At least we still have cricket

Peter Delmar: The secret to being a successful newspaper columnist is the following (I know this because a successful newspaper columnist once told me): give the people what they want.

First, you rail against corruption, rant about prejudice and rage against incompetence. Then you rail some more about corruption. (Alliteration also usually does the trick.) But, most importantly, you write about stuff the reading masses want to read.

Right now no one wants to read any more about Manyi and Manuel. Or municipal elections or mining rights. Right now the only thing people want to read about is a funny old game called cricket.

It is thanks to cricket that we are a nation once again holding its head up high. It is thanks to cricket that the depressing political cant of recent weeks has been dispelled by a shared, highbrow national debate on when and how to use the batting powerplay. Of much greater interest to us at the moment than the Anglo American or Standard Bank share price is the state of Imran Tahir's finger.

Which brings me elegantly to the topic of today's discourse: Hashim Amla. The bearded one has a curiously old-fashioned habit, one that was in evidence again on Sunday. When he gives a snick, Amla tucks his bat under his arm and walks off the field. He doesn't wait for the umpire. Unlike other professionals who walk only "when the bus breaks down", Amla walks because he knows he is out. Because he was brought up that way.

The snickometer is not in use at this World Cup. Did the umpire know that Amla had got the faintest of touches to MS Dhoni? Was Dhoni convinced? We will never know. But Amla knew. And he walked.

The thing about snicks is that, even when played with a soggy tennis ball, if you hit the thing you know you're out. Instantly. The umpires might not be sure, even the catcher can be uncertain but the batsman knows for sure.

Four years ago I found myself at the Cricket World Cup. A week in Grenada and another in Barbados following the Proteas and swimming on palm-fringed beaches was everything it had been cracked up to be, the holiday of a lifetime - which is why I'm a bit grumpy: that I'm not in India right now.

Before the last World Cup I was told by several travel agents that a fortnight in the Caribbean would set me back at least R60000. This was depressing news: journalists can't afford cars, let alone a beach holiday. With careful planning - none of which involved a travel agent - I had the said holiday of a lifetime, lived a brief Peter Stuyvesant/Mainstay existence and came home with loose change from half the quoted amount. I also played plenty of beach cricket - which is how I know about snicks and soggy tennis balls.

Once, on a little palm-fringed bit of atoll I stood my ground after giving a catch to the wicketkeeper. National pride was at stake. There was also the fact that the bowler was a New Zealander. And a girl. And she was bowling underarm. Apart from this one moment of uncharacteristic turpitude, I have lived an almost blameless life.

When Hashim Amla goes out to bat there is a great deal more national pride at stake than in a pick-up game of beach or cake-league cricket. Apart from anything else, this is how this young man earns his crust.

In a world of backhanders and dodgy deals, questionable tendering practices, ruthless profiteering and political skullduggery, where the winner is rewarded regardless of the cost or at whose expense he profits, we have a sportsman of the greatest talent who embodies all that was once noble and good about the Gentleman's Game.

Amla is a man of profound religious conviction; no one, even the most ardent habitue of Castle Corner, would begrudge him his principled stand on not wearing the team sponsor's logo. But it is as a walker that he deserves much greater kudos than he gets. Not because he seeks it but because he is a role model in a world sadly lacking in this species.

You may now turn immediately to the sports pages.