It's not just cricket

Reflections on South Africa winning the World Test Championship at Lord's

South African cricket supporters will understand if I say that I have PTSD from watching the Proteas, South Africa’s national cricket team, play in tournaments.

I remember listening on the radio on my grandfather’s farm when, in 1992, we were knocked out of the World Cup in a rain-affected match. In 1996, with a good team, we were outplayed by the Windies. In 1999, the night before I flew to England on a school cricket tour, Lance Klusener and Allan Donald somehow managed to grasp defeat from the jaws of victory. Every conversation on that tour began with a familiar refrain: ‘Sorry about the World Cup’. In 2003, playing at home, we managed to disqualify ourselves because we couldn’t count. In 2007, we were culled by a quality Australian team. In 2011, after beating the eventual winners India in the group stages, we managed to lose to New Zealand in the quarters. In 2015, in New Zealand, in another rain-affected game, we found a way to lose to them again in the semi-final. In 2019, we lost to New Zealand once more, this time in the group stage – I was there – and didn’t reach the playoffs. And in 2023, we were beaten by Australia in the semi-final. That’s not even counting the countless T20 World Cups and other tournaments where hope slowly bled away, one over at a time.

Any rational person might say that enough is enough, that supporting the Proteas is simply an exercise in disappointment, and that moving on would be the wise thing. I’ve promised myself as much after every heartbreak. And yet, each time, something deeper refuses to let go. Perhaps it’s foolishness. Or stubbornness. Or perhaps, in sport as in life, it’s something else: the conviction that hope deserves one more chance. So last week I found myself on a flight to England, drawn once more to the edge of possibility, to watch South Africa play in the final of the ICC World Test Championship at Lord’s, the home of cricket. The opponents? Australia, of course, and their all-conquering bowlers.

Arriving at Lord’s with three friends – all of us live in different countries – the crowd was a sea of green and gold, a diaspora united by the hope that, perhaps, the spell may be broken. Even the neutrals were South African; one Englishman in front of me admitted, without shame, that almost all the locals would love to see South Africa topple our shared nemesis.

The cricket was, inevitably, terrific and terrifying. South Africa did well in the opening session, but then Australia started to grind us down. Rabada, though, had other ideas, and swept away the Aussie tail for just 20 runs after tea. You could feel it ripple through the stands: perhaps, just perhaps, the story would be different this time.

But when it was South Africa’s turn to bat, reality set in again. Starc, Cummins and Hazlewood made short work of our openers, and after a brief flicker from Bavuma and Bedingham, the rest collapsed. By tea on day two, the script felt pre-written. The faces around me looked as they always do at moments like this: a mixture of disbelief and resignation, the kind of pain you only risk when you’ve allowed yourself to believe. Some South Africans quietly slipped away. I understood. Why submit yourself to another slow unravelling?

And yet… after tea, South Africa’s bowlers kept at it, chipping away, unsettling the Aussies. For a while, they even looked rattled. Most of us still expected to lose, but we continued to watch because we had not yet given up on the slim chance that things could still turn. ‘Cricket is a funny game’, I remember the father behind me motivating his teenage son, probably more out of desperation than conviction.

That afternoon, a friend sent me this AI-generated image, perfectly capturing the mood of every single Proteas fan: it’s the hope that gets you, every time.

Day three arrived. I tried to focus on work in London – my boss will be pleased to know – and stayed away from the scores, but eventually I checked. The Aussie lead was over 280. Game over, surely. When Rickleton fell early, there seemed nothing left to hope for.

And yet, when I checked again, South Africa had reached 50 for 1. Mulder, who looked like a deer in the headlights in the first innings, somehow found a way to deal with Starc. Surely not. Surely this wasn’t possible. It’s the hope that gets you…

I had to take a train to Heathrow and tried not to check the live updates. Eventually, the urge won out. Only two down. Was Markram finally living up to his potential, that weight of expectation that has always hung like an albatross around his neck? And could he and captain Bavuma, who has so often shouldered the burden of critics and circumstance, somehow piece together a partnership under impossible pressure? It would be a classic South African story, I thought: two men from very different worlds, bound by the stubborn determination to do what no South African team has managed to do. But life isn’t a movie set, I reminded myself. It’s the hope that gets you.

But that evening, at stumps, Markram had scored a century at Lord’s. I was sitting at Heathrow, glued to my phone screen, tears in my eyes. What an unbelievable innings. And yet, beneath the euphoria, a familiar unease lingered. Protea fans know this script too well: hope burning bright, only to be snuffed out at the very last. Was this just another cruel set-up, the perfect stage for the ultimate choke? Two or three quick wickets in the morning and it would be Australia’s game to lose. We had been here before.

In Belfast the next morning, after a restless sleep, my host collected me for breakfast. I had warned him that I might not be good company, but as a non-cricket fan, he found it hard to understand. I put away my phone, but after breakfast, I could not help myself. Thirty runs needed, six wickets in hand. Surely we would not lose it from here. Surely we would not repeat the same mistake we made only a year or so ago and lose the final of the T20 World Cup from a roughly similar position.

I put away my phone once more, only for the WhatsApps to start flooding in a few minutes later. You can sense, even before you check, that something has changed. We. Were. Going. To Win. Only six runs needed. Then five. Then four, three, two, one. Breathe. Verreyne got a nick, and the umpires made another mistake. (I hate it that the TV umpire has suddenly shifted the blame for poor decisions from the umpires to the captains, but that’s a story for another day.) Fortune favours the brave. And then, it was done. We were Test Champions. I sat somewhere in Belfast, trying to work, and cried again.

When I returned to my apartment, I watched the highlights on repeat: Markram’s hundred, Verreyne’s cover drive, Polly’s commentary, Maharaj’s interview, Bavuma’s bazooka, the crowd singing Shozoloza. And I reflected on the many, many years of heartbreak and disappointment and how sweet it feels to beat the Aussies in a final against the odds.

There have been many great test matches in South Africa’s history, but this one belongs with the very best. I listened to the English commentators at the ground on days one and two, and they could not see South Africa winning. And in truth, nor could I. Those magnificent Aussie bowlers seemed just too good for our inexperienced batsmen. They’ve been there before, done it time and again, with all the confidence to show for it. And in Cummins, they have one of Australia’s best captains. And yet…

The economic historian David Landes once wrote that the optimists have it, not because they are always right, but because they are positive. ‘Even when wrong, they are positive, and that is the way of achievement, correction, improvement, and success. Educated eyes-open optimism pays; pessimism can only offer the empty consolation of being right.’

Maybe that’s what cricket teaches, and life too. You just keep showing up, even when it hurts. You hold on to hope, even with all the doubts. And sometimes, by simply turning up again and again, the impossible becomes possible.

‘It’s not just cricket’ was first published on Our Long Walk. Thank you for supporting my writing. The images were created with Midjourney v6.1. If you enjoyed this post, consider reading this earlier post by Gustav Venter, who joined me at Lord’s for this epic match: