The Big Show at the Wankhede Opera House
What wasn't meant to happen, but it did. Yet we can all agree that it was a truly beautiful opera.
This ongoing university semester, I wake up thrice a week at 9:30 AM to attend a 2.5-hour lecture spanning from 11:30 AM to 2 PM, and Tuesday is one of those days.
Typically, I get up twice in the middle and fall back asleep quickly before officially waking up around 9:30 AM to get ready for my day, and the second time is usually a bit over an hour prior.
But that day, the second instance came at 8:39 AM. I opened the ESPNCricinfo app and read that Azmatullah Omarzai took back-to-back wickets, not realizing that Glenn Maxwell was due to face the hat trick ball.
I immediately fell back asleep, and once I finally woke up for the day, Maxwell was 20 runs off 21 deliveries.
Though matches are live while I’m eating breakfast, I choose not to watch when I have to go to campus.
About an hour later, before setting en route for my 45-minute commute to campus, I viewed the score a final time and saw that Maxwell had just reached his century.
However, I didn’t make much of it, for I was of the notion that well before completing my commute, the match would be dusted due to the tail’s inability to wag long enough to see it all the way to the finish line.
I parked in the parking structure with my car too left-centered in the spot I parked in, and though I tried correcting it in a hurry, after checking the Cricinfo app and reading that Maxwell was on 170 with Cummins still continuing his block-a-thon at the other end, like a typical politician, I took a U-turn.
There were less than 10 minutes before class began, but that was no longer the reason for me to arrive on time; it was to watch whatever I could catch of what was going on that evening at Wankhede, albeit the thought crossed that knowing my luck, it might finally be all over by then.
I did arrive on time and took my usual seat: second in the third row of the seating area’s right side, but so taken aback was I from what I was reading about that match that rather than take out my notebook and pencil case to pretend that I was even listening, I instantly took out my phone and loaded a pirated stream on Touchcric, and inserted my right earbud in my ear.
When the stream loaded, the first thing I saw was a replay of Maxwell’s batting stance in the boundaries he hit in the previous 5 overs, as though he were super glued to his crease, just powerfully dragging the ball with literally zero timing, footwork, and hip-shoulder separation; he virtually had no hitting base, though I was unbeknownst to the pain he was enduring throughout his innings.
With 21 runs needed off the final 4 overs, the stream began to buffer right before the second ball of what would turn out to be the finishing act. Now super glued to my phone myself, I quickly refreshed and was just in time to bear witness to the crescendo, for who’d want to miss that?
Within a mile radius of my campus is a temple that frequently hosts theatre-related events and a performing arts theatre. Such events are typically hosted on Friday nights or on the weekend rather than before noon in the middle of the week, but that day, in my lecture hall with a maximum occupancy of 75 persons, for a bit over half an hour, one person was illegally, virtually attending an opera being conducted at Wankhede by a Victorian that just so happens to be their favorite since they started following the game, deeply immersed in the venue all the way in the subcontinent rather than the world of Chapter 8 that was to be on their exam later in the week.
Such was the nature of the opera that even if you were late to it on a rainy, thunderous evening with heavy traffic, you risked getting your attire drenched due to the continuous, pouring rain, and had to step on the water puddles that formed or even placed your jacket over the puddle for your lover before arriving at the venue and show your tickets and caught just the crescendo, you’d still depart with a big, grinning smile of immense satisfaction, shedding tears of joy, for every cent spent was still well worth what you were able to watch.
Because the performance was that beautiful.
In spite of how brief the glimpse you were ultimately able to get of the performance that evening, it’d pull your heartstrings as it did of Anton Ego’s the moment he ate Remy’s Ratatouille, transporting you down to memory lane of more, simpler times during your youth, when akin to Auguste Gusteau’s cookbook titled “Anyone Can Cook”, you thought you could do anything in the world before soul-crushing realities, unfortunately, got to you, for this indeed, was better than drugs Jeremy.
It was the stuff of dreams, for while you were being transported to memory lane live during the performance, it’d hit you that you can really do anything, for that a man and woman can indeed dream, and have the right to do so.
