Ashes 2013: Anti-Superhero Chris Rogers Vanquishes England

In comic books superheroes are sexy. Superheroes have capes that blow perfectly in the wind, they have hair that stays in place even after a battle with a fifty-foot Lizard. They have enormous muscles, jet-propelled cars and protect entire cities from three headed monsters whilst an attractive woman hangs on their arm. 

Chris Rogers is not a comic book superhero. He doesn’t have a supermodel girlfriend, he doesn’t have perfect hair or a toothpaste advert-smile, he doesn’t have enormous muscles or a jet-propelled car and he certainly doesn’t wear a cape.

Moreover his cricket isn’t super heroic. He doesn’t hit sixes, he rarely hits fours and he fields at mid-on. He blocks, he leaves, he nudges, he nurdles. His gloves don’t match his bat, his helmet is lopsided, and his arm guard is falling apart. Not to mention the fact that he’s colour-blind and struggles to pick a red ball out from a dark background. 

Chris Rogers is such an anti-superhero that his twenty thousand first-class runs had earned him just one Test cap before this series began.

If Shane Watson’s talents hit you like a frying pan to the face, Rogers’ nudge you like a glass bottle washing up against your foot on a far away desert island. Rogers doesn’t have an X-factor. He doesn’t have a booming straight drive, a wristy flamingo or a perfect swivel pull.

Instead he’s a classical run-accumulator. The ball hits his bat, not the other way around. He glances and cuts, pushes and guides. He’s an gamin alley cat to Michael Clarke’s elegant leopard. 

Superheroes are normally great at timing. The last civilian will be saved moments before the building collapses and the bomb will be defused with seconds to spare. Chris Rogers? Less so. 

He’d been made to wait 35 years and 344 days for his first Test century, and finally on the day it happened, he still couldn’t get there quickly. He was stranded on 96 for 30 painstaking minutes and 19 torturous balls, in which his bat appeared to shrink from a sizable chunk of willow into nothing more than a toothpick, before he finally, somehow got the boundary he required. 

Rogers’ maiden Test century represented his approach to batting: gritty, hard-fought and admirably ugly. However, to call him lucky would be unjust. He flashed and missed on occasions, and played more than a few false shots, but England bowled well. Stuart Broad in particular had Rogers hopping around, and it took resilience to survive. Resilience that, Watson briefly aside, none of his team mates displayed. Even Clarke, Australia’s best batsmen, could not keep his patience and paid for his aggression with his wicket.

What’s particularly galling about this innings is that it's a reminder of how long it's taken Australia to realise what Rogers offers them. There was a time not so long ago when it seemed more likely that a martian with 27 legs from the planet Yazoog was going to get a Test call-up than Rogers. Now he's winning a Test match for Australia. 

Rogers does what is required with minimal fuss and unwavering dedication and professionalism. No frills, no add-ons and no flourishes of unnecessary showmanship or attitude—he just gets on with his cricket and he gets on with it well. 

However, brutally each and every run Australia can squeeze out of his 35-year-old body will in a bitter-sweet way be a a painful reminder of the mistake of leaving him out for so long.

Rogers reacted to reaching the landmark with relief, but also with the purpose of a man that felt celebrating was a distraction to the progress of the remainder of his innings. He raised his bat and helmet brusquely, took a short moment to take it all in, before setting about preparing for the next delivery. 

A batsman, not a showman. A cricketer, not a superhero. 

However, each and every run Australia can squeeze out of his 35 year-old body will in a bitter-sweet way be a a painful reminder of the mistake of leaving him out for so long.