“It doesn’t look like Australia will be batting today, I’m afraid.”
Once I reached my seat in the 500s on Saturday morning, I was greeted with this unfortunate news by an older English gentleman wearing a Gray-Nicolls wide brim. I could not tell you his name. I am not sure we introduced ourselves. We both knew the drill. We were viewing partners for a single day and would never see each other again.
With a few overs left before lunch, England were 1 for 52 and looking comfortable. Our jubilant Englishman informed me about the difference in leg room between domestic and international flights. He delivered statistics from his 1982 tour with a team of English lawyers, who played 16 matches, won 9, lost 5 and drew 2. They had played the South Australian Police Force, who fielded three district fast bowlers. “And I opened the batting,” he added.
He told me Duckett was looking dangerous, with the best middle order in the world still to come. The Australian crowd was as subdued as the baggy greens in the field. England were singing.
Such is the steepness of Perth Stadium that the view from level 5, behind the pitch at an angle, felt impressively close to the middle. Or perhaps it was Scott Boland, bounding in from the opposite end, who made the ground feel smaller than it was. His mountainous frame, thunderous run up and the way he slammed the ball into the pitch was terrifying, even from my lofty position. He pulled me into the world of the batsmen.
Boland struck Duckett on the elbow off a good length. Physios ran onto the field. Clouds drifted over as the Aussies grouped together and took on water. The crowd hummed softly.
“When I was your age, I was scoring hundreds,” old mate told my nine-year-old when lunch came and kids played mini matches on the field.
I was not irritated by him. He had suffered through 15 years of disappointing cricket in Australia. His elbow nudged me to emphasise every positive comment he made about the play. Given we were strangers, I was flattered that he assumed I would take it well. He was bathing in long overdue smugness. He, who grew up playing in the 1960s, had no chance of resisting this euphoric nostalgia for English cricketing superiority. This end to his delayed gratification must have been intoxicating. Annalise and I were quietly happy for him. He was also patient with our overstimulated four-year-old. An elder statesman in a good mood is contagious.
Boland continued after lunch. I winced as he pounded the ball into the pitch, firing at Duckett’s ribs and gloves. Perhaps it does not translate well on television, the fear a world class batsman can show when facing a spell threatening both wicket and body. As the best middle order in the world came and went, that was what struck me most: their fear of Boland. Very little footwork towards the Kookaburra. To my untrained eye, they were subtly moving away from the line of attack. They were in survival mode, and there was no shame in that.
Our English companion was unconvinced. After the third dismissal from another loose drive, he stood up and declared, “I can’t watch them throw it away again,” and disappeared for a few overs to have a smoke.
I could not comprehend how a batsman was expected to survive in this environment. It seemed likely they would be out as soon as they arrived. The pressure was too much for one person to bear. Like the MCG and the Gabba, Perth Stadium is not a cricket ground, not in the traditional sense. It is a cauldron. The Australian crowd is so relaxed compared to English supporters that you could assume we are not intimidating. Yet on Saturday, our roar when it mattered was enormous. Perth Stadium traps sound. The atmosphere poured down on each new batter. Most unsettling must have been the surprise when a wicket did not fall: “Ooooooooo…” Forty five thousand of us have seen Australian attacks tear a match apart in minutes. I grew up at the SCG, where noise built to maximum once a day. I have never heard a fever pitch like Perth during this collapse. World class batsmen know it is possible to survive that. I do not.
Root was fascinating to watch as Pope and Brook fell before him. He ignored them as they walked off, prodding the pitch with his bat, keeping to his own rhythm. A wise response to chaos. Stay in your bubble. Business as usual. But nerves are contagious. And so, it turns out, are dumb cricket shots. It is the classic “don’t think of an elephant”. I wonder if the sight of two teammates self destructing with loose drives had etched itself into his mind before he produced his own replica. It is hard to explain why England’s greatest modern batsman played such a stroke against Starc’s in swinging delivery at that moment.
When Starc squared up Stokes with a clever variation of his first innings dismissal, the captain’s response was intriguing. He walked to his partner Smith, tapped gloves and offered encouragement before departing. As captain, he has the right to give advice. Yes, he fell to a great ball, but I felt he should have been more surprised to be out so quickly. His cool reaction gave off an air of inevitability.
