Brook's hoodlum hundred deserves to sit in its own brilliant square of light

The Guardian

3 days ago

OK. Who angered the gods? Cricket gods. Weather gods. Sport gods. All the gods. Because quite clearly, the gods, well, the gods are clearly deeply annoyed. As flies to wanton boys are we to the gods of fifth-day stewarding costs. They lead us on, whiz us into a frenzy, and drag us back the next day for their sport.
It felt fitting in the end that England and India will get to face one another on the 25th of 25 days in this brain-manglingly fine Test series, played out now by two teams operating on fumes, caffeine, ship's biscuits and blood‑sodden socks.
Everyone was winning this game and simultaneously losing it by the time England and India were called from the field at 5.29pm, first by bad light and then a squall of rain. England need 35 runs, India four wickets, one of those the single swishing arm of the injured Chris Woakes.
Runs had ebbed away like smoke wafting up into the vast flat open sky above the Oval stands as Harry Brook and Joe Root played like princes in the afternoon session. By the end those same runs had become the most grudgingly hoarded substance on earth as India fought back with great heart, took wickets, and jammed a pick handle in the revolving door.
How in the history of all cricket, has anyone managed to score 35 runs, you wondered, as Jamie Smith and Jamie Overton prodded and flinched, feet encased in an invisible mobster's tub of industrial concrete.
Something will happen on Monday morning. Narratives will be set, themes that we always knew to be true nailed into place by hindsight in that final push to the line. For now there is a bonus element: time to digest a wonderful, thrilling fourth day, one of the great days of the Bazball project. And above all to talk about Harry Brook.
Brook's 111 here deserves to sit alone in its own brilliant square of light, innocent of all outcomes. Victory would probably nudge it up as the greatest on this ground in the modern age, or at least up there with Kevin Pietersen's 153 20 years ago against an all-time Australian attack.
For now the best way to look at Brook's innings is to start with the key moment. Not the hundred itself, celebrated with a huge warm wave of noise from an utterly rapt Oval crowd. Instead the moment to remember on a deeply hallucinogenic fourth day arrived half an hour before lunch, in a game that history, gravity and the scorecard suggested England were losing.
At which point Brook walked out of his crease and hit Akash Deep over cover for six. This wasn't just an impossible shot, but an act of pure gangsterism. Brook was on eight off 18 balls at the start of the over. England were 126 for three and paddling. Johan Cruyff said that when he was playing badly he used to just smash into someone, start a row, upset the day. This is not far from what Brook does when the adrenaline jab is required. Here it came with a moment of space age skill and precision, all hands, eyes, easy grace, and somehow a kind of carelessness too, like a man swatting an apple over a tennis court with a walking stick.
It is hard to overstate the brilliance of being able to do this, but also choosing to do it at that moment. This is hoodlum cricket. It's turning up to the Brits with a fake Uzi in your pocket. It's Cherringtony Soprano. It is talent from another place. And it is entirely logical, too. If you can play that shot, you have a duty to do so. The moment will exist now, a collage of intent, shapes, lines, discarded conventions.
It's timing was cold-eyed too. At that moment England were losing. Ben Duckett had battled hard, prodding and swishing and looking, as ever like Paddington bravely facing down the new ball. Ollie Pope had come and gone, trying to hit everything through square leg, an elite player with an obviously flawed technique.
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And so, with the day closing in, Brook happened. A little later he hooked Deep into the hands of Mohammed Siraj just over the rope in front of the groundsman's shed. There were pulls and glides and wallops, Brook seeing the ball like a single still point of light. He walked off at lunch to a huge, dizzy roar, 38 off 30, and the game broken open.
This is shock and awe batting. England plan for this, choose the moment to shift the energy. It seems fitting that Brook, the Sedberg scholarship boy, but also a man from a different pathway, should be the spirit animal of this style. His entire game is contained in that easy swing, the perfect hands, the clarity of his eye. The best players are always orthodox, but with shapes that are their own, that express some note of their own character and physicality. Brook has this, is graceful, but also splay‑footed, with a slouch but also a silk-hatted elegnace.
Has anyone ever had a better time playing Test cricket for England? Brook has played 29 Tests and won 19 of them, averages just under 57, has more sixes per game than anyone ever, is just told to go out be Harry Brook, stretching out into the far reaches of his own startling talent in real time.
Brook and Root gorged on the chase with both hands after lunch. Brook's 50 came up off 39 balls. India started bowling short, tired men banging it into a placid pitch. Brook sent one Ravindra Jadeja long‑hop to the midwicket fence with the freewheeling disdain of a man hurling a discarded television set into a skip.
There will be a temptation for some to dwell on his absurd and very funny dismissal. Brook was lofting the bowling to every corner when he tried a swipe too far and literally threw his bat to square leg, only to be caught at cover.
Why, why, why not knuckle down and take it home? Which is of course to miss the point. That clip over cover was the impossible thing that made the very difficult thing look do-able. You either want this or you don't, with all its edges. And, frankly, whatever the outcome, who could seriously wish to have it any other way?