Kusal Mendis faced an awfully difficult conundrum as he set forth for the centre wicket. Kumara would Do His Best at the other end, but singles would have to be found towards the end of each over. Loose balls must be put away, but twos weren’t going to be easy with four men patrolling the legside boundary. As it happened Lyon made one lift spitefully into his bat. Thence it wafted to Smith at slip for his two hundredth, and likely simplest Test catch. Lyon thought he had the final wicket as well when the ever-alert Webster snaffled a low catch at second slip; but on review it turned out the catch was a half-volley. No blame attaches. Fielders don’t always know.

Lyon’s frustration was compounded with yet another Umpire’s Call decision on leg-before. Adrian Holdstock refused him three times this innings. Lyon kept his temper, but birthday cards are probably out of the question for Mr H. Finally Smith handed the ball to Webster, who tossed up a looping off-break at which Kumara swiped horribly and missed. As the ball flobbed into the stumps Beau may well have thought that this off-spin caper is pretty straightforward, is it not? Or he may not. Lyon gave Kusal no chance to get down to him, fizzing the ball through in the mid-90s. It was the correct strategy and it paid off. But to rank tailenders a bit of air is jolly useful. Sometimes they swipe, and miss.

Chasing 75 to win, Australia made short work of it. When Peiris defeated Head three times in a row with extravagant off-breaks the moustachioed marvel whacked the next one to the boundary. Head went for a run-a-ball twenty-odd again, caught behind off the persevering Jayasuriya, but he had his team well on the way. Khawaja and Labuschagne finished the game: the latter looking in his best form for quite some time. Karunaratne was given the last over, as a farewell to Test matches. Heaven only knows when these teams will play each other again. Such matters are in the all-powerful hands of the ICC. Or possibly the BCCI. But this was a fine series. Australia won because when their batsmen really got in, they stayed in and made centuries. The home side didn’t.

Henceforth there is something called The Champions’ Trophy, whatever that means. It appears to be a sort of Clayton’s World Cup, but without the minnows. Australia will be there, but minus some players who need a rest. We would like win it, of course; but we won’t grieve unduly if we don’t.

Galle, Day 3

De Silva took the new ball immediately, and ignoring his sole seamer handed it to Peiris and Jayasuriya. Immediately batting looked a great deal harder, like the ball itself, which turned somersaults and played hide-and-seek with the bewildered batsmen. First Smith fell to Jayasuriya, edging behind to Kusal. Not that Smith did anything wrong. If you play for the spin hereabouts, the straight one will make a fool of you. The ball pitched on off-stump, requiring a stroke, and took a thin outside edge. Then poor Inglis, who had watched the partnership of 259 from the dressing room, survived just two deliveries. Trapped in front, he was saved by a thin edge. The next ball skidded on and took the stumps via an inside edge. You had to feel for the man. Perchance his injured back needs more rest anyway.

Thereafter it became a grim struggle, with both bowlers well on top. Eventually Carey, who had struggled this morning, went for his trademark sweep and for once missed it. Jayasuriya had his third for the morning and fourth for the match. Webster was joined by the debutant Connolly with the visitors suddenly 6/376 and well short of where they wanted to be. Carey (156) and Smith (131) had made it appear yesterday that they were batting on a different pitch, on a distant but friendly planet. Connolly’s first delivery from Peiris was everyone’s worst batting nightmare. It drifted in to him, leapt off the pitch like an over-excited Jack Russell and just missed the outside edge.

His fifth delivery from Jayasuriya he swept in the air to deep backward square. Unfortunately the fieldsman was a long way in from the fence and watched it sail over his head. Encouraged by this good fortune he essayed a wild slog against Peiris and sliced it to backward point. Audacity looks good when it comes off. This misadventure did not show the young man to best advantage, to say no more. Meanwhile Webster leaned on his bat at the other end and wished for someone to stay with him. He had by this point made a useful 19, using his enormous reach to smother the spin. His heart must have spun into overdrive when Starc edged his second ball straight to short leg. Nissanka clutched at it like a drowning man reaching for a lifebelt, and muffed it.

