Day of diminishing certainties

Great expectations, like a waft outside off stump, are best left alone. On the second morning at The Oval, India resumed not with certainty, but with that most fragile of companions — hope. Their intention was clear: to settle, consolidate, and stretch the promise of Day 1 into a position of strength.

But the game, like English weather, turns with little warning.

Within the first half hour, the innings lay in tatters. Four wickets fell for twenty runs — not so much surrendered as seduced into error. The English bowlers, canny and persistent, found life in a surface that seemed to have aged overnight. The ball whispered past the edge, and when it kissed the bat, it carried. The scoreboard, once cautiously optimistic, now stood bare — 224 all out.

England came out with purpose. There was no extravagance, no flourish — only intent. They knew that scoring would be sparse, opportunities rare. Yet they capitalised on the Indian bowlers’ brief lull and the occasional loose offering. The openers moved with careful resolve, and by the time the players disappeared up the pavilion steps for lunch, the hosts were 109 for 1. It was not dominance, but it was direction.

But as the afternoon sun moved behind the cloud — and a breeze began to stir — the contest shifted once more.

Mohammed Siraj found a rhythm familiar to him — hard lengths, sharp angles, unrelenting questions. Prasidh Krishna, less experienced but equally insistent, offered bounce and bite. Together, they began to undo England’s resolve. Catches were held. Pads were rapped. Patience was tested. And wickets fell — one, then another, and another still. By tea, England had stumbled to 215 for 7, the early assurance now unravelled by seam, sweat, and subtlety.

Rain arrived not long after. The crowd retreated into their coats; umbrellas bloomed like late-summer flowers across the stands. But the spell had already been cast.

India, operating with only three seamers, had defied the imbalance. Siraj finished the day with three scalps, Prasidh with four — each wicket hard-earned, each one celebrated not with roar, but with resolve. They had held England back — not fully, but enough. At the break in play, the lead stood at 18.

Yet the day’s work was far from complete.

Chris Woakes, England’s reliable all-rounder, would not bat, nor bowl. His absence tilts the match subtly, almost imperceptibly. And so, the weight now falls upon Harry Brook — still there, still fighting — to lift that lead into the realm of pressure.

At The Oval, as ever, the game walked its own path: a morning collapse, an afternoon revival, an evening of gathering shadows and quiet possibilities.

In cricket, there are no great expectations — only great uncertainties.

And that, perhaps, is its enduring charm.