Proteas falter in early exchanges with bat & ball with Australia getting home in tense game to set up title showdown with India.
Eleven broken men walked scattered at the Eden Gardens; two joyous men leapt in delirium. This one shot, at the end of a nerve-battering semifinal between Australia and South Africa, captured the beauty and cruelty of the sport.
For South Africa, a dream lay broken in the crushed grass of the historic arena. The 11 tired men in dark green had their bodies drained and minds defeated. This was supposed to be the oasis, the jinx-breaker, the narrative-shifter, but the dream they had dreamt for six weeks now lay in tatters. Not far from them, two good friends in yellow were rushing towards their equally ecstatic teammates. In the Australian dug-out, a dream was revived, the old order was restored. In a knockout World Cup game, they would invariably prevail over South Africa, even if it’s by merely three wickets. It’s an unbendable truth of our times.
It was a game scripted in the past, like an old director, running out of ideas mishmash-ing his old narratives, just replacing the old actors with new ones, forcing a tweak or two, but around the thread built over the old narrative arcs. All the slapstick confusion and unusual dilemmas, all the melodrama and pathos, all the laughter and tears. In the end, the cold reality was that Australia did Australia things, and South Africa did South Africa things. The country would forgive the defeat, unlike the tie in 1999, but it would not be forgotten.
This would hurt them, perhaps not haunt them as much. A regret but not a scar. Eden Gardens was a toned-down version of Edgbaston, both in drama and quality.
The difference between both teams, then and now, was that Australia believed and South Africa merely hoped. Australia seized the moments, South Africa wished for moments. Like a callous anti-hero, hope lingered till the end for South Africa. Every time the game seemed to drift irreversibly from their grasp, a ray of hope arrived: Like when Aiden Markram disarrayed David Warner’s stumps to end a steaming opening stand of 60 runs in six overs. Like when Tabraiz Shamsi ripped out the wickets of Marnus Labuschagne and Glenn Maxwell and tore into a spontaneous sprint; or finally when Gerald Coetzee dismissed Steve Smith and then toe-crushed Josh Inglis.
Buoyed by hope, driven by a sense of destiny, they fought and hoped till the end. Every sinew was strained, every drop of sweat was dropped, every trick was tried, every path travelled. Yet, in the end, they stood defeated, deflated.
Australia, on the other hand, believed. Even when they lost Labuschagne and Maxwell in quick succession, or when Inglis departed, with Australia 21 runs adrift of the target, they did not panic, or resorted to something silly. Pat Cummins, composing yet another serene knock, and Mitchell Starc knew how to handle the situation.