De Silva then burnt Sri Lanka’s last review on a hopelessly optimistic shout, and next ball Webster was struck on the pad again and given out. He reviewed immediately and was duly reprieved. It must be said of Joel Wilson that he has not had a good match in the white jacket. To be fair to the man, umpiring is jolly difficult when the ball is turning this much. The tail did their best, but were undone by prodigious spin: none more so than Webster, whose excellent 31 was cut short by a gigantic off-break from Ramesh Mendis which was aimed at silly point and hit the leg stump. The innings ended at 414 on the stroke of lunch, with the home side 157 behind and up against a dark and forbidding wall.

At first all went well for the visitors. Kuhnemann and Lyon reduced Sri Lanka to 3/39, including the vital wicket of Chandimal. Yet Angelo Mathews, who had been largely a spectator in the series, now took a hand. He is a super-veteran now, with over 8000 Test runs to his credit. I will make these Aussies sweat, he vowed, and did. There were useful stands with Kamindu and de Silva, but it took the arrival of the redoubtable Kusal to find somebody to stick with him. The pair put on 70 until Webster used his Inspector Gadget arms to haul in a lofted sweep. Mathews walked off, although he might have stood his ground and asked for a review; since Webster’s overenthusiastic chuck-away had been performed in mid-roll. Steve Waugh memorably did it. Mathews scorned to do any such thing. His 76 had been an innings of class, well worthy of his exalted repute.

Thereafter the tail began to crumble. Lyon and Kuhnemann did most of the bowling, and shared seven wickets between them. Webster’s off-breaks disposed of Ramesh in his opening over. Is there nothing the man cannot do? His first Test wicket came from bowling medium-fast. His second came from a looping off-spinner which bounced – it helps if you’re the height of Goliath of Gath – and Ramesh spooned it meekly to Head. Kuhnemann spun one past Jayasuriya, and by stumps the home side is eight wickets down and a mere 54 ahead. And yet. Kusal is still batting, on 48, to add to his unbeaten 85 in the first innings. He has two men left to partner him, neither with any batting pedigree. You would find few takers for a home victory at odds of less than 50 to 1. But it had been a fine day’s cricket from Sri Lanka. They began the day pretty much nowhere and clawed their way back into the match, if only by the merest thread.

Day 2: Galle

All eyes were on the pitch when play began. It still looked the same as yesterday, resembling a patchwork quilt of baked mud. Would the fun and games begin? If so, when? Starc was not called upon, as Smith opted for Lyon and Kuhnemann. But the day began well for the home side. Kusal Mendis farmed the strike expertly while Lahiru Kumara defended with the most somnolent of bats. When there was something to hit, Mendis hit it. The score mounted past 250. Mendis turned down a great many singles; but his eventual decision to offer his doughty partner three balls an over shipwrecked as Kuhnemann took the edge of the fast bowler’s bat, and Webster did the rest at second slip. Still, 257 didn’t seem a bad score under the circumstances. Kusal’s unbeaten 85 was an innings of the highest quality. He could have done with more help from his team-mates.

Head began by joyfully hopping into Kumara, whose opening two overs cost 17. But Peiris, whose off-breaks had gone unrewarded in the last game, took the edge of Head’s bat after the latter had run down the pitch as if attempting to catch the last train home. Caught at slip for a run-a-ball 21 was less than the visitors had hoped for. Then Labuschagne found himself trapped on the back foot by Jayasuriya’s arm-ball. The umpire gave it not out, but de Silva’s review was upheld. At 2/37 the ground was shifting beneath the visitors’ feet. Khawaja and Smith steadied the innings until Peiris trapped Khawaja in front; and at 3/91 there was still plenty of work to do. But the tropical sun is a fickle beast. Carey was sent in next, since Inglis had a strained fetlock of some description; and also because the Australian keeper is a left-hander. And that was all she wrote for the perspiring attack. By stumps both men were well past a hundred, and at 3/330 Australia is back in the familiar position of dominating the match.

