Even now, when it seems that every day the world is turned a little more on its head, some things still have the power to catch you right where it hurts. Shane Warne’s death is one of those things. It’s not just the suddenness of it, or that he was only 52, or that it comes mere hours after Rod Marsh’s demise. It’s that he was a force of nature, a stone cold genius, a once-in-a-generation talent.

When he arrived on the Test scene in the early ‘90s, leg spin (at least outside the subcontinent) was not so much a dying art as one practically being given the last rites. At best it was seen as a method of containment, with journeyman bowlers wheeling away to give the strike boys a rest and try to keep the opposition from scoring too freely. Warne changed all that. In his freakishly strong and dextrous hands leg spin became a weapon, swashbuckling and sexy. The ‘ball of the century’ to Mike Gatting in 1993 made him an