Monday, April 15, 2002 In late January 1976, a 24-year old West Indian batsman strutted out to open the batting in the fifth Test against Australia at the Adelaide Oval. He had never opened in his 12-Test career, his side was trailing 3-1, and he had totalled a miserable 147 runs in seven innings, having batted six of those seven times at No. 5 or lower. In his last innings at Sydney, he had batted at No. 3 and had been dismissed for 2. And here he was, in his maroon national cap – helmets were not in vogue then, but he would never wear one even when they were – out to take on the might of Dennis Lillee and Jeff Thomson with his career and pride on the line. It was brave, and it was desperate.

West Indies still went on to lose that Test – and the next one, at Melbourne. But Viv Richards, batting with the savagery and pomp that the world would associate with him for the next 15 years, scored 279 runs from 331 balls in four innings. Lillee and Thomson did their best to cow him down with short-pitched balls, glares and abuse, as they had done all through the series. But Richards stood tall, looked them in the eye and swatted them aside with a fusillade of hooks, pulls and cuts.

We were to learn later that Richards's promotion up the batting order was prompted by the advice of Rudi Webster, the West Indian sports psychologist, who diagnosed Viv's problems as arising from the anxiety of waiting rather than from technical shortcomings.

A similar reason has been cited by Sourav Ganguly recently as he sought, and obtained, a promotion to No. 3. "I get tired waiting for my turn," Ganguly said before the first Test against West Indies in Guyana.

Bravery is one thing, bravado another. Ganguly seems to have committed himself to self-destruction. Richards took a gamble that could have backfired. Ganguly has taken a gamble that has no future. Richards's move was backed by self-belief and ability. Ganguly's misadventure is based on a lack of cricketing intelligence. He justifies his promotion with the argument that he started his career from No. 3 with two successive centuries against England, and that his last century – against Zimbabwe last month – came from that position.

But what everybody else can see and Ganguly refuses to accept is that the Ganguly of today is unrecognisable from the Ganguly of 1996. Then he was a batsman of grace and majesty: his front foot glided across to every near-half-volley and the bat followed in perfect harmony to caress the ball through the arc from mid-off to backward point. That was before the fast bowlers found him out.

Today, he hardly moves a step forward, living forever in the dread of the short ball. Half-volleys are routinely guided into the hands of the slip cordon, and every short ball is a potential killer. His last hundred came against a weak Zimbabwe attack blunted further by the dead Ferozeshah Kotla pitch. To use that innings to justify his taking the No. 3 position is to betray a serious lack of cricket nous.

It took only two bouncers from Mervyn Dillon to put Ganguly's batting into perspective. The first one struck him on the arm. The second one he attempted, hopelessly, to pull, and it looped limply to the square-leg fielder.

Ganguly finds a place in the Indian Test batting order only by virtue of his captaincy. He should spare himself the embarrassment of walking out to face an almost-new ball at No. 3. That slot belongs to a man who has the game. Rahul Dravid has been pushed around enough: he demands justice. Ganguly must return to No. 5, and hope that the new ball isn't around when he comes in.

Sambit Bal is editor of Wisden.com India and Wisden Asia Cricket magazine.

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