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A certain young musical genius - some claim it was Bach, others swear it was Brahms - liked to sleep in. As the rest of his family started their day, tugging on wigs and lacing up corsets, this particular lad preferred to snooze, dreaming of concerti.
Nothing would rouse him. Not bells or the creak of carts outside or the bleats of goats or parents or nannies. But his genius made him vulnerable to music. And so his father would sit down at the family piano and play a dominant seventh.
The dominant seventh is a simple progression of four notes, forming a chord that ends in a tantalising question mark. It's the "Aaaah!" build-up in the Beatles' "Twist and Shout". It is the piano soundtrack to that scene in the silent movie where the detective is pushing open the door to the secret cellar.
You and I feel it as a build-up of momentum, a mental itch that needs scratching. But for the young maestro, completing the musical phrase felt like a physical imperative. And so, the story goes, he would throw himself out of bed, storm downstairs and bang down a final chord on the piano to resolve that terrible, hanging question mark.
I thought about the young German genius just before tea on the first day of the recent Test in Chittagong. Faf du Plessis had just been torpedoed by Shakib Al Hasan and had collapsed forward with that theatrical slump that batsmen perform when they have been beaten and don't mind who knows it. The 11 Bangladeshis on the field celebrated, the 19 Bangladeshis in the stands celebrated even more, and du Plessis trudged off.
The stage was set. The dominant seventh had been played. We were ready to hear not only a grand resolution to that particular phrase but hours of sweet music afterwards. We were ready for AB de Villiers.
But de Villiers wasn't there. He was back in South Africa, given leave to be present for the birth of his first child. And so the chord hung and hung. Temba Bavuma played with character and maturity to spare the Proteas embarrassment, but in that moment I think I understood the young composer's angst. Because de Villiers is South Africa's resolution, our relief; the emphatic line drawn under the Proteas' statement of intent.
But there is another, more complex reason why we might not be seeing de Villiers with the same adoring clarity of his Indian fans. It is simply that we have been waiting for our true champion for so long that we are reluctant to believe he has arrived, in case it's not true and we are disappointed all over again.
I remember when I was initiated into South Africa's messianic cult of the batting champion; when I learned to pray for his return. It was the mid-1980s. I was eight or nine and I didn't know what cricket was or that my officially white supremacist country wasn't allowed to play it against other countries. But my father took me aside and showed the mysteries to me anyway. There were many cricketers, he revealed, but there were only three batsmen. One was Denis Compton, whom he had seen play at Newlands. The second was Neil Harvey. (I am not sure if my father had seen him in the flesh, but I was relieved he had never got too close to him because, it seemed, Harvey ate South Africans whole, gorging on them like a Cyclops in a fire-lit cave.) And finally - here his expression softened - there was Graeme Pollock: the beautiful golden boy, bareheaded, a temporary loan from cricket's gods, to be worshipped for a few brief seasons before reality and realpolitik intervened.
The dogma was clear. Compton was good. Harvey was great. But Pollock, ah, he was magical. And he was our champion, a South African genius, and a thing that only came along once in a generation. And so, as the decades passed and the next generation arrived, we kept vigil for our Pollock.
Amid the disappointments, however, one name seemed to resonate with messianic promise. I first heard it at high school. Our determined but awful 1st XI had been annihilated, as usual; but on this particular weekend it seemed that the damage had been done by just one person: a certain J Kallis of Wynberg Boys' High.
When I first saw Jacques Kallis live, in a club game when he was barely 20, I understood why people whispered his name with something like reverence. He was hitting sixes over cover at will, caressing drives and holding the pose, facing quick bowlers in a soft cap. I believed that the golden child had arrived. But, despite all that came later, I was wrong.
Not that I dispute his greatness. I still think South African fans who condemned Kallis' "selfishness" are cricket illiterates, and I still believe that the Proteas owe their rise to dominance almost entirely to him. It was Kallis who single-handedly shouldered the burden of defence that allowed South Africa to crawl out of a mental hole that saw them endlessly slump to 90 for 5 in Tests and to become a team that regularly passed 300. Kallis resisted the regular collapses of the mid- to late-1990s, but they burned the young batsman. Exposed to intense pressure, he learned that his job was resistance, not expansiveness. It made him hard and perhaps undemonstrative. The fragility of his colleagues robbed us of a chance to see Kallis in full flow. And so, even though South African cricket owes Kallis almost everything, it could not hail him as the next Pollock.
