Long after the devastating news of Shane Warne’s passing had been confirmed on Friday, as various clips of his best work racked up their shares and teammates and opponents found the words to share their grief, it still did not feel real. An icon of cricket, a totem of world-class sport and a bastion of Australiana had died at the age of 52 of a suspected heart attack. And yet, as the news rides the waves back and forth in your mind, it is followed by the most flawed of denials. Shane Warne can’t die.
He can’t die because, well, what does cricket have left? It was there before him, but has not been the same since a cherubic figure made his debut in 1991. Warney was his own era, so much greater than the 708 and 293 wickets across 145 Tests and 194 one-day internationals. More than the commentator whose words, however ridiculous, resonated through every corridor and chamber. He was as much the man of here and now as there and then. The best leg spinner and unquestionably the greatest showman. That it will go on without him is unfathomable. The electricity has been cut off from the block, and darkness closes in.