How on earth was this possible? Anyone offering odds on an unbeaten stand of 239 would have struggled to find takers at 50/1. Some deliveries took off like mortar shells. Unplayable spinners appeared and disappeared like Black Dog in Treasure Island. And yet Smith and Carey brushed aside the occasional stick of dynamite lobbed their way and batted all the rest of the day without, it would seem, a care in the world. The sun’s shining; we’re having fun doing our favourite thing; why on earth should we be worried? Smith cover-drove, he glanced, he even reverse-swept. When he was given out to Peiris he at once reviewed, and the third umpire decided in his favour. It is his fourth century in his last five games. The time his career looked over now seems to belong to a different slice of history in the Trousers Of Time.

Carey? He swept more often than Jo the Crossing Sweeper from Bleak House. At times he drove as well; but mostly he swept. It is his favourite stroke, after all. And Sri Lanka could not contain him. Arguably they bowled too slowly: around 5 ks per hour slower than Lyon and Kuhnemann. On a docile wicket you need to make the ball bite and spin; and you should aim where possible not to give the batsman time to advance down the pitch and club you into oblivion. Carey’s unbeaten 139 has come at close to a run a ball. Half of it came in boundaries. The remainder came from his constant rotation of the strike with his gleeful skipper. Sri Lanka are not out of the game yet. But they are facing an all too familiar abyss. Two more sessions of batting from Australia and it will doubtless be another heavy defeat. Dimuth Karunaratne deserves better in his hundredth and final Test. Perchance his team-mates may yet rise to the occasion.

Day 1, Galle

The two captains stared dubiously at the strip of greyish-brown rammed earth set in the midst of a sea of emerald green and mused. Not about what to do: you always bat first here. But what sleeping demons lurked beneath the surface? Would it turn square from the first over? Probably not, but a closer inspection revealed a jigsaw puzzle of crazy paving. The home side wanted more turn this time round, and it appeared they were going to get it. They included Nissanka, whose absence from the first game was mysterious; Lahiru Kumara came in for Fernando as the sole quick; and Ramesh Mendis was included in place of Vandersay: a curious decision indeed.

For Australia, Murphy was omitted in favour of Connolly. The role of third spinner is not one of paramount importance in the scheme of things; and Australia decided the lad was worth a go to strengthen the batting. To his inexpressible relief de Silva won the toss and sent his men out to bat. Nissanka was fortunate to survive Kuhnemann’s opening over. Umpire’s call is always frustrating for whoever raises the appeal; but the visitors did not have to wait long. Lyon came on for the eighth over and bowled Nissanka around his legs. Already it was apparent that the pitch wasn’t spinning much as yet. It was more a defeat in flight. Or perchance merely a wildly optimistic swipe.

Thereafter Chandimal and the Karunaratne prospered until lunch, taken at 1/87. Thereafter the innings subsided. In his final Test match Karunaratne edged Lyon’s arm-ball into his leg stump and departed in regret. On this pitch variations are vital; but the deadliest delivery is the one which goes straight on. Many of Rangana Herath’s four hundred-odd wickets were thus achieved. Lyon and Kuhnemann then tied Mathews in knots, and the grizzled veteran chased a wide one and edged to Carey, having made one run of 26 deliveries. With figures of 3/27 this was Lyon’s last wicket for the day; but his early incisions were crucial, and blazed a path for the other bowlers.

After Chandimal completed his fifty Smith decreed that Head should join in the party. Two boundaries and a single of his opening over? No problem. The last ball Kamindu edged to Smith at slip. Much was spoken of Head’s golden arm, although the traditional gilding generally refers to organs further down the body. Head was overjoyed, as well he might be. At once Smith recalled Starc, who despatched de Silva with a wide away-swinger pouched in the gully by Webster. Chandimal’s feelings can be well imagined. Here we are, batting first, and half the side is out for nothing much.

Chandimal’s personal luck ran out shortly afterwards. He survived a difficult dropped chance from Head, and was shaken up by Starc’s searing pace. Finally Kuhnemann induced him out of his crease and Carey whipped the bails off. He walked off, far from gruntled. He has not failed yet in the series; but where is the support? Fortunately for the home side Kusal Mendis defied everything which came his way, and finished the day with a courageous 59 not out. Ramesh (the third Mendis to stride to the crease) stayed with him long enough to raise the two hundred. But with the new ball came the return of Starc the assassin. He caught Ramesh on the crease and nicked behind; while Jayasuriya was similarly caught next ball. Kuhnemann picked up Peiris expecting more turn than there was, and by stumps Sri Lanka had hung on to reach 9/229.

