The Pup

There is a crack. It is due to degeneration. Michael Clarke can’t turn. It is not like he can’t turn because he is not a good spinner.

He can’t turn because the crack is on his back instead of the track.

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The pitch is like a road. Morne Morkel is fired up like a Formula One car. Formula One cars do not need grass banks to perform. They need roads.

Nicknamed Pup, Michael Clarke is indeed a Pup in the middle of the road with Morne Morkel firing in. The inevitable happens. Pup does get hit.

If you ever ask the commentators what is the name of your child when Morne Morkel is bowling, they would say “He should pitch the ball fuller”. Clarke will become a commentator in the future. But he would probably echo the same view now.

In a fierce spell of fast, short pitched bowling, Clarke is first hit in the ribs. The very next over he faces Morkel, he is hit on his forearm. It is broken. In his next over, Morkel hits him first on the head and next on the abdomen – two body strikes in the over. Morkel is teaching him Fibonacci series here.

After this barrage of some excellent short pitched balls, few things are left short. Morkel is short of gas. Clarke is short of time to play the ball. He is short of a few grams of calcium in his bone. What he is not short of though, is the fighting spirit.

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The entire cricketing fraternity is sad. Michael Clarke’s back isn’t the last thing to worry but it isn’t the first thing either. His brother Phil Hughes is only in our hearts now. Micheal Clarke can’t turn back the time. He can’t turn back himself. But he can’t turn back the Indians who’ve travelled miles. They have a game to play.

Here as a captain, he should convince his batsmen not to close their eyes when the face a short ball. He should convince his bowlers not to open the gateway for hesitancy in their mind before bowling a bouncer. He should convince his players not to get emotionally drained in the events so that they could pay tribute to their brother in the right way.

Convincing is one thing. Comporting is another.

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Vernon Philander being his usual self generates that acute, late swing away from the body 4 times in the over and brings the 5th ball in towards Clarke. Michael Clarke reads him. He then writes the trajectory of the ball with his hands. The bottom hand supplies power and the top hand glides the ball through the gap. After 23 balls stranded on 99, he reaches his 100.

No computer data could predict the number of away swingers Philander will bowl before the next one darts in. Micheal Clarke is no computer. This very game he is a program. A program that had his own bugs initially. A program with an algorithm that is slowly starting to show its efficiency.

Michael Clarke is driving and Greame Smith decides to bring Morne Morkel on.

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The Adelaide Oval is beautiful. Michael Clarke’s batting should’ve looked more beautiful. It isn’t. There is a reason why it isn’t.

The third axial movement in his back is non existent. If ever Google came up with a Captcha to separate humans and robots apart with back movements instead of hands, it would’ve denied access to Michael Clarke and termed him as a robot.

Denying the access he did. He denies the Indians any chance of getting into the game. Michael Clarke is struggling as much as the bowlers. He burns them down. He burns himself along with them. The spirit inside him burns him further.

His hamstring is the first to suffer the brunt of the burn. He retires hurt.

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Morne Morkel in his next spell breaks the nail of Michael Clarke. It sets the blood of Clarke free. It then sets the stroke making soul of Micheal Clarke free. It is not quite Easter for the South Africans. Clarke cuts loose.

The nimble footwork and the perfectly synchronized top and bottom hands of Clarke push the Saffers to the Table Mountains. Everytime he plays a shot with some real power, his arm cracks further. There is a rapid flow of blood through that crack and it spurs him to play the next ball even more powerfully.

Short of blood and energy but not short of runs, Clarke declares.

Pup has overcome physical barriers.

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One legged and partially invertebrated, Clarke resumes batting. Micheal Clarke not only wanted to bat. He wanted the world to show that he is a fighter. He has never looked or played like one. Graciously good batsmen don’t behave like warriors.

Clarke tries to leave or play the ball wholeheartedly but his body dismisses the intentions of his heart. He ululates. He bellows. He throes. He probably does all that not because of pain but due to his inability to bat like the batsman that he is. For once, to look like the warrior he has always been in his career, he bats like one.

He grinds his muscles into cells and gets to a century. He doesn’t celebrate his 100. This is a man who removed his helmet against the fast bowlers to replace it with his baggy green when he was on 98* on his debut. He instead does a muted celebration, trying to control his tears.

As he controls, the tears accumulate and his face becomes heavier. He is then dismissed for 128. As he leaves the ground, his heart becomes heavier.

It is not because he doesn’t want to leave the ground. It is because he has filled with heart with pride that he has paid the most fitting tribute to his brother.

Pup has overcome physical and mental obstacles. Pup is a hero.

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Happyy Birthday Michael Clarke. Absurd it may seem but there are little quotes that motivate me like “Get ready for a broken fucking arm” and thanks for that.