There are things only I can get away with. No one else would even try them. Hitting Matthew Hoggard for six fours in an over. Hitting 37 off a single over in the IPL. A century off 30 balls, another one on one leg.
If Zlatan Ibrahimovic´ were a cricketer, it’s the sort of thing he would be trying. Except the whole point about these sort of crazy deeds is that there’s no trying involved – it just comes naturally. It’s your personality coming through in what you do. I don’t hunt these records. It might work for other people, but it would never work for me.
It comes down to confidence. Confidence enables you to relax and let the unconscious mind get to work. Confidence enables you to flourish under the sort of expectation and pressure that would see others sink back into safety first.
Confidence comes from hard work and dedication. There’s Zlatan, and then there’s Ronaldo. He believes he’s the best, even when people doubt him or favour Leo Messi for the big awards. It doesn’t stop him. Within himself he knows he’s the best, and he always keeps driving. He doesn’t care what they say about him. He works hard. And I fit into his style too.
That over against Hoggard at the Oval in August 2004. The West Indies were in it deep: following on, still 308 runs behind, the Wisden Trophy already lost. I had been caught behind for 12 in the first innings. Who could blame anyone for sinking back into safety first in all that? Who could possibly feel confident in the middle of such a mess?
Worl’ Baass!
There is no try, only do. First ball, on middle stump from over the wicket, punch through leg. Second ball, full, smash on the drive through the covers. Third, onto the back foot, cream past mid-off. Fourth, aimed outside off, clattered straight through the fielder at cover. Fifth, pulled fine off the hips; sixth, rocking on to the back foot, thrash to the extra over fence once again. Maximum lick.
And I didn’t even notice it was six fours. Honestly. I thought there were more deliveries to come. It was just the right shot for each ball. I remember Freddie Flintoff walking past me at the end of the over and saying, ‘You enjoyed that, didn’t you?’ And I just smiled. I hadn’t planned it.
I had no idea it was the first time anyone had done that in a Test match. I was just seeing the ball and hitting it. Doing what comes naturally, letting my character shine out.
Just as I am sometime all mouth and sometime shutters down and shy, not always is that magic there. You know within yourself how you feel, and there will be moments when, no matter how hard you search for it, it’s not going to happen. It is the bowler who is the king for the day, and you have to be wise enough to accept defeat for that little window in time.
I used to struggle to dominate as I should at home. The magic was elusive. I’d scored nine international one-day hundreds before I scored one in the Caribbean. Sometime home advantage bends the other way, and all you sense is the pressure. The critics whisper, and never to your face.
As you go along, you learn, you learn, you learn. The old boys tell you. ‘One likkle score give yuh big boost.’ And it comes, and you can feel untouchable. From ball one that perfect feeling is back. You walk out there not knowing which foot to put first and suddenly just start timing it perfectly. It’s a feeling of control; you can do what you want. I looked up one day from the crease in Bangalore to see a Royal Challengers fan holding up a home-made sign: ‘When Gayle bats, fielders become spectators, and spectators become fielders.’ On those sweet nights that’s exactly how it feels. On those nights the critics blow fire on someone else.
As you go along you learn, you learn. When you’re up you have to ride the wave as far as you can, because sometime the wave will flatten out, and there’ll be no wave to surf on. When the riptide is at your back and the wind on your face, take it as far as possible. Ride the big ones.
Confidence carries you through, even if you’re sometime bluffing both yourself and the opposition attack. You’d say it was like being an actor, having to convince everyone you’re feeling fine, that you’re the big man in control. Except if you’re an actor you can fluff your lines and do another take. It’s not the end of the show.
Cricket has no safety net. Yet that risk helps us. Without the jeopardy we wouldn’t have the rush of joy when the impossible comes off.
Actor? You are a gladiator, fighting for your future. Mask on, chest out. Go out there and show no fear, even if the odds are stacked. Go out there and stand tall. Stare down the danger. Win over the hostile crowd.
No man wins over the crowd by standing with his back to the wall or trying to run. He does it through bravery. He does it by thrilling, by inspiring, by pulling off deeds that no one else would dare.
