If you don’t pronounce every victory as the greatest, every defeat the most tragic, every innings the zenith of excellence seldom chartered since the discovery of fire, then what’s even the point of watching sports? But if you have watched the absolute carnage of Glenn Maxwell, the devastation of epic proportions in a game where he was destined to die metaphorically, then you can’t help but indulge in hyperboles; it’s the last resort to describe something whose immensity takes days to drown. How else do you describe what Maxwell achieved in Mumbai? ‘Terrific’ is how Maxwell himself described his match-winning double-century, and indeed, terrific it was, among other things.
By the time Maxwell’s turn to take strike came, the game was long gone, a battle that was to be fought just for the sake of it. No amount of blood, sweat, and tears would have averted what awaited the destiny of Australia, and Maxwell himself. The scoreboard too affirmed it. Destiny was written, already. Or that is what you thought. In Maxwell’s exhilarating world, destiny doesn’t indicate finality and irreversibility, but something that can be changed at one’s will.
Of course, when you embark on the voyage to change your destiny, you need luck by your side. Maxwell couldn’t get the desired elevation on his attempted sweep but was saved by the utterly butterly fingers of Mujeeb-ur-Rahman; Maxwell failed to read a googly from Noor Ahmed and got struck on his leg, but a DRS came to his rescue. The cynicism may tempt you to point out these missed chances but then you can’t envision players conjuring something like this, even if you give them nine lives. “There have been occasions when I have been dropped and didn’t make the most of it, so to make the most of it is probably the most pleasing thing,” quipped Maxwell.
As if the job of hunting down 291 after being reduced to 91/7 itself was not intimidating enough, Maxwell’s hamstring and calves gave away. He crawled and hobbled, and lost his agility and nimble footwork – two things that really make him a ruthless destroyer of spin. Out of necessity, Maxwell had to strip his game to the bare minimum. The shapeshifting manipulator turned into an immobile y-axis to the plane of the pitch, and then it was all about brute power, clean swipes, and perfect hand-eye coordination. The tone and texture were distinct, but the innings still retained the individualism that we associate with him – of the lone genius waging war against the dying lights of winter when all hopes start to wither. How many times we’ve seen Maxwell producing a moment of pure sporting genius that transcends the very boundary of our understanding of possibility? Nothing exemplifies this as much as his three World Cup centuries that have come while batting below No.5.
Expecting the consistency of Virats and Warners of this world from Maxwell would be an exercise in absurdity. He is not that kind of player; he is a gusty storm that touches once in a while, but when he does, he razes away your hopes, your psyche, your safety, your idea of the permissible limit of sporting excellence.
Maxwell has made a name for himself, by doing freaky things in the most freakish manner. In fact, even the accident that he suffered a week ago was quite freakish – he fell down off a golf cart and suffered a head injury that kept him out for the game against England. I’m willing to bet a grand that it must not have been a normal fall. He wouldn’t have simply toppled over from the cart to the golf course, as the reports had it. He must have done a few somersaults in the air before landing freakishly, imperfectly.
“Can’t move, but hits a six over third man. He’s a freak, different universe,” admired Australian captain Pat Cummins, who himself played a great supporting act, holding one end and allowing Maxwell to carry on with his one-legged assault. Maxwell’s body broke down, but the spirits carried him on and over. Watching him grimacing through pain but still clearing the boundary as if he’s not playing against the team that possessed the most dynamic spinners was not exactly beautiful, but there surely was some essence of beauty involved in his act of struggle. The kind of beauty that’s tinged with terror and exhilaration. Sublime, as that stupid Edmund Burke would define. Maxwell invoked the conflicting emotions of attraction and repellence at once. While you couldn’t help but marvel at what was unfolding in front of your eyes, there was also this constant voice inside you wondering “No way, he can’t do that”, Maxwell, however, did that, that thing that you never imagined until the final six from his willow sailed over the boundary. It was an innings that didn’t just charm you. It must have ‘touched‘ you.
