Dr Jarrod Gilbert expressed his joy and gratitude to the Black Caps for their remarkable achievement.
Dr Jarrod Gilbert is the Director of Independent Research Solutions and a sociologist at the University of Canterbury.
OPINION
Eight balls. Just eight deliveries turned a dream day into some type of hitherto unknown ecstasy. These final balls on the first day of the Black Caps’third test versus India capped off, what was then, the greatest day of my life.
That was until the greatest day of my life came two days later. In four deliveries.
It’s just a game, it doesn’t matter, at least that’s what people will tell you. But that’s rubbish. Sport is something that brings people and cultures together in a shared ambition. That ambition is joy. And joy is something we should cherish. And test cricket, when it culminates in a tight contest, is the best joy of all.
When I got to Mumbai, it was 2-0 to New Zealand. No cricket fan in the world had believed that New Zealand would win the series, and only a madman would believe we could whitewash India at home; except, as it happens, for 11 men wearing black caps.
On the first morning of the third test, I got in the lift at my hotel. Rishabh Pant was in it. “Kia ora, mate,” I said. I don’t recall what he said because I was too busy figuring out what I would say to one of India’s most famous cricketers. In the end, the lift silently travelled 27 floors and we both disembarked. Bugger me, I said to myself, that was Rishabh Pant.
I had no idea at that point he would torment me for the next three days. I had no idea that he would dominate the Black Caps. I had no idea that his wicket on the final day would signal our famous victory. It was just a ride in a lift.
The silence of that lift was different to the noise at Wankhede Stadium. Indian cricket fans are berserk in the best possible way. They yell at each fielder close to them on the boundary, hoping for any acknowledgment. The Indian players never waved; the Kiwis always did. I enjoyed that.
In 34C each day, with humidity off the scale, I lived in sweat and in optimism. On that first afternoon, in those eight balls, we took three wickets, including a crazy run-out of the Indian god, Virat Kohli.
To that point, the banter I had with my new Indian friends was magnificent but as their hero walked back, I was conscious of showing humility in the face of a slain god. Make no mistake, though, I was giddy with joy, like a small child with ice cream running down their chin patting a dog.
Day two started, like day one, with me sweating and wondering how I would survive the heat. I’d have swapped my left elbow for a slight breeze. And the cricket was grim. Pant, who had been so passive in the lift, was now intent on killing me. Why, if he had wanted to rip my heart out, had he not done it when he had the chance? By the time the Black Caps got a turn to bat, they were nine down by the end of play, and a miserly 143 runs ahead.
Leaving the stadium that day, I met a friendly Kiwi journo who told me that an Indian colleague had said the Black Caps had enough and they would win. That man, whoever he is, might well be one of the cricket gods. He knew something only the gods did.
Coming into the third day, the last Black Caps wicket fell quickly and India were chasing a small target of 147. India were hot favourites.
The Black Caps were under pressure from Mohammed Siraj. Photo / Photosport
I share my thoughts with my new Indian friends around me, and one Kiwi, Thomas, who said: “We could put them under pressure.” Unlike me, who paced, cursed, and cheered, Thomas had watched the entire match with a cool head. He was always zen-like. This will become important shortly.
Quickly we got one wicket, then two, then three. Thomas, apparently realising that emotions exist, jumped out of his seat and yelled “YESSSSS!” What the hell, Thomas? I looked at him and thought okay, this zen-like man knows something is happening here.
The fourth, then the fifth wicket. India are only on 29. Having suddenly become a deeply religious man after the first wicket fell, I thought Christ, Dear Lord, we might actually win this.
Then Pant, that nice man from the lift, started to dismantle the story. The Indian fans roared as he scored run after run, boundary after boundary. Then he skied one that went to the heavens and then sent me to hell: it’s dropped in the deep. The game is gone. Thomas was silent. I despised myself for previously having hope.
Pant is on 67 and India only need 41, when the Kiwis review a bat-pad chance, and the review lasts forever. Replay after replay. Then Pant’s decision is on the big screen: OUT! Thomas and I yell with a ferocity slightly less savage than the brutal silence of the Indian crowd.
The tension is now impossible. Just three wickets to get. And then the impossible happens. What I believed was ecstasy from eight deliveries on day one, became an afterthought to the four balls that were to come.
With India needing just 26, Phillips takes one, and next ball he takes another! On a hat-trick to win the match, the ball goes safely through the keeper. I can’t breathe.
The next ball, and a new over. The tension thicker than the stifling heat, Patel rips one past the outside edge and the bails light up more clearly than any light in the Diwali Festival.
WE HAVE WON! WON THE TEST! A CLEAN SWEEP OF THE SERIES! THE FIRST TEAM TO EVER DO SO!*
The delirium was real. My happiness remains breathless as I write this. Dreams and prayers apparently do come true.
I appreciate the one thing left for me to do is to congratulate the Black Caps, but what I really need to say to those boys is thank you.