The Caribbean crowds will cuss you out if you fail. If you succeed, you are doing more than just smacking a bowler into the stands. You are letting your countrymen walk tall down the street. You are allowing them to point at the world and say, ‘Yeah man, look at us.’ There are hundreds of thousands of West Indians working in foreign lands, left as the minority, far from home. When the Caribbean kid takes on the big nations and wins, they grow too. They can walk into offices and factories with their heads held high. You want to mock me now, when my boy has just lick yuh proper?
People watch gladiators because they want to see man against man, but also because they want to be entertained, and you must understand your audience if you are to win their respect. All want a performance to lift them from the humdrum day, but performance means different things to different men; fire 30 off 10 balls and one man will love you but another despise you. You have to work out how you’re going to win the battles on a particular ground.
You go to Barbados. You play a few shots, they love you there. You don’t necessarily have to score a hundred. They love good, attacking cricket. Yuh com’ an’ blaze it, dem love dat sorta ting. You go to Trinidad, you do that and get out, you’re going to get cuss.
This crowd might want a bigger but steady score, the next crowd just wants sixes for excitement. Give them four sixes and that’s all they need. I calculate before an innings, particularly in the IPL. The crowd might be chanting, ‘Six! Six! Six!’ I am an entertainer, so I’ll give them a six now, and they go berserk. You need one run to win. You know they want a six, so you give them one. And they go even more berserk.
If I can bring that joy and happiness, I’ve played my role. But first I had to learn.
Confidence comes from character. Character comes from being tested and coming through.
Miss Hamilton. Briggy Breese, Spike Rhoden. My brother Michael Crew blazing, the schoolings from pacemen Rambo and Lindi. You walked the streets of Rollington Town and the advice came from everywhere.
‘You need to push your front foot out more.’
‘Com’ across more fi dat shot.’
‘Youngster, you need to bat longer.’
At Excelsior High School I get lucky again. Paul McCallum is a young teacher who does lessons in the mornings and coaches cricket in the afternoons. He is another Lucas boy, playing alongside my eldest brother, Vanclive Paris, familiar with next brother Lyndon Johnson, playing too with Courtney Walsh when the two are kids at Excelsior. He feels he’s known me since gestation, which may be why later, much later, he will lend me his car to practise my driving round the playground after school. I will thank him by burning out the clutch, but for now it’s him driving me on.
Mr Mac is a generous man. He is always giving kids lunch money and bus money. His gift to me, aged 12, is to throw me in the school’s first XI. Not my year’s first XI, but the actual first XI. Against 19-year-olds.
I am terrified, particularly by the new ball. Mr Mac insists on my innate talent and technique and says I can compete. Neither will he hide me down the order. He thinks I get a bit mesmerized by the spinners if I come and face them straight away, whereas if I’m already in the groove, I’ll dominate them, so he wants me to open. I sense it’s more that he wants to partner his current right-handed opener with a leftie, to disrupt the opposition bowlers’ line and length, and I keep refusing. He keeps insisting, even as I’m intimidated by these tall pacemen coming in, many of whom have been shaving for several years, a few of whom shave several times a day. And he must be on to something, because gradually the fear lessens, and the runs start to come – consistently 30s and 40s, men against the boy – and gradually I stop pining for the middle order and begin to think of myself as an opening batsman. When Lucas hear about my promotion they shift me up to opener too. And so a career is set, thanks to Mr Mac.
He’s not a greedy man. Coaching the cricket, driving us to matches in his car, it all costs him. The school won’t even cover his petrol. Neither does he care about trophies, although plenty will follow. He’s about building characters for the future, preparing to send boys out into the world as men, and he sets to work studying me.
My nickname is Crampy, meaning laid-back or slow. When I’m not batting I’m lethargic; when we train without bat or ball in hand, I’m miserable. If we running, he’s always at di back.
He works me out. Because of my natural gifts, I could miss training for two weeks, be called into a match and still make a brilliant hundred. Performing comes naturally, so why would I be motivated to train?
My energy comes from being in the middle and striking the ball. If outside that you can’t get me to generate the same energy and aggression, it doesn’t matter. When I’m batting or bowling or fielding, you don’t get the lethargy you’d see if I was running laps or walking to class. Give me cricket and I give you everything.
So there is no finger-wagging and no forced laps. Instead I get thrown to the lions, and the lions start to get bloodied snouts.
