An hour before the Ashes began, spectators thronged outside the Hollies Stand. A man dressed as a banana walked by with a focused expression. Three butchers and a pig leaned against a fence lighting cigarettes. Elvis fumbled through his pockets for his ticket, as the Power Rangers walked purposefully towards the bar for an early settler.
The wait before the first Test is always stomach-churning, but this particular anticipation felt different. Everyone knew it, from the morning drinkers in fancy dress to the gently pinked men in shorts and Skechers; from the mustachioed Australians to the kids in floppy hats. England have recalibrated Test cricket’s dials since these teams last met, and so everyone had come ready to witness something – no one was quite sure exactly what, but it was definitely going to be something.
In many ways, Edgbaston is England’s spiritual Ashes home. Headingley may remember the greatest innings, Lord’s may call upon richer history, but Edgbaston carries its own anarchic edge that perfectly fits this rebellious new England. The Hollies embodies that spirit: a tall single tier that wraps along the southern boundary, creating a wall of noise and some bespoke chirp for whichever Australian fielder is stationed near – here it was usually Nathan Lyon, who was serenaded with “You’re just a s**t Moeen Ali!” for most of the afternoon.
As fans filed in, the first cheer of the day went up: a loudspeaker revealed Ben Stokes had won the toss and England would bat. The sun was already beating down on a flat wicket and if ever there was a day to exhibit Bazball batting in all its glory, against the ultimate opponent, this was surely it.
This Test match faced a yearning question: who would win when England’s disruptors came up against a complete Test side like Australia under the most extreme scrutiny cricket can offer? Bazball has passed various tests against South Africa, New Zealand and Pakistan. But could it stand up to the heat of an Ashes? And what would England do when their philosophy fails?
The initial answer was emphatic. Zak Crawley shouldered the burden of the first ball, something that has taken on its own mythology down the years and most recently saw Mitchell Starc brutally splatter the stumps of Rory Burns at the Gabba 18 months ago. Crawley stood up and stepped on to the ball, pumping Australian captain Pat Cummins through cover for four. Edgbaston let out a howl of appreciation.
There was some catharsis in that moment, a realisation that England might really be able to take the game to Australia and win. But the reality of what followed was less convincing: Australia’s defensive field nullified England’s usually high run rate, turning potential boundaries into singles. Cummins’ cautious setup played a role in knocking England out of their early rhythm and the wickets of Ben Duckett, Ollie Pope and Crawley gave Australia an edge at lunch.
For England, things quickly unravelled. Harry Brook and Ben Stokes fell in quick succession in the afternoon, and a shell-shocked Edgbaston fell eerily quiet. As Australia took drinks at 176-5, a giant family of Flintstones streamed for the exits to get much-needed refreshments.
But the evening session changed the complexion of the game and transformed the mood. Joe Root and Jonny Bairstow set about making hay with a 50-over ball on a flat pitch. They did it to refrains of “Please don’t take me home” and, as the evening sun drenched the Hollies Stand and the lungs loosened up, a hearty rendition of “You’re the convicts” towards a mostly amused corner of Australian yellow beside them.
The morning’s national anthems had been gently applauded by weary spectators still opening their eyes; the evening session was filled with volleys of chants like something from a football derby, mostly directed at the day’s pantomime villain, Lyon. And so when Moeen eventually came into bat, England fans had a hero too, who embraced his role with a cameo of shot-making, at one point guiding the ball over the square leg boundary for six with the gentlest flick.
This was what England fans had come to see. Most couldn’t see by this point, of course, because they’d been blinded by the sun, burnt to the point of delirium, and they were completely pissed. But finally they were revelling in this New England. Root reverse-scooped Scott Boland for six, then nonchalantly ramped Cummins over his shoulder for another. As the evening drew in, Root nudged a single off his hips to confirm his century and raised his bat to the sky.
Edgbaston roared, and “Joe Root” rang out to the tune of “Hey Jude”. Then they cheered some more: in the Hollies, the butchers had begun chasing the pig.
