Bowled over by Black Caps

Idecided as long ago as last week that this week I would devote my column to the Black Caps’ participation in their second successive Cricket World Cup final. What I hadn’t anticipated was that the New Zealand team would be contributing to perhaps the most dramatic cricket match in the history of the game and that by the time I sat down to offer my perspective just about everything that could be said about this clash had already been written.

All that is left for me to say is that it was a privilege to watch such an amazing match, played in excellent spirit and with more surprises than an Agatha Christie thriller.

I was particularly delighted to be able to view the game because I had already missed New Zealand’s upset victory over India in the semifinals.

We had booked a mid-winter break on the West Coast long before the tournament began and if I was feeling conflicted after New Zealand’s opening performances, three defeats in a row convinced me I would only be missing seeing the Black Caps succumbing to the might of India.

I had also mistakenly believed that at least I would be able to follow that match on my phone. After all, the seafront bach where we were staying was advertised as having wi-fi.

On arrival at the property I quickly discovered that broadband connection seemed to be a figment of the owner’s imagination. My phone searched valiantly for a network but, apart from one fleeting, tantalising moment that connection remained elusive.

Even worse, there wasn’t even a phone signal in the area. A 15-minute drive to Punakaiki was required to achieve even that limited link.

So it was that the first I knew of the Black Caps’ remarkable upset victory over India was several hours after the match had finished.

Grieved as I was to miss such an exciting game, I consoled myself with the knowledge that at least I would be back home for the final. I also took solace from the fact that the enforced cold turkey from technology meant I was able to read three novels without distraction from my phone.

To make up for missing the India game, I sat up until 2am on Monday to watch the Black Caps accumulate a score of 241. I say ‘‘accumulate’’ because the pace was pedestrian and the final score was surely not enough to pose problems for this cavalier England batting lineup.

I woke early the next morning to watch the most extraordinary ending to any sporting spectacle ever. It was a match with more twists and turns than the road from our bach at Fox River to Punakaiki.

Fate was unbearably cruel to the gallant Kiwis – the ball sliding off the outstretched bat of Christchurch-born Ben Stokes to race for an extra boundary; the Trent Boult ‘‘catch’’ that was instead a six; the fact that until a recent rule change New Zealand would in any other previous tournament have shared the title.

I took some consolation in the fact that, unlike in our defeat four years ago, it was England who lifted the trophy and not Australia, a team that in recent times has taken to the field with equipment more suitable for furniture restoration than polishing a cricket ball. But, despite my English heritage, I was still gutted for the Black Caps. I was also grateful that so many of my former countrymen were quick to acknowledge that the Kiwis were desperately unlucky to lose and that they had retained their sportsmanship and class even in the most disappointing of losses.

The Black Caps may have lost a final but they gained the admiration of a generation of cricket lovers around the world.

Ten outside players were signed for Manawatu¯ last year. This season there are four.