Shane Warne (1969-2022): The Buccaneer, and a Magician

It was mid-2000 in Dubai. It was hot, and I was sitting in a villa at Jumeirah. Sitting opposite was Mike Gatting. I wouldn’t call it an interview but a conversation, a trip down the English batsman’s memory lane.

 I asked him about the bloody incident at Sabina Park when Malcolm Marshall broke his nose. He said, quite animatedly, that he found a bit of his own nose bone stuck in his blood-streaked palm. We moved on to other topics like his teacher in the school who inspired him to play the game.

 Then I popped the question about the “ball of the century.” I still remember the look on his face and the shake of his head in disbelief.  Here is what Warne himself writes about the Gatting Ball:

 “I remember letting go of the ball and it felt great. It couldn’t have come out any better. Now, of course, what it does after that I can never be sure. A lot depends on how the batsman wants to play the ball and his thought process/mindset. It happens in half a second but seems to take forever. It floats and swerves and dips. I like it, really like it. It pitches outside leg-stump and spins. Boy, does it spin! I like it more. Gatt plays half-forward, down the line of leg-stump, and misses. The ball hits the top of off. Momentarily the world stood still. Everyone, it seemed, was frozen in shock. Gatt looked at the pitch in suspicion like it had conned him. Then he turned for the pavilion with a bemused look and a shake of the head. We all went berserk. I was thinking, ‘You beauty – what a cherry!’ Not a bad way to start.”

 Some magic can’t be effectively put in words. They are ineffable. Beyond the verbal capacity of description. Shane Warne’s deliveries were ineffable mysteries of a magician. They fizzed, looped, drifted, and turned as if they evoked some sort of sorcery from the innards of the pitch. Some of them zipped in, darting through the air, catching the batsman frozen, as a hare caught on the glare of headlights.

 Most greats don’t begin their journey with a bang. Their myth and legend grow on the way. Warne’s Test debut was forgettable. The tubby, blond leg spinner was caned by Ravi Shastri who was on his way to a double century in Sydney. Warne eventually picked up the Indian opener when he played one shot too many—holing out in the deep to Dean Jones.

 But then, it was Warne’s baby steps into the man’s world of Test matches. And, soon he walked into the shoes of the legends with some bowling performances that spellbound the whole cricketing world.

 I watched him live only twice. One as a fan, and the other as a journalist. The first was in 1994 when the Australians came to Sharjah to play the Australasia Cup. In the semis, a belligerent Vinod Kambli rattled off 22 runs in one Warne over. He was popular among the predominantly Asian crowd. He acknowledged the hysterical calls of “Warnie…Warnie…” from the noisy stands.

 Then four years later, again, in Sharjah, when Sachin Tendulkar played the “desert storm” innings. I reported the match for my newspaper. Warne couldn’t do much in the match as Tendulkar went on a barrage.

 At a time when spin was becoming a lost art, Warne and Muttiah Muralitharan revived it. One with a “helicopter wrist” that turned the ball from off to leg and occasionally the other way, the “doosra”, and the other with magic in his wrist and fingers drifted and swerved the ball and turned it square from leg to off with a deadly mix of the flipper that rammed into the batsman.

 For some time, we debated who was a better spinner—Warne or Murali? Both had wickets in bucketfuls. But then judging these masters on their stats is like counting how many words Shakespeare wrote! They both not only redeemed the art of spin but redefined it.

 “Leg-spin is bloody hard. It takes a big heart and a strong character,” wrote Warne in his autobiography. Warne himself had tried to conjure up the magic of leg-spin when he said: “The art of leg-spin is creating something that is not really there. It is a magic trick, surrounded by mystery, aura, and fear. What is coming and how will it get there? At what speed, trajectory, and with what sound, because when correctly released, the ball fizzes like electricity on a wire! How much flight, swerve, dip and spin and which way? Where will it land and what will happen?”

 Warne took the art of leg spin from its hazards and made it “cool” and charming. He gave it oomph and ecstasy. He gave it rainbows and roses. He added a tinge of romance and a dash of buccaneer spirit to it.

 Sport needs its mavericks, especially when it has almost become as cut-throat as any business. Warne was the Maradona of cricket. Like most geniuses, Warne enjoyed the excesses of life—be it sexting, weed, or women—and was often found on the wrong side of the ‘politically correct’ table. The “spin king” on the pitch, Warne was a playboy known for his love of cigarettes and beer off it.

 Mark Nicholas writes in the introduction to Warne’s autobiography, No Spin:

 “Women have been both his fun and his folly. Cricket, of course, has been his fulfilment. He is, in the truest sense, a great cricketer. He has touched the game in all its genres and formats, and in myriad ways. Mainly, he has ridden roughshod over any opponent who has stood in his way. Only in Test matches in India has the local talent held sway, though there were mitigating circumstances. Richie Benaud called him not just the greatest leg-spinner of all time but the greatest bowler he had seen, full stop. Richie’s judgement will do for me.”

 It must be good enough for all of us.

 One of Wisden’s five cricketers of the 20th century, Warne was a sporting idol across the globe and a magnet for the tabloids. From a budding Aussie Rules footballer in suburban Melbourne to the legendary “Gatting ball” to his history-making 700th Test wicket to the diuretic pill in South Africa to his high-profile relationship with Hollywood star Elizabeth Hurley, Warne’s story is gripping and juicy.

 Warne was not only one of the greats to have played the game, but a maverick genius like Ian Botham who had fans around the world. Despite being a talismanic thorn in many batting lineups, he had been much loved in the countries he played in, especially in the UK where he played for Hampshire. He was also admired and loved in India and South Africa.

 Even after he hung his boots in 2006, a tad premature one reckons, Warne had been all over us. His commentary for Fox and Sky was insightful. A man with a sharp cricketing brain, he dissected the game for the audience.

 A leader is not a manager but an influencer. Warne was not a manager but a leader who inspired the youngsters he worked with. He was the captain-cum-coach who won the first IPL title for Rajasthan Royals, bringing the best out of a bunch of talented no-ones.

 Australia has lost two cricketing heroes within the span of 24 hours. Barely a few hours after Warne tweeted his shock and loss at the passing of Rod Marsh, he himself was gone at the age of 52.

 My teenage son, Sean, who picked up the ball and began to tweak it after watching the videos of Warne, broke down and wept uncontrollably when he heard the news of Warne passing away in Thailand. He jotted down in his social media: “The first person I ever saw while stepping into my cricket life, my idol, my hero who inspired me and helped me find my passion in leg spinning, I still remember a young me watching your videos and trying to imitate you, your Australian charisma, all of that…never shall I nor the world [sic] forget you. You’ll always be my hero, legend! Thank you for everything, champ!”

 That’s how Shane Keith Warne touched our hearts, especially the youngsters who dare to dream.

About The Author

Sabin Iqbal

Sabin Iqbal is a journalist, novelist and literary curator. He curates Mathrubhumi International Festival of Letters. His third novel, Tales from Qabristan, will be published soon

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