‘What the? No. He didn’t. He didn’t?!? The ball was (f-word) behind him!! He didn’t (f-word) catch that. Nobody does! That’s ridicu(f-word)lous. He’s dived back to grab that. Ridiculous’.

So sayeth you, me, and Alexander the Great, if he’s watching. Because what else is there to say, what else is there to do but be gobsmacked in that timelessly, gormlessly wonderstruck kindofaway; like Bairstow; like Broad; like Wood; like most of Australia, for pity’s sakes?

Root: catching Marnus. Diving backwards to clutch a ball that’s gone so quickly past him, the bloke in row Z is putting his pint down before the incoming pill smashes his glasses. A ball that was so utterly uncatchable by mere mortals, so loaded with searing, malevolent pace that every sentient being watching live is still ducking, now, eight hours after the event. And the God of All England takes it at full stretch, behind him.

But it gets better. Like Nadia Comaneci doing high-bar stuff, on the frame of the London Eye, whilst supping a tequila sunrise, and doughnutting a Ford Capri, it gets better because Marnus is stomping away, bawling about the bad light, to the umpire, *after Root held the catch of the century!* Irony is dead; the shockwaves have gone viral and Labuschagne’s panties are down by his quivering ankles. For those who like their #bantz or their wind-ups, there is the Broad Bonus – the lanky one having switched the bails around, purely to get in Labuschagne’s head – the *ball before* the dismissal!

But the catch; the catch. It’s a moment of inviolable sporting perfection. The sheer brilliance. The profound-but-childlike joyfulness. Largely, or first, the shock. Then, The Achievement. Oh – and the beaming, beaming lols. The faces of the England players, all mad, all so cattle-prod-up-the-jacksie stunned, but all too innocently thrilled to be triumphant, and the thundercloud that is the Marnus Stomp. If yer a Pom, un-im-provable.

The fact that Bairstow (who admittedly is crocked) barely flickers whilst Roooot launches and grabs, is unimprovable. Mark Wood’s smiling fizzog, an age after the unquenchable fuss should have died down, is unimprovable.

For all the resonances, cheap or seminal and the tribal or historic matrices, this was a great, pure sporting moment. Root’s instinct, coordination and remarkable flair for that which is both simple and classic, is sensational, exquisite, wondrous. This catch is somehow calming – for its revelatory but obviously natural brilliance? – and deeply, deeply stirring. This catch is a f***ing worldie. Thank god for cricket; for Wood’s irresistible heart and for Root.