The Shorter Wisden 2013 (21 page)

On the subject of natural talent, a condition he is accused of possessing with every new example of genius, he smiles knowingly: “There’s no substitute for hard work. Even those
players who make it look easy, they all train hard. There’s such a thing as natural talent, and no such thing as natural success.”

Minor frailties in his technique were exposed when he made a false start to his international career back in 2004-05. He played round his front pad, and was dropped after two Tests at home to
England amid whispers of tokenism. He also struggled against the short ball, and spent close to 100 hours in Kingsmead’s indoor school facing thousands of bouncers from a bowling machine at
full pace. After 15 Tests, he averaged 25 – a figure he has since doubled. That was not, as Amla says, a result of natural talent.

And yet he clearly has something. Whereas others see fielders, Amla sees gaps. It accounts for his occasionally extraordinary shot selection, such as leaping towards cover and flicking decent
deliveries through the leg side from outside off stump. “Sometimes you need to hit the ball where the bowler doesn’t want you to,” he says, trying hard not to sound
confrontational. “I’m sure it does upset bowlers, but that’s not my aim. I just want to score runs.”

The wrist skills which characterise his run-making are not, in fact, a legacy of his Indian heritage. His grandparents emigrated from Gujarat 60 years ago, but his blood is “South African
green”, and his subcontinental batting skills are all self-taught. It is Amla’s ability to manoeuvre himself, at times un-obtrusively, into unorthodox positions that makes his
batsmanship appear less outrageous than it really is. Only the most discerning observe his ability to toy with the bowler and create scoring opportunities. The off-stump guard he took to Graeme
Swann during the Oval Test was a classic of the genre; by the end of the series, Swann was bowling without a slip.

HASHIM MAHOMED AMLA, born in Durban on March 31, 1983, encounters awe on a regular basis, but he does not encourage it. Awe, he feels, should be reserved for those with a special dispensation in
life, not for a cricketer who – like him – happens to lead a simple existence according to the principles of his religion. He does not enjoy the spotlight, nor when his cricket is
linked to his Muslim faith. He sees his religion, personality and cricket as existing concurrently, but separately, and finds it peculiar that people should seek a special explanation for his
ability to cope with, say, the tension of a Lord’s century or a steepling catch in the deep with a series at stake. Amla’s Twitter lexicon is more Durban hipster than cricketer: were he
not a batsman, he’d be a surfer.

His aura and influence within the team are as profound as they are unintended. The way he goes about his daily life has changed the perspective of team-mates. On tour, Morne Morkel has been
known to appease his own stresses and strains just by spending time in Amla’s hotel room. An Afrikaner in the room of a Muslim: nothing to them, earthquake to social historians. Even the
traditional drinkers in the squad adore Amla for his non-judgmental approach. Despite refusing to wear the logo of the national sponsor – Castle Lager – he thoroughly endorses personal
choice. He has gone out of his way to make team-mates aware he is neither disapproving nor uncomfortable when they celebrate victories in the traditional way.

Captaincy is a tricky subject. He’s very good at it, and everyone wants him to do it, but he’s only reluctantly willing, not keen. Amla understands the political expediency and other
benefits of occupying a position of national leadership. But he also understands his game well enough to know that the most likely result is fewer runs. He was Under-19 captain when South Africa
were beaten by Australia in 2002, and had the captaincy of KwaZulu-Natal thrust upon him at the age of 21. The first worked, the second didn’t.

A glorious 2012 has left him thinking of nothing but the next innings. “Things have a way of sorting themselves out. For now I am simply loving the game. This
Wisden
honour is
very, very special. I do not regard myself in the same company as many previous winners.” The modesty would have England’s bowlers ruefully shaking their heads.

R
ICHARD
L
ATHAM

When Somerset declared on 512 for nine against Worcestershire on the penultimate day of the County Championship, Nick Compton was on 155 and six runs adrift of a first-class
average of 100. This was a feat only four men had achieved in an English summer since the war (five, if you include Australian tailender Bill Johnston, who was dismissed once in 17 innings in
1953). In the event, he ended up settling for a first-class average of 99.60 and – in case sceptics wondered whether his stats had been misleadingly massaged by a huge 236 against Cardiff
MCCU at the start of April – a Championship figure of 99.25. Among batsmen who had played at least ten innings, that average placed him 26 runs ahead of the next best. His first-class tally
of 1,494 runs was 280 more than second-placed James Hildreth, a Somerset team-mate – despite Compton missing three matches with a back injury.

