T20 World Cup: Australian Knights' Desert Storm

New Zealand, you had one job. Pleasantries aside, it was quite the sweaty evening for Mitchell Marsh and his Aussie cohort. Staring at a beefy target of 173 runs (at 8.65 runs per over for those far from their calculators) to lift the silvery modern-art, this chase would later emerge a smooth task. New Zealand at the receiving end, again, now bearing the full brunt of their Trans-Tasman rivals’ thorny willow. Those perennial bridesmaids…they just can’t catch a bouquet. Nor could they catch Marsh, or Warner, or Maxwell. The result? A crushing defeat. Kiwi optimism whizzing around Dubai’s glitzy International Stadium as Kane Williamson delivers a vintage, stylish innings: 85 off a mere 48. But for all his worthy endeavours there lacked that similar spark from his friends clad smartly in black and grey. Mitchell Starc was royally, hilariously spanked for an economy rate of 15.00 but it mattered not. This final wasn't over when Marsh strode to the crease with his nation 15-1. Nor was it closed when he blasted Ish Sodhi for 16 runs in all directions with six overs remaining. It was settled at the toss. Predicated on fresh observation, the coin flip was of incredibly high importance prior to its release from the Kiwi captain.. Of the twelve matches held in Dubai prior to Sunday’s climax, eleven were won by the sides who bowled first. And if you were curious over that single anomaly, the one that sledgehammered the sequence, it was triumphed by New Zealand….against Scotland.

The Scots were plucky and positive, yet pointless. No really, they were. A zero adjacent to them in the standings, it was that first loss in Dubai to the eventual runners-up which spawned their slimmest margin of defeat: a 16-run loss. Sure, the far from proverbial talents in Richard Berrington and George Munsey blossomed and glowed in the universal spotlight, slapping sixes and racking up a combined 329 runs between them. But this tournament lacked flavour. It yearned for its hallmark thrills. It cried out in anger for a more flammable fuel to ignite the stagnated show, and turn it into something worth our time. Bangladesh skittled for scores of 84 and 73. Scotland similarly falter: all-out for 60 and 85. In tournaments past the ‘minnows’ would often throw up a surprise. Netherlands bewilder England in 2009. Afghanistan sweep West Indies aside in 2016. This time around there was not a stench, a mild hint of anything reminiscent. The rounds of Super 12 harboured that feel of predictability. Changes in hierarchy are more incremental than radical as the powerhouses of the cricketing globe feast on the foods of a forgotten fantasy. T20’s seventh earthly instalment. T20s sixth different champion. Yet as the tedious group stage ticked on towards its denouement the striking lack of supporters encapsulated a tournament brimming with banality. Dubai was won if you bowl first, Sharjah was a lifeless amphitheatre from the moment Gerhard Erasmus’ raised bat glinted in the orange sun and Abu Dhabi just reminded everyone of lockdown with so few scattered within the unsightly main stand. For a World Cup in the immediate aftermath of the IPL, the quality was strikingly low. From India, most definitely, but this will remain the slowest-scoring finals since its inception. Blessed with a further crack at the same whip in a year’s time, it will be better for a few reasons: It’ll be housed in a cricket nation (Australia), it’ll (likely) see the return of a heap more fans who actually give a damn, and it’ll have better pitches. What was going on in Dubai that differed from its sister venues? Who was maintaining this wicket? Someone deeply unschooled, unskilled. Slow it was, runs were squeezed out painfully from the bat’s core. Indigestion at the crease, there were constant jolts in the run rate. An evening dew that developed as the match wore on. In the second innings one wicket would often bring a second and then a third and so forth. It was far from a batter's cup.

138: The average first innings score. An impotent batting display or an insipid pitch? They complement each other. Saharan pitches favouring those who consistently shine with the ball in hand catered for low scores, low entertainment. Disparity emerging between the elite and the ones who are there to just make up the numbers. That’s how it felt. You sensed a walkover set by an earlier precedent. There were thirty-three games in the group stage, how many of those can you recall? So much time, so much effort…all for three knockout games. The IPL structure has often been undermined. Maybe it’s time the ICC shake things up a little. Please. Of course the knockout stage was enticing. There was some meaning to it. Indeed, England’s demise with the ball and Daryl Mitchell’s incandescence with the bat provided salvation, a cricket redux. David Warner, the sport’s pompous rendition of ‘The Twits’, transferring his arrogance from his brain to his willow, steering Australia beyond Pakistan and, somehow, into a final. Williamson majestic. Marsh seraphic. Timing divinely sweet, a mighty swing of his wooden weapon would see the white pearl soar into the darkness, and then into the seats. In the end it was a relaxed chase, barely a drop of sweat falling from Marsh’s inferno skin. But what connects these sides victorious? They won the toss, and they chose to field. Lose the toss, and suffer the wrath. The Aussies were embarrassed by England, the white flag waving profusely from down below. Yet, for all their shame they would be crowned champions of the Middle East. Worthy on the night, there was a flicker in the mind, an element of self-certainty that they would overcome New Zealand when it mattered most. And in typical fashion they did. And now they won’t shut up about it.