by Arunabha Sengupta
More than two and a half decades have passed since the Duncan Fearnley Magnum blade struck the last boundary and was raised to acknowledge the delighted cheers.
More than two and a half decades since elegance and class mingled together to result in one of the most aesthetically pleasing acts of batsmanship. Since that trademark white helmet was taken off for the last time.
And the infectiously youthful curls that used to emerge from under the headgear?
Battles with time and the most devastating of illnesses had totally shorn him of one of his most defining features. Follicular lymphoma and subsequent chemotherapy does that to you. Long before the end of his days, Martin Crowe had gone bald.
Ironically, the man who had almost an eternity to essay his drives and cuts was severely short of time in his own life.
We remember his broad bat, his majestic knocks. His duels with the fire-breathing West Indian bowlers, and then the yorker-hurtling Pakistani pacemen.
We remember the substance that seamlessly merged with style, the effortlessly timed drives through cover and past the unbelieving bowler, the cordon piercing cuts and fearless pulls.
We remember the marathon sprint from mid-on and the lunge that ended in the incredible catch to dismiss David Houghton. We remember the astute move of opening the bowling with Dipak Patel, and the wise guidance propelling Mark Greatbatch to launch into murderous assaults at the top of the order.
We also remember the man.
The 19-year-old who arrived from a land of precious few cricketing heroes, with the apparent backing of destiny to stamp his greatness on the game.
We remember when he stepped into the giant shoes of Viv Richards for Somerset, his straight-driving Andy Roberts for six while belting 188.
We remember him batting with elder brother Jeff, confusing onlookers with their resemblance and their prank of exchanging helmets.
We also remember other things, pleasant and not so pleasant.
His struggle against salmonella.
His incessant wrestling match with his own demons.
His often overwhelming quest for perfection.
His showdowns with the management, the media and, later, his employers.
His outrageous query at a press conference that left the seasoned journalists at a loss for words — ‘do you think I am homosexual?’
Much later, his burning of his own blazer over the sacking of Ross Taylor as captain.
Crowe was not just one of the greatest batsmen of his times. He was a human being with very human emotions. He did not hold them back.
Along with Richard Hadlee, Crowe brought the glitter of superstardom in an otherwise faceless team of useful but glamour-less cricketers.
Hitching up with Darryl Campbell, he indeed revolutionised the art and science of contracts and endorsements for a Kiwi cricketer.
He was indeed one of the most innovative and incisive analysts to have graced the game. It was apparent in his captaincy, his ideas and later in some of the best cricket writing produced in modern times.
Cricket Max preceded Twenty20 cricket, and his ideas surrounding a knockout Test cricket tournament are yet to be tested.
And yes, Crowe was one of the best writers the game has been graced with, although the fact may be lost in this current world of clickbait-reportage.
Among the plethora of ex-cricketers of varying degrees of accomplishment and analytical ability, thrusting their views onto the world through print and microphone, Crowe’s was a sane and often prophetic voice that rang through loud, clear and meaningful amidst all the sound and fury that vociferously signify nothing at high pitch and incredible decibel levels.
Characteristically, his Out on a Limb was one of the best-written cricket autobiographies, frank, fearless and eloquent. He revealed secrets, and never pulled a punch. Predictably enough, following the trend of similar superb cricket books from New Zealand, it remains underrated and unknown.
The aggregate of 5,444 runs from 77 Tests is no longer the highest for New Zealand, but the curiously visually similar 544 from 7 Tests against the West Indies in all their pomp and glory have seldom been matched for guts and grandeur. He scored 3 hundreds in those 7 Tests, and did not face anything but the very best of West Indians.
The 467 he added with Andrew Jones has been bettered by Sri Lankan pairs, twice.
Brendon McCullum inched past his 299 to notch a triple hundred.
That 299. The single run that remained elusive, that caused Crowe more pain than the satisfaction from a massive innings. On his way back to the pavilion, Crowe smashed a sign, hit a fire hose with his bat and then hurled his willow skyward on reaching the dressing room. “It’s not fair, the bloody game,” he screamed while tears had streamed down his face. That dismissal haunted Crowe till the very end of his days.
As I said, he was very human. And he was not afraid to come across as one.
Forget all the ‘selfless cricket’ and ‘team versus individual’ pontification meant for people who have never held a bat in their lives. Or the ones who are terrified of giving indications of the tall poppy syndrome. This is how sportsmen gear themselves for the pinnacle of achievements.
The road to the top is a lonely one and the trek is fuelled by ambition. Crowe had almost got to an exclusive peak, and slipping near the top was painful.
And unlike many of the cricketers from the greater cricketing country neighbouring his, he was not shy of documenting his disappointment in poignant terms.
Amidst all his feats, he was plagued by his own pledge. The last words of his autobiography reads, “Be the best you can be, always.” He tried to follow that dictum, and his quest for perfection proved an obsession. Even while coasting on the high crest of form and performance, he was seldom satisfied. Often, he was troubled. Yes, again, he was very human.
Nevertheless, he had plenty to be satisfied with in his career. The last page of his autobiography also says, “I feel good about what I have done and that makes me think I can continue to live happily in this wonderful country of New Zealand.”
Yes, no one would dispute that he had done enough for a long and happy life. Unfortunately, fate demurred and made it a short one, and one full of struggle.
While brief, Crowe’s was an incredible life. A life full of achievements and conflict, of doubts, despair and diligence, of extraordinary talent and very human reactions, of magical highs and a tragic end. A life worth living.
Martin Crowe was born on 22 Sep 1962