Shane Warne, you crazy diamond!

Many loved to hate him back then, they must confess. This great cricketer, bona fide superstar, genius among geniuses, mythical hero, legend and so on and so forth... 'Back then' of course refers to the time after cricket had irreversibly lured them in. They hated him on the night their team lost against his since he often was the major culprit.

Some were young and somewhat loyal, but mainly it was because they were committed to teams not named Australia. But when emotions had subsided, the same people could not help but love him for the player he was.

Shane Keith Warne, the Aussie whose magnificent career stats and highlights had justifiably flowed since the news of his untimely demise broke on Friday. But upon waking up yesterday morning, the way he went about his business on the field, is all that people could probably think of.

The run-up and the way he stepped towards the popping crease bore the signature of someone who had experienced solitude amidst chaos, someone who could write poetry in a buzzing bar.

Was there anyone who did not emulate it at some point? The first couple of steps. There is a pause; a series of pauses rather, which somehow caused a strange time dilation. Or time stood still, however one perceived it.

The tongue-wagging before release and level of concentration as a leg spinner. Who did not fantasize about having him play for their team! It makes one wonder: among those who witnessed the dinosaur-era of the 90s, when giants roamed the globe, can anyone form a dream eleven without Warne!

Audiences, on the field and in front of screens, remained glued in anticipation during Warne's masterclasses, demonstrating the art of beautiful repetitions. Warne naturally had everyone fixated on him, such was his charisma.

Out pops the kookaburra. The shoulder, arm, wrist all seem to rotate in cosmic harmony, like spiral arms of the galaxy. Then the little wooden sphere drifts in mid-air with numerous, luminous revolutions on it, as if planets and satellites mysteriously spinning on their axis. The rest, what usually followed, had created history, almost periodically.

'Bowling, Shane!' in the voice of a Healy-Gilchrist hybrid echoes through the fabric of cricketing space-time. Seasons change yet the song remains the same, metronome ticks on and Warne walks back to his mark again.

He never seemed the type of bowler who had figured what exact delivery they'd throw after they'd set the field and walked back to the start of run-up. Warne appeared to have left his final decision late during those time-dilated moments in between steps; like a monk meditating in the middle of a storm, he would've outfoxed himself at the last second if he had to.

Shane knew the batter's game better than they did themselves. He could call their bluff while tipsy. Someone like Warne didn't wear shades to hide. He was no conformist; for there is no fun playing safe, for there exists no proper-certified way to behave in the so-called gentleman's game.

Dear Shane, a spin wizard, you conquered time and motion, conquered the ebb and flow of neurons that construct the human psyche and its notions. You were used to leaving a full house with all in awe and disbelief on the field, and sometimes off it. And we could never have enough of it.

But can you hear us all say, "Come on, Shane!" in unison for one last time? Why not pull one Cullinan out of that white floppy hat of yours, and deal death with a ripper of a flipper, mate!

Shane Warne, you crazy diamond! The generations that witnessed your glorious journey are grateful.