They have reason to lament a want of discipline in their batting, aside from Chandimal and Kusal. With the big advantage of the toss thrown away, they will want to bowl well tomorrow to stay in the game. And Smith, as he trudged off the field at day’s end, looked like the cat that had not only pinched the cream, but poached the smoked salmon from the fridge and persuaded the householders to open a tin of caviar. Everything he tried worked out, despite his limited bowling attack. Vindication for him, and the inscrutable coach, yet again.

Australia began the day on the tenderest of tenterhooks. Mooney (resuming on 98) played her first over as though batting with a stick of celery until the final ball, when she managed a square cut for the two runs and a much-admired century. But thereafter the home side seemed to be here for a beach outing rather than a cricket match. Perhaps they had decided not to grind England remorselessly into the dust. Feet did not move, bats were flailed optimistically somewhere near the line of flight, and the innings collapsed. Even Perry, who came out unfashionably late at number ten, off-drove Ecclestone for a beautiful two and then hit a return catch straight after. Still, all out 440 was a comfortable place to be.

Sophie Ecclestone had every right to be exhausted after her debilitating day yesterday. Sensing that Australia were a little off their game she gave the ball more flight, and the home side obliged by gifting her three consolation wickets. Filer got the other two as belated reward, and only fell over in her delivery stride once. We do not know why she does this, but some extra studs in her boots would be a wise investment. Ecclestone seemed too exhausted to raise the ball in the McGrath fashion, but was eventually persuaded thus by her teammates. 5/146 was a fair reward for her backbreaking toil.

Party time suddenly over, England went out to try to save the game, victory being out of the question. But Australia’s collapse had left abundant time. Could they at least bat until stumps? Alas, they could not. Maia Bouchier is a fine attacking batsman, but facing up with her bat held aloft like a lightning conductor was asking for trouble in a Test match. You don’t do that to Darcie Brown, and a roaring off-cutter removed her middle stump. Knight and Beaumont then settled in for a partnership of 73, mostly against the three seamers. They showed class, especially Beaumont’s 47. Healy meanwhile waited forty minutes into the afternoon session before unleashing the long-expected Nemesis.

From there until dinner was a masterclass in what women’s cricket has become. Gardner was merely excellent. King was sublime. Her second delivery aimed at the pads and missed off-stump. But it was Gardner who struck first with a beautifully flighted off-break which turned off Knight’s edge to the gleeful hands of Litchfield at short leg. King’s second ball to Sciver-Brunt took a leading edge and lobbed tantalisingly just out of reach of silly point. The veteran batsman took due heed and went after the leg-spinner, realising that this was the best method of defending against King’s spitting fireballs. But King won the battle, trapping Sciver-Brunt in front for 18 off 17.

Dunkley then straight-drove King for a boundary and was bowled straight after. One has mentioned the Warne delivery before. This would have the great man clapping his mighty hands together and grinning from ear to celestial ear. A flighted ball which swings in towards the pads, drops suddenly, spins sharply and takes the stumps is the wonder-ball leg-spinners dream about. When it comes off it is opera in motion. This was no fluke. She’s done it before, many a time. Then Gardner induced a lofted sweep from Wyatt-Hodge straight to backward square; and Beaumont’s long defiance ended with a chop-on from King. On the last ball before dinner, Jones edged behind to Gardner’s arm-ball. In not much more than an hour, King and Gardner had prised out six wickets, bowling unchanged to predatory close-in fields, to quality batsmen who did not throw their hands away. And this is not some sub-continental dustbowl. The pitch was still true. Yes, it took spin and a degree of quite even bounce. But the sharp turn was only there because the bowlers put it there.

After dinner the rest was, if not silence, at least anticlimactic. McDonald-Gay hung in despite being repeatedly beaten, and only succumbed when King bowled her a rank full-toss. The debutant was presumably so shocked by this uncharacteristic lapse that she hit it straight to cow corner and walked off disconsolate. After 49 resolute deliveries Ecclestone suffered a rush to the brain and skied the fiftieth to the jubilant King. The twin Laurens adhered for another eleven overs before Filer hit a catch to Sutherland and all was over. The spin twins had nine wickets between them; England were massively defeated, and the crowd and players rejoiced.