Playing against my peers in cup matches not run by Inter-Schools, I score regular centuries. No big deal. Playing the 19-year-olds the first century comes aged 15, and then damage happens with the ball too. If we’re short of a medium pacer, Mr Mac calls me up to bowl some nasty sharp stuff off five paces. When my brother Andrew leaves school, three years ahead of me, we’re suddenly missing his ripping gripping leg spin, so Mr Mac asks if I can meet that need too. Give me cricket and I give you everything, so wickets follow. I’ve got control – I can fire it onto a penny – and I’ve got variation: a breaker, a top-spinner and a googly, for when you play all day every day you have time to experiment and the opportunity to fine-tune. Because of my height the bounce is another weapon; check the batsman’s face when he comes forward only to be hit in the ribs, or goes back to the next one and finds his middle stump knocked back by the top-spinner. I’m even asked to keep wicket a few times, and that’s a deep joy and success too.
I don’ like cricket. Mi love it.
Mr Mac is a purist. He likes his batsmen playing straight, so my driving through the ‘V’ between mid-off and mid-on works for him, as does my preference for playing it along the turf. As my body fills out from skinny kid to muscular youth and the hitting cranks up in power and destruction, the Excelsior motto – ‘Do It With Thy Might!’ – becomes my own mission.
There is a 30-over competition called the Tappin Cup. We reach three consecutive finals, Kevin Murray captaining the side in one, me in the other two. I’m named man of the match in all three. Against Kingston College, one of the posh and favoured, I crash the ball all over Melbourne Park, my new muscular style carving out a big hundred. In another, also against Kingston College, I make 99 not out, playing out a maiden in the penultimate over with victory already in the bag.
There is a sign on the front wall of the school that reads, ‘Be Extraordinary!’ Who says I have a problem with authority, that I can’t do what I’m told?
Character comes from being tested. In a big cup quarter-final, we are beaten by Jonathan Grant High School, up the road in Spanish Town, who are led by a future Jamaica captain, Tamar Lambert. Mr Mac calls the team in for a post-mortem after the final wicket goes down.
‘Where is Chris?’
‘Sir! Chris gone!’
I am so upset at losing that I have run off in tears. I didn’t want to lose that match, to be beaten by that team. I don’t think I can show any emotion, so my way of dealing with it is to run away. I can’t bear the thought of Mr Mac and the team seeing me like this.
Another crushing defeat comes in the semis of the Sunlight Cup, the island’s main inter-school competition, in my final year. Mr Mac sits down the entire squad and asks everyone to give their reflections on the year. As I’m captain I’m last to speak. I stand up.
‘I alone is not able to do it.’
Mr Mac pulls me aside. ‘Lissen. You’re a future Jamaica captain. You’re a future West Indies captain. So lissen.
‘You made hundreds, so somebody batted with you. You took wickets, so somebody took a catch for you. You took catches, so someone found the edge for you. You are leading a team, not a solo mission.’
It hurts, but I take it in. Mr Mac never condemns. He aims instead to guide, to enhance, to bring out our best qualities. Trophies sometime come, sometime don’t. This is about life after trophies: helping your brother, your mother and father; becoming a better man than you were before, having the strength and skills to get you through whatever might come next.
In ninth grade I am sitting an exam when rumours start slinging around.
‘Chris, he call up by Wes’ Indies’ A team.’
‘Christopher Gayle, he fi get a call!’
I don’t believe it. I’ve never played a first-class game. I’ve never played for Jamaica in any kind of match.
It’s fitting that Mr Mac is the one to confirm it, and the one to organize a happy send-off, a little celebration. Two days later I’m off, on a plane, just me alone, flying to India for the first time.
And suddenly everything is different. Instead of my old mate Kevin Murray as my captain, it’s Ian Bishop – 161 wickets in 41 Tests – and instead of Mr Mac as coach, it’s Roger Harper, maybe the greatest fielder in West Indies history. Instead of the familiar fields of Lucas and Excelsior, strange stadiums and ear-shaking noise and chanting. When one of their guys hits a boundary, whoah! The noise, the smells, the food. Standing on the outfield for a day and a half, guts churning, sweat pouring, knees knocking.
Confidence comes from character. Character comes from being tested. And I come through.
I score 43 in my first match, at the vast Nehru Stadium in Pune, make my first acquaintance with the M. Chinnaswamy Stadium in Bangalore, where many years later I will pepper the stands in the IPL colours of RCB, and end the one-day series with a not out 70. More valuable than any of those runs is the experience. Without being tested you can never grow. Without fighting as a boy you cannot become a man. A better player, a better person, ready for what lies ahead.
