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In the 1986/87 season, when England last won the Ashes, I gave scant regard to the fact. I was only 13, after all, and regular swapping around of the Urn was commonplace. Even in 1989, when on day one Mark Taylor and this guy Slater were 300-odd for none after the first day, surely, it was only a blip on the radar? It only got worse from there, of course, and by the time this series came around, I, and the rest of the England cricket supporting community, could only truly expect the same-old-same-old.
And so, after the Lords' Test, it came to pass: England humiliated by Warne and McGrath, as they had been for the past decade. The batting fragility of Hayden and Gilchrist and Martyn was only temporary, and the usual Summer of Pain was upon us. Thank goodness the football season was only a couple of weeks away.
Then the morning of the Edgbaston match came around, and the news spread: McGrath injured in a freak accident during the warm-up, out of the match. Our hearts lifted, and a day later, and 400 giddy, heady, runs later, we had to take stock: had we really witnessed what we had? Surely, though, on such a pitch, Australia would do similar, and we'd lose.
And so the summer progressed: we punched, they counter-punched, with just enough weight for us to feel it, and to be rocked back, and to teeter on the brink of dropping to the canvas. Each time we came back, and refused to drop, as did the Australians, and in the end the classic test series of all time took shape.
Not one player lay down and gave up, nobody backed down, not even to the last. Even the single over of the Australian second innings today, when they could not possibly have done anything but play out the day's remaining overs for a draw, was not a tame affair.
In the end, I'll not forget this summer, for a variety of reasons. This Ashes triumph will be a backdrop to it, I will be able to anchor events by saying "that was the day Harmison bowled Clarke with the slow yorker", but by doing so recalling who was with me, and where I was, and what I was doing, when it happened.
This summer has been my 1966. I can but hope, but maybe next summer in Germany, I will be able to paint a similar picture. Something tells me that it won't be so; and right now, I can't really that that would be a truly bad thing.
And so, after the Lords' Test, it came to pass: England humiliated by Warne and McGrath, as they had been for the past decade. The batting fragility of Hayden and Gilchrist and Martyn was only temporary, and the usual Summer of Pain was upon us. Thank goodness the football season was only a couple of weeks away.
Then the morning of the Edgbaston match came around, and the news spread: McGrath injured in a freak accident during the warm-up, out of the match. Our hearts lifted, and a day later, and 400 giddy, heady, runs later, we had to take stock: had we really witnessed what we had? Surely, though, on such a pitch, Australia would do similar, and we'd lose.
And so the summer progressed: we punched, they counter-punched, with just enough weight for us to feel it, and to be rocked back, and to teeter on the brink of dropping to the canvas. Each time we came back, and refused to drop, as did the Australians, and in the end the classic test series of all time took shape.
Not one player lay down and gave up, nobody backed down, not even to the last. Even the single over of the Australian second innings today, when they could not possibly have done anything but play out the day's remaining overs for a draw, was not a tame affair.
In the end, I'll not forget this summer, for a variety of reasons. This Ashes triumph will be a backdrop to it, I will be able to anchor events by saying "that was the day Harmison bowled Clarke with the slow yorker", but by doing so recalling who was with me, and where I was, and what I was doing, when it happened.
This summer has been my 1966. I can but hope, but maybe next summer in Germany, I will be able to paint a similar picture. Something tells me that it won't be so; and right now, I can't really that that would be a truly bad thing.