If you went to the Wankhede Opera House with a friend or lover, you’d ask them to pinch you. If you didn’t, you’d still ask the next person you come across to kindly pinch you to confirm that it is reality, for what you had just witnessed truly personified that anything is possible in your imagination, as the barrier you had in place between your realm of dream and reality was shattering like glass.
You were truly on cloud nine, no longer able to coherently comprehend what’s reality and what isn’t, for you had completely lost your grasp on it as a result of what just happened, as it went against your definition of what is humanly possible, for Maxwell had just transcended human limits.
That would be the theist perspective, in that Maxwell was one of many splendor human beings bestowed upon the world by God, for no average mere mortal could pull off what he just did.
On the other hand, the atheist perspective of transcending human limits equated to godlike qualities, for to orchestrate such a performance in a country where their greatest cricketers are literally revered like Gods, that too orchestrated by one who is open to talking about mental health (challenging traditional gender roles by doing so as a male), but continues to be taboo and stigmatized in India, one may be inclined to believe that what they just saw may be the closest rendition of his capabilities society has defined.
Or perhaps, for modern-day atheist cricket fans, Maxwell became what Sachin Tendulkar is to the fans who grew up watching him: their God of cricket.
After all, this is the guy who said that he feels as comfortable playing the reverse sweep as he does playing the cover drive.
This was the guy who knew the public scrutiny of playing unorthodox shots and being dismissed playing them, for the societal ruler he defined for himself deviated from established norms as Vinland Saga mangaka Makoto Yukimura would say.
This was the guy who only 3 years ago, after being bought for 10.75 crores INR (approx. $1.3M USD then) to be the most expensive purchase of the then Kings XI Punjab that Indian Premier League (IPL) auction failed to hit a single six across the 106 balls he played in 11 innings, for lady luck was so unkind to Maxwell that the one six he could’ve hit ended up falling inches short when it was needed off the final delivery against arch nemesis Kolkata Knight Riders, remaining the zero he was seen as throughout the season instead of becoming the hero who had sealed their qualification after being off key the entire season.
But fast forward to the present, and now he’ll most likely be best remembered not for his funky shots over the years, but for a crescendo of one-legged, conventional strokeplay immediately after falling down to the ground like a fallen comrade in your division, for his body was in his words, “starting to shut down.”, threading the fine line of human capabilities and godlike qualities, for lady luck finally showered her blessings down Maxwell when he and Australia most needed it, perhaps at the expense of going against God's plan.
Nonetheless, if for the rest of time common ground can never be reached regarding the existence of God between both groups, it can certainly be reached in accepting that the music to their ears throughout the evening was that of an extraordinary superhuman.
Adding further beauty to the performance was the becoming zeitgeist of the attendees filling up the room as it gradually progressed, with the expectation of impending Australian demise, while their fans clocked out for the night, expecting to wake up to the agonizing cries of a badly dented net run rate, with the rest of the world jubilant over the prospects of Afghanistan’s qualification for the semifinals highly likely now.
But such was the requiem conducted by Maxwell against Afghanistan’s World Cup campaign that not only did Australians rejoice when they woke up and found out what ended up unfolding, but so did most fans expecting history to be written live in front of their eyes, for it was, just not what they (Afghanistan fans in particular), nor our wonderful scriptwriters we’ve been accustomed to post-pandemic had in mind at all.
Far from it.
At the fall of the 7th wicket in Mitchell Starc, with 197 runs needed off 186 deliveries, Cricinfo gave Australia a win probability of 0.46%, while at 89-6 in 17.1 overs, the on-air Win Predictor read a probability of 6% for Australia.
What was looking to be the inevitable coming of “there’s a first time for everything” for Australia in facing their first defeat against Afghanistan across all 3 formats as it came for Pakistan and rivals England in ODIs this World Cup, Maxwell literally asked the Wankhede Opera House and the entire cricketing fraternity to hold his beer.
