It's not often that a glorious summer's day dawns as gloomy as this. For the
third time in the series, South Africa had been granted best use of a
belter, and England had duly been belted. Consequently, the mood in and
around Kennington at the start of the second day's play was muted, to say
the least.
As one might have gathered from some of the tone-setting newspaper coverage
of yesterday's debacle, The Oval is not the most scenic of venues. The short
and sweaty hike from Vauxhall tube station doesn't attempt to rival the
grandeur of, say, Wembley Way, or even the leafy(ish) approach to Lord's.
The traffic-choked Harleyford Road, with its average of three police sirens
per furlong, soon dulls any notion of romance.
As for the ground itself - all red brick and concrete with a garnish of
decaying tenement blocks - it is a moribund sort of place to witness what was expected to be the slow death and burial of a much-loved and lampooned cricket
team. Whether, as one esteemed columnist suggested in the morning press, the
latest addition to the Oval skyline resembles "a penis" is a matter for
conjecture. But, having toiled up four flights of stairs and taken one's
place in an airless eyrie of a press box, even the most objective of
observers is entitled to grumble.
At least the touts can always be counted on to lift the spirits. They were
out in force today, lining the route from tube to turnstile, talking up
England's prospects in the name of a quick buck. At the notorious Vauxhall
Cross traffic lights, a horde of supporters were teetering on the pavement,
trying not to get run over by a bus. A lady collecting for sick children
recognised the potential of this melee, and was rattling her tin
energetically. "How about a collection for sick cricket teams?" interjected
one wag. It was only half unfunny.
But hopeless situations do funny things to England, particularly where South
Africa are involved. After all, it was on the second day at The Oval, nine long years ago, that Darren Gough and Phil DeFreitas turned the tide of that
famous match with a rollicking eighth-wicket stand. The rest, as Devon Malcolm almost said, is history - and history is the best that The Oval has to offer these days.
So when Jacques Rudolph fell to the fifth ball of the day, the stands were a
sea of raised eyebrows. When Mark Boucher fell to those wily old hams, Alec
Stewart and Martin Bicknell, even the journos allowed themselves an excited
murmur. When Jacques Kallis was run out by Ashley Giles's fingertips and
Andrew Hall fell for the single that had eluded him at Headingley, South
Africa were 421 for 8 and wobbling. And Paul Adams's run-out on the stroke of
lunch was the completion of a perfect morning.
The pints and pies flowed merrily in the interval, and - briefly - all was
well with English cricket again. Just don't mention the score at Multan,
where their next opponents, Bangladesh, are closing in their maiden Test
victory.