When Hashim Amla scored 311 not out at The Oval and reached 5000 ODI runs faster than anyone in history, we once again wondered if the moment had come. But even the most staid traditionalist knows that a true champion can't always be pedigreed and serene. Sometimes he must be able to slip into a raw top gear and spit fire.
And then, without fanfare, there he was. Somehow, without us really realising, our champion had arrived in the person of Abraham Benjamin de Villiers. Had it been his unbeaten 278, then the top Test score for South Africa? Should we have seen it in the almost run-a-ball 169 in Perth against Mitchell Johnson and Mitchell Starc, when he scored six runs more than Australia had managed in their whole first innings? Or was it those two ridiculous ODI innings in 2015?
Perhaps the old song is right and you don't know what you've got till it's gone. Perhaps that's why it took until the first day against Bangladesh in Chittagong for me to understand that I had grown accustomed, at the fall of the third wicket, to expect not a middle-order batsman but a champion.
De Villiers' arrival into his full power has been deeply satisfying to watch, but when a player shines particularly brightly, his radiance can cast his team or even his country in a new light, revealing previously unseen facets. And sometimes it can even create new shadows.
It was startling. I had gone to the numbers to prove that the Proteas were a great team. Instead I discovered that, of the 86 hundreds scored by South African batsmen in Tests and ODIs since August 2011, de Villiers and Amla had scored 41. Steyn and Philander had shared half of the team's Test wickets. For all their successes and steely reputation, this is not a great team: this is a quartet of overachievers and then some other blokes.
The brilliance and consistency of de Villiers and Amla has created a peculiar void: they both fail in the same innings so rarely that we aren't quite sure how the rest of the top six stand up to major pressure. It seems a nonsensical problem - that there are usually too many runs on the board for South Africa to know how weak they really are - but at some point even geniuses run dry, and somebody is going to get badly exposed.
The second revelation that de Villiers has brought with him is more complex than the temporary fortunes of his team. It is, simply, that he doesn't really matter. At least not in the way that he might once have mattered.
I know it sounds contradictory to suggest that he can be both essential and superfluous, but the difference lies in the two worlds he occupies. He is a cricketer but also a white South African, and they point to very different things these days.
In 1994, as Nelson Mandela was sworn in as the country's first democratically elected president, local cricket writing was glowing with the language of reconciliation and cross-cultural detente. Bitter historical enmities were thawing. Ugly wounds were being patched. As the sun rose over the rainbow nation, the press could trumpet the good news: white Afrikaners were playing cricket alongside white English-speakers.
In retrospect it seems laughable that people could engage in such intensely parochial navel-gazing during a globally important moment of decolonisation, but back then the inclusion of Afrikaners in the national cricket team was a major talking point for followers of the sport. Some Afrikaners, fearful of a post-apartheid backlash that might purge them from all national institutions, worried that their brightest and best were being deliberately overlooked in an attempt to appease the new black government. As a young Cronje warmed the bench in the early 1990s, his supporters waved placards reading "Gee Hansie 'n kansie!" - Afrikaans for "Give Hansie a chance." It was as much a demand for cultural representation as a call to acknowledge the young Cronje's talent.
Fuelling the fear that their boy would be shafted was the belief that South African cricket was dominated by an English-speaking old boys' network, an anxiety that tapped straight into old suspicions. By 1994 the bloodshed of the South African War (also known as the Anglo-Boer War) was almost a century in the past, but if you scratched in the right places, you could still find old bitterness.
Many Afrikaners still called English-speakers "Souties", an abbreviation of "Soutpiel" or salt dick, a colourful allusion to British colonials having one foot in England and one foot in Africa, leaving their unmentionables to dangle in the ocean. For their part, many English-speakers still entertained some ferociously Victorian snobberies about Afrikaners, deriding them as knuckle-dragging simpletons or rural rubes, and using them as convenient scapegoats for their own culpability in the apartheid system. In this cultural context, the appointment of Cronje as the new face of South African cricket was significant. It mattered that a sophisticated, articulate Afrikaner was being embraced by Mandela and Desmond Tutu.
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