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.

Captain Pat was the Mullagh medallist today, and rightly so. There were many alternative options for today’s header: one of which was the Latin tag Naturam expellas furca tamen usque recurret. (Horace. Look it up if you don’t know it.) Nature will strike back, however you try to overcome it. Bowl fifth stump to Kohli, seaming away, and he will edge to slips. (He did.) Tempt Pant with off-spin at both ends? Sooner or later he will go for it, and probably hole out in the deep. (He did.) But Cummins presided over all; and confounded his critics, most of whom know far less about cricket than he does.

Another alternative header was going to be The Day Of The Phantom. Bill Lawry (obdurate opening bat, Australian captain and renowned pigeon-fancier) once told a less than impressed Ian Chappell ‘Look, we’re playing for a draw. If we even think about trying to win then we’re going to lose.’ The Barnacle hated losing. Had India followed Lawry’s instructions to the letter they might have saved this game. One bloke who was entirely guiltless is Jaiswal. Absolutely nobody should blame him for chasing a wide ball and gloving it behind. India were six down already. He batted for over 200 deliveries. He’d made his second eighty of the match. Had he made it through to stumps it would have been he, and not Cummins, as Player of the Match.

For a long while before tea, he had help. From 3/33 at lunch, India made it to 3/112 by tea. Rishabh Pant had evidently taken harsh criticism from Gavaskar et al on board, and restrained himself admirably. At no point did India attempt to win the match. These men are realists, and knew that Cummins’ decision to bat on until the last hurrah had taken an Indian victory out of the realms of possibility. Both sides knew that after tea on day five, the MCG wicket will spring to life like a monster from the slab. At the first bolt of lightning from the metaphysical heavens, the ball will start playing tricks like David Copperfield entertaining a TV audience.

Few could appreciate at the time Cummins’ decision to open with Head and Lyon after tea. Yet it made perfect sense. We need a wicket, and what remains of my seam attack must be fresh enough to take advantage thereafter. Lyon commanded respect, as ever; but Head? Really? The implied insult to Pant’s batting skills could no longer be denied. Unable to deny temptation a moment longer he swiped at Head, and was brilliantly taken at long on by Marsh. The latter may well have played his final Test match, but he contributed well in the field with two fine catches.

Immediately Cummins brought back his quicks. Three down became six down in no time at all.  But with the new ball imminent, Cummins then put his trust in Boland and Lyon, and they did not disappoint. He himself and his battered offsider Starc – arguably now held together with duct-tape – he held back for the new ball, should it be needed. But it wasn’t. Boland made the ball leap off a good length, and Lyon – bowling at one stage to five slips – was good enough to sweep away the tail. Spare a thought also for Washington Sundar. Five not out from 45 deliveries is a poor return for a quality batsman. He, and Reddy, ought to have been in early.

With Cummins comprehensively vindicated, and his captaincy belatedly pronounced flawless, both teams have changes to make. In a contest of titans there is no room for passengers. Richardson should come in for Starc, to give the heroic left-arm quick a rest; and the time for Webster to replace Marsh can no longer be put off. For India, it is time to bid farewell to both Kohli and Sharma. The younger players have performed brilliantly. But you cannot carry two veterans at once who do not seem to realise that their time has passed. And on to Sydney!

Today had everything as a whirlwind of change swept across the match. Having captained ineffectually for three days Rohit was all energy and spark. Too much of the latter: showing public disgust at dropped catches from Jaiswal is not good. For once rather than bowling Bumrah into the ground he used him in short bursts. Effectively? One three-over burst produced three top-order wickets. And after his woeful performance in the first innings Siraj roared in like a wounded tiger and bowled with pace, fire, seam movement and precision. For Australia, Head went from gourmet chocolates to boiled sweets, falling cheaply twice. Things that stayed the same? Akash Deep remained luckless. Marsh was overwhelmed, again. Konstas?  Cummins? More of them anon.

The day began with a final flurry from Reddy, cut short by an outfield catch from the patient Lyon. He, Cummins and Boland shared the wickets (three each). And Australia went out to face the rejuvenated visitors. Konstas fell to another brutish delivery from Bumrah which bit back at him and took the stumps. It became a familiar tale. All but one of the top order fell to high-quality seam bowling, and there wasn’t much they could do about it. Smith fell chasing a wide one. To be fair, with the lead approaching 200 he clearly felt that it was time to press down the accelerator. But his dismissal opened the gates to a middle-order disaster.

