Harry Brook and England’s Long Wait for Godot

There’s a curious theatre to English cricket. It is that peculiar mix of misplaced optimism and selective amnesia that allows an average series to be called “encouraging” and a nearly prodigy to be called “the future.” In Harry Brook’s case, one wonders which future they’re talking about. If it’s the next Ashes, it might be a dim one, and not just because there isn’t currently even a glimmer of light at the end of that tunnel. And if it’s the one in which England learn to bat through a single afternoon without resembling a T20 franchise on Red Bull, that may never arrive.

Brook entered the last Ashes like a promise scribbled on gold leaf. It was all punch, swagger and a touch of disregard for convention. Here, we were told, was England’s next great thing, a Yorkshireman who would blend the audacity of (dare we mention him?) Kevin Pietersen, with the spine of Root. Instead, what we got was something closer to a Bazball-themed performance of Waiting for Godot. The audience kept waiting for something meaningful to happen, and every time it almost did, Brook walked off having tried to reverse scoop a delivery that deserved nothing more dramatic than a dead bat.

Endearing arrogance is ok in small doses

There is something endearing about his arrogance. But in small doses. The trouble is, in Test cricket, arrogance without application is like playing chess with only the queen. It works for a while, but eventually the king gets cornered. The pawns become queens, and instead of a harem, the king finds himself surrounded by black widow spiders. And there is only one possible outcome.

Brook, like his generation, suffers from an incurable white-ball hangover. He treats the red ball as an impatient cousin, one who needs to be hurried along to get back to the six-hitting bonanza. And that story rarely has a happy ending.

Every now and then, Brook flashes brilliance. That thundering on-drive that makes even a veteran bowler sigh, the impudent cut that races through gully like it has a train to catch. But then, just as he starts looking like the batsman we were promised, he gifts it away. The pattern that traces his career has seen a build-up of déjà vu shaped disappointments. Brooks gives us 30’s that should have been hundreds, 50’s that evaporate with a top edge, and myriad other dismissals that leave you wondering whether he’s playing for time or TikTok.

Waiting for Brook

Waiting for Brook to become a Test great is beginning to feel a lot like Vladimir and Estragon’s endless wait for Godot. You know he’s out there somewhere. He is talented, capable, theoretically transformative…..but he never quite arrives. Instead, you get the same dialogues repeated in different acts. The fans witness yet another cameo, another sigh, another “he’ll learn”, and then set about dealing with an inevitable England collapse.

England’s faith in Brook is touching, even romantic. But Test cricket, that wily old beast, rewards patience more than promise, relationships more than one-night stands. Until Harry Brook learns that you can indeed build an innings brick by brick instead of trying to blowtorch your way to a legacy, he’ll remain a Test batsman in theory, not in numbers.

For now, English fans must sit under that metaphorical tree, glancing at their watches and waiting. Godot never came, but maybe the greatness of Harry Brook the Test batter, will. Then again, maybe not. In all likelihood he’ll just play a lofted drive and get caught at mid-off before it gets a chance to manifest itself.