Roll up your Playboy pants like a pirate flag. Spin the big brim to celebrate. It was always going to be Shane, wasn’t it true?
Of course, we did a countdown first. Because people love countdowns. Because cricket is basically one constant countdown, an endless stack of pencils marking names and numbers. There were 99 supporting cast members in the Ashes room who would be ushered into their seats, the non-Shanes meat of history.
Plus, Shane would have enjoyed Countdown Theatre. Perhaps he made it into the top ten by shaking his stubble over his head and wiggling his butt like his dad at the all-you-can-eat Reggae Night curry buffet. Cheers, Pidge, and see you, Tuga. But ideally not. Maybe we could have Shane doffing his noble, late hat for the part.
Either way, there was always a good chance that Shane Warne would end up in the judges’ vote for the Guardian’s Ashes Elvis, the perfect culmination of 143 years of red-ball cricket between England and Australia.
It’s in the basic numbers. No one has taken more Ashes wickets than 195 at 23, with 129 of his record 11 five-wickets taken away from home at 21.94. Warne played in eight series and won seven of them. What he lost saw him produce five all-time Test virtuoso performances.
When he retired, Warne’s time on stage amounted to 12% of all Ashes cricket, and for 12% of those, he was the dominant and most attractive figure on stage. If you squint a little and dim the lights, even his name is basically “Victor of the Ashes.”
Who else was there? Warne vs. Don Bradman was always likely to be the big two. Bradman has his own unassailable status, the singular genius of Test batting, not only ahead of everyone else, but miles ahead. Bradman is also one of those fixed emotional points, lovable, hard, and immutable, a nation-shaper forever in the sunlight, like a baseball player from America’s Golden Age. But he’s also no Shane Warne.
Others include WG Grace for Gravitas, Bearded Victoriana, and Great Man of History. Maybe Grace is the king of Ashes cricket. Maybe cheddar is the best cheese. The Ford Model T is probably the best car.
Simply put, what about Glenn McGrath, who had better numbers in his era as Warne? But this is to see sport simply as sport, victory, excellence. Or, if you want the essence, opt for a Dennis Lillee-Jeff Thomson double header, a kind of combined Ashes mnemonic, a sporting contest of sweat, whiskey, mustache hair and post-colonial rage.
But no. It will always be Warne and for obvious reasons. Beyond numbers, we can talk about leadership. The way he has acted as an undercover captain at every turn, one of those rare sportsmen who not only plays in a great team, but creates a great team.
From the lithe young leggie who delivered a groundbreaking series in Sri Lanka, to which Ian Healy can be heard smiling behind the stumps in the footage, to the mature bowler who basically worked the entire champion attack, from the tight stuff on the opening morning to the intense cuts, to the mature bowler who allowed a great side to field only three seamers, it is worth remembering for a long time the many faces and phases of Shane. Cool boy.
It will have an impact in the end. No one has ever had this kind of aura. We remember the initial shock of Shane making his Ashes debut at Old Trafford. It looked like a shark under the puppy fat and even had some sort of portable white light around it and had confidence in its every move.
We remember him when this career is over. Now it’s basically irresistible, a bit leathery and tacky, with a touching bootcut white, plush wig and lining made of nylon, and even his hair is part of his iconic weathered cricket gear.
Through it all, Warne remains a remarkably raw physical presence even now. The shape his body makes, the curve of his shoulders, his hands on his knees as he slides, it’s all very familiar. No wonder his death still hits so hard.
It is now difficult to imagine the Ashes without Warne at the centre. In part, this is about exposure. He ran the last golden age of red-ball cricket as a mainstream semi-global sport. In his heyday, Warne, who sold Google and flippers, was one of the most famous people in Australia, Britain and the Indian subcontinent.
He got people talking about the ball of the century, something that had never happened before. He’s been creating his own myth, the kid who got supernaturally strengthened wrists while rowing on a wheelie board. This may or may not be exactly true, but every superhero needs an origin story.
Through it all, the best thing about Warne was his sense of connection, not just with the distant frescoes of elite performance, but with those watching the show. Here was a commentator on athletics, a type of physical art, one of the most technically difficult acts in sports, who also brought you into the spectacle and was a genius with whom you could relate.
James Astill, while researching his book The Great Tamasha, told Warne that the veteran’s comeback in the Indian Premier League was imminent, and that Warne was bowling a bit into the curb on an Indian street when he found a passing kid and returned it to him and was coming out well.
In Tests, Warne did the job of a cunning seasoned club cricketer, observing the feet of a new batsman from the first few balls before finally settling into his field and reading the mood and mechanics of the moment. In retirement, he once said that he had no data or matchups at the time, only hunches and memories of what had happened before. Uh, Shane. It’s the same thing. All those guys with laptops, briefings, and plans. They’re trying to give Warne brains to everyone else too.
The result of that connection was the distortion of his public-private life. Newspapers are still talking about fake scandals very actively. But Warne’s real hallmark was how unconditional respect he commanded from those who played with him, against him and before him. That was certainly unique, not to mention how beloved he was among the general public in the UK and Australia.
As in the case of sportsmen who exist in their own space, the vividness remains. Diego Maradona twirls in Azteca light, Usain Bolt eases his drive phase and Simone Biles tumbles through the air.
For Warne, memory exists in form. Each pause, each shoulder turn, the energy of each delivery, slurping and seething with undeniable intelligence. And in the vague but unshakable conviction that he is still somewhere now, frowning at the end of his run, performing endless, vivid re-tests.