My favourite cricketer: Andrew Flintoff

The England allrounder's dream spells against Ricky Ponting and Jacques Kallis have been lockdown balm for OWEN RILEY...

What is the one piece of cricketing footage you keep returning to, or reel of commentary you find running through your head?

As I write this, in near-isolation in rural Suffolk, where viral videos of people kicking toilet paper around their living rooms are currently about as close to sporting brilliance as we now have – I have found myself delving into the archives. I have landed on two clips which play on near repeat. Both exist because of one man.

The first picks up with Justin Langer departing. Langer – a scrapper, a bare-knuckle brawler of a batsman, a glorious brute – has just had his off stump snapped back via an inside edge.

Ricky Ponting arrives at the crease. Australia’s leader and one of the great Test batsmen. The sort of man you’d want at the helm if we were going to scrap this world and start a new one.

The skipper, with a steely-eyed Eastwood stare peering out from between visor and grille, is facing Andrew Flintoff.

Ponting has seen the script where England pull this all off, inspire a nation and ride off into the sunset. His gaze appears to say ‘not on my watch’. But he’s not the sheriff in this town. Freddie’s in the mood for kicking down saloon doors and taking names.

An inswinger locates pad and has Punter uncomfortably airborne. The crowd roars in anticipation. Billy Bowden gives a slow shake of the head.

^{Ponting departs}

The next delivery squares Australia’s No.3 up and has him fending short of Ashley Giles at gully.

The pads are struck once more. The crowd rises but Bowden again says no.

A no-ball follows, bringing a seventh ball of the over. A cacophonous wave of noise pushes Flintoff through his delivery stride, Ponting presses forward but the ball leaves him at the last and kisses the Kookaburra’s edge on the way through to Geraint Jones’ gloves.

Flintoff throws his arms aloft and arches his back as if to create the most surface area possible to absorb the erupting din and adoration. 

In a commentary box nearby, Richie Benaud remains serene while Mark Nicholas is on the verge of combustion. On this occasion, who can blame him?

Ponting, casting the figure of a forlorn, cherubic, battle-scarred harvest mouse, shuffles from the middle.

Flintoff is a pillar out there. The head is shaved, his gold chain is flapping as he runs in, the collar is up, the crowd is up. Langer has been and gone, Ponting is on his way. Freddie has landed two big right hands and Australia are heading towards the ropes.

This was Edgbaston 2005 of course, where – outside of those seven deliveries – Flintoff produced two stunning assaults with the bat as England scripted one of sport’s greatest climaxes.

^{Kallis castled}

The atmosphere in those few minutes, whether you were inside the ground or sitting in your living room, was the sort that stopped you in your tracks, forced you to take in the moment and think ‘wow, I’m part of something here’. And it was all because of that man out there, arms outstretched, team-mates hanging from his frame, crowd hanging on his every move. On that day, Birmingham belonged to Flintoff.

The allrounder possessed that clichéd art of making something happen. He would locate matches by the scruff of the neck, lock on and refuse to relinquish his grasp until the tide was turned.

The second piece of footage in question is another Flintoff epic. This time it is Jacques Kallis in the crosshairs, on the same ground, three years later. Kallis, the barrel-chested bruiser. A goliath of a man. The sort of bloke who looks like he whittles canoes out of trees and eats them for breakfast.

Flintoff produces a spell so sublime he gets the South African giant out twice (sort of). A thunderbolt crushes into Jacques’ big toe. It’s so out, laughably out. Aleem Dar thinks otherwise. It doesn’t matter, because in that mood, Freddie was going to get his man. It was a matter of course. That ball had Kallis, one of the greatest cricketers of all time, jigging like one of those circus elephants balancing on an oversized beachball.

Flintoff had his man rocking back, swaying to evade the headhunters, playing and missing and finally, like a boxer who knows they are destined for the canvas, the hands start to drop, the legs are lead, the guard comes down, the chin presents itself on a platter.

Flintoff, urged onwards by the crowd once more, unleashes a searing yorker which cuts through the defences and sends Kallis’ off peg cartwheeling from the Edgbaston dirt.

The back is arched once more. England’s talisman lets out a guttural roar. Another of cricket’s greats has been felled.

^{Flintoff consoles Brett Lee}

That is what Flintoff orchestrated in his peak moments – conjuring unrelenting spells in which he would reduce colossuses of the game to rubble. He made greats look like greenhorns. Legends like laymen. 

These are sporting moments where your birth place, the badge on your shirt, allegiances and your care for the ultimate result melts away. All that holds sway is the skill of one man, executing his trade to such a level that all parties are left in awe.

Like all great heroes, he was fallible. Not so different to you or I, unlike some of modern day sport’s robots strung together with carbon fibre abdominals and sport science. A ruggedness which made those moments of genius all the more inspiring.

You wanted to be his mate, you wanted him to turn out for your club. You wanted to be there when he spotted that pedalo – half with a mind of stopping him, half to get on board and see where the ride would lead you.

As for many, 2005 is the defining summer of my cricketing life. Flintoff’s mark is stitched indelibly into the tapestry of that series. 

An away-swinger from around the wicket, a bludgeoned six over long-on, a hand on Brett Lee’s shoulder. The defining man in a defining series of a defining summer.

This article was published in the June 2020 edition of The Cricketer - the home of the best cricket analysis and commentary, covering the international, county, women's and amateur game