“True perfection has to be imperfect”
The words of Noel Gallagher sum up Shane Warne perfectly. Warne had his faults as a sportsman; he smoked, he partied, and he wasn’t exactly in prime physical shape. But throw him a cricket ball and the chance to give it a rip and you couldn’t have found a more perfect cricketer.
Like the rest of the world, I was stunned by the news of Warne’s death. Later that sad Friday afternoon, I went searching for 2005 highlights, and found a 20-minute compilation video of all 40 wickets he took in the series. More poignantly, the commentary was by Tony Greig and Richie Benaud, two legends of the game who have also left us.
As for so many people of my age, the 2005 Ashes changed my life, and Warne was a vital part of that. Cricket came charging into my life that summer, took up residency, and hasn’t left since.
Thinking back to 2005, made me really want to play cricket again. I found myself changing into the only cricket top I have at uni – an England training shirt from 2013. Despite it being March, freezing cold and blowing a gale, I just wanted play. Warney was one of the main reasons I fell in love with the game and his passing took me back to that innocent feeling of just wanting to just grab a bat, a ball, find something to use as stumps, and play.
Driving past Trent Bridge a few days later was enough to bring back the memories of 2005. Warne came on to bowl after just four overs of the second innings and made a simple chase so much harder. He imposed himself on the contest in a way that only the real greats could. First ball, Marcus Trescothick was gone, two overs later Michael Vaughan followed him. Taking 4 for 31, he made us all sweat, cling to the edge of our seats and chew whatever fingernails had survived the Edgbaston and Old Trafford Test matches. In the end England snuck home despite Warne’s best efforts.
I was glued to the action at my grandparents on the Isle of Wight. Aged five I didn’t have an appreciation for the genius of Warne – that came later – but I was captivated by the spectacle he created. He was pure theatre. He was the villain, in a way; at that age you want things to be black and white, good and bad. Kevin Pietersen good, Warne bad – simple.
For cricket fans who grew up around 2005, and even those who didn’t, he is an icon, and the boxset of the series is as essential to me as salt is to a chef. I watch it every year, and each time I marvel at Glenn McGrath’s Lord’s spell, Pietersen’s bravado and Andrew Flintoff’s heroism. But my favourite thing is always Warne’s genius. “The slider to end all sliders” to remove Ian Bell at Lord’s is a beautiful example of how Warne could make someone so gifted, look as hopeless as the bloke who bats No.9 and doesn’t bowl for your local club side.
Garden cricket was a feature of my childhood and every time I was forced to keep wicket every ball that I caught would be accompanied with a loud “bowling Shane, bowling Warney”. We all did a Warne impression – come on, own up, we have all had a go. The slow walk up, moving the ball from left hand to right as you approach the crease and then an attempt at copying the great man’s action that normally led to something dragged half-way down the pitch and not spinning.
I met him once. It was at Arundel in 2007 – his final season of first-class cricket. I no longer saw him as the villain, but someone to be appreciated and respected. Hampshire were batting and Warney was making his way from the pavilion to the area where the players were watching the game. I bounded over, autograph book in hand. He was carrying a plate of cheese sandwiches which he balanced precariously while he signed my book. He handed it back with a smile and went on with his day. It’s a memory I’ll cherish forever.