When Phoebe Litchfield danced down the track and whacked a perfectly-decent Shree Charani off-spinner for four to reach her century, I opened my notepad to write a wisecrack tweet about the inevitability of Australian success at Women’s World Cups.
At that point, Australia were 156-1 in 23 overs. Litchfield, 22 years old, had just scored the most imperious century in the biggest game of her life yet. The ball was pinging off her bat like in a video game, and sounding like someone hitting a cowbell with all their might. At the other end, Ellyse Perry was well in her groove, playing the perfect foil to Litchfield. Worse, Australia had about six more cannons left to come. Minimum projected score: 375. If someone got in the zone, maybe even 400. The DY Patil is a batter friendly ground, remember.
The wisecrack was neither unique nor, if I may say so myself, foolish. This Australian ODI team had won 72 out of 79 games in the last eight and a half years. That number has been repeated a few times in the last few weeks, not least on these pages, but its insanity warrants repetition. It is the abbreviation for Australia’s dominance for a span of time that almost matches Seinfeld’s run on American television. In cricket, eight years is a generation.
That’s what the picture looked like at 4:45 pm Indian Standard Time on the day of the second semi-final of the Women’s ODI World Cup. Everything we were saying in public was a restrained version of the relegation in private chats. What do you do?
That’s what India-W were up against. Not merely an opposition of unbelievable skill and depth, but just the idea of belief. The DY Patil Stadium, often called the home of women’s cricket in India, was packed. 34651 in attendance, most in blue. You could hear them chanting through the broadcast.
But, if you know about the enormity of the mountain in front of you, as many followers of women’s cricket undoubtedly do, how do you summon belief?
Litchfield, phenomenal, fell; Mooney fell, McGrath fell, Sutherland fell. Gardner scored a half-century. Garth scored some. It never ends with this team. They fluffed the final part of their first act. A horizon of 375 became 339. Short, sloppy, but no one’s ever chased 339 to win a Women’s ODI game before. India had dropped Harleen Deol in this game to play the extra bowler. Go on, then. Mount a world record in a semi-final.
Shafali Verma, brought into the side after the prolific Pratika Rawal twisted her ankle, began with two sumptuous fours. Her face was still, betraying all the pressure of being thrown from cold storage into a semi-final against Australia. Then, leg before wicket, out. Smriti Mandhana hit a drive and a six that would go into the career highlight reels of many, and fell to the margins of technology. Two down. India are an opener-heavy team and their openers were back in the dugout.
We watch these big games from a distance, on televisions or in stadiums, and sometimes hoodwink ourselves into thinking that we know how it feels. All of us have done it. Truth is, we’ll never understand the python-like crushing effect of playing a World Cup semi-final. Rare is the athlete, like Andrea Pirlo, who opens up the Playstation on the morning of a World Cup knockout game. Most are nervous wrecks.
We know now about the turbulence within Jemimah Rodrigues through the last few weeks. We know about the burden Harmanpreet must’ve been feeling, after all these years of promises and late-stage slips, all those lost semis and finals. But, for two hours on Thursday night, they were floating on the pitch, playing their full range of shots, cutting and chopping and hitting and flicking, and keeping India at par with the asking run-rate. It would be scarcely believable out of context, in a random bilateral sponsored by a mobile phone manufacturer. To be so fleet-footed on the tightrope, one must have to reach a hidden, locked zone within oneself, where the sound gets muted, where the faces of the crowds blur, the fielders turn into hieroglyphs. All you see is the bowler, the ball, and your body just seems to know how to respond.
It wasn’t normal batting. Harmanpreet was at her very best, hitting fours and sixes that looked effortless, but travelled miles. Jemimah was nerveless, all deft touches and cuts that thread the finest of gaps. On a podcast earlier this year, she had mentioned that the best way to hype her up is to tell her that the team depends on her. At her home ground, in front of her parents, her coaches and friends, Jemi was hyped and locked in.
The run-rate never dipped. Harmanpreet kept hitting, Jemimah kept her tempo. You saw the equation at the 30th over: 150 required in 120 balls. Richa, Deepti, Amanjot left. The game was on.
And then, Alana King, one of the players of this tournament, a bowler you’d travel many miles to watch, pulled back her length; Jemimah mistimed her sweep; the ball lobbed up.
Magical realism, it is believed, blurs the line between reality and fantasy, weaving the mythical and ethereal into a recognisable world. In One Hundred Years of Solitude, Gabriel García Márquez - the poster child of magical realism - made carpets fly and ghosts haunt villagers. Speaking to The Atlantic, Márquez cited the streets of South America as a lifelong lesson in surrealism, where the improbable and the impossible walked in broad daylight.
Alyssa Healy dropped a catch she’d take in her sleep. Harmanpreet hit the next ball for a four, and made everyone visualise salt and wounded skin. Ten minutes later, she was gone.
Deepti Sharma walked in. Should Richa Ghosh had come? Maybe, but Deepti Sharma has seen games like these. She was at Lord’s, on crease, and watched a World Cup India had one hand on slip away. She had been at Melbourne, watching Alyssa Healy and Beth Mooney break another dream. She had been at Birmingham and found herself in a repeat telecast of the Lord’s script, except against Australia this time. And she had been at Cape Town, not out, as another semi-final slipped from under India’s nose.
Deepti Sharma played like she remembered all these memories and the sound of heartbreak. Not only did she not sweat herself, she ensured Jemimah didn’t panic, and took charge of the chase. Then, just as Indian hearts were settling into a manageable pulse, she fell.
Richa Ghosh is 22. She hit the ball into the stands. Because what else do you do when you are 22 and playing a semi-final, right? Next over, she was gone. In the meanwhile, Jemimah reached her century, and celebrated with a mere fist bump. The runs meant nothing, not yet.
Amanjot Kaur is 25, playing her first World Cup. She used to, as Gomesh writes here, “have posters in the wall saying, ‘Aman will play in the World Cup, representing India.” Here she was. Semi-final, Australia. 8 needed off 12.
There are some dreams you’re scared of dreaming, because you might wake up and find that it was mere fantasy. Amanjot Kaur tonked Sophie Molineux’s full toss for a four. Then there are some dreams you’re scared of dreaming, because what happens if they come true?
Amanjot shifted her weight on the back foot, and split the gap between two yellow shirts. Four. World record, World cup final. And simply, one of the greatest nights in the history of Indian cricket.
Mel Jones began the post-match presentation with, “Not a dry eye in the stadium today. Most likely, not a dry eye in India.” Touché, Mel.
I’m not a cricket fan but your writing is so good, I could become one!! What a piece Sarthak!
It is amazing how I get to see things I didn't see live at the stadium in your writing Sarthak. Thanks for writing about and documenting this special special game! See you on Sunday hopefully!