Six o’clock. I think this is a good idea. It didn’t feel like it when the alarm went off 20 minutes ago as watery light crept under the curtains. But now, cycling through the deserted dawn streets of south London to the Oval, my faith is restored.
They still teach the “Gravedigger” theory of news coverage in journalism schools around the world. Ostensibly, it describes the act of reporting on a headline-grabbing news story from the point of view of a peripheral figure or unexpected participant. Days like this do not come around that often. I dismount and stroll into Oval Cafe as the first rashers of bacon are sizzling on the grill.
“It’s good, I’ll do more breakfasts than I thought I was going to!” says the owner, Mehmet, as his daughter-in-law, Seval, serves a couple of bleary eyed punters. They are a Harry Brook bat-toss from the ground but do they care who wins this morning? “Cricket isn’t my thing. I’m from Turkey,” he says, smiling, before rushing off to rotate his rashers.
Over the road, the sign outside St Mark’s church says services are held at 10.30am and 6.30pm on Sundays. There is no sign of the Rev Stephen Coulson but I wonder if his sermon last night touched on biblical rain showers and the morality of Chris Woakes coming out to bat in a sling? I later spy him on the concourse 10 minutes before play begins sporting his dog collar and shepherding a flock of Graham Thorpe-headbanded fans to their seats.
“It’s not a thing for me, cricket. I’m football ,” says Gergo at the Buzz Coffee stand in the churchyard. “I do like hearing the roar from the crowd … but I’ve got no idea what they are cheering about.”
Surely I can find someone who is invested in the outcome of the final Test? As the first few travellers emerge from the Oval tube station I sidle over to the kiosk. Questions about how many hours Jamie Overton slept in his hyperbaric chamber are met with blank faces and played with a TfL stickered dead bat. “As long as everyone gets in and out safely, that’s all that matters to us.”
At 7.30am, the ground is empty but there is a hi-vis hive of activity from stewards, litter pickers, security staff and food and drink vendors. The place is creaking to life, unexpectedly for one last time. The 25th and last day of a pulverising series.
“You didn’t think you’d be back today did you?” chirps a perky steward. “Hopefully England have got a plan, they got themselves in a pickle yesterday,” muses player and match official Hari Haran. He was in the ground as a punter on Sunday with his son. “He’s at work today unfortunately, so am I, but I’ll have a decent view.”
Loitering on the boundary edge, the Oval looks impossibly beautiful even with a sheet of tarpaulin stretched across the square. The ground staff mow, hammer, sweep and eye me with suspicion, understandably after the week they have had. “Morning,” says the head honcho, Lee Fortis, hubcap hands carrying coffee and what looks like one of Mehmet’s breakfast specials.
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Later, the players take the field to huge roars. The dhol drummers drum and Jerusalem is parped. “We’re like two urchins” says Andy, peering through the gates this morning but does not have a ticket. He is joined by Vicky, a local artist from round the corner in Vauxhall. They have just met but will watch the action, or what they can glimpse of it, together. “I had to come down,” says Vicky. “I’ll combine it with a trip to Tate Britain,” says Andy.
Snatched conversations about the heavy roller as a comfort blanket can be heard as fans nervously take their seats. Prasidh Krishna stands at the top his mark. There is rain in the distance but the Test summer will finish today. Thousands in south London will remember it for ever, just as a cast of plenty go about their Monday morning as if it is any other.