At 6/91 the home side was on the precipice. Only Khawaja had managed to stay long. His 21 doesn’t sound much, but his innings was meritorious. He chewed up 65 deliveries and was only out bowled through the gate. It is a flaw in his technique; but only a small one, and he had done his job with quiet flair and calmness. Back in the mists of antiquity, when fifth-day pitches crumbled to dust, and Shep was a player rather than a beloved umpire, a fourth-innings chase of 200 was a challenging target. But it wasn’t enough here and everyone knew it. If somehow that could be stretched to 300 Australia would breathe again. But at this point it seemed as far away as Roxburgh Park or Coolaroo.

Into the inferno strode the home captain. To his first ball he backed away and scythed it through the off-side for four. It’s his favourite shot: a half-drive, half cut. Don’t try this at home, people, but it seems to work for him. At the other end the rehabilitated Labuschagne had kept his head. He was lucky, of course. You needed luck to survive the Indian pace hurricane. There were more plays and misses than at an incels’ picnic. They added 57 priceless runs together before Marnus was trapped in front by a seaming monster from Siraj. With a pair of 70s in the game he has booked his place for a while yet.

Starc ran himself out trying for a second which wasn’t on. Cummins protected Lyon from the strike and made his way to a masterful 41. It took an excellent away-spinner from Jadeja to get rid of him. At 9/173 the lead was approaching 300. But surely the last pair would not endure long? Lyon and Boland had other ideas. The problem was that India’s pacemen were utterly spent. Bumrah and Siraj bowled 46 overs today. It had been a worthwhile gamble from Sharma, and it almost paid off. The last pair were having none of it. The ball is old, and we’re determined to eke out every run we can get. While Boland defended like Horatius on the Tiber bridge, Lyon went for his shots. He doesn’t have many; but he played them all, and India could do nothing.

By stumps they had managed a stand of 55 not out. The Goat is on 41, and having the time of his life out there. India seemed resigned. Did Australia miss a trick by not declaring? On balance, probably not. The pitch is wearing fast. Reverse swing is on offer, and uneven bounce. But Indian batsmen can overcome obstacles like these. They’ve done it before. Cummins had probably called this correctly. The lead is 333. At the very least he may want to bat on, if only to run the heavy roller once more time. More tomorrow.

Australia must have begun the day with high hopes. Five wickets to get; a lead over 300; what could go wrong? Well now. The pitch has faded to straw-coloured macadam. And India bat deep, so to speak. Perhaps Pant will indulge in one of his absurd strokes and get himself out. Well, he did just that. It was half-ramp, half one of his acroballetic hook strokes. Straight after being hit in the breadbasket attempting a similar stroke. He was then well and truly baked by a number of luminaries of Indian cricket. Unfairly? Maybe. It might have gone for six on Indian grounds. As it was, Lyon took the catch not far in from the rope. It really is the way he plays. Would they have said the same for Konstas?

Nevertheless. Then Jadeja, who had been Patience On A Monument, was deceived by Lyon after a series of looped off-breaks and trapped in front by the faster arm-ball. A right-handed version in fact of so many of Jaddu’s own victims. At 7/221 the visitors were on a precipice. The problem for Australia was that numbers 8 and 9 are class batsmen, and they showed it. Washington Sundar hit a solitary boundary in his patient 50. And Reddy? It has been obvious to everybody except the selectors that he is India’s best middle-order bat all series, and ought to be no lower than no. 5. His century was richly-deserved, and Australia could do nothing about it except hope for a wicket at the other end.

Cummins toiled with might and main for his 3/86. Occasionally he managed seam movement where none was obtainable from anyone else. Boland was Boland: tight, economical, patient, and deserving. 3/57 off 27 overs on a bland pitch says it all. Lyon, given nothing much from the pitch, varied his flight and commanded respect. Starc toiled fruitlessly. At one point he sprayed the new ball wide of leg. Washington wafted at it as if dusting the mantelpiece. It took the back of the bat, curled behind the stumps and into the diving Smith’s hand, and out again. To be fair to Smith, it was a difficult catch he would normally take, except that when the ball is going down leg you would not expect a slips catch. You might as well expect it to play a sudden bagpipe sonata. Concentration in cricket must be zealously husbanded, lest it grow dull from overuse.

Finally with Reddy on 99 Lyon broke through Washington’s defence with the faster, flatter ball that turns and jumps, and Sundar edged it to slip. Cummins seized the ball and removed Bumrah with a fireball just outside off, edged to Khawaja at slip. Reddy completed his hundred with heart in mouth, knowing the combustible Siraj was all that stood between him and some unwanted red ink, and straight-drove Boland back over his head. Siraj made a couple, and then the rain came. Tomorrow? An unthinkable second draw on the trot now looms as a possibility. For this they can thank their all-rounders, none more so than Nitish Kumar Reddy. For Australia, lack of a proper fifth bowler cost them dear. Food for thought in Sydney? We hope so. Beau Webster awaits in the wings.

After the baking weather of yesterday the pitch had notably faded from celery to parsley, and getting people out was going to be harder. Smith had a point to prove, and so did the captain. So well did they play that their partnership blossomed. Cummins of late he has recovered some of his early form as a batsman. When he lunged forward, he drove. When they dropped short he scythed them through the off-side. He did not let up until Jadeja held one back a trifle and he holed out to deep mid-off for a superb 49. The seventh wicket stand produced 112 priceless runs.

But the story of the morning was Smith. As hyperactive as ever, he appears to have concluded that back-and-across does not work for him. Sideways and across having likewise failed him, he now moves forward and across. His pads are outside off. If the ball travels stumpward, he plays French cricket with both pads, bat, body and kitchen sink behind it. If it’s outside leg he might hook in the air and carry the boundary. And outside off he will drive, glide, or leave. It must drive bowlers mad, but it works. Especially at the MCG. He averages eighty-something here.

By lunch Australia had reached 7/454. That’s 143 runs in a two-hour session. Some of the blame must be levelled at Siraj, who gave as acephalous an exhibition of fast bowling as we have seen in a long time. Some of the blame must also go to the aimless captaincy of Sharma, of whom a charitable depiction would be likened to a palaeontologist confronted for the first time with a Rubik’s cube. But the bulk of the runs were down to sensible, adventurous batting on an easy-paced pitch. Smith now has back-to-back hundreds, and may write his own ticket for another season or two.

After lunch India finally got their act together and polished off the tail. The hard-working Deep finally bowled Smith under absurd circumstances (played on after advancing halfway to the grandstand for a wild swipe) for 140, and the end came soon after. A late minor highlight was Mitchell Starc off-driving Bumrah for six using his wife’s bat. Apparently he feels his levers are long enough already and he prefers Alyssa’s short-handled weapon. Bumrah, as ever, smiled. At least he’d pitched the ball up. India were too short yesterday afternoon, and Siraj persisted with hairy-chested folly even today. 23/3/122/0 was his final less than flattering analysis.

Chasing 474 was an unappetising prospect, and when Cummins removed Sharma (who promoted himself to opener) for 3 things got worse. Jaiswal however dug in with Rahul, and raised the fifty. Starc could make nothing of the surface; Boland kept them pinned down, and Cummins was, as ever, a constant menace. On the stroke of tea he bowled Rahul with another trademark leg-cutter into the off-bail and India were two down. No blame attaches to Rahul, unlike his captain, whose hesitant half-pull was the stroke of a man wondering what numbers he should choose for weekend Tattslotto.

At 2/51 India were in dire straits. But Kohli and Jaiswal put their heads down and put on over a hundred. Jaiswal was superb, showing all the class he had demonstrated in Perth. Kohli meanwhile batted like a man truly in peril of his place, and showed the broad bat so greatly feared during his long career. Disaster struck in the 41^st over when a grotesque mixup sent Jaiswal back to the pavilion, run out for 82.

He played the ball to a deepish mid-on and called for a single. He was running to the danger end. Inexplicably, Kohli turned back, and left his young comrade high and dry. So distressed must he have been that soon afterwards he forgot all his earlier caution and got himself out in his usual fashion, hanging his bat well outside off as if inserting a stake in his front garden. Boland gave a wry smile. He is a caution on this pitch with his accurate, consistent length. He knows the pitch well enough that the stumps are always in play when he’s bowling. Then Deep the nightwatchman failed to survive, edging him to Lyon at leg-gully. India will resume at 5/164 with a mountain ahead of them.

As happens all too often on this day, the weather was unpropitious. 39 degrees, cloudy, with the promise of, if not meatballs, at least rain to follow at some juncture. The first surprise was team selection. Australia retained Marsh, for reasons obscure, but took the plunge and inserted teenage wunderkind Sam Konstas, of whom it will often be said, and frequently ad nauseam. India meanwhile lost patience with Gill and chose a curious side consisting of four batsmen, a keeper, three all-rounders and three seamers. Actually this was a sensible choice. Washington, Jaddu and Reddy are a more reliable source of runs than many of their alleged batsmen.

The pre-lunch session was a revelation. Despite the furnace-like conditions an enormous crowd had foregathered, and behold! they were indeed entertained. Australia for once won the toss and decided to bat. You should generally bat first, and the weather would have persuaded Captain Pat that to field would be madness. The Boy Wonder took guard from Bumrah and was beaten four times in the opening over. Do not allow anyone to tell you India bowled badly before lunch. They bowled as well as ever they have. After six overs Australia‘s openers were clinging to the crease. The ball was seaming everywhere and it looked like only a matter of time.

The seventh over of the innings will doubtless be installed in You-Tube heaven. Not least of the wonders was that Konstas had already tried twice to ramp Bumrah and failed horribly. Yet he persisted. He took 14 off Bumrah’s fourth over, and 18 off his sixth. His ramps and reverse ramps were as audacious as anything seen in a long age. Fortuna fortes adjuvat? Well, yes, but there is much more to it than that. Young Sam reasoned that to stand your ground and be shot at by the greatest of all current bowlers would be suicide. So I am going to ramp him. And the others. I will march out of my crease and smack them all. Was he lucky? Of course he was. But it was a bold gamble: well-reasoned, and successful.

So successful that he was shirtfronted by Kohli, who really ought to have known better. Konstas hosed the matter down, and deserves full marks for diplomacy. Knowing when not to pour petrol on a spot-fire is but one of the skills young cricketers must learn. His audacious innings was cut short by the belated introduction of Jaddu, who persuaded the Boy Wonder that he was turning the ball when he wasn’t. Lbw for 60 off 65 is not a bad introduction to Test cricket. His opening onslaught gave the home side several priceless advantages. It took all the pressure off Khawaja, who quietly accumulated at the other end. And by the time he was out it meant that Australia had the whip-hand, and intended to keep it.

After lunch nothing much happened except that the fielding side flagged and drooped in the baking heat. That was fine with Usman and Marnus. Khawaja was eventually out to a mistimed pull for a fine 57. It was a geographical distance from Bumrah’s best deliveries, but if anyone deserved a bit of luck it is the tireless Jasprit. Thereafter Labuschagne and Smith played quietly until tea, taken with the home side 2/176. They had neither intention nor incentive to take any risks. The longer we keep them out there, the more weary and dispirited they will get. The proof of which would come in the evening.

The first hour after tea was all India. The scribes had suggested that it would be spin all the way on a baking afternoon in the pizza oven. While Rohit Sharma has hardly distinguished himself this series he knew enough to throw the ball to Bumrah. Who else? And once more he did not let him down. First Washington induced a false shot from Labuschagne, who gave his hand away at 72. Bumrah bowled Head for a duck; and India, so tormented by the left-hander this series, breathed a huge sigh of relief. Head left alone a wicked leg-cutter. As he shouldered arms his moustache might well have crumbled from his incredulous upper lip. Predictably, Marsh whacked a boundary and then edged to slip.

With the home side tottering at 5/246 Bumrah had three of them. No words can express adequately how brilliant a spell this had been. With an ounce of luck Australia would be all out by now. Not since Dennis Lillee has a team been so reliant on a lion-hearted paceman. But by drinks even he was forced from the field with what appeared to be a calf strain. He could do no more, and no-one could have done as much.  And there was Smudger, patiently accumulating runs, and grateful to be given an old ball wherewith to play himself in. Realising that the old ball needed to be punished, he whacked a couple of cow corner sixes from outside off. And Carey was Carey, quietly patting the ball here and there as though sweeping leaves from his front lawn. The home dressing room breathed a little easier. But no more wickets must go down tonight.

At 5.35pm the new ball was due. And Bumrah reappeared. Alas, he was a spent force by now. Anyone would have been in such weather, and after such a workload. Carey helped himself to seven runs from his over. But it was the persevering Akash Deep who removed Carey with an away-cutter which lifted alarmingly. Deep is a product of hardscrabble Bihar who worked his way into a cricket career in Kolkata. He has earned his place and gives everything to his side. It was he who strolled out at No.11 to save the follow-on in Brisbane, and made light work of it. He has bowled brilliantly without a scintilla of luck and finally got some just reward. Carey’s 31 was however a crucial innings, steering the home side into calm waters. Cummins took most of the remaining strike, for which Smith must have been grateful.

With 6/311 Australia is ahead of the game. For once the top four all made fifties. None has gone on with it, which has caused comment. But there: you’re never really in at the G. Smith loves batting here because he knows that. His battle computers never switch off. His unbeaten 68 holds the key to further progress. But the day belonged to Konstas. Urged by his captain to play as if it were backyard cricket, he did just that, and turned the tide in an hour of fury. Only 86 overs in six and a half hours? For once there was excuse of a sort. It was horribly hot; and several batsmen were recipients of Ted Wainwright’s advice to the young Neville Cardus: ‘It ‘im in t’cobbles! A moment’s respite is owed to the victims. More tomorrow.