Yes, we shall return to Galle in due course. But the big news was the culmination of the hybrid Women’s Ashes at the MCG. The good news is that most nations are improving year by year. The bad news for the challengers is that Australia is also improving from a satisfyingly stellar benchmark. The gap between Our Women and The Rest remains where it was. Yes, occasionally we lose. The recent T20 World Cup being an example. Our team was caught napping and missed the final, won by New Zealand. We would not be Aussies had we not cheered and stamped for that. One would have a heart of obsidian not to have applauded our cousins across the ditch, and their matchless leg-spinning all-rounder Amelia Kerr.

The thing about the odd defeat is that it ought to encourage self-examination and reassessment. Clearly it has. The English side currently touring here is not a bad cricket team at all. Yet in the two white-ball series they were spanked. In six matches they have lost every one. Not because they can’t play. Rather because Australia won all the big moments. These women expect to win, and will move heaven and earth to make it happen. There are battle-scarred veterans here. The captain Alyssa Healy only passed a fitness test this morning. She will bat lower down. As will her customary fellow-opener Beth Mooney. The latter kept wickets today, and could hardly be expected to open the batting as well. But adequate substitutes will be found. Of course they will.

Healy won the toss and inserted the foe. Of course it’s a risk, but a calculated one. Batting will not be easy throughout; but better get them in now and make them face the music. Put them on the rack by all means. Hardly had the spectators assumed their seats when the primary incision was made as Garth induced a wafted edge from Bouchier. When the home side erred in length it was full rather than short. If you must err, then this is far better. Australia only used three seamers, though more were waiting in reserve. Sutherland was a little below her best; but Brown bowled fast and with exuberance. The pick of them was Garth, whose line and length were immaculate. By lunch England was 3/64 and just hanging on.

After lunch the gallery seemed concerned that the three seamers were being overworked. They need not have troubled their heads, because the late afternoon session saw a master-class in spin bowling. Gardner was her usual self: accurate, quick enough through the air to thwart undue extravagance, and turning her off-breaks enough to discourage liberties. But the star turn, inevitably, was Alana King. We are informed that she idolised Shane Warne as a child. Her impression of the late, great man was impressive enough. Anyone who can bowl a leg-break which swings sharply into the right-hander’s pads and spins hard enough to miss the off-stump is going to command respect. And didn’t she just.

England’s batsmen really did their best. Anyone who says otherwise is deluding themselves. But through the long session Nat Sciver-Brunt’s face was a picture of consternation. Look, she seemed to be saying. I am, frankly, just hanging on. Batting is difficult but far from impossible. Can somebody please stay with me long enough to make a difference? Alas, they could not. There were no messy batting suicides. The sad truth is that a quality wrist-spinner will ask more questions than the battle-computers can satisfactorily answer.

Sciver-Brunt eventually succumbed, bowled by King, for a patient 51. It was the eighth wicket to fall. King had already caught and bowled Dunkley for a stubborn 21; she had Wyatt-Hodge caught at silly mid-off by Litchfield; and Ecclestone taken from an optimistic swipe outside off. Criticism is easy. But whence were the needful runs to be scored? It was a puzzle to which England failed to find a useful answer. The innings ended in farce when McDonald-Gay – who had batted as well as anyone for her patient 15 – set off for a wildly optimistic single and consigned Lauren Bell to an easy run-out. All out 170 looked about a hundred short.

Yet the home side would have to bat under lights, with two youthful openers, owing to the injury to Healy, and the fatigue of the stand-in keeper Mooney. Voll succumbed early to Bell, but Sutherland – sent in first wicket down owing to an injury to Perry – joined Litchfield and between them defied all the visitors could bowl at them. At 1/56 Australia is well and truly on track for the longed-for clean sweep.

Meanwhile in Galle Smith and Khawaja gave every impression that they were fully prepared to bat on until Septuagesima. The spin trio of Jayasuriya, Vandersay and Peiris laboured in the humidity as if they were disciples of Sisyphus. The lattermost gave the impression he was merely going through the motions; but the others toiled on with undiminished vigour. Aside from brief cameos from Fernando they carried the attack, and took all six wickets to fall (three each). Surely never has a bowling quartet bowled so many overs without occasional relief. Where was Angelo Mathews? We are advised that he does not bowl in Tests any more. The captain himself used to be a noted finger-spinner, but he has a side strain. And Kamindu Mendis, who we are advised bowls spin with both hands, has a hand injury.

