Shouldn’t the book have actually been called ‘shock and awe?’
Well, Shane Warne’s autobiography is titled, “No Spin!” Ever noticed?
Though in the context of his departure, utterly unplanned, mischievous even, it puts forth a great contradiction.
There’s spin. Heck, great amounts of it. A world renowned Aussie who was holidaying in Thailand and just this morning had poured his heart over in remembering Rod Marsh, gone.
Just like that.
Oh what a turn of events. Too much spin.
Perhaps too much for even Lara or Sachin to pick; greats whom he played against. The heroes whom he often bettered in becoming a champion of champions.
Now if the greats can’t pick it, how would we fans, the mortals?
Yet, in some ways, Warne’s exit is quite like his trademark delivery, one that was tossed up boldly, one that after several revolutions clipped the stumps. At times, it was a flipper. On other occasions, a googly.
But the man whose mastery engineered a fracturing of stumps and permanent disturbance of scoreboards was exactly how commentators like Bill Lawry described him.
“Oh, what a ripper!”
In a life utterly devoted to the sport, that’s when we exclusively talk Cricket on the pitch, Shane Warne was a star extraordinaire.
His was a star that sparkled and lest it is forgotten, amid blemishes.
Shane Warne was an achiever who was neither cricket’s most devoted student nor its most unperturbable devotee.
There were too many hamperings, mishaps too that bothered a career that would’ve spunked out even the greatest Hollywood names if they ever ventured out to make a movie on Shane Keith Warne.
First, the love for binge beer drinking. One knows it often affected his fitness. Next, the infamous saga involving Mark Waugh, a loving teammate with whom he was involved with the bookies for giving them information on the pitch conditions.
Then, the infamous claim that ‘my mom fed me diuretics for it would’ve helped my body in a positive way.’
Almost childlike. Sillily playful.
And that’s precisely where the star of Shane Warne bloomed and flourished. How?
His cricketing excellence was such that it soared much higher than his theatrics and acts of philandering.
Even when we could’ve been tempted to ridicule the compulsive flirt bordering on being a sex addict, we were glued to the eye popping figures that stayed next to his name and not the figures he tamed off the pitch.
For that is where the magic lay and will rest. Forever. 1,001 wickets.
Try to soak in that number. 1001 wickets. And these were dismissals that he affected against some of the greatest batsmen who ever represented the sport.
Think Brian Charles Lara and Sachin Ramesh Tendulkar. Think Jacques Henry Kallis. Then there are the likes of Inzamam, Saeed Anwar, and a generation that was composed of true greats – from Mike Gatting to Cook, Cronje to Smith, Hooper to Gayle.
But what made Shane Warne one of his kind and surely, there’s never going to be another quite like him, is the way he pursued his cricket.
He kept at it. He kept coming hard at batsmen. Even when he went for runs, and boy, he did, think the Desert Storm series of 98-99 and Australia’s tour to the West Indies with Lara at his pomp, he didn’t hold himself back.
He was born to do magic and magic is what he did.
At 36, an age where you’d have likened him to being more gingerly, perhaps spending time with a bikini-clad babe in Ipanema or if not, then having chardonnay in Tuscany, here was Warne tearing apart all of the English team.
In the 2005 Ashes, a series most known for that epic Flintoff consoles Brett Lee picture, Warne took 40 wickets, the most he ever took in any Ashes competition.
Even when India blanked out the Australians in a truly unforgettable 1998 summer, the summer of Laxman and Dravid, Warne, not at his best, took 10 wickets.
Yet, the self-effacing Warne headlined the series by stating, “Tendulkar comes in my dreams where he hits me for runs.”
The most beautiful thing about Warne was that even when his international career was over, it really wasn’t. He became a frequent traveler to India post a mega Australian career where the IPL became his love. This time, it wasn’t some fling that would be over inside 24 hours.
He didn’t just captain the Rajasthan Royals, he mentored them. It was under his able guidance that first Michael Clarke established himself in the national team and later, Shane Watson in the Royals’ camp.
He’d later win the respect of Dravid, another on-field adversary whom he greatly regarded, and become a legend of the Royals.
There was a sense of honesty and fervent belief in all he did. Never any posturing.
The very vocal and evident dislike for Marlon Samuels was never a saga that saw Warne say sorry in the end. He held Samuels’ shirt and called him names.
What was he doing? He was backing his Melbourne Stars’ players from the verbal onslaught and histrionics that the Jamaican had directed at them.
That’s essentially what Warne was. He’d take a bullet for you if he loved you. You felt safe with his backing.
The way the Australian bowling cauldron felt safe and mighty with Warne coming into the attack with Gilly shouting behind the stumps, “Bowling Shane!”
The scoreboard would then often read, “Caught Gilchrist, bowled Warne or caught M. Waugh, bowled Warne.”
Outside cricket, Warne never shied away from his appreciation of the dominant surge of the Indian cricket team. In his tonality of expression, there wasn’t the onerous and cacophonous sound of nationalism.
During his twilight, in a tour to Sri Lanka, he spent the maximum time with Murali, clearly a rival against whom he played for over a decade. He was the one who embraced his opponents.
Warne’s voice was universal, his love for everyone who played the sport well and passionately.
Just the other day, Shane Warne exclaimed about Kohli, “Test cricket is indebted to you.”
Well for all that you did and did so spellbindingly Shane Warne, the cricketing world is and will forever stay indebted to you!