January 20th, 1961 was the date of John Fitzgerald Kennedy’s presidential inauguration address in the White House, marking the beginning of his tenure as the United States’ 35th president, and the most memorable part of his address came at the climax, where he said, “Ask not what you can do for your country, but what your country can do for you.”
22,936 days later, as Maxwell was heading out to the stage with Australia reeling at 49/4 in 8.3 overs and due to face a hattrick ball first up, it was as though he posed the opposite antithesis to that of Kennedy’s as he prepared himself for what was to come, “Ask not what your country can do for you, but what you can do for your country.”
As the saying goes, “Destiny is in your hands”, and as Chrollo Lucilfer would say, we are fated to do what we are meant to do, so given you are representing your birthplace at the World Cup and you find yourself at such a cross stands, what better than to think like a patriot and put your life on the line to prevent Australia’s name from being tainted, as such desperate times call for desperate measures, no?
And just like that, the drive of patriotism became his raison d'être for his 181-minute performance, becoming the biggest simp of Australia known to man during his stay; if you were to coincidentally frame this as a question whilst in this period, the correct answer would be none other than Maxwell.
There was wide criticism of Afghanistan not bowling wide lines frequently enough to Maxwell, particularly at the point when he was unable to move an inch from his crease, but when you’re a patriotic man out for blood like Teufelshund on the battlefield whose appetite yearned for further satiation as though he now became part vampire with the many close calls endured, such weaknesses become null.
After all, Maxwell was a simp, and when there’s a will, there’s a way.
He didn’t give a damn what his weaknesses were, showcased when he sliced Noor Ahmed over mid-off to reach his 50 and reverse-swept Omarzai over deep third after reaching 150 as a part of his transition to the crescendo, for his bat was one with free association, batting however he wanted to in spite of the situation at hand and his physical state, as though he were Sigmund Freud’s proud son: 99% of his theories were proven to be bizarre and unscientific, but he clearly didn’t give any damn back then.
But before the audience could attest to the latter sight to behold, The Big Show collapsed on the ground.
55 runs were needed off 58 deliveries when it happened, with his worst cramps coming in his calf muscle, and even his middle toe on the right toe “starting to bend back.”
Adam Zampa was waiting outside the rope ready to try and continue the opera as it was panning out to be, but as though Maxwell was part of a shogun in Imperial Japan for whom returning would mean besmirching his clan name, he stayed put and battled through the excruciating pain, for he not only knew that only he could see through the destiny he sought out for with his bare hands, his body would’ve cooled down, which would’ve made it difficult to return down the long staircase as the team physio revealed to him.
On top of that, simps never know when to give up, so why would he back out now and shirk what he set out to do?
To acquiesce was anything but in his vocabulary at that point in time, abiding by his fate and heeding his call like a proud, patriotic soldier; as docile as adrenaline junkies come.
Attack on Titan’s final episode was finally released this month on 5th November, and on the same day, the New York Times published an interview with mangaka Hajime Isayama about the ending. Asked about whether or not Eren Jaeger was telling the truth to Armin Arlert about having to follow the future he foresaw, he responded with how since he began writing the story, he had the ending in mind, “and the story ended up being read and watched by an incredible number of people, and it led me to being given a huge power that I didn’t quite feel comfortable with.”
Maxwell was being watched live by 33,000 people at the venue and by millions across the globe, and seeing as he was the last recognized batter standing for Australia at one end, he was bestowed upon with a huge power that physically, he was clearly far from comfortable with like Isayama, but mentally, he accepted it like Eren, prepared to stand or die.
It was anything but hubris, he knew he was him.
This would lead him to take an attack position he learned from a drill 8-9 years ago in the Big Bash League (BBL) as a lieutenant in the first division of the Melbourne Stars, where he’d hold his top body for as long as he could, instantly turning his hunch into a simple yet obvious epiphany, as serendipitous as this abstraction may be.
I had the honor of getting my hands on a full ball-by-ball replay of the opera, and to say the least, the 27 balls that followed was a crescendo like no other we’ve seen in chases this century, for in spite of obviously being well beyond his physical limits, he suddenly reached a state of zen.
