Ben Stokes walks to the wicket slowly. This is pretty much the only thing he does slowly these days. Harry Brook tries to say a few words to him as he arrives, but Stokes isn’t really listening. There’s a little poke and a nudge of the pitch, dust and debris swept away with a swish of his bat, a kind of purification ritual, like a sumo sanctifying the dohyo. He takes his time, makes us wait, makes us watch: a man who has long since made his peace with the gaze of others. This is his turf, his team, his time, and there is a certain theatrical flourish to the way he stretches out the moment for all it is worth.
There is a frisson around the ground, and of course there always was when Stokes walked in to bat, but ever since he became captain and began to mould this team in his image he has also batted with the expectation of leadership. With the knowledge that his teammates on the dressing‑room balcony are taking their cue from him, that an entire playing philosophy has been built around his approach. These days when Stokes bats we don’t simply demand to be entertained, but enlightened. We want him to set an example. We want him to blaze the righteous path to truth, ideally by smashing it as hard as possible as soon as possible.
