Fast bowlers are often visualised as fiery, wayward, reticent and edgy characters. The inference is obvious. One of the most indispensable components of any cricketing strategy, fast bowlers, thanks to their proffered, menacingly fertile dual imagery of pyrotechnics and speed, have also been opinionated as difficult customers, or tough-to-handle folks.
If their varying adrenaline levels often transport the audience into a state of frenzied expectancy, juxtaposed by a great dose of excitement, witness the physical and mental ‘wounds’ they inflict upon the best of batsmen too. More so, in instant cricket, today — where fast bowlers can often turn a match by either taking wickets, or stalling the flow of runs.
It is all generalisation, yes; but, it evokes the awe, aura, and, maybe, jilted motifs surrounding every devastating paceman, armed with the red, or the white, ball — fascinating, rewarding, or disappointing his fans, who are forever thirsting for action.
This conventional hypothesis, however, need not go unchallenged, given cricket’s proclivity for producing speedsters of the cerebral type, who played the game not only with the help of their spitfire speed, but complemented it with cricketing intuition, acuity of thought and vision, along with a sublime ken for separating the chaff from the grain. All with the sheer strength of Baconian logic, including the ideas of psychologists Sigmund Freud, Carl Jung, and B F Skinner. This is not to argue that such pacemen were/are supreme intellectuals, and/or academicians of repute. Well, well, well. They did what came to them, naturally — using their thinking apparatus with purpose, confidence and effect.
One of the finest examples of a sublime activator of grey matter, a thinking fast bowler in a manner born, was Ray Lindwall of Australia. A man with great emotional intelligence [EI], or emotional quotient [EQ]. At his peak, Lindwall lent substance to the fact that great speedsters could not be merely judged best on their strength of laser-beam bowling alone, but more credibly on their psychedelic access to the sport.
Lindwall was a unique paceman: of the analytical type, gifted with a fine sense of cricketing analogy, unlike many of his ilk for whom razor-edge thrust is all that matters. The latter’s motto? Collect wickets on pace alone — nothing else. A cricketing psychic, if ever there’s one, Lindwall saw his own future in the game, through his mind, not the crystal ball. This was not all. He also planned his success with utmost care, grit, and immense application to the job on hand. On the physical front, Lindwall was discreet. He never risked a muscle, or joint, injury by bowling flat out too soon. Although he bowled like a man possessed, Lindwall would not think of marking his run-up, before completing his routine exercises. He was truly a fitness fiend.
Not the one who would also discard his sweater, following an over, Lindwall never completed his spell without putting on two, whenever he was exposed to the cold air in Blighty. His lungs were, thus, never exposed to drafts. He also had much more variety in his cricketing kit than his bowling prowess. A fine fielder and skilful bat, what made Lindwall a phenomenon was his racy seam bowling. He could also relax between his deliveries: a technique, yoga or relaxation-response enthusiasts would be proud of. This is not to say that he was aloof. Lindwall had a keen sense of anticipation. His run-up, a complete poem in motion, was accumulative. He peaked himself up slowly, accelerated gently, and culminated his action with the ball delivered at menacing speed. Lindwall was most feared for his surprising in-swing, a lethal out-swing, and an alarming bouncer — all of which were enveloped by a deceitful veil.
With Keith Miller, yet another thinking paceman, Lindwall formed what was Australia’s most destructive pace combination, until the advent of the Lillee-Thommo ‘fire brigade,’ in the mid-1970s. The awesome twosome made Don Bradman’s 1948 Aussie side, rated by critics to be the strongest in cricket history — and, Lindsay Hassett’s team — highly formidable, insuperable, one series after another, until England through trials and tribulations regained the Ashes in 1954-55.
Lindwall and Miller [perforce, the greatest right-handed all-round cricketer of all time], had many a heady day, together. To quote David Frith, “When the star-studded West Indies toured Australia in 1952-53, [Clyde] Walcott, [Frank] Worrell, and [Everton] Weekes, destroyers of English bowling, were subjected to volley after volley of searing bouncers. Australia won the series 4-1 and the mighty three Ws were bounced to near impotency. No Test series ends with the final ball: when the West Indies had the fire-power in the later years they used it without hesitation. There are no treaties in international cricket.”
Lindwall’s flowing perfection was to bowling what philosophy was to Plato. His action was, doubtless, one of the most beautiful sights ever seen in the game. There was nothing mechanical with his skill. In addition to his pace, what with its deceptiveness, Lindwall always had that extra yard of speed at his disposal: a diversity which separates the extraordinary from the great. The first fast bowler to take 100 wickets in the Ashes contests, Lindwall played in 61 Tests and captured 228 wickets, at an average of 23.03 per wicket.
This, in essence, is the art of the matter — the ‘heart’ of fast bowling in all its physical and mental perceptions, although one would agree that the identification of this vital link of the game has its paradoxical attributes. It earns the batsman an exalted status — that of a bullfighter. Yet, the vocation, at its pinnacle, is not only palpably potent, it is also artful, original, and appropriate, signifying the chosen moment when the fast bowler allows his mind to rule his head — and, not just his heart in isolation.
— First published in The Hindu
