wash of layer upon layer of conversation, decorated usually with a male cackle.
The chatter is so permanent it’s as if it has been piped in through the walls, haunting the grounds when the
last person has left and still audible when the last light is turned out. That noise, diversifying in subtle yet
tell-tale margins, housed almost every type of Test cricket calling card known to mankind during this
dizzying, thrilling and strangely paradoxical five days in St. Johns Wood.
On Ruth Strauss Foundation day, giving the cricket itself an air of genuine insignificance for a moment, the
noise, in the aftermath of wash outs and imminence of more, was one loaded, in truth, with not much more
than Ashes ennui; a collective cricketing fatigue. Presented with a Test unlikely to find any kind of
conclusion, a collection of voices, each absorbed in their own story, could be over heard pointing to the
seats they were sat in during the World Cup final, reminiscing like they might have left a part of themselves
there then too, but couldn’t specify anymore whether it was ten years or a month ago.
This is the issue when the cricket drifts at Lords. It’s really hard to focus on the game in front of you itself.
This is a place of preserved extravagances, like a museum that has by some quirk of tradition facilitated
couples to drink rose straight from bottles, one each, at 1pm. People genuinely pop champagne corks onto
the outfield here, which have to be constantly retrieved by Australian fielders. The Nursery ground, a space
resourcefully used for picnics and socialising during match days, was absolutely full beyond capacity for
much of the opening exchanges.
With the game being shown on a large screen with a slight delay, congregations milled about with it in the
periphery, only turning to look using cues from the sound in the ground, alerting them that something
might be worth watching. You begin to know the noises. Australian wicket. Misfield. Four. Six. Each has it’s
own specific noise and it triggers an odd game of audio intuition. Everyone turns to the screen to see the
boundary or wicket they know is coming but haven’t seen or have any proof of yet.
With the game poised in tantalising, if placid, balance on Saturday at 2.30pm, something shifted. Steve
Smith, as usual, very well set, was confronted by the only simultaneous debutant and all-time great in
English history, Jofra Archer. The noise inside Lords swelled in a striking shift in concentration. Those
banked out in apathetic anticipation of said inevitable draw were transported inside, almost out of morbid
fascination. Word had got around the playground that there was a fight happening and you had to see it.
Within minutes, the Nursery ground was empty. If you’re at Lords, that’s when you know what is
happening out in the middle is really, really worth watching.
The session, immediately folkloric in it’s cricketing lineage, produced some of the most high adrenaline,
terrifying sport you will ever see. A unified focus suddenly gripped the ground, all present in the moment,
all baying for blood. Maybe they could be momentarily forgiven. England haven’t possessed a genuine quick
like Archer capable of fear inducing trauma since a comparatively erratic Devon Malcolm over twenty years
ago.
Though being on the receiving end of many over the years, it’s easy to forget how much having your own
genuine fast bowler changes, well, everything. They once came in polyester shirts with holes cut out of their
big toes, chains rattling, with wild hair as they ran in. Nowadays they tend to come with ever-so-slightly
visible support sports bras, aerodynamic haircuts and sensitive dispositions.
Archer though has his very own brand of eerily laconic approach to the crease, disturbingly creating
unmanageable pace on top of a backdrop of genuine skill and consistency. Smith was hit on the arm then, in
a sickening twisting of the narrative knife, misjudged another short ball and was struck flush on the neck,
contorted helplessly in half-turn.