World Cup 2015: Proteas shed chokers tag - Livemint

South Africa’s Quinton de Kock celebrates after reaching his half-century during the quarterfinal match against Sri Lanka in Sydney on Wednesday. Photo: AFP

All I can say is we are not going to choke tomorrow. We are going to play a good game of cricket and come out on top. Simple.”

That was A.B. de Villiers in Sydney on Tuesday, a day before the quarterfinal that would determine if his country’s choke saga, one of world sport’s endless soap operas, would continue or end. In retrospect, it seems a prophetic statement to make, from a captain convinced of the superiority of his team. It is a bit like Arjuna Ranatunga calling Shane Warne overrated on the eve on the 1996 final and then depositing him for six during a tense chase.

But, as often as not, these statements can go the other way. If South Africa had lost, as they have done at the knockout stage of every World Cup they have played, de Villiers’ statement may have been lumped among one of cricket’s Hall of Ridicule, somewhere close to Wasim Akram ’s description of Pakistan’s 1999 clash against India as a “practice match”.

South Africa’s chokers tag may be a joke for the rest of the world, but for this fine group of cricketers, it has festered like a deep wound. They have carried this scar over so many tournaments, so many continents and for so many decades that it is unfathomable for their colleagues from rival nations. This is not Bangladesh or Ireland, teams at the bottom, delighted with the odd surprise. South Africa has been the world’s No. 1 Test team for a considerable while. It has been the most competitive team on all surfaces across the world. Better than Australia. Better than India or England.

For cricketers of this pedigree, you do not work on eliminating fear. You work on rousing their pride. And that was what de Villiers was trying to do. Upping the stakes with a public declaration. The greater fear in that circumstance is not the fear of failure, but the inability to stand up for your honour. If these seem outdated notions, then sport must be outdated too. These emotions are the essence of sport.

When South Africa entered the Sydney Cricket Ground on Wednesday, they carried years of humiliation, parody and hurt with them. What followed was an angry performance.

There was an edge about this team right from the first ball. You could sense it in Kyle Abbott , hitting the shoulder of the Lankans’ bats, ball after ball. This was when he was not beating them for pace altogether. You could sense it in Morne Morkel , extracting the bounce that he did from what is considered one of Australia’s slowest surfaces. Ball after ball into the ribcage. One nearly took Angelo Mathews ’ index finger with it. If you were a Sri Lankan batsman, you would feel the world closing in. If Kumar Sangakkara , batsman of the tournament, struggled with 1 run off 22 balls, then 5 off 34, then one can only pity the others.

No one symbolized the emotion better than Dale Steyn , the perennially angry man of cricket, who was like a soul possessed. His celebration of Tillakaratne Dilshan ’s dismissal—the insane pumping of fists, the terrifying war cry—expressed it all. This was personal for South Africa.

It could be argued that Sri Lanka lost the game in the first 14 overs sent down by Morkel, Abbott and Steyn: a spell of such unrelenting, searing hostility that it strained the memory. Hadn’t this been a batsman-dominated World Cup all along? This was One-Day cricket from the great West Indian playbook, the opponent pummelled by pace into submission.

Yet anger can only be a short-term emotion. A team running only on anger can be overwhelmed by it. That is why Imran Tahir was so important.

Originally from Pakistan, Tahir is a subcontinental free spirit unaffected by South Africa’s historical anxieties. There could have no better protagonist to carry the tale to its wilful end, not by the anger that preceded his arrival to the bowling crease, but by his own easy nonchalance.

If Steyn’s anger gave South Africa the thrust and the momentum, Tahir’s celebrations imbued them with the freedom to enjoy this moment, to not just strive for victory, but live it. After every dismissal, he went away on an impromptu sprint. Once, he nearly did a lap of the outfield. Greatness is contagious, goes the World Cup motto, but it seems joy is too. Without Tahir, one doubts J.P. Duminy would have got that hat-trick.

Tahir was asked if he planned his celebrations. “No, it’s just something really...it’s just in me, I think. I don’t practice for that, I’m sure. But look, that’s how I play my cricket. Even there’s a gentleman here, he’s from Stoke, and kind of he knows I played a club game in Stoke and I took a very good catch, and I think I ran out of the ground, so they had to always tell me which way is back to the ground. I was on the road, I don’t know where I was. It’s a true story. I’m just not trying to make it up.”

It is hard to imagine Steyn ever in such a position. Cricket is too much of a serious business for him. Which is why South Africa need Tahir’s free spirit, just as they need Steyn’s rage.

Despite victory against Sri Lanka, South Africa know the c-tag won’t fully go away until they win a World Cup. For now, de Villiers is happy to play along with the joke. “I think we liked being called chokers, so we’ll just keep that tag and move along...as long as we keep winning.”