When I come to the Test match at the MCG each year it’s almost always to Day 3. I’ll happily allege that that is when the game is frequently at its most interesting, there’s often a chance to see part of each team’s innings, the foundation of the game has usually been laid, the final result is usually not clear. Much in prospect.
This year I decided for the first time to add in a Dining Room booking, something usually done during footy season, never before for the cricket. In making the booking I took a stab at 8, filled the table after confirmation and had assembled my son’s future in-laws and an assortment of Delahuntys, our Wimmera mates dating back to Uni days.The day was to proceed a bit differently to the footy where lunch is normally done by the first bounce. At the cricket, we’re seated after the start of play and lunch is served through the first session with plenty of screens to keep an eye on things out in the middle. In this case the saving grace for a slow, slow day of cricket was the lunch. A good table with plenty of ‘wisdom’ and laughs exchanged, punctuated by deep sighs as another hapless Australian batter made the sad march to the sheds accompanied by the enthusiastic cacophony supplied by the Swami Army seated on Level 1 just below us.
Two and a bit an over had been the pace through the two days of Indian batting and the Australians repeated this tempo but altered the story by going out much more regularly. Perth now looked like a false dawn with a touch of unearned hubris thrown in.
Still, lunch was fun and we found our way to our seats for the afternoon session. The slow play in the morning was the norm now and our best scorers managed 20s in the time normally taken for 50s. A boundary every half hour or so brought cheers from those hardy souls still watching and as we headed inside for the sandwiches and scones Australia was all but done and still a long ways adrift of India’s score. Over arvo tea plans were being hatched for future gatherings, the timing of the trip to the coast was being discussed and the hardiest of our number (the future in-laws) ventured out to watch the dispatch of the Aussies.
We joined them with an hour of play to go, the Australian innings having fallen 90-something short of the follow on target which had turned out to be a very modest ambition at the start of play. Kohli had, in the fashion of the times, decided not to enforce the follow on. The consensus was that he’d grind the Aussie bowlers for another couple of sessions, set us 500 and wrap it up by lunchtime Sunday. No dissenting view could be found for this theory.
Pat Cummins had other ideas. After more of not much from Starc and Hazlewood (it has to be said that this is a pattern well set recently) the ball was tossed to Cummins to run in from the Members’ end. There was about an hour to play. Our plan had been to sit with the stayers for a few overs, say our goodbyes and head for the train. But then, a wicket. Hold on. In comes Pujara. A quick one off a cramping length to middle and leg, turned to … Harris behind square. A low diving catch. The rock made a duck. Wow! In comes the king. Bay 13 howls. The Army cheers. Cummins again. Same method, same result. A duck for Virat. Then another wicket. Cummins has 4-3, India are 4-44. We’re awake, forward in the seats, we’ll get the train later.
At stumps India is 5-54 after Hazlewood gets one. The overall deficit is 346. Surely, surely we can’t win from here. Can we?
Trevor Blainey makes films (Noise, Cut Snake), barracks for Essendon, is absorbed by (Test) cricket and loves lunch with family and friends (especially in the MCC Dining Room).