The pitch sizzles as if made of cast iron, eager for a slab of fresh meat in the form of a visiting batsman not yet acclimatised to the scorching heat.
I didn’t understand any of this the first time I attended a match at South African cricket’s spiritual home. It was early 1997. I was eight years old; all floppy hat and sunblock as I slogged up the ceaseless slope that is Corlette Drive in Johannesburg’s leafy northern suburbs. Like all children first introduced to a religion that would one day shape their adult lives, it was my parents who brought me to worship.
First published in The Nightwatchman, Daniel Gallan paints a personal picture of The Wanderers, the spiritual home of South African cricket.
The outfield shimmers. The pristine carpet of green is a still lake. A solid forward defensive is enough to see the ball skim across its surface like a water-striding insect, barely breaking the tension underfoot.
The stands are a heaving, swirling mass. The noise rises and falls like a Highveld summer storm. Lightning, thunder, deluge; a cacophony of colour and sound.
This is the Bull Ring. Not merely a cricket stadium but an ode to the elements. A cathedral that pays homage to the full fury of nature’s brilliance. All that is thrilling about this meandering sport is condensed here. This ground has grown up in the City of Gold and now embodies the impatience of its people, never missing a chance to hit the fast-forward button on a stagnant day’s play. No other venue in the world can match the firepower of a breathless showstopper at the Wanderers.
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Inside I’ll always be that barefooted boy on the grass, that curious adolescent in the Unity Stand, that rowdy fan on the benches. I may have climbed as high as I can at the Bull Ring but I’ll never forget what the stadium has given me.
This article first appeared in issue 28 of The Nightwatchman, Wisden‘s cricket quarterly. Buy it here.