It was a gargantuan effort in a summer which, certainly in the matches played before the break for Twenty20 cricket in mid-June, was tailor-made for seam bowling. The fact that he had missed out
on another statistical landmark earlier in the season barely seemed to matter. Compton had been robbed by rain of the chance to become the first player since Graeme Hick in 1988 to score 1,000 runs
before the end of May, having chalked off nine of the 59 needed against Worcestershire at New Road when the heavens opened on May 31. On June 1, he was finally out for 108.

His early-season performances, which included 99 against Middlesex, 133 against Worcestershire and an unbeaten 204 against Nottinghamshire, had made their impression. In September,
Compton’s immense powers of concentration and exemplary technique won him the reward he most coveted: a place in England’s Test squad for the tour to India, where he was an able
lieutenant as Alastair Cook’s opening partner, even if the big score he craved eluded him.

NICHOLAS RICHARD DENIS COMPTON was born in Durban, South Africa, on June 26, 1983. His parents Richard – who played first-class cricket for Natal and was the son of England’s Denis
– and Zimbabwean mother Glynis had backgrounds in public relations and journalism. Early education was at Clifton Preparatory School, Durban, and Compton made his first cricketing trip to
England on a school tour aged 12. After periods at Hilton College and Durban High School, where he played under Hashim Amla, the opportunity arose to study at Harrow on a sports scholarship. He
immediately helped secure a first victory in 25 years over Eton at Lord’s – “a magical day” – and by his third year he was captain, while also securing a contract with
Middlesex. He began a social science degree at Durham University, but a persistent groin problem, which eventually led to surgery, curtailed his cricket; he never completed the course.

Once fully fit, Compton took well to county cricket, and was a three-times winner of Middlesex’s Young Player of the Year award – named after his grandfather. In 2006, he scored
1,313 first-class runs and was selected for the England A tour to India and Bangladesh, working under Andy Flower – then a batting coach – at Loughborough. In Bangladesh, he topped the
averages, and his career appeared to be blossoming. But a shock was around the corner. The following season he managed only 385 Championship runs, and was dropped by Middlesex.

“It was a shattering experience,” he says. “I felt I was close to playing for England at the start of the summer, and being left out by Middlesex – unjustly, in my
opinion – hit me hard. The next 14 months were really tough.” After only three Championship appearances in 2008, Compton decided to head to Australia during the winter to try to regain
his confidence.

In the summer of 2009 Compton regained a regular first-team place. It was then that Somerset stepped in. “Even though I had enjoyed a better season with Middlesex, I felt the time was
right to cut my ties,” he says. “I wanted to push myself and play in the first division of the Championship.”

Leaving London for the quiet of the West Country proved more taxing than Compton had expected. He struggled to fit into an established batting line-up, and found socialising difficult, admitting
to feeling “pretty lonely at times”. Asked to be the rock which would allow more free-scoring players like Marcus Trescothick, Hildreth, Craig Kieswetter and Peter Trego to play their
shots, he lost sight of natural strengths.

“I found I was trying to impress the other batsmen, which made me feel pressurised,” he says. “After three months, I changed my whole mindset, concentrating more on occupying
the crease, and my form improved.” In the winter, he played first-class and Twenty20 cricket in Zimbabwe, enjoying success in both formats before returning to Taunton intent on forging a
regular first-team place. A solid summer brought 1,010 Championship runs – only Trescothick made more for Somerset – including a top score of 254 not out against Durham at
Chester-le-Street. “I was proud of that season. I felt I had put down a marker, and that only fine-tuning was necessary to bring further improvement.”

That fine-tuning involved hours of the most arduous practice, both at Taunton and with his batting coach Neil Burns, the former wicketkeeper. Compton makes a habit of facing bowling machines set
at 99mph for two- or three-hour sessions, having dimmed the lights in the indoor nets. “The aim is to make conditions as uncomfortable as possible and see how long I can maintain
concentration. There is a fear factor, and it’s often very cold too. You get hit and there are times when you just want to walk away, but I figure if I can handle that, nothing in games is
going to intimidate me.”