As for Smith, he succumbed for the sixth time in the nervous 140s. He will, we are certain, be forgiven this idiosyncrasy. Many a Test player would kill to get so far. As for Usman, he merely batted and batted, serene, confident, and utterly untroubled. One could hear him thinking that given a modicum of luck (which he received), and on this surface – why, I don’t believe anyone can get me out. When they eventually did it came as a vast surprise to everyone, perhaps including himself. But 232 is a fine day’s work however you slice it. And Inglis? Brought in at no.5 because of his expertise at playing spin, he roared to a blistering century in 90-odd deliveries. He will have less favourable conditions in the future, but you can only play the hand you are dealt. And didn’t he just.

Carey and Webster piled on the pain until Smith finally declared at 6/654. Once upon a time 500 would be deemed sufficient, but in these latter times every captain knows the terrible fate of Pakistan recently, who made well over 500 and lost by an innings to Harry Brook and England, in roughly that order. Moreover, sending in the home side with a mere fifteen overs to play paid off wonderfully well. At 3/44 Sri Lanka have not merely a mountain to climb. The deficit is the size of the Himalayan massif.

Day 1

It always seems to be party time in Galle. It is a fine venue for cricket in the shadow of the old fort, on whose battlements spectators may be seen taking their ease and watching the game. The visitors would not be taking this series lightly. Last time they were here, Prabath Jayasuriya (no relation) took twelve wickets and spun Australia to an unexpected defeat. If there was a blade of grass on what appeared to be a strip of greyish-brown plasticine it would not have enough companions to make up a bridge four.

In consequence both teams picked two wicket-keepers, one quick bowler, a batting medium-pacer and three specialist spinners. Konstas was omitted, making way for Head as the other opener. All of this made sense. Head struggled here last time in the middle-order; yet opened in India with distinction. His replacement at no.5 was the debutant Inglis. Debutant in name only: the man has featured prominently in the limited overs side.

Smith was delighted to win the toss, even though he confessed to having no idea how the wicket would play. That it would spin later could be taken as read. But for now, Australia would see if Head could seize an early initiative. He answered the rhetorical question by smacking three boundaries from the first over, sent down by the bustling Fernando, who may indeed have heard the drums in the outer. Yet they did not beat for him especially much, and his workload as the sole seamer was very light (7/0/41/0). He was unfortunate when de Silva refused his agonised beseechment for a review when he trapped Head leg before in this third over. But his captain turned the deafest of ears, and the chance went begging.

This was to be an ominous presage for the remainder of the day. Difficult chances were dropped. Smith’s first ball was clipped away for his ten thousandth Test run. On his second he hit a return catch to Jayasuriya, who grassed it. Khawaja edged a delivery straight into his chest from which it flubbed over the keeper’s head. Mendis looked around as if pursuing an evanescent Wally, but failed to locate it in time. As did first slip, who arrived on the scene just in time to see it thud into the turf. Khawaja ought to have been leg before on 74, but de Silva repeated his previous error.

Amid this agonising turmoil the three spinners did their best, and occasionally turned the ball sharply. But it was Australia’s day. Head led the way as planned with a brutal 57 from 40 balls. Only Labuschagne looked at sea, and was undone by Vandersay’s leg-spinner, having been previously spooked by his unexpected googly. But the day belonged to Smith and Khawaja. They would happily roll up this pitch and take it on tour with their carry-on luggage. And Australia’s decision to rely on their veterans was justified in full. The partnership approaches the double hundred, and neither will be satisfied having notched up their centuries. These men love batting and cannot get enough of it.

Bad light ended proceedings an hour early with the visitors on 2/330. It might have been 400 had not Jayasuriya decided to indulge himself with some slow leg-theory to Smith, who was rarely tempted. Ball after ball was fired down outside leg, and Smith played football with it, or else let it sail past to Mendis. Occasionally he even hit it. Whatever it was, this curious pastime did not look much like cricket. The umpires really ought to have called a few wides; but it was nothing like as flagrant abuse of the spirit of the game as was displayed by England at Lords. Eventually, seeing that Smith had not the slightest intention of risking his wicket, he returned to normal bowling.

