Opposite the Original Oak – the pub where many cricket fans pause for a nerve-settling pint on their way in to Headingley – stands St Michael and All Angels’ church. On Sunday its morning congregation were mostly locals, but the vicar had still prepared with cricket-lovers in mind, hiding the players’ names in his sermon. “God’s love is so Broad, the Root of our faith, it Stokes the fires …”
By mid-afternoon on Sunday, all 18,000 souls in the ground were in desperate need of fortification, be it from the Good Book or a stiff drink: only in the sporting arena do you get the chance to see so many people’s faith being simultaneously tested. The Sunday crowd, if not actually pious, were far less raucous than their predecessors, as the realisation of just how close England were to throwing away an entire Ashes series grew ever more horribly present.
Ben Stokes’s presence at the crease after lunch remained, for a while, a bulwark against despairing thoughts, and even with four wickets down and more than 100 runs still needed, the singing of Bon Jovi’s Livin’ on a Prayer in the stands felt a tad self-deprecating. If this Ashes series has taught us anything, it is that Stokes is a man who has never played his last “definitive” innings, and who is capable of producing miracles on an almost weekly basis.
But even Superman has his kryptonite. For Stokes it may be the ball’s inexplicable tendency to laser in on his box. Arguably Scott Boland’s greatest contribution to the drama of this match was the in-nipper that downed the England captain and left him recovering in child’s pose for so long that the physio felt moved to sprint on, unasked for.
It was at least the third time Stokes has been hit in the midriff in this series, which seems especially unfair on a guy who has plenty of other broken body parts to target. We can’t know exactly what was playing on his mind as he chased a Mitchell Starc delivery to the keeper three balls later, but we can know that some of him was probably still throbbing.
With Stokes gone, the icebergian reality of the scoreline and the consequences of defeat – both of which an ultra-positive England team prefer to minimise or ignore in public – glid into vision. Hope dwindled, and with it, belief. How big is a mustard seed anyway? Big enough to choke on when Chris Woakes waves airily at his opening delivery from Starc? Or to accidentally snort when he turns a short one off his hip past a leaping short leg?
We should have known it would come to this. A comfortable, sensible run chase? In this Ashes series? Not likely. And yet the day had begun so sedately. Zak Crawley took a single off the first ball of the morning. The field moved round. Ben Duckett dabbed one square. The field moved round. Three more singles, three more rotations, like one of those genteel Georgian-era dances where everyone passes their partner with a polite bow of the head and some risque eye contact.
If Bazball’s wilder excesses were for once missing from the batting, its underlying philosophy (and what some will call flaw) was still present. Wacky hitting was replaced by a collective passion for driving that would have shamed Lewis Hamilton. Crawley’s early efforts were languidly elegant but kept finding fielders and some of his best-looking shots were for nought. Adding a wristy flourish brought him a four, so he tried it again and edged behind.
Having failed to connect on his own initial efforts, Joe Root finally dropped down on one knee like a man so nervous about proposing that he just wants to get it over and done with; the ball shot away like a bolting bride. Root scored three boundaries in his 21 – that one, another like it, and an edge past second slip.
Perhaps the next Test at Old Trafford will begin a new crowd tradition – a rich Lancastrian lowing for Harry “Brooooook”. Back down the order, where he looked infinitely more comfortable, the anchor of England’s chase cracked balls through the covers with a deep runner’s lunge, weathering his own near-misses as much as the wickets falling at the other end. It wasn’t a chanceless innings but it was flexible and firm, which is what you need from glue. Help us, Harry, you’re our only hope.
Overlooking the pitch, the scoreboard took on the terrifying insistence of a nuclear countdown: 90 runs needed … 80… 70. Five wickets remaining … four … three. With Woakes in and 30 to win, Pat Cummins turned for only the second time to Todd Murphy, who promptly overstepped and a moment of comic relief rippled around the ground. We’ll get ’em in no-balls.
The closer England got, the more chaotic things began to happen, threatening the very fabric of everyone’s sanity. Starc and Cummins nearly left blood on the wicket as they hurtled towards each other for a return catch off Brook.
Mark Wood flayed a wild hook that seemed certain to be heading for one of two fielders on the legside boundary, then appeared almost to change trajectory in the air and fly over their heads for six.
It was the perfect way to keep this improbable, impossible series alive. The morning Bible reading, by the way, was from Zechariah. “Return to your stronghold, o prisoners of hope – today I declare that I will restore to you double.” England players and fans alike will go on to the fourth Test believing big.
