved their late break. Their bowling effort had little zest, meagre entertainment value, and was certainly not going to save Test cricket. Broad was down on pace. Robinson seems always to be starting up, like a car in cold weather. Pope left the field nursing his shoulder. Thirteen byes were conceded and twelve no balls bowled, making thirty-five for the series. That’s not Bazball; that’s Badball.
Most worrying must be two of England’s most storied names. Anderson now has one for 138 in the series, and the body language to match. Stokes also looks ginger and not in a good way, jogging in, uncertain round the front line, hardly following through, shaking his head ruefully as he walks back.
Just before tea, Labuschagne drove, not hard but hard enough, down the ground, towards the pavilion. Anderson and Stokes set off gamely in pursuit, but hardly moved much faster than the hovercraft covers, and the ball comfortably beat them to the rope.
Having started this series with such gleeful abandon, England spent most of their day likewise, in panting pursuit. They, too, must pause, to reflect.
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Steve Smith paused. This, a cricketer who is a blur of mannerisms and always seems busy doing something, he does not often do. But on the boundary rope at Lord’s as he prepared to step on the field after lunch yesterday, Australia’s premier batter visibly stopped, stood on the spot, took time, took stock, took a deep breath. His shoulders rose and fell; he looked up, around, and stretched at the waist.