Australia will want 500 at the very least. The pitch looks benign now; but by Day 3 we may expect it to whip off its false nose and whiskers and spring into raging ferocity. More tomorrow, and stand by for the Women’s Ashes. Why the latter is running concurrent with the men’s tour is anybody’s guess; but it seems women’s cricket is seen as a second-class citizen. To which we say Bah! and Harrumph!

Lovers of sport need no excuse. Yet there are millions out there, frequently of an intellectual bent, who are bewildered by the adulation given to those who whack balls of various sizes and shapes around with feet, bats, or other implements. But sport reflects society in ways nothing else does. When Middle Eastern potentates began sportswashing their regimes they began with cricket. Some sports have been deeply compromised in this fashion. Yet cricket has not; and this isn’t just because of India.

CLR James wrote that the history of West Indies cricket is the history of the West Indies itself. His first literary work The Black Jacobins was devoted to Toussaint L’Ouverture, whom he described as leading the only successful slave revolt in history. His political life – the bit he thought of paramount importance – dissolved into chaos: ever the fate of Trotskyism. Yet Beyond A Boundary was hailed by John Arlott as the best book ever about cricket. James led the campaign to instal a black captain of the West Indian side. The fact that Frank Worrell was manifestly the best man for the job didn’t hurt. Neither did the incumbent’s equally self-evident incompetence.

James was a friend of Learie Constantine, fast-bowling all-rounder from the 1930s. The latter’s career might well serve as a microcosm of English society at the time. Stifled by racial discrimination in Trinidad he played cricket for Nelson in the Lancashire league. When visiting Lords for a charity match in 1943 his hotel booking was refused on the grounds that the presence of a black person might offend the American servicemen staying there. Constantine was not having any of that and sued the hotel chain. The High Court upheld his claim. When in due time he became Baron Constantine of Maraval and Nelson, the boot was on the other foot with a vengeance. He intervened with some success in the affairs of Seretse Khama, whose marriage to a (white) English typist caused a protracted fit of grumphing and confected outrage. Ruth Khama did have the last laugh, and took an entirely justified delight in visiting stately homes in company with her husband His Excellency Sir Seretse Khama, President of Botswana. (Parenthetically, Khama’s story is one of the bewildering absences from modern discourse. Showing his fellow Africans How To Do Independence was an object lesson his contemporaries entirely failed to grasp. Here, surely, is the true tragedy of the Dark Continent.)

James also wrote about cricket for the Manchester Guardian, which at the time was the unchallenged leader of English journalism. A teenaged Neville Cardus described his first task as a reporter was to cover a lecture given by a female academic in a Mechanics’ Institute in the Pennines. Farmers and labourers had walked for miles thither to hear a woman lecturing on phenomenology. (Yes, really.) One horny-handed son of toil raised a hand and asked the speaker whom she was quoting. Memory having for the moment failed her, she expressed confidence that the gentleman from the Guardian would undoubtedly be able to help out. At that moment Cardus realised what it meant to represent that august journal. He wrote that luckily it was Malthus, which he described as an easy ask. His life’s ambition was to become the music critic for the Guardian. He had to wait for the incumbent’s eventual demise, but he got his wish. He became famous as a cricket writer faute de mieux; but he adorned the summer game with some famously lush prose.

People have already noted the influence of Cardus in my own writing, although I incline more to the works of the late, ill-starred Peter Roebuck. I once won It Never Rains… (his journal of his summer as stand-in Somerset captain in the 80s) in an ABC radio quiz. As soon as the phone number was announced I dialled at once, confident that whatever the question was I would probably know it. Like Cardus, I was fortunate: it was an easy one. Which Australian bowler recently made his maiden fifty for Kent? Terry Alderman. At that stage in my life I followed county cricket, and barracked for Clwb Criced Morgannwg (Australians love the underdog. It’s who we are, really) and rejoiced when a third pennant finally arrived in 1997. Roebuck was only too aware that cricket and politics are inextricably entwined, but in his cricket writing he managed to keep his prose light and sparkling.

Like his fellow West Countryman Sir Terry Pratchett, he was both English and Australian, and understood both countries rather better than those who only England (or Australia) know. Cricket builds bridges between societies. Late this month we shall be touring Sri Lanka: a land of comparable population, British heritage, and starkly different polities. The patron saint of Sri Lankan cricket is Kumar Sangakkara. Who no longer plays, but was and is a heroic figure without parallel in the cricketing world. Invited to Lords to give the annual Spirit of Cricket address, his oratory caused the port-encrusted denizens of the Long Room to give him a standing ovation. Unlike at least one of his contemporaries, he has not ventured into government. Many Sri Lankans probably wish he did.

We play cricket our own way in Australia. It has taken nearly a century for us to escape the oppressive penumbra of Bradmanism. The Don was very much a man of his time. If you’ve a taste for iconoclasm, Malcolm Knox’s book Bradman’s War is a cautionary tale of how not to play the game. The Seventies ushered in a distasteful era of cricket as trench warfare. The best captain Australia never had was John Inverarity: a stern Caledonian schoolmaster who had no time whatever for sledging. Yet the cricket he played, and the sides he led to victory, were as hard as anyone who has ever played the game. The secret of Pat Cummins’ team is that they play the game as Inverarity played it: polite, relentless, and tough as prehistoric footwear. Forget woke. Woke has nothing to do with it at all.

That is probably quite enough philosophy for now. Here is a tale of forgotten Australia to lighten your day, in case you have never come across it before. Jack Fingleton didn’t write it. But it is a tale from his metaphysical time: the age of Victor Trumper (a sort of fragile Captain Carrot) and Arthur Mailey (First he bowled tripe, then he wrote it, now he’s selling it). A more innocent age of dust, heat, comradeship, forgiveable sharp practice in the WG Grace mould, and a cold beer afterwards:

Also the Day of Pink, in memory of the late Ms McGrath. Within moments it became apparent that the pitch had abated not a jot of its venom and mischief. There was uneven bounce all day, and seam movement bordering on the extravagant. Sundar and Jadeja barely fired a shot in anger; but truth to tell neither Cummins nor Boland gave them anything much to hit. The captain saw them both off with trademark seaming thunderbolts; then Boland removed the last two in short order. The home side must have been relieved. A chase of 200 plus would have been an intimidating prospect on such a pitch.

If this team were interested in dwelling on the past, they would have recognised a familiar script. Go out there nervously prodding; lose three wickets to the quicks; have the spinners come on with close catchers and the ball shooting at all angles; and get bowled out for 120. Konstas and Khawaja arrived with a clear intention, summarised as Blow that for a game of soldiers. We will go after the bowlers at every opportunity and see if we can take them down. After three overs the score was 0/35, not helped by Siraj and Krishna trying too hard to break down the defences. Twelve of those runs were extras, mostly wides and byes.

It had also became apparent that Bumrah really was out of the game. He spoke after the match of respecting his body, which – it had become apparent to everyone – really had passed the limits of the possible. Krishna roused himself for a supreme effort and prised out first Konstas, for a village yahoo swipe; then Labuschagne caught in the gully in his usual way; and finally Smith, who found himself stranded on 9999 Test runs with a delivery that rose off a length like a dolphin chasing a beach ball. Suddenly India was in with a chance at 3/58. Off a mere ten overs.

It is probable that Konstas will garner raised eyebrows and frowning visages for his two innings in this match. Consider this, however. Both times he was dismissed by agricultural hoicks. A thousand coaches would be warning their junior students Don’t Try This At Home. And yet. In both innings he made over 20 in a low-scoring match. He was chosen to give the innings impetus. And he did. The effect on Khawaja is plain to see. While young Sam is swiping, I can get my eye in at my leisure.

Travis Head strode to the wicket coming off three successive failures. Would he also go after the attack? Of course he would. By the time Siraj at his last gasp removed Usman at 4/104 the match was well in Australia’s keeping. Usman had made 45, by the by. Which was the innings top score, and a poke in the eye for a certain former captain suffering from relevance deprivation syndrome. He had called upon Usman to retire after this match. Australia will however need him in Sri Lanka. After that, maybe.

This brought Webster to the crease. Having enjoyed a brilliant debut already he felt no nerves to speak of, and his driving off front and back foot was a delight to watch. He and Head polished off the runs in short order. The innings took just 27 overs at a run a ball. They were helped by some extraordinary captaincy from Kohli, deputising for Bumrah. His plan, such as it was? Bowl Siraj and Krishna until their arms fell off. Even Reddy got a couple of overs, on a pitch which hardly suited his gentle swingers. Sundar was offered the final over, with men back on the drive for easy singles. And Jaddu? He might easily have caused some havoc on such a pitch. He certainly fielded like a demon. What went through his mind as the Australian pair cruised to victory can only be conjectured.

There were no surprises on the presentation dais. Boland was Player of the Match (with 10/78 it could not be anyone else), while Bumrah was Player of the Series. Inevitably. Without him India might easily have lost five-nil. Sweetness, light, diplomacy and mutual congratulations were the order of the day. It was a minor triumph of diplomacy to have Isa Guha do the presentations. She’s actually English, but can easily pass as Indian. And – inevitably – a Test cricketer herself in her past. Women are not chosen in cricket merely to be decorative.

Australia will play South Africa at Lords in June, and India must inevitably draw the curtain on certain careers. They have young players of quality hammering at the door. As Bob Dylan memorably put it: don’t stand in the doorway; don’t block up the hall. Australia has decisions of its own to make in the near future. Poor Nathan McSweeney deserves another shot at Test cricket. It’s hardly his fault he ran into Jasprit at his most lethal. Webster can hardly be omitted on the strength of his brilliant all-round debut. And there is Green to return, when he is ready. On the pace bowling side, Lance Morris and Spencer Johnson deserve a run. And presumably we will be taking Kuhnemann to Sri Lanka. Room must be found for the younger brigade.

But for now, this battle-scarred team may well bask a while in the afterglow of victory. Written off more frequently than a white-shoe spiv’s bad debts, they drew together and triumphed against the odds. They are due all the applause they will receive from this sports-mad Big Brown Land.

This was the day when India roared back into the contest, despite the absence of their captain. The cricket world had been wondering with breath fairly bated how long Bumrah could go on carrying the attack on his uncomplaining shoulders. He began the day by removing Labuschagne early. After ten overs of gilt-edged seam bowling he disappeared to the pavilion for respite. He then departed the ground in his car, accompanied by an ambulance. Scans and back spasms were offered, but beyond that the dressing room was as non-committal as a Minister addressing a Cabinet leakage.

How would India fare without their champion? Jolly well, as it happened. Siraj and Krishna bent their backs with a will and overwhelmed the Australian batting. Konstas batted serviceably for his 23 under trying conditions, Smith batted well for his 33 until surprising everybody by finding Rahul with a wild stroke off Krishna. Reddy chipped in with two good wickets and the tail succumbed to the Indian seamers. Thanks to Webster’s debutant fifty the home side fell only four runs short of India’s 185, but an opportunity for a decisive lead went begging. Webster had already earned his keep as fourth seamer. With common-sense technique (blocking the good ones and punishing the bad) he made a fine 57 until he was undone by Krishna. The remainder tried their best, but were found wanting.

Delighted at being let off the hook yet again, Jaiswal joyfully hopped into Starc’s opening over and plundered 16 from it. Starc looks battle-weary, as well he might. India’s score mounted with alarming speed until Boland (who else?) removed both openers. The pitch had quietened down somewhat. But there was still just enough seam movement to get past the bat and into the stumps. Rahul and Jaiswal looked flummoxed, as well they might. Following which Kohli did his customary thing and nicked to Smith from well outside off. He whacked his pad with his bat in anger. Succumbing yet again to your own well-publicised death-wish is a public embarrassment. Suddenly Boland had 3/18 at the start of his fifth over.

This became 3/27 by the end of it. Pant had clearly had enough of stoic defence and smacked his first ball straight over the bowler’s head for six. It was the beginning of a hurricane assault. Rishabh was clearly not only bored with playing carefully. He reasoned that his best option was all-out attack, and who can say he was wrong? His innings was brief but violent. Having made his point he nicked Cummins behind and departed. But his 61 is the game’s top score thus far. From 33 balls, if you please, with four sixes and six fours. Earlier, Webster got his maiden scalp by inducing a waft from Gill. Boland however was not done yet. He held one back a trifle and Reddy spooned it to Cummins at mid-off.

And so ended a day of violent mood swings. With India at 6/141 the lead is 145. Jadeja and Washington have had little enough to do with the ball thus far. Their chances of setting a winning total are far from negligible. It really depends on the wicket. The green of the wicket has faded somewhat. But there is still seam movement. And Boland will be waiting for them in the morning. His match figures thus far are 8/73. He has made the ball fly off a length, seam around like a hyperactive terrier, and thus far he has barely sent down a bad ball in anger. What Australia is hoping for is an hour more of seam, followed by a general easing out into a glorious batting track. And what of Bumrah? How is he? Will he bowl in the second innings? He must be as sore as Samson in Gaza, but you would not bet against it.

Jasprit Bumrah stared at the avo-smash-coloured pitch and sighed. Would it be a green mamba? Or would green be the colour of deceit? Time was when you won the toss in Sydney you had a brief scan of the brownish turf and said We’ll Bat. You made 500, and spent the next few days monitoring the situation and making sure you weren’t batting last. Bumrah having been belatedly restored to the captaincy (Rohit Sharma being “rested” – yeah right whatever you say) he did just that. Why would you not? Perhaps Shubman Gill (replacing Sharma) might finally come good. Well, he didn’t. But that is hardly the captain’s fault.

What has changed the SCG Test is the new Kookaburra ball, which keeps its proud seam far longer than the old one. That, and a new administration in Australian cricket which decrees that cheap runs have been taken off the menu. Nope. Every run you get, you earn. The long-belated debut of Beau Webster also helped. He’s a proper batsman who bowls both seam up and off breaks. His seamers were of gentle medium pace today. But his 13 overs cost just 29 runs, and commanded instant respect. This is absolutely what you require of your fourth seamer/batsman, and Cummins was duly appreciative. Webster made no attempt to bowl fast. He kept a good length and relied on seam movement, and delivering from about ten foot above the grass.

For India, praise is due to Pant and Jadeja. The former has been on the receiving end of an absurd battery of insults. An impartial observer is forced into the position of Oh Give This Man A Break! He is the wicket-keeper. Wiki-batsmen are supposed to be aggressive. He batted well over two hours in Melbourne to try to save the game. Today he was just the same. Shortly after lunch India was 4/72. The top order failed yet again. Pant erected fascines and gabions around his stumps and dug in like a Trojan. For the home side Boland was sublime. He does not get many Test matches, and is determined to enjoy the ones he gets. Starc (unexpectedly selected despite his dodgy back) removed the redoubtable Rahul early. Boland disposed of Jaiswal and Kohli, and Lyon removed Gill on the stroke of lunch.

After the break Pant and Jaddu dug in. It wasn’t pretty to watch, but it was proper Test cricket. No, if you want my wicket, then bring a front-end loader. Batting suicide? Nope. Forget it, aint playing. Until he did, wafting at Boland to Cummins in the midfield. And yet. His 40 was the innings top score. He and Jadeja soaked up thirty-something overs of challenging seam bowling, for 66 hard-earned runs. The only other player to pass 20 was the captain himself, who managed a sprightly 22 as the innings collapsed around him. With a mere three overs to bowl at Australia, Bumrah saw Konstas whip his opening ball to the boundary. With his twelfth and final ball Khawaja edged him to Rahul.

There is more than a hint of 2005 about this Indian side. In the greatest of all Ashes series, Australia sent an ageing side to England hoping for the best, despite the obvious fact that some of them were past their use-by date. They were found out, despite the extraordinary resistance of Shane Warne with bat and ball, who single-handedly defied the fates, the pitches, the English, the press and everything else within sight. Even the towering genius of Warne could not defy the tide of history. Bumrah is hardly in Warne’s class with the bat, but he does his best. With the ball, he works Warne-like miracles. For Australia, top billing goes to Boland. He could not have asked for a more accommodating pitch, and 4/31 from 20 overs was no more than his due.