To Warnie.

He’s gently rolling his arm over. Mid off is getting some catching practice. The crowd waits - in the stadium, in front of their TV screens. And they wait some more as he walks up to the bowling crease and gets down to roughen up his bowling hand with the dirt accumulated by the pacers’ hard yakka.

He is slowly getting into it, he’s the man of the moment, he holds everyone’s fortunes in his hands, he’s the master of the puppet show and his stubby, strong fingers are going to pull some strings.

He’s talking to the Skipper now, moving a few fielders to another continent and just changing to the next latitude / longitude for a few others.

The 12th man is running out with a helmet and shin pads. Will it be short leg or silly point?

He’s talking to the wicketkeeper now, they’re discussing dinner plans and the rough outside the right handed batter’s leg stump. Should physics be defied, nay, challenged?

He’s making a show of even taking off his sweater and handing it over to the umpire. The floppy hat has already been handed over, almost never the hallowed baggy green.

He’s now twirling it like a maniac from his right hand to the left and giving it back to the right hand and then the twirl again. We could watch this all day. He could do this all day. The world can wait all day.

The batter has been sized up. He knows he has been sized up. He’s a lamb lined up for slaughter but with the kindest cut. Or perhaps the unkindest? He’s going to look silly and become part of a tribute video. Hypnotism isn’t just an art, isn’t even science. It lies somewhere between where the ball will land and where the batter thinks it will land, it lies in the batter’s head.

The commentators talk about the wind and the weather, the drift that’ll be on offer, the age of the ball and what McGrath has done so far. Meanwhile, the last bit of field adjustment happens at his behest.

The wait is pregnant now. It’s the proverbial calm before the storm. He’s loading up like a spring. He’s getting the right shoulder moving, it has gone through a few icy winters and countless springs.

And then it begins. It’s an amble. And then it’s a walkamble. And the hands come together as if the left one is transferring the magic in it to the right one, on to the ball. And then the right arm rises up gracefully above his head to its right while the left arm is going across him, turning him around ever so tantalisingly. And the knee is pumping up and then down, readying the left leg for an almighty pivot. And then it’s a flurry of action all of a sudden - the spring has uncoiled and how. The right leg lands forward and the bowling arm comes down to gain more momentum and the left arm reaches its apogee as the radar, and then the bowling arm is down straight and up it goes again as the left arm downs itself one final time. And then the shoulder, the right shoulder which has borne the brunt behind the scenes of countless load ups. And then the wrist, moving ever so slightly in ways hitherto unknown but soon to be witnessed in slo mo and yet to be deciphered. And then the fingers giving the ball a whole lotta love.

Richie Benaud on commentary is watching with the eyes of a hawk. Perhaps he knows what’ll happen. Perhaps he’s a fan like the rest of us. Perhaps he’s spellbound too. Perhaps he was once a magician himself.

The braced leg now pivots, the upper body bends, the tongue frolicks around like the fangs of a cobra, there’s a mild hiss in the air, the venom is discernibly there. Leg spin is cool, it’s hot. The kids have their jaws left ajar, the adults don’t know better. The silence is long and unbearable now.

The left arm now sweeps across the left pocket on his pants which are wider at the bottom with little cuts on the side, style isn’t just a buzzword. The right arm lets go.

And then magic happens. In grounds around the world. In practice matches. In the nets. In a one-on-one with Terry Jenner. In the cricket academy. In the heads of batters, great ones and good ones and tailenders. In the minds of umpires whose index fingers are small kill. In the young hopeful’s eyes as he dreams a dream. In the commentator’s wizened up voice as it purrs and then struggles.

He bowls.

The past tense needs to wait some more. Forever.