English cricket has some soul-searching to do. The coach (Jon Lewis, formerly of Gloucestershire and occasionally England) had some harsh words to say about the seven-nil whitewash in this series. It wasn’t that England were especially bad. But they are no longer a match for a rampant Australia, at least on these shores. Perhaps the time has come for a female coach. It’s worth considering.

Two venues, eerily matching results, and the coining of a new phrase, courtesy of cricinfo.com. Aussie Thumb: a condition brought on by constant changes of channel from Melbourne to Galle and back again. To Galle first, since there is less to be said of it. Kuhnemann and Lyon swept away the tail in short order, the home side barely giving a yelp this morning. First Kusal went for an optimistic swipe from Kuhnemann and holed out to Murphy at mid-wicket three-quarter. Chandimal at least had the excuse that Lyon trapped him in front with one of his specials from round the wicket. No air to speak of: just a fiercely spun off-break which roared back into his pads.

He and Kuhnemann appear to spin the ball harder than the local purveyors. Perhaps this is because Australian spinners know they will be massacred on our harder tracks unless they give the ball a ferocious tweak. The last four batted as though they wished they were somewhere else, like Colombo, or Kandy. They have little pretension to batting ability, and failed to live up even to that modest billing. To see them surrounded by a ring of anything up to nine fielders was like watching a village side playing against a World XI. Kuhnemann took five; Lyon three; and Starc did not have to exert himself in the fierce heat. But he would take figures of 8/1/13/2 any day of the week.

Refreshed after his restrained morning, he celebrated Smith’s decision to enforce the follow-on by crashing one of his trademarked specials into Fernando’s pads. The man looked so surprised that he wasted a review on it. Starc’s grin might as well have said Welcome to my world. Chandimal’s mien as he went out to bat again resembled the frown of an undertaker whose patient has risen from the slab and demanded a refund. Then Murphy, who had barely bowled and was not needed with the bat, was sportingly given the new ball. Karunaratne then so far forgot himself as to leave Murphy’s arm-ball which fizzed into his stumps.

Chandimal and Mathews made a stand of seventy-odd without too many alarums, although at one point a nick behind was expertly kicked up by Carey’s foot to Webster at second slip, who took a diving catch. It looked out, but on review it was found Carey had kicked it up on the half-volley. So no wicket, but 9/10 for choreography. We wonder if this was a practised set-play. Then Lyon removed both; Kamindu Mendis played a T20 innings of 32 off 26 before falling to Kuhnemann; and the last pair of any note: de Silva and Kusal Mendis then made a fine stand of 65 before falling to Kuhnemann and Lyon.

It is easy to be critical of Test batsmen who get out in the thirties and forties. But really: against high-class spinners on an untrustworthy deck, you cannot simply stay put and wait for the unplayable ball. You must assert yourself, and both did; although Kusal deserves blame for charging down to Lyon’s arm-ball and finding himself up the creek without a paddle. At 7/187 the end appeared imminent. But Jeffrey Vandersay had other ideas, and managed to top-score with a belligerent 53, including a pair of sixes. At the very least he has earned a promotion to No.8.

Nevertheless it was a crushing defeat at their favourite venue, and all hearts in Noble Island will be downcast at this dreadful performance. Were they so very bad, or was Australia merely surpassingly good? The margin of victory (an innings and 242 runs) would suggest possibly both. Kuhnemann and Lyon shared the spoils with four wickets each; but Murphy was severely mauled, unable to settle on a consistent line and length. He is young and will learn. Starc enjoyed himself with a pleasant day out (5/1/14/1) and will be looking forward to next weekend. And Sri Lanka will be praying that they win the toss and give themselves a chance.

Australia began as they had left off overnight, and you felt that only rain could prevent an embarrassing capitulation from Sri Lanka. Rain did indeed come early, and stayed late. Not much play was possible, but enough for Starc to pick up Kamindu Mendis with an unfortunate leg-side strangle, and for the captain de Silva to chase a wider ball from Kuhnemann. If he had missed it by any more he might have been batting on an adjoining oval. It was a terrible stroke, unbecoming of his position as captain. Carey had time to grow a beard and possibly raise a family between taking the ball and lifting the bails.