As he got up and prepared to face the remaining deliveries to come, it was like the initiation of the dramatic opera music cliché in war movies, with the singer progressively becoming more dramatic as Maxwell hit boundaries as though it were the sound of gunfire and cries of soldiers growing louder and louder, reeking the stench of blood lust and malice in the name of his country, for if it were curtains for the rest of his World Cup campaign that evening, he minds as well go out with a bang.
And to go out with a bang meant he was maxed out, achieving zenith like a level 100 Pokemon properly EV trained, like a final boss in a video game who was impossible to defeat no matter what you did, like a broken character who completely ruined the balance of the meta and the developers were too lazy to patch him; he was perfection personified.
It was like seeing a Viking desperate to go to Valhalla at that very moment, like Goliath went off script and completely destroyed David, like Godzilla was right in front of your very eyes, like seeing a real-life incarnation of Thorfinn from Vinland Saga's first season, yet in spite of essentially being stuck to the crease like he had no gravitational pull surrounding the manifestation of his flesh, bone, and soul, he began to magnetize the entire audience present at the Wankhede Opera House, as well as viewers around the world with his attack position, standing and delivering.
Five major dimensions have been identified by personality psychologists to describe how people are, dubbed the OCEAN model. The last dimension is Neuroticism, meant to help you gauge a person’s emotional stability and self-doubt, and had Maxwell taken the Big Five Personality Test before seeing off the rest of the chase, he easily would’ve gotten the lowest possible score in that dimension, and I doubt there are many better examples out there of when a person is anything but neurotic.
In getting up from the ground, Maxwell instilled the slow, “Count me in!” one-by-one hope cliché often seen in action movies in the Australian dugout and fans alike, where the underdog protagonist somehow invigorates his entire town no matter how bleak the situation is looking.
Truth be told, whatever analogy you concoct to describe what followed after probably fits the bill perfectly, for I don’t believe there can be one that perfectly encapsulates what had just happened, albeit from the very moment I began writing this piece, I was listening to dramatic opera music on loop, for I personally believe that it best captures the zeitgeist of The Big Show that day.
Regardless, it was something that could not be quantified by words or data for that matter, for it was a one-of-a-kind supernatural phenomenon seen once in a million years.
However, one thing’s for sure: the knock violated one of Christianity’s seven deadly sins in gluttony, for The Big Show did not at all know when to quit, simply because he had no intention of ever doing so in the first place!
Remember, he was the biggest simp for his country at that moment, so if it meant being just as much of a glutton, it was a small price to pay, a price that could ultimately be paid by seeking forgiveness.
Maxwell’s gluttony was finally satiated at the conclusion of the crescendo, when he thanked Mujeeb-ur-Rehman for dropping him at short fine leg when he was on just 33 runs by heaving him over deep midwicket for six to finally conclude his performance, deserving to be carried off the stage as Ian Smith aptly put it, for this was all done in the name of his country.
Two nights before I even began penning my thoughts, I found myself in search of highlights of a Kevin Pietersen test knock where the commentator says “You often run out of superlatives when describing Kevin Pietersen’s batting’ for an hour.
To my misfortune, I was unable to find what I was looking for. But for all I know, American psychologist Elizabeth Loftus would probably tell me that this is a classic case of false memory and misinformation effect.
However, what I did discover was Pietersen said the aforementioned quote for Jos Buttler during his glory run last year in IPL, the phrase and variations of it being conveyed way more frequently than I thought it would describe the individual brilliance of players on Twitter to the point that it’s practically overused, and a snippet from Wisden Cricket where Mark Butcher used a variation to describe Maxwell’s performance.
And I agree with him.
Not only that, I’d go as far as saying that going forward, the phrase should be copyrighted specifically for him, for in my personal, humble opinion, if there is an inning where you truly run out of superlatives describing it, this would be textbook.
If there were a singular perfect instance where the neoliberal hellscape nature of capitalism was the need of the hour, it would specifically be for this.