While Compton is immensely proud of his grandfather’s achievements, he is very much his own man. Coming from a cricketing family, he had a bat in his hand from as early as he can remember,
but he never received coaching from Denis. “He did offer me one piece of advice when I was playing in his back garden one day. My dad was giving me some underarm throwdowns, and my
grandfather was sitting on his porch, probably sipping a port or brandy. I was tapping the ball back with a high elbow and he yelled out: ‘For God’s sake, hit the bloody
thing!’”

C
HRISTOPHER
M
ARTIN
-J
ENKINS

The best, most classical and most durable all-rounder of his generation, and arguably of all time, was the mighty difference between South Africa and England in the summer of
2012. His presence gave the tourists an enviable balance, leaving England – who dared not bat their wicketkeeper Matt Prior at No. 6 to accommodate an extra bowler – outgunned.

Kallis’s implacable alliance with Hashim Amla made possible England’s humiliation at The Oval, where his unbeaten 182 was as easy to miss as any such score could be. He also bowled
with shrewdness and calculated venom, undermining England’s first innings with the vital wickets of Kevin Pietersen and Ian Bell, and swallowed fast, flying catches at second slip.

Only a Lord’s century remained out of reach, though last summer he was not helped by two contentious decisions. Overall, he was for South Africa what he had been for at least 15 years: a
pillar and a rock. At last, the claim in 2012 that he had never quite received the credit he deserved felt wrong; but the comparisons with Garfield Sobers did not.

Born in Cape Town on October 16, 1975, JACQUES HENRY KALLIS was quickly recognised as a special talent at his school, Wynberg Boys’ High, a couple of miles from Newlands, his spiritual
home. Indeed, the school’s cricket field was renamed “The Jacques Kallis Oval” in 2009. He first played for his country, against England in the Durban Test of 1995-96, at the age
of 20. Batting at No. 6, he made a single in a rain-ruined draw, and did not get a bowl, but his bit part proved misleading: other than a spell out of the Twenty20 side, he has been an essential
selection ever since. That Oval hundred was the 43rd of his Test career (only Sachin Tendulkar has more), to go with 17 in one-day internationals. Injuries have been rare, perhaps because of a
bowling action reminiscent of Alec Bedser: sideways on, with the left arm leading, a full turn of a strong frame, and a surging follow-through.

Like Jack Nicklaus, the greatest of golfers, he has kept extraordinary command of his emotions, his expression inscrutable until he takes another wicket or reaches another century. Then a wide
smile lights his even wider face. He has been a model not just of batting and bowling technique, but of the game’s chivalrous spirit: England recall Kallis walking at a crucial moment in a
World Cup game at Chennai in 2011, having accepted the fielder’s word that a potentially contentious slip catch had carried. Yet he is as intensively competitive as anyone. He is, in fact,
driven by his will to succeed.

Massive strength and a temperament as cool as an igloo have made him the most consistently formidable all-round cricketer since the era of Botham, Imran, Hadlee and Kapil – and, like them,
Kallis has done things his own way. He ascribes his longevity to managing his fitness: “I’ve always tried to listen to my body and pick up early warning signs. In the early days I
trained all day and bowled in the nets. I was in my mid-twenties when I realised I had to change.”

As a batsman he quickly learned to switch off between deliveries; a monumental calm has always pervaded his cricket. Once set, often from the first ball, he looks unmovable, as he confirmed
during his unbroken stand of 377 with Amla. Impressive rather than exciting, and utterly orthodox, he rarely looks hurried; his bat appears broader than the Laws allow. Only his strike-rate has
drawn criticism: just occasionally, he has seemed wrapped up in personal battles, and once or twice in mid-career he failed to produce the gear-change his team needed.

His omission from the 2007 World Twenty20 may have focused the mind, for barely a week after the tournament he dominated Pakistan’s Test bowlers on their notoriously slow pitches, scoring
155 and 100 not out at Karachi, then 59 and 107 not out at Lahore. Soon after, at home to New Zealand, he scored 186 and 131 in successive innings.