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Perhaps the highest compliment that can be paid to Shamar Joseph’s seven-for at Brisbane, is that it somehow put his own magical mythology in the shade. You’ve likely already heard the story, but let’s cap anyway. He grew up in a part of Guyana so remote that until 2018 it didn’t have a colour TV, let alone such technological wonders as wifi or phone signal. A fear of heights and a close shave with some falling timber spurred him to quit his job as a logger and move inland, where he worked 12-hour shifts as a security guard, often overnight, to support his family. There was barely time for cricket to be a hobby, let alone a dream.

By chance he found himself living next door to West Indies international Romario Shepherd, who introduced him to the Guyanese regional set-up. From there, he took part in a fast-bowling clinic under the watchful eye of Curtly Ambrose. A spark was spotted, and nurtured into a flame.

Still, heading into the final day of Joseph’s debut series, it seemed he’d have to settle for cult rather than super-hero status. Five wickets at Adelaide, including the prize scalp of Steve Smith with his first ball, had little impact as Australia cruised to a 10-wicket win. Rodney Hogg laid into the “pathetic and hopeless” tourists, and while they were spirited across the first three days at the Gabba, a day-four equation of 156 to win with eight wickets in hand brokered little alarm for the hosts. Not least because it seemed as if Joseph’s race was run.

A Mitchell Starc toe-crusher had lived up to the name, the No.11 carried from the field, bootless and bloodied, to bring the West Indies innings to a close. Scans confirmed there was no fracture, but Joseph wasn’t even planning to hobble to the ground for the final stages before the team doctor said they could use his support, if nothing else. A few pills later and he was ready to go, borrowing a teammate’s match kit; so sure was he that he could play no part, he’d left his own at the hotel.

By the time he was finally ready to bowl, Australia had knocked another 33 runs off their target. As Joseph’s first 10 balls came and went for 19 runs, the hosts were halfway there. His 11th, however, was a beauty, clean-bowling Cameron Green via his elbow. The 12th was even better, full, fast, and castling Travis Head. For the first two times in the day, the arms were outstretched as Joseph took flight.

The stage was set. Forget the toe that ached with every step, the lactic acid that built with every ball, the runs that ticked down every over: Joseph would not take his cap for the rest of the game.

From that moment, Australia knew they were in a scrap. They counterattacked from one end as Smith held up the other. All the while, Joseph kept coming at them, fast, skiddy, utterly determined. Mitch Marsh was nicked off at 144 kph, Alex Carey knocked over one click quicker. Starc holed out, and then Pat Cummins fell too, up on his toes, fending away.

The interval, absurdly, brilliantly, came with 29 runs and two wickets needed. The other Joseph, Alzarri, did for Nathan Lyon, before Smith finally opened his shoulders, scooping madly for six. The cricket world held its breath.

Throughout, the hollow sound of an empty Gabba provided its own strange theatre, the hoots and hollers and gasps and groans of 11 West Indians amplified. The expanse of blue, yellow and maroon seats were largely the result of a wrongheaded ticketing policy, but still served as a stark reminder of Test cricket’s precarious position. Joseph, in one extraordinary spell, showed why it must be saved, and how, even as we fret about the injustices of an imbalanced world order, that capacity to surprise is never completely diminished.

The final moment was glorious and fitting, Joseph right on target, too fast, and just too good. Josh Hazlewood’s off stump lay flat as the 11 men of West Indies tore across the outfield and over the boundary rope, sprinting in all directions, before joining in one joyous mass.

“Are these muscles big enough for you?” asked captain Kraigg Brathwaite in the post-match presentation, in reply to Hogg’s criticism. But more than brawn, this was about heart and skill and the wonders of a game and team that simply refuses to die.

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