A fourth-day stimulus package of ten wickets for 348 runs from 513 balls has recapitalised the Third Test at Edgbaston, but it will take a 98-over final day to determine if enough was done to remedy the damage rain inflicted on the first and third days. The sums still don’t quite add up to a result: England retain a 25-run lead; Australia have eight wickets in reserve. But at least the markedly improved weather forecast is for cricket to play a greater role than climate tomorrow.
The scenario might have been more serious for the visitors had Andrew Strauss late in the day posted a short leg for Michael Hussey, facing a king pair. But short leg, as we are reminded incessantly, is an old-fashioned position, and bowler Graham Onions’ scramble for the ballooning bat-pad chance fell just short. Australia, inches from 3 for 52 at that point, were 2 for 88 by the close with Hussey securely settled alongside Shane Watson. A useful lesson: following fashion can be expensive.
Commencing an hour late, today’s cricket was a mixture of standards, some very good, some wretched, and even a bit of what when Aussies indulge in it in these parts is called ‘sledging’ and when their rivals respond is referred to as ‘good-humoured byplay’. It would have pleased Shane Warne, who called this morning for a bit of ‘in your face’ from his countrymen; it brought rejoicings from the Barmy Army, who showed world-class stamina all the way to stumps at 7.30 p.m.
The day began with a fine display of stamina too. Bowling to a fuller length than on Friday, Hilfenhaus obtained decided swing, and duly ploughed a fourteen-over furrow at the City End. Strauss succumbed to a cramped cut after a quarter of an hour, and Australia had had the better of the abbreviated opening session when Collingwood played a careless drive on the stroke of lunch.
The Pavilion End proved a greater challenge to Ponting, Siddle beginning with a mix of histrionic appeals and far-flung short balls, one wide vanishing to fine leg for four, keeper Graham Manou watching it disappear helplessly, like a commuter who had just missed a bus. The answer proved to be Johnson, whose first spell of eight overs was a further improvement on his Friday improvement, marred only by a couple of no-balls and a stray delivery down the leg side which rebounded from Manou’s outstretched glove for a couple of byes.
Ian Bell reached his half-century and reduced England’s arrears to less than 100 with a neat leg glance for four, but he also lost momentum; off forty balls either side of this stroke, he managed only three scoring shots. As in the past, he seemed to lose touch with the game and slip into a kind of reverie of mannerisms—endless shadow strokeplay and Alec Stewart bat twirling. Although he had been in for two and a half hours, it wasn’t altogether surprising when he played around Johnson, ending another unfulfilled, unfulfilling innings.
Flintoff’s skirmish with Johnson pitted the Barmy Army’s old favourite against its recently adopted antipodean son, the former responding to the latter’s bouncers with some plain-spoken Lancastrian advice; Johnson cocked an ear, either feigning deafness or because he couldn’t make out the accent.
Alongside diminutive substitute Phil Hughes at short leg, Flintoff loomed even larger than usual—it looked a little like a scene from a school’s fathers and sons game. When Johnson and Hilfenhaus gave way to Watson and Siddle, the play took on that character too. Five fours in 17 balls spread good cheer through the terraces.
That Siddle’s second spell of seven overs cost 47 needs no elaboration. Selector Merv Hughes’s assertion that Watson was playing as a specialist batsman rather than as an all-rounder was also entirely corroborated: Watson approached the crease as though not quite sure what would eventuate, and it wasn’t worth waiting for. Four years ago, he was routinely clocking nearly 90 miles per hour; the gym has had the same effect on him as anger has on Bruce Banner, but has taken the edge right off his pace.
Prior again justified his number six slot with strokes that broke one bat and warmed up another, then squandered his start with a miscued pull. Flintoff, in an unusually discriminating mind, levelled the scores with a nonchalant six to cow corner off Hauritz, confirmed a lead with a sweep for four that also raised his fifty, and appeared unassailable until an off-break glanced his glove gently on the way to slip. His first score of significance since Mohali last year, 74, contained eleven boundaries, saving him the evident labour of running.
The XL afternoon session, extended half an hour to make up lost time, yielded England 157 runs from a rather tardy 32.1 overs, with the Barmy Army’s chants tracing England’s ascendancy from ‘If You’re One–Nil Up/Stand Up’, through ‘Can We Play You/Can We Play You/Can We Play You Every Week?’, to ‘Are You Scotland/Are You Scotland/Are You Scotland in Disguise?’
When Johnson’s twentieth over included 15 runs, the wicket of Swann to a slower ball from round the wicket and some salty interaction between the bowler, Swann and Broad, the chant of ‘We Love You Mitchell/We Do’ was struck up. It was tough love but may have done more good than harm. Johnson’s figures were as unflattering here as they were flattering in the first two Tests, and he finally began directing more aggression out than in.
Broad kept England ticking over after tea with a 62-ball half-century containing nine boundaries and at least as many fannings outside off stump. It will be enough for Broad to keep his place at Headingley, which may or may not be a good thing for England given his four wickets in this series for 307. With Swann carving about him effectively, Australia’s deficit blew out to 113.
Australia’s second innings began cautiously, almost furtively, Katich outscoring Watson, but soon came to harm. In Cardiff, just two Tests ago, but feeling like two years, Katich and Ponting batted seventy overs, grafting 239. Here they fell in consecutive overs, Katich fencing outside off at Onions, Ponting bowled through the gate.
It is a mark of Ponting’s eminence as a Test batsman that his dismissal is celebrated with such abandon. At Edgbaston four years ago, his second-innings fall to Flintoff almost provoked an open-top bus parade. Today was much the same, Graeme Swann tearing towards extra cover as though he had nodded one in at Wembley, just refraining from pulling his shirt over his head. He had a lot to celebrate, the ball being one of those off-spinner’s wet dreams, pitching right on the G spot of Mitchell Johnson’s footmarks then piercing the gates of paradise.
Just for the moment, though, it was hard to take your eyes off Ponting: pensive, motionless, peering down at the pitch, lips drawn in, and finally retreating with a sigh. He had been welcomed by the now regulation boos, mixed for once with a ration of cheers. One wonders which is harder to take: the hostility or the sympathy? He did not remove his helmet as he took his leave; it was as though, at that moment, he just wanted his privacy. Harder still for him will be watching tomorrow, powerless to contribute. Swann, by contrast, will thrive on the memory of his wicket. A rummage in the records shows only one spinner to have hit Ponting’s stumps as often as twice. Step forward … Virender Sehwag.
As was England’s assignment at The Oval four years ago, Australia will do the needful if they bat until about teatime tomorrow—and if this proves beyond them, they deserve to leave the Ashes behind. They are handicapped by the absence of Haddin, whose timing and temperament would have been invaluable. They are helped by knowing their task full well: the scale and nature of the necessary bailout is at least clear.