Anticipatory Grief

By Kiwi Kali

Anticipatory grief. “Feelings of grief or loss before the impending loss happens”. That phrase keeps running through my mind as I prepare to head to the Basin Reserve, to my seat in the restored Museum Stand, amongst a sell-out crowd, in itself a strange feeling for a New Zealand Test cricket fan.

Grief because the glory days are coming to an end. The so-called golden generation of New Zealand men’s cricket is fading away. The pride and joy of recent years, culminating in the inaugural World Test Championship in 2021, is giving way to that familiar, nagging feeling, that whisper that we’re just not quite good enough. Not consistent enough. Against a rival who seems to hold a psychological advantage over us, gracing our shores with their presence for the first Test in eight years, having humiliated us, from Perth to Melbourne to Sydney in 2019/2020. Cast your mind back to Hobart 2011. Such a long time ago.

That feeling of hoping that the Blackcaps won’t bat first, to delay the inevitable nervy feeling of hoping that the openers last the first session, the first hour, hell, the first over. Latham and Conway, the answer to all our prayers for two solid Test openers, aren’t at their best. It had to happen, of course. Hard to top a debut 200 at Lord’s, the original Home of Cricket. Or a family name that harks back to 1992, the first time you dared to dream as a New Zealand cricket fan.

That feeling of the Steady the Ship caps not being ironic. Of pinning all our hopes on our one great, truly world class player, who has battled so hard to return from injury. Spare a thought for the late Martin Crowe. Remember when ACL injuries were career-ending? It was New Zealand orthopaedic surgeons who made the ACL reconstruction operation famous. Thank them in part for the fact that Kane Williamson is still playing. Thank him for loving batting, for loving cricket enough to put himself through punishing rehab to return. Revel in his recent run of centuries. Think back to last year at the same ground, against England, when he gave us hope, becoming our leading Test run scorer, an inevitability that he barely acknowledged, in pursuit of something bigger for the team. But for how long?

The glorious four/five pronged pace attack has lost its shine too. Remember the names? Boult. Southee. Wagner. de Grandhomme. Jamieson. One is somewhere playing franchise cricket, the fervent cries for his return having been quieted by a forgettable T20 series performance. One is back on ice for the season. Two have retired. The  now-captain remains, larrikin turned elder statesman, still with guile, cricket smarts and that beautiful wrist position, but nowhere near the old pace, and kind of lonely without many of his mates and support acts. Replaced by a bowling line up that is… problematic… in some ways, inexperienced in others. Hold your breath that someone doesn’t pull up injured. Again.

Rejoice in the discovery of new talent. Rachin Ravindra, whose home ground this is. Whether you believe the origin story or not, his first name is a portmanteau of two of India’s greatest batters. Perhaps the definition of the modern Kiwi cricketer. Daryl Mitchell, who has grasped his opportunity with both hands, and made more than the most of it. Tom Blundell, who walked home from his first Test, at the Basin, in his whites, another to score a century on debut, and was the unlikely highlight of an otherwise forgettable Boxing Day Test at the MCG in 2019.

Under my seat in the Museum Stand, a gleaming Mace has pride of place in the New Zealand Cricket Museum. It’s beautiful, a work of art. And it can never be taken away from us (a new one gets made for each WTC cycle). Anticipatory grief tells me to go and visit it one more time, because it might be the only major silverware in my lifetime as a Blackcaps fan. Grieve that it was won in front of a scant crowd in Southampton as the world grappled with a pandemic, and that you couldn’t be there. Try not to remember being at the MCG in 2015, as the dream of a different trophy crashed and burned. Try not to think about the desperate one-handed grasp we had on the Cricket World Cup trophy in 2019. Too soon. Still too soon.

Check the weather forecast and let out an almost imperceptible sigh of relief that rain might save us on days four and five. Suppress that nagging inner voice: “If it lasts that long”.

Stand and applaud Neil Wagner. Thank him for his service to his adopted country. Remember the Bay Oval in 2020, when he bowled with broken toes, giving his all and then some. Reserve the right to exchange melancholy and despair for incredulity and celebration, like you did last year when Wagner improbably stole your team a last gasp win against England at this very ground, thanks to Tom Blundell’s glove work down leg side. Ignore the fact that the previous ball to Jimmy Anderson could have (probably should have) been called wide. Nurture that little spark of hope that maybe this team could steal another win. It’s the hope that kills you.

Watling, de Grandhomme, Taylor and now, Wagner. Other names not so memorable, but important nonetheless. Wonder who and when the next goodbye will be.

Anticipatory grief, you see. It’s always there, just under the surface. Such is the life of a Blackcaps fan.

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