It’s not quite clear what the actual word used is, it’s hard to make out over the stump mic amid the flurry of limbs and the crescendo-ing commentary. “It’s an absolute …” Is it ‘Clanger’? Surely not? That means something completely different to what this is. ‘Banger’? Maybe … but no, that’s not it. In truth, any one of the number of words used to describe a cortex-boggling catch would do the trick. It was an absolute screamer/rippah/stunner. But maybe let’s just check again, fire up the replay, let’s have another look.
The walrus moustachioed Travis Head trundles in to bowl an off-break at the Kiwi opener Will Young on the third afternoon at Wellington’s Basin Reserve. Young prods forward to a good length ball that doesn’t grip or turn but slides on straight. The edge is taken and the ball seems to pick up speed as it flies to the right of the wicketkeeper Alex Carey and the left-hand side of Steve Smith at first slip, ostensibly his weaker side, but when it comes to catching – Smith doesn’t really have a weaker side.
Smith unfurls a reflexive hand and plucks the ball out of the air. The mix of balance, agility and electric reaction time is mesmeric. A blurred arrangement of white on green cut through with a speck of red. The gimlet-eyed Smith goes from a static position and then comes to life in a flash of movement, resembling an Inuit fisher spearing an arctic cod out of the icy depths. The Inuits use a three-pronged tool called a ‘kavivak’, Smith gets by with just four fingers and a thumb. Almost inexplicably the ball is now static and resting in Smith’s palm. His teammates whoop and leap. “It’s an absolute …” Smith chuckles and toddler-trots towards them in his inimitable style. Taking in their high fives and adulation. He knows this is a good one, he’s taken enough to know that alright.
This is Steve Smith’s 182nd catch in Test cricket and the one that takes him clear of the renowned Aussie grabber Mark Waugh and into sixth position on the all-time list for Test catches. Waugh was synonymous with slip catching whereas Smith and Ricky Ponting (the only Aussie now above Smith with 196 catches from 168 Tests, currently sitting fourth on the list) did and do pull off the inexplicable in any position on the field. Watching both men field summons John Lennon’s neat line about adaptability – “Gimme me a tuba and I’ll get you a fucking tune out of it”.
Ponting would snarl, chew his gum like it had personally affronted him and spit in his palms directly in front of the batter’s eye line at short leg or silly mid-off. In his early days, Smith would don the helmet and do his time at ‘boot hill’ too. Both men have pulled off the inexplicable all over the field. Whether taking swirling cloudbusters in the deep, holding on to rapier drives in the covers or full-blooded cut shots at backward point. Flinging themselves left-right-up-down-forward and back in the cordon to pace bowlers or living on the edge of their reflexes close in off the spinners.
Smith’s highlights reel is a barely believable display of catching. His signature sinew-stretching starfish dives at full bodily extension are a sight to behold, there’s even a contradictive jaw-dropping inevitability in watching him cling on to any number of flying red, white or pink objects as if he has a Velcro mitt.
Smith is prolific too. If he continues grabbing them at his current rate then he’ll have a decent claim to being one of the greatest catchers the game has seen. A further 33 snaffles in Test cricket will see him overtake Rahul Dravid at the top of the tree. Dravid amassed 210 catches in 164 Test matches, Smith has played 108. He currently averages 0.887 catches per innings which suggests he’ll go ahead of Dravid in less than 20 Tests time.
Catching is one of the great joys of the game, and – bear with me here – maybe of life itself? The act of plucking a travelling thing out of the air and cradling it safely in your hands taps into something deeply satisfying in the human condition. Cricketer or not, most of us can relate to the feeling in some way. Remember when you who held on to that clementine your sister-in-law flung at you with a bit too much venom last Christmas? God that felt good. “Can we just rock’n’roll that please, make sure no pith is in contact with the carpet fibres, looks clean to me, fingers clearly under it – you can stick with your original decision Grandma, put down the sherry, you’re on screen now.”
A set of car keys thrown over a bonnet, a pair of socks bundled together and hurled down a hallway, you must have felt it. That feeling. Children get it too. Have you ever seen a toddler clinging on to a beanbag or – more likely – a half-eaten nub of jammy bread purely by chance? Their eyes blaze with the wonder of it, staring down at their hands in disbelief and joy.
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Some cricketers speak of the magic few split seconds when they have taken a catch and they and only they know it. There’s the briefest beat before the other players, officials and spectators realise what has happened, it’s just themselves and the ball, a euphoric secret shared in the liminal space.
We love to take catches, to watch them and debate them. Just as a catch dropped can bring a particular despair – a hollowing of the soul – a catch safely taken can stir it like almost nothing else.