We are gladiators, here to entertain. 2004, my 100th one-day international, into the lion’s den of England at Lord’s.
Whoever wins gets through to the final of the NatWest series. At 280-3, Freddie Flintoff and Andrew Strauss both on unbeaten centuries with their partnership at 226, that team is England. I’ve gone for 52 off my first nine overs without taking a wicket as Brian Lara throws me the ball for my tenth and last. What’s left to try?
There is no try, only do. Freddie, caught by Ian Bradshaw at cover off my second ball. Strauss, pouched by Darren Bravo off my fourth. Paul Collingwood, gone to my fifth.
Three wickets in four balls, England from cruising to collapse.
To the crease. It’s a serious England pace bowling attack. Darren Gough, Steve Harmison, Jimmy Anderson. Devon Smith goes early, but confidence runs deep. See off the shine, look for the gaps. Hammer the bad balls. Ramnaresh Sarwan at the other end and in the stands all around the shouting and the flag-waving of the big West Indian support you can always count on in London.
I bat deep and I bat with the magic at my side. To my century with a sprinted single, just to prove I can if I need to, strolling on 132 not out, the match won by seven wickets. And we walk a lap, looking up at the black and brown faces who will be walking into offices and factories in the morning with their heads held high, and it is a happy day. Hey Mr Mac – that one’s for you . . .
I entertain because I am a cricketer. As a cricketer my energy comes from being in the middle. If I can’t bat, then give me the ball.
Freddie and Strauss that day at Lord’s, all the big guns on others. Sachin, Ricky Ponting, in my pocket. Jacques Kallis, you’re in my pocket. Kevin Pietersen – in my pocket. Brian Lara – you’re in my pocket too. Trus mi, him nuh know wah him a chat ’bout . . .
You can stand at first slip for an entire day. That’s just boring. And first slip’s the lucky one – you could be at mid-on or deep midwicket, nowhere at all to be found. Out on the boundary, just making up numbers, the invisible man.
When I’m bowling I’m alive. When I’m bowling I’m like the spider luring the fly into the web. Get a good grip on the ball, give it a good rip. Think you can hit this one? Fine. This one? Okay. Here it is, com’ an’ get it . . .
It doesn’t hurt me to be hit for six. You hit me for a six, then fine. It just gives me more chance to think how to get you out, and the challenge is what makes my heart beat and blood run. I would rather be hit for six than bowl to batsmen who are blocking, blocking, blocking. Yes, you hit me for a couple of sixes; in my mind I’m going to give it back to you. There can only be two endings to your story: you hit me out of the attack, or I get you out. The boring guys? You won’t see me. ‘Skipper, I’m not bowling any more to this guy. . . . Batsman! You’re boring me! I can’t take it!’
It’s not all swagger. It’s not all me taking this team apart. I can kill you with a slow death. I’ll find pleasure in sending you off, but I’ll find pleasure in tying you down too. If Skipper come to me and say, we’re leaking runs, we need you to be the dam, I don’t mind at all. I’m very accurate, and I can keep it super tight when the team needs call. When I play one-day matches I’ll bowl every time in the Powerplay, and every time I’m guaranteed two wickets.
When you bowl, you can’t just turn over the arm for argument’s sake. You have to bowl off a riddim. And when you do you just feel a vibe, and I love that. Even if it’s just two or three overs, I want to feel that vibe. Sometime in Test matches I’ve sent down more overs than the men who’ve been picked to bowl. Fire in 30 overs and then go out there and open the batting as well. But I’m involved in the game, so I’m happy.
And when the wickets come it is pure pleasure. A Test five-for against Pakistan in Barbados, and a 5-34 against England at Edgbaston when they were a team on the mighty rise. More joyful still was in a one-dayer against England at Trent Bridge back in 2000, me just a lanky crampy 20-year-old, the West Indies on a run of 12 overseas one-day defeats on the bounce. With England only needing five off the final over, with Alec Stewart unbeaten on 100 and three wickets in hand, it should have been 13.
It comes down to confidence. I look at the scoreboard, look at the scenario and signal to our captain Jimmy Adams. ‘Lemme bowl dis over.’ The model is that the strike bowler gets the last one, but I’m persistent. The model is also that we have no hope, but models are for dancing with not listening to.
