Loosed in the Sky with diamonds

Joburg’s crowd can’t often be called fair, but they know winners when they see them. And they know how to give them their due.

Telford Vice / Cape Town

ABOVE us only Sky. Sky full of stars. Sky’s the limit. Loosed in the Sky with diamonds. Or, if you want something less obvious, Up, up and away, or Walking on sunshine, or Come fly with me.

How about some Jimi Hendrix: “Excuse me while I kiss the Sky. Or Bob Dylan: “No-one is free, even the birds are chained to the Sky.” Or another rock star: “Clouds come floating into my life, no longer to carry rain or usher storm, but to add colour to my sunset Sky.” Rabindranath Tagore always had the right words.

Excuse the gratuitous capitalisation. It’s what happens when the modern patron saint of cricket’s headline writers is cleared for take-off like Suryakumar Yadav was at the Wanderers on Thursday. Fifty off 32. The next 50 off 23. Seven fours in all. Eight sixes. They hurried into being a century that never looked like not materialising. It was ended the ball after it was made thrillingly real. And then, in the field, in the third over of South Africa’s reply, a turned ankle that brought the curtain down on Sky’s involvement. The pain. The poetry. Who needs verbs when you have pure vectors of batting like this.

Some deliveries Yadav hit, mostly to the off side, with visceral violence. Others, especially so fine to leg that they careened directly behind his recoiled back, his bat met with exquisite timing. Often the ball was chastened into areas of the field it should not, by all that is orthodox, been in. But this was not about orthodoxy. It was about what happens when the logic of hitting a cricket ball to maximum effect and efficiency disregards the received ideas of how to do so. Consequently, it’s as difficult to imagine Yadav playing like this in earlier, more stifling eras as it is to think those who would have watched him then would not have been just as enthralled by how he played.

It is also hard to imagine Yadav not enjoying every instant of his time at the crease. Even through the separation cast by a screen, his dealings with the press this week have revealed a man who is able to see the happiness beyond the pressures of playing not only international cricket but playing for — and captaining, no less — the biggest team on the planet. At 33 Yadav is closer to the end of his career than the beginning, but what a lot of fun he is going to have before he takes off his batting gloves for the last time. 

Would that more players brought Yadav’s attitude to the game. Then they might have some of his success: Thursday’s feat was his fourth T20I century, which earned him parity with Glenn Maxwell and Rohit Sharma for the most hundreds scored in this format. Note that Maxwell has had 35 more innings than Yadav and Sharma 83 more.

Not that we should allow such trifling details to obstruct our view of an innings that was of such shimmering power that the first handshake offered to Yadav after his fire had been extinguished came from Lizaad Williams, the bowler who had him caught on the backward square leg fence. Several of South Africa’s other players clamoured to offer their congratulations.

Yadav was carried to the boundary and beyond by the appreciation of a crowd, wearing many colours, that had come to see a cricket match — not to watch one team play cricket. On the evidence of this year’s men’s ODI World Cup, had Yadav been part of a foreign team playing in India, you fancy he would have left the scene to the indifferent silence of thousands blanketed in blue shirts.

The Wanderers’ honest generosity did not end there. Having watched the Indians pile up 201/7, the thousands stayed to see South Africa bowled out for 95. Mohammed Siraj started the first over with two slips and ended it with three. The South Africans were 42/3 inside the powerplay, and then lost 8/53 with Kuldeep Yadav tripping the light fantastic for a career-best 5/17.

Joburg’s crowd can’t often be called fair, but they know winners when they see them. And they know how to give them their due, which tumbled from the stands and grass banks in abundance for a side who inflicted South Africa’s third-heaviest defeat in their 169 decided matches in the format.

India batters and bowlers revelled in swinging and seaming conditions that were also true and fast. This theoretically most un-Indian of grounds is where the Indians have been most successful across the formats in this country: won six, lost five. At no other venue in South Africa have India won more games than they have lost.

Thus they will look forward to their return to the Wanderers for the start of the ODI series on Sunday, and doubtless be disappointed that neither of the Tests will be played there. But then the Sky is yours, India. You can’t ask for much more.

Cricbuzz

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Blame Muhammad Ali for the monstrosity that is MMA

The path to the rattiest, tattiest form of two people trying to beat the crap out of each other leads straight back to the classiest boxer who has yet lived.

Times SELECT

TELFORD VICE in Cape Town

REMEMBER Antonio Inoki? Of course not. Unless you’re a Muhammad Ali fan, and who isn’t?

Even so, you’re excused if you’re a South African who doesn’t know the answer considering this went down on June 26, 1976. Or while the country was going up in flames.