That knock epitomized why we diehard fans invest so much time and emotion into the sport in the first place all these years, not for the continuation of our mundane routine following the teams we support, but for moments like these when you are truly taken aback, remembering the spectacles we humans have been able to pull off since the beginning of the human race, to reach the point at where civilization is at today that made this possible to enjoy.
It’s such moments that have you flabbergasted, texting friends and family who may not even follow cricket in the first place to turn their TVs on and tune in to what’s going on.
It is moments like these that have us humans create one of a million microcosms in modern society, be it in real life or online across various platforms to rub shoulders with those alike and discuss what just happened, relaying their thoughts whilst still in a state of intense shock, and the jaw dropped, forming relationships to together bear witness the next “GOATed performance,” and that too perhaps live at the venue like the Wankhede Opera House as a microcosm.
Such moments inspire the next generation to fall in love with the game and even pursue it professionally one day.
The former is what happened to me nearly a decade ago, ironically because of watching Maxwell smash 74 off 33 balls against Pakistan in the 2014 T20 World Cup chasing 192, and his effortless reverse sweeps against the Chennai Super Kings in the IPL the same year, when he first represented Punjab and struck a 43-ball 95 during a successful chase of 206.
These are such moments that are passed down like folklore for future generations to come, how legends are formed in the first place, akin to how you may have grown up watching cricket and heard your parents or other family members pass down the legends of their time, shoes many of us will probably find ourselves in several years from now.
Given how it rolls off your tongue, you really had to see it to believe the legend, the tale of the legend known as Glenn James Maxwell, a cricketer who modernized the standards of white-ball cricket as we know it, now that is.
Such performances are why we see people in potato chip commercials helplessly looking for them with their friends around the house, for why not savor the moment with your favorite flavor and brand of chips?
We’ve all come across that one guy on social media running some sort of pyramid scheme selling their course to get rich like they did before they’re behind bars shortly after being busted by the police preaching how you’re wasting away doing whatever hobbies you indulge in when you can instead be utilizing it to make a million dollars a year before you turn 25, practically no better than a peasant in his eyes.
In times like these, the best course of action to take is to laugh at them like a cartoon villain, as while they’re busy scamming innocent people under the guise of a “hustler mindset”, you’re having the time of your life.
Certainly, time is money, time is precious, and time is a commodity. Time could be as abundant for you as it is scarce for the person next door, yet we don’t have a definitive answer to how much time we even have left on planet Earth, so why not live by the mantra of trying to make a good living off your natural aptitude and still make time to witness such moments with however much time we may have left and best maximize the return of investment of our time?
Personally, I spent a brief moment of time that day cursing American lawmakers for ending Daylight Savings three days ago, for I could’ve witnessed an hour more of The Big Show live!
But the question everyone has been asking since is, “Is that the greatest ODI knock of all time?”
As Jarrod Kimber said, recency bias is certainly impairing our judgment in how people are ranking this knock, but the Maxwellian in me (and so my heart) says, “Who cares?!”
Ghost In The Shell Writer Kenji Kamiyama would say that this is a case of a standalone complex, where there is a copycat without an original, that being an official definition of what even counts as “the greatest ODI knock of all time” for us to go by, as that is the nature of the question’s subjectivity we have posed ourselves to answer, given how convoluted cricket is anyway.
Regardless though, unless you’re a contrarian, this knock comfortably passes the baseline qualification for the top 5 greatest ODI knock of all time.
And just like that, as you’re leaving the Wankhede Opera House, the realm of reality closes in on you, hitting you like a train; the bitter realities of life dawning on you as though it were a much-needed dosage of karma, be it the train of God's plan or science and mother nature.
The reality is that The Big Show turned 35 years old about a month ago, so irrespective of how much or how little of his career is left, we’ve most likely seen the biggest of what it can now offer, how high its ceiling is.
But if you are an asinine, shameless contrarian who rates this knock as the sixth greatest ODI knock of all time, the Wankhede Opera House bathrooms have just stocked up with toilet paper, just in case you needed to wank over some nostalgia for ol’ times sake and can’t hold it in any longer.
PS: When you do write your biography, I’d love to help, Maxie!