Time for some yorkers. Time for some darts. First ball, speared in, batsman trapped, panics for a single, gets himself run out. Second ball, yorker, leg bye. Four needed from four balls. Third ball, classic yorker, Darren Gough’s stumps all over the shop. Fourth ball, Alan Mullally very lucky not to be given lbw. Fifth ball, Alan Mullally not so lucky, game over.
In some ways I miss bowling fast. As a kid I loved bowling the short nasty stuff from my 6 feet 4 inches – not necessarily to get the batsman out, but to hear the ping as the ball came off his helmet. And I hit guys. I touched a few chins. It didn’t upset me; it’s part of the game. As a youngster you find these things fun. It doesn’t make sense bowling fast if you’re not touching anybody.
I had a nice smooth action, just very simple. I could imitate Curtly Ambrose, bowling arm reaching up high, the jerk of the wrist. Dangerous, man. Steep. Good bounce. Good pace. Blood spill on di pitch an’ dem sorta tings, yeah?
The role models were all quicks. There were a few spinners in the West Indies or Jamaica teams – Roger Harper, Carl Hooper, Nehemiah Perry with a little off spin; a little leg spin from Dinanath Ramnarine or Mahendra Nagamootoo – but they were not always in the action. And when you played on the concrete in front of the pavilion at Lucas, using a wet tennis ball so it comes at the batsman like a bullet, it’s more fun making them jump than giving them non-spinning off-spinners. Yuh cyaan bowl spin on dat – yuh get licks . . .
I ended up doing spin because sometime I couldn’t be bothered running that far. I know. Eventually it would have taken a toll on my body, because I’m doing everything then – bowling fast, opening the batting, captaining, fielding at first slip – but at the time it was just distance. There’s a reason Jamaica produces sprinters rather than marathon runners.
And I took happiness in my preferred craft. I could still come in off my short run-up and bowl a quick one, but there was fresh pleasure in becoming obsessive about a new cricketing skill. You know the old pitches at Sabina Park? Cut, rolled, trimmed, rolled, shaved, rolled, wet, rolled, wet, polished. Looks like polished glass. Well, the pitches at Lucas would take a little more spin, at least after the fast bowlers had enjoyed the little moisture in it in the earlier part of the day. To begin with I was a flatter bowler, because in those early days I didn’t like to give away anything. I didn’t want to see my ball getting hit, so I was on a penny, just darting it in, darting it, darting it, bowling flat and fast. As I grew and played and grew and played I started to find my variations, to curve it more, to find the conjuring tricks and mind games to unsettle the unwary opponent.
And wickets came. My first victim in first-class cricket was a left-hander called Sadagoppan Ramesh, stumped off a ball that curved and spat like a snake. Ssssss! It jus’ do dis an’ then it do dat. Pitch on leg and hit off, twisting him around. The first wicket for the West Indies, in that one-day tournament in Toronto, was a similar ball, another magic one, Saeed Anwar bitten by the same snake. I can take wickets with balls that spin and I can take them with those that don’t; bowl five that go straight, and you only need to turn one an over to get them out.
You find your weapons and then you work out more. Some batters don’t like the idea of getting out to a man they consider a part-timer. Part-timers don’t send down almost 15,000 deliveries in international cricket, but them thinking like that is another weapon for me, so let them. So when they come to the crease we’ll have a little talk, and I tell them I want them in my pocket. Once we’re done with that, and they’re thinking about something else than just hitting the ball, I’ll ramp it up a little more. ‘Skip! Bat-pad, silly point. Put everybody underneat’ his bat!’
Now the batsman’s thinking about even more. Some of them will try to blast you – fine. When Kevin Pietersen hit his first Test double century, I got him stumped when he had made just 20. Gave him the chat, showed him my web, lured him in. And the umpire looked at it and decided it was a no-ball. Kevin owes me for that one, and he knows it.
Other batsmen look at the gauntlet and refuse to touch it. That’s equally good. Keep them housed. You can change the pace of the game as a spinner, finish an over in less than a minute. What a weapon! Turn round, go again, the match gone before you know it.
And it helps your batting. If as a spinner you get a guy jumping you and giving you a good hit, it takes you straight into revenge mode. It makes you aggressive, and it makes them want to hit boundaries. The challenge is on. When you think like a bowler, you expand your mind as a batsman. It’s like being given the gift of mind-reading. You know exactly what the bowler is going to do, because it’s exactly what you would have done yourself.
