Shane Warne was every bit a quickie. That grease paint on his face, cold and mesmerizing eyes, deliciously brazen demeanour and a fetish to sledge – all traits of a nasty fast bowler. Not the body language of a gentle spinner, you would reckon. Having said all that, you will forget his adolescent antics once he starts to approach the wicket to bowl. That moment is akin to Miles Davis swallowing his saliva to prepare for a trumpet solo. Something epic is on the anvil. When the red cherry leaves Warne’s hand, time stands still. The loop is picture perfect. The flight is on a terrific trajectory. The ball, on its halfway mark is a vision of dizzying mystery - is it going to plummet, dart, turn, skid or deceive? Well, on most occasions, the batsman never had the answer. Shane Warne could loop, spin and flight at will. It was a guarantee of grand journeys, ball after ball, yet no two balls resembled each other. Cricket today, sorely feels the absence of enigmatic folks like him. Because when geniuses like Warne are in residence, mere mortals like us could witness what Coleridge referred to as ‘the willing suspension of disbelief’.