Australia went to the short ball, which reanimated our English observer. Neither of us rated the tactic. The extra bounce seemed likely to bring top edges over the short straight boundaries, and so it proved. I could have sworn Boland was at long stop at one point. That felt extreme. Why abandon a length that was unplayable? Lyon was hurt. Starc looked tired. Boland had lost sting. Doggett delivered a neat short ball repeatedly and eventually found success, not without fraying nerves. When Archer slapped Green through cover and England reached a lead of 200, the Barmy Army roared again.
“I don’t think they’ll be chasing down the runs today,” old mate said with a grin.
That morning, I had been on the phone to a friend in Melbourne, discussing how conflicted I felt about my one precious day at the Ashes. If the script held, England would bat for most of the day and build a lead that history would consider match defining. Australia would face 20 overs at most, lose two or three wickets and aim for a fresh start on day 3. A longer match meant more ticket revenue and global interest. An England win would set up a compelling series.
We agreed that an Aussie boilover was possible and that witnessing it first-hand would be a dream. Given Bazball’s pace and the first day’s rapid wickets, Australia might be a chance to win that afternoon. Neither of us suggested Travis Head would open and belt 16 fours and four sixes in a session, leaving England looking like plane crash survivors on a desert island. But many ticket holders must have felt the same bubbling hope.
Unlike England’s middle order, Weatherald and Head arrived with purpose and confidence. They looked a natural pairing as they marched out. Clearly they had opened together. Professionally, Weatherald was in “fake it till you make it” mode. Head’s swagger was genuine. This Australian underdog larrikin genius was born to capitalise on this moment of English vulnerability, and he knew it.
Watching the replay that night, we heard Mark Waugh lament Archer’s opening spell. Slippery and accurate, yes, but compared with Boland and Starc he lacked presence. Tossing the ball to yourself and cruising in is fine if the delivery is at full pace. His speeds were well below average. What was he doing allowing Australia to settle? Was he restricted by instructions? Was he stiff? Tired? Sulking? It was hard to understand how he could bowl within himself after watching Starc and Boland tear in.
Head and Weatherald were calm early. They left well, stuck to their plan, got in. When Weatherald scored his first Test runs, the roar was delightfully loud. There was something very Australian about it. Like footy teammates running from everywhere to celebrate a mate’s first goal. Weatherald and Head had a laugh. Most intimidating was how happy they seemed.
Weatherald did himself justice before falling. Head found gaps for threes. Marnus was as polished as ever. Then Head did what Head does. Summer shenanigans ensued. Cups lifted 30 rows up. Security adding to the theatre. Cardboard cup holders floating overhead. Aussies revelling. Countless solemn poms. Our mate dropped his face into his hands each time Atkinson bounced a wide.
I felt some sympathy for Archer’s second spell. Yes, he let England down, but Stokes should have let him bowl his natural line and length earlier. He should have returned sooner. The match was gone by the time he came back. It was like benching Steph Curry in an NBA final for missing a defensive rotation. Not excusable, but what choice would Steve Kerr have? Stokes needed to let Archer get rolling.
When Head finally departed, the length of the applause created goosebumps. You could imagine him as a kid, playing hit and run with his grandfather, dreaming of a Test century.
In his post match interview with a seething Isha Guha, Stokes repeatedly praised Head’s innings. His Headingley heroics were greater, of course. No one doubts Stokes’ grit.
One of the few times I have questioned his greatness, though, was his playful waving of the ball after his five-wicket haul on day 1. It felt a touch indulgent for a captain. Or maybe it simply annoyed me. When Head dismantled Stokes’ second over on Saturday, it was clear he had cut England off, dare I say it, at the head. When he went to collect his hat from the umpire, I genuinely thought Stokes had done a choke symbol on himself. My mind was playing tricks. He was adjusting his chain. Regardless of his urgency in the field, his team slumped: depressed batsmen with little time at the crease, Bazballed out, and bowlers disillusioned by tactics that were neither effective nor enjoyable.
In England two years ago, when they were down 2–0, cameras zoomed in on the newly appointed captain constantly. He maintained his Dark Knight aura. On Saturday, his shine dulled. Like the new ball he ruined with short ball tactics, Stokes lost his sheen.
Unlike many in the Barmy Army who had seen enough, our elder statesman sat quietly once it was done. Now that my live attendance is over for the summer, I can only hope England play a better brand and provide a stronger contest in Brisbane and beyond, for both our sakes.
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