Being captain of Sri Lanka is not an office for which there is much clamour. Nobody seems to want it very much, and one can see why. The dread spectre of politics, and a suspicion of poisoned chalices, seems to hang over the job. It is likely that de Silva was at best a reluctant draftee. One of the former captains is Dinesh Chandimal, a cricketer of considerable substance. While wickets tumbled about him he kept his head admirably, only attempting strokes with reasonable prospect of success. When the clouds intervened he had reached 60, and seemed somewhat happier at having acquired a stalwart partner in the stumper Kusal Mendis. At 5/136 with two days remaining things might have been worse; but not to any great extent.

For Australia, they will probably not need to bat again. Their bowlers seemed a class above the home side’s. Starc found life and pace in this most somnolent of surfaces, and the spin trio varied their pace well, bowling on average somewhat quicker than did Jayasuriya and co. These pitches need bowlers prepared to make the ball hurry on and bite. All three looked threatening, which their counterparts only rarely achieved. The Australian batsmen used their feet superbly, as did Chandimal for the home side. Runs can be scored here. The weather has postponed the pitch’s expected disintegration, and with more rain expected the home side might possibly escape with a draw. But Australia has done very little wrong, and should feel well-pleased with their exertions.

Back in Melbourne one made a leisurely journey to the ground via Jolimont station and surveyed the pleasant view from the Members’. It was a perfect day, made yet more perfect by Australia’s resolute and sensible batting. Ellyse Perry, we were informed, would bat if needed, hampered as she is by a fielding injury. She would have loved to have been out there herself. Whatever demons might have lurked in the surface had evaporated by today, and Litchfield and Sutherland approached the bowling with all the enthusiasm of a ducal garden party setting about a luncheon buffet.

The twin Laurens (Filer and Bell) bowled with vigour and zest but without much artistry; and in the absence of Dean (or even Glenn) it was clear that Sophie Ecclestone was in for a long day of toil. There seemed a certain lack of zip in her bowling, as if she already feared the burdens of the day in advance. Yet she bowled well enough. She was unfortunate when Sophia Dunkley misjudged an outfield catch and missed it completely. Then she had Sutherland, of all people, dropped twice in quick succession. Later she trapped Healy in front, and still later had Gardner caught by Filer from a curious balloon stroke to short leg. Yet this was a meagre return for 39 overs of hard yakka. She herself dropped Mooney at slip from the promising McDonald-Gay: surely the shortest fast bowler in world cricket. Ecclestone is, by her record, the number one bowler in the world. Perhaps figures occasionally tell lies. On this same surface yesterday Alana King gave a masterclass in leg-spin bowling and England had no answers.

In Bell’s best spell of the day she repeatedly beat Litchfield’s flailing bat and had her caught behind for a sturdy 45. Which brought Healy to the crease. As she walked past down the player’s race one could not but notice how tiny is this feared destroyer of attacks. Tiny in body, yet fierce in spirit, verily. She and Sutherland set about the bowlers, rotating the strike constantly and ever on the alert for extra runs. By the time Healy departed the scores were level. Yet Sutherland and Mooney had not yet really begun. Despite the mild weather England wilted in the face of Sutherland’s onslaught. Mooney meanwhile fed her the strike with singles and watched the fireworks from the other end. Sutherland brought up her hundred with a forehand smash and basked in the applause of her home crowd. Including, naturally, Mum and Dad, and presumably also her brother. She comes from a notable sporting family, after all.

She did not stay her assault on England until she played onto her stumps from McDonald-Gay. She had made 163, with 21 fours and a six. Anyone now expecting Gardner to come out and smash would have been pleasantly surprised when she did nothing of the sort. Instead she allowed Mooney to open out, and supported her for a (by her furious standards) sedate 44. The day ended with Australia 5/422, with Mooney left hanging unbeaten on 98. She has never made a Test century. Fingers crossed for the morrow. Meanwhile England retired to lick their wounds, and the vast arena was left to the care of the ever-present seagulls. Crowds have been disappointingly sparse. Come tomorrow and see the finest cricket team in the world in their pomp.

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: