by Sedick Crombie
Hashim Amla’s retirement from cricket has ended one of the most glorious careers in cricketing history.
The “Mighty Hash”, or the “Silent Assassin” (so named by the great West Indian fast bowler Michael Holding), has been an enigma since his entry on to the national and international cricket stage, leaving behind a story the best scriptwriters could not envisage.
We can still clearly remember the background against which you came into the Proteas team, and it feels like yesterday.
It was a period when players of a darker hue were scrutinised with a magnifying glass, whenever and wherever they dared to be selected for the South African national teams.
The last days of Herschelle Gibbs and Ashwell Prins’s career were on the horizon. The careers of these two batsmen, with Alviro Petersen’s, were nearing their sunsets.
Besides Herschelle, players such as Ashwell and Alviro were in and out of the team, regarded as yo-yo men until they could no longer be marginalised due to their avalanche of runs.
The scouts were therefore out to find players of colour who would fill the shoes of these players. The hapless Justin Ontong, despite his undoubted talent and skill, had to bear the pressure of an unscrupulous press and critics at his inclusion.
Enter Hashim Amla. Your appearance on the international scene was considered an oddity, something different; from the way you executed your cricketing shots, your mannerisms on and off the field, your total lack of animosity towards anybody or anything, your quiet and unobtrusive nature.
I can vividly recall sitting in front of the television, hoping with crossed fingers that you would utilise the opportunity presented and be successful in being selected for the Proteas team.
Alas, it was not to be and your playing style was later evaluated by a former Eastern Province administrator who commented that you were totally inept at playing at this level and he cautioned with words to the effect, “the poor man should never have been considered at this level, he is not suited”.
We cringed and knew this “analyst” was one of those coteries of closet South Africans that still harked back to the days of ensuring sports remain segregated.
This was to be one of the first instances where we should have gained an understanding of who Hashim Amla really was.
While we seethed with anger at such injudicious comments from these quarters, which are usually reserved for players of colour, you just went off quietly. We shouted and screamed and wanted to climb up the walls. You said nothing.
I believe it was two years thereafter that you came back into the Proteas Test side. We once again crossed our fingers and were possibly more nervous when you would take the crease but you seemed so unperturbed, so calm, so serene, and it rubbed off on us.
You then started to play this game with such aplomb, like someone to the manor born, and the more successful you became, the more ecstatic we became.
The storms you weathered, such as the one when a former Australian player showed his ignorance by calling you a terrorist.
We were livid and called for a lynching posse, but you once again simply forgave him.
You lived life without malice, and the respect you gained, without seeking sympathy, was a bridge quite far for many of us.
You remained unruffled, even in the face of severe provocation and sledging from aggressive opponents, and through this cowed them into submission and genuine respect for you.
Who can forget the little pat on your back, from David Warner, when you scored a century against a rampant Australian side, and in doing so denied them a Test victory?
You gave new meaning to the phrase “not batting an eyelid” when you took to the crease. You bewildered and left us in awe with your deft flicks of the wrists, your immaculate cover drives, your glances, playing the spinners, an Achilles heel of South African batsmen, with such aplomb that you began to confuse them on how to bowl to you.
Your records and hours of pleasure you gave, your batting records in Test and one-day cricket, have been extolled by analysts and pundits and will stand the test of time.
We also know you would not wish to have such platitudes bestowed on you, but we would fail in our duty and common humanity if we did not show gratitude to you.
You occupy a special place in our hearts, one which we revere and carry in the most treasured of places for what you have meant to us. Go well, legend.
Thank you, dankie, shukran, terimha kassie, enkos “O bearded one”.
* Sedick Crombie, Strand.
** The views expressed here are not necessarily those of Independent Media.
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