My energy comes from being in the middle. If I can’t bat, if I can’t bowl, let me wicket-keep. Wavell Hinds has made the call in the past – ‘Lissen mi. Take off the pads. Give to Chris.’ Brilliant. No sledging this time, just excited to be behind the stumps. Taking some stumpings, doing some damage. I used to study the West Indies’ glovemen in case the chance come – Jeffrey Dujon, a beautiful wicket-keeper to watch, beautiful and easy; Ridley Jacobs, Mr Dependable, no technique but if he’s dropped two catches in his career I can’t recall them. Yeah man. Him look ugly but him gettin’ di job done.
I’ve done all this in an era when fewer batsmen bowl. A few are scared to do it, because they’re going to get hit and look small. Why be scared of what might happen? There’s nothing at all happening at deep midwicket or mid-on. And who wants to spend their days with nothing at all?
I was always up for it, and I still am. Unfortunately these days sometime the captain doesn’t give me the ball. I don’t know why. I still fancy myself as the best off-spinner in the world.
We are gladiators, and gladiators always take a challenge. Even when they are wounded and other men fall.
We are on tour in South Africa in the winter of 2003/4. Just before the first Test a door slams on my finger, so I can’t field at slip. I’m in the outfield, chasing all day, and this is doomsday. A ball flies past me and Wavell Hinds. Something always has to be happening, so even though I hate running, we’ll have a race to see who can reach it first. It’s Wavell too, Kensington boy, so I put in a bit extra. From nowhere I hear the noise of a stick breaking. Why are there sticks on the outfield? The thought is barely popping before I’m on the deck. I grab my hamstring and scream out. It’s the first time I ever experienced a tear, and I freak out a bit, and eventually they come and calm me down a bit and stretcher me off the field. I still go and bat with the one leg, strapped up and unable to move, and when Andre Nel gets me out he runs down the track, up into my face, all tongue sticking out and bad chat.
Now Andre Nel has issues. This particular South African believes there is a man living in his head, a man called Gunther, who takes over when he is angry. Gunther is angry because he is from the mountains in Germany, and when he was young he didn’t get enough oxygen to his brain. Nel has said all this. He has also burst into tears on the pitch before, when he hit his childhood hero Allan Donald with a bouncer; he’s been fined for smoking ganja on tour in the Caribbean, and he’s been sent home from a tour of Australia after being caught drink-driving. He’s also a trained accountant. And you thought I was complicated.
Anyway. All in mi face an’ dis an’ dat. And in my mind that pisses me off. I stare back at him and keep the mask on. ‘Okay, no problem.’ It looks like I’ve let it slide, but I’ve just placed it on ice. After the game he comes up and apologizes for what he has done, and I say, ‘Okay, no problem,’ knowing I’m saving it, and he will get all this back.
No man wins over the crowd by standing with his back to the wall. He does it through bravery and by thrilling.
I miss the second Test with the injury. By the third at Newlands in Cape Town I’m ready to say hello to Gunther again, even if the hamstring means I’m still batting on one leg.
Now when you’re on one leg, you’re going to play a few shots. When you’ve been simmering the revenge for almost a fortnight, it’s got some serious taste to it. So that’s how it all starts, playing a lot of shots, taking the attack to them, putting them under the pump.
I take some serious runs off Nel. Off Pollock, Ntini, Kallis and Adams, but particularly Nel. Where’s Gunther now? All I can see is a white man with a red face, staring after his ball as it crashes into the fence.
I’m not running on that hamstring. No quick singles. I’m opening with Daren Ganga, and he’s never going to be dabbing it to leg and calling me through, so let’s pepper the boards.
Let’s salt and pepper them and smear them in jerk seasoning. I get to 90 off 60 balls. Then I quiet myself down a little. I want this hundred. They’ve done some chasing, now to let them watch and enjoy.
When the hundred comes up – off 79 deliveries, 19 fours and a six, 82 of the runs in boundaries – I look over at Nel and bust a little move for him. A little Jamaican move called the Chaplin, a dancehall favourite that involves keeping one leg still and just twisting and stepping with the other one.
A little jig for Gunther, and it’s all good fun. We’re entertainers, after all.