Temba Bavuma won the toss, took a long, slow look at the straw-coloured pitch, gazed up at the heavens, and decided to insert Australia. It made sense. The wicket appeared docile. But there: this is Lords. The Slope – spelling doom and defeat to many a neophyte batsman – lurks as an ever-present threat. As does the Dukes ball and an enticing atmosphere of lowering cloud. Bob Massie once took sixteen wickets here bowling swing. Glenn McGrath famously took eight ludicrously cheap English wickets here. Seven days out of ten, you bowl. And he did.
In the matter of trash-talking the opposition, many would suggest the sage counsel of soccer warlord Brian Clough: ‘Say nowt. Win t’game. Then talk your head off.’ Kagiso Rabada spurned this wise advice and talked his head off beforehand. If you take this course you would be well-advised to let your deeds match your words. And didn’t he just. He and Marco Jansen bowled a combined spell which overwhelmed the Australian top order. Little blame attaches. Khawaja, Green and Labuschagne were swept away by hostile pace, late swing and venomous seam movement. None threw their hands away. They were caught behind from obligatory defensive shots. And just before lunch, the crowning catastrophe occurred when Head was dismissed to a leg-side strangle – ever the most misfortunate of demises. At 4/67, the famed luncheon of sticky date pudding would have been as ashes in their mouths.
And then there was Steven Smith. Smudger is, as previously related, a man reborn in these latter times. He no longer goes back and across. Now he waddles sideways on the crease outside the off-stump and waves his bat at the ball. Apparently there is method in it. Frankly it is not for us to question his methods. Hours of patient planning have gone into this. And every time he bats these days it is as if he is playing on a different pitch to everyone else. It is not the most bizarre of techniques in Test history. Shivnarine Chanderpaul made almost twelve thousand Test runs by assuming a position like a fiddler crab attempting to find his front door with his house key after a long night on the sauce. He was the despair of bowlers. And so is Smith.
He batted, and batted, seemingly untroubled. He reached 66 before Bavuma belatedly realised that, counter-intuitively, the biggest threat to Smith was not Maharaj’s left-arm orthodox, but rather Markram’s off-spin. Last ball of Markram’s opening over Smith advanced, edged the away-drifter to slip, and the Inspector Gadget giant arms of Jansen hauled it in at the third attempt. He had made an effortless 66, but his team needed a big hundred from him.
And then there was Webster. After lunch Rabada’s second spell had him bound and gagged. Had the bowler advanced and offered him a gimp mask nobody would have been surprised. Yet somehow he clung on. Beau Webster is a cricketer of substance. Yes, he seemed to say. You had me beaten flat. Nevertheless I’m still here, and now I am going to cash in. He was helped by some innocuous seam bowling from Mulder and Ngidi. The latter was once a lethal fast bowler. But he has lost a yard or two, and hereabouts this makes all the difference. England is no place for fast-medium trundlers, and he was punished horribly. The score mounted merrily, and at tea Australia had reached 5/190.
After the break Rabada and Jansen swept away the tail. Webster top-scored with 72, but the rest could do little. Rabada’s five wickets were no less than his due from a superb display of fast bowling. He may have a big mouth, but with pace, late swing and biting seam movement he lived up to his own estimation of himself. And Jansen – frequently wayward as might be expected of a man from the Land of Giants – was scarcely less impressive. At 212 all out South Africa could feel well-pleased with their work.
If batting seemed hard for Australia, the Proteas soon discovered just how arduous things could be. In Starc’s opening over he lured Markram into a somewhat false stroke. The ball swung in late and disturbed the woodwork. He marched off disconsolate, knowing that many a man before him has succumbed in similar fashion, either bowled or leg before. Somewhat surprisingly, Wiaan Mulder came in first drop, and the Australian seam trio worked him over. They bowled a fuller English length; the ball seamed and swung alarmingly; and he clung to the crease like a limpet. Rickelton meanwhile struck a few boundaries before chasing Starc’s away-swinger and edging to Khawaja.
Mulder and Bavuma defended desperately: strokeless and obdurate. But Cummins’ late movement rattled through Mulder’s defences; and Stubbs – only too aware of Hazelwood’s genius for wicked leg-cutters – played around the off-cutter which cannoned into his stumps. By the close South Africa was 4/43, and suddenly Australia’s two-hundred-odd looks a long way off. The captain Bavuma is unbeaten on three, from 37 deliveries. He and his fellows had been waiting for loose balls. From these blokes? Forget it. There weren’t any to speak of. What Bavuma must have thought to see Bedingham help himself to two late boundaries from Cummins can only be conjectured.
What the morrow will bring is anyone’s guess. If the ball stops moving about the Proteas have a chance for a first innings lead. If it doesn’t – well. They are up against it. But this was a thrilling contest between the two best teams in Test cricket. Both sides produced brilliant seam bowling, superb catching, and resolute defence against the odds. The difference thus far has been the backup seam attack. Ngidi leaked runs like a rusty colander, and after a promising opening spell Mulder’s lack of venom was pitilessly exposed. The Australian trio gave nothing away until the very close of play. More tomorrow.