da aviator aposta： A novelist argues that cricket is more character-revealing than character-building
da pinup bet： Patrick Neate09-May-2013I am currently working on a feature film script. A novelist by trade and instinct, I am finding it a testing process; a tricky exercise of discipline and concision. The opening line, for now at least, is: “You can learn everything you need to know about life from the game of cricket: the old man told me that.”The script is an adaptation of one of my own novels, , a gumshoe I once believed would presage a whole new genre of suburban thriller. I even had a name for it: Chiswick Noir. Good, eh? Almost a decade later, my novel remains, so far as I know, its only exemplar.The protagonist of , George Eliot’s masterpiece, the A-to-Z treatment by way of illustration. Dorothea, an idealistic do-gooder, makes an ill-starred marriage to a crusty, deluded intellectual in the mistaken belief that personal and social fulfillment can be found in academic pursuit. After her husband’s death, she eventually marries his young cousin, giving up material security and highfalutin ideals for love and, we are left to hope, some degree of redemption.I haven’t read – create its “beat sheet”, as the movie business likes to call it. The screenplay would undoubtedly identify “carelessness” as our hero’s fatal flaw within the first ten pages, probably illustrated by some anecdote of schoolboy insouciance. Act One would culminate with him striking his first ball in Test cricket to the boundary, before a decline in Gower’s fortunes to the Midpoint (say, the time he was dropped for the Oval Test in Ian Botham’s great summer of 1981). Our hero would then fight his way back to the end of Act Two where he would ascend to the captaincy for… well, let’s make it the “blackwash” series of 1984. He would show renewed mettle in defeat, which would then lead to a grand series win in India, before the glorious summer following culminates in Ashes triumph and a glut of runs for the man himself – the golden boy all grown up. This is the feature film version. I’m not suggesting it’s a particularly good feature film, but it pushes the necessary buttons., on the other hand, would be a very different undertaking. I won’t try to plot it here, but I know that we couldn’t simply signify our protagonist with “carelessness”. In fact, there is no need to plot the novel here since it already exists in the person of Gower himself. And it is a subtle tale that can only be précised to 117 matches, 8231 runs at an average of 44.25 – greatness by anyone’s standards. And that is why Dad took offence to that single careless adjective.All spectators are, of course, guilty of careless description. I have already been so myself, characterising Ian Bell as a flower-arranger. So, by way of contrition, I will use a moment from Bell’s career as one of my examples for the comparison of two sports instead of two narrative media.In 2008, John Terry, Chelsea captain, stepped up to take a penalty in the shoot-out which could win his club the Champions League for the first time. As he struck the ball, he slipped and sent his shot wide. It was a moment of high sporting drama, certainly; if you were a Chelsea fan, some tragedy; if you were one of Terry’s many detractors, an instant of glorious schadenfreude. But I challenge anyone to claim it revealed much meaningful about his character. No doubt in Chelsea-hating pubs across the country, JT was derided as a “bottler”, but does that even approximate to a truth we believe? The fact is he missed a penalty kick he’d have scored nine times out of ten. He slipped. Shit happens.Now, let us look at Ian Bell’s dismissal in the first innings of the first Test against India in Ahmedabad in 2012. India had scored 521 and England were struggling at 69 for 4 when Bell walked to the wicket. Then, he tried to hit the very first delivery he received back over the bowler’s head to the boundary and spooned a simple catch to mid-off. I’m sure commentators used the word “careless”, though I don’t actually remember the invocation of Gower. It was an extraordinary shot, no doubt, but it also seemed more than that – in some way a summation of Bell as cricketer and man. In no particular order, Bell was batting at No. 6, a kind of ongoing reminder of a perceived weakness – we all know (and he knows) that he has the talent and technique to bat at three, but isn’t trusted to do so. We all know his reputation for scoring easy runs – even the game in which he hit his 199 against South Africa in 2008 eventually petered out into a high-scoring draw, while his double-century against India in 2011 was milked from a beaten team at the end of a long summer. The former young maestro was one of three senior pros in the England top six, the go-to men to bat their team out of a crisis. His place in the team was under pressure from the next generation of tyros and he was due to return home after the game for the birth of his first child. Lastly, we all know that cricket is a game in which you have to trust your judgement and, to Bell’s credit, he trusted his. Unfortunately, that judgement was terribly flawed, but would we have preferred him to poke forward nervously and nick to the keeper? Perhaps we would. The incident reminded me of something else I tell would-be novelists: when you’re writing well, you can reveal more about a character in one moment than in 20 pages of exposition.Anyone see Anna Karenina in this picture?•Getty ImagesOf course I recognise that the oppositions I describe between cricket and other sports, and the novel and other narrative media, are false. There are plenty of unremarkable cricket matches and careers, plenty of epic examples from any other sport you can think of; innumerable bad, unsophisticated novels and many great films of considerable complexity. Nonetheless, I would maintain that the observations underlying these false oppositions ring true. There is something about cricket at its best that sets it apart – the space and time that allow for character development, the empathy and identification between player and spectator, the struggles of an individual against the backdrop of an interwoven narrative of a wider war for ascendancy (or, if you will, a “team game”). There is something about the novel form which, at its best, is exactly the same. Or, to put it another way, in the words of Tommy Akhtar, private eye, in the last scene of my film: “The Yanks will never get cricket. They’ll never understand a five-day Test match that ends in a draw. They like victory and defeat. But victory and defeat are generally nursery rhymes, while a draw can be epic.” Cricket, like a novel, like life, often ends in moral stalemate. And it’s all the better for it.If describing Ian Bell as a florist smacks of carelessness, then describing KP as some kind of idiot savant is unfortunate (see the KP Genius Twitter account) so, by way of conclusion, let me rectify that here. After all, the idea for this little essay came about while re-reading Anna Karenina against the backdrop of Pietersen’s recent conflict with his team-mates, his captain, his coach, and the ECB.Pietersen was, I began to consider, rather like poor, doomed Anna. He was regarded as self-serving, his judgement fatally flawed, seemingly hell-bent on alienating himself from his peers. He was characterised as a mercenary, and certainly he had no desire to live in anything but the considerable style to which he was accustomed. But, like Anna, his true tragedy was an ill-starred love: a love that could not be condoned by polite society, but would not be contained by its strictures either. But who did KP love?As I read on, I slowly came to conclude that KP also resembled Count Vronsky; as Leo Tolstoy describes him, “a perfect specimen of Pietermaritzburg’s [sorry, “Petersburg’s’] gilded youth”. Vronsky is a brave soldier raised for derring-do and impressive in the regulated environment of his regiment. But he is a man of limited imagination whose bravery derives not from moral courage but the whims of his own desires. Indeed, when Vronsky resigns his commission, it is not from principle but to pursue the self-gratification of his love for Anna, a love that can never fulfill either of them.And so it dawned on me: KP is neither Anna nor Vronsky, he is both of them – the cricketing manifestation of Tolstoy’s epic of doomed love.Is this a step too far? Certainly. But fun, nonetheless…