So, who or what was Inoki? Here’s a clue: Tokyo. And another: US$6-million.

“Six million dollars, that’s why,” Ali replied when he was asked why he had agreed to fight Antonio Inoki, a catch wrestling and karate champion, under a specially cooked up set of rules in Tokyo almost 42 years ago.

The Budokan, the 14 471-seater arena where the fight was staged, and that had served as a venue for the Beatles in 1966 and would in 1979 be where Bob Dylan recorded a live album, was sold out.

In New York, Shea stadium, home to baseball’s Mets, had 32 897 spectators watching the action on closed circuit television.

The fix was in. The deal, agreed among the suits and the tracksuits, was that Ali would accidentally on purpose KO the referee, who would rise from the canvas just in time to count out the WBA and WBC heavyweight champion — who would by then have been poleaxed by Inoki’s flying kick to the head as he stood, distracted by his concern, over the felled ref.

But Ali got wind of the plan and told everyone where the hell to get off. As it happened, what transpired was scarcely less believable.

Inoki spent most of the 15 rounds on his back trying to snare the legs of Ali, who didn’t throw a punch until the seventh round. He fired only six in total and left the ring bleeding from his knee and thigh — and to thrown rubbish raining into the ring and chants of, “Money back! Money back!” — after the bout was declared a draw.

But that’s not where the story ended. The sheer spectacle and the possibilities it offered struck a chord with two of Inoki’s students, who established a company called Pancrase — a twist on pankration, a combat sport that was part of the ancient Olympics — in 1993.

That inspired the founding, four years later, of the Pride Fighting Championship, which 10 years after that was bought out by its major competitor: Ultimate Fighting Championship (UFC), or what has become the jewel in the crown of Mixed Martial Arts (MMA).

That’s right, fight fans, the path to the rattiest, tattiest form of two people trying to beat the crap out of each other in the name of organised, professional sport leads straight back to the classiest boxer who has yet lived.

So before we fire up our high dudgeon about these violent, unskilled, tattooed punks and their haircuts calculated to enrage adults everywhere scrambling around the floor of a cage like a couple of drunk cockroaches in an alley and daring to call it something worth paying money to see, let’s consider Ali’s role in making that happen.

And, by extension, boxing’s part in making MMA a modern monstrosity. Because that’s what it is: a disgusting display of human desire at its most base, bulletproof truth that we are not as civilised as we like to think we are, something that shouldn’t be allowed.

You want objective reporting? Go read the share prices.

Far from being the next big thing in pugilism, MMA is what happens when a sport goes backwards. Boxing’s regression from something that used to matter on the world stage — when Joe Louis fought Max Schmeling in 1936, even Americans suspended their racial enmity to unite against Hitler’s hitman — to the sad shadow of itself it has become has given MMA the chance to fill the void like some malignant virus.

Boxing attracted writers of the calibre and stature of Norman Mailer, who’s book, “The Fight”, about Ali and George Foreman’s “Rumble in the Jungle” in Kinshasa in 1974, and AJ Liebling, who titled his classic boxing book “The Sweet Science” and critiqued the fight game for no less august a magazine than the New Yorker.

You can’t stop progress. But MMA doesn’t represent progress. Instead it’s a stop on boxing’s way down from the pinnacle it reached in the 1950s as one of the blue riband sports.

Ali versus Inoki is exhibit A in an array of evidence that was added to in August when Floyd Mayweather earned a 10th-round TKO over UFC star Conor McGregor in a fight that was strictly about boxing.

That Mayweather’s reported earnings were US$300-million — or three times what McGregor made — tells us the mainstream still considers boxing more acceptable.

Similarly, that the gate takings amounted to almost US$17-million less than Mayweather’s fight with Manny Pacquiao in May 2015 will hearten boxing purists, as will the fact that the venture sold 300 000 fewer pay-per-views than Mayweather-Pacquiao.

But before we celebrate those truths let’s remember that Mayweather, the greatest boxer of the age, is a piece of unlikeable scum who has been jailed for beating up his girlfriend and who has won 50 professional fights largely by not getting hit.

Mayweather inherited the mantle of boxing’s leading brand ambassador from Mike Tyson, a convicted rapist whose idea of sushi involves human ear lobe.

So maybe we should give MMA’s violent, unskilled, tattooed punks and their haircuts calculated to enrage adults a chance, not least to prove they’re better at being people.

McGregor has already done so. He wore the Golden State Warriors jersey of basketball player CJ Watson before his showdown with Mayweather.

And Watson’s relationship with Josie Harris — Mayweather’s former partner and the mother of three of his four children — was why she was assaulted by the boxer.

There’s a real man in that mess, and his name isn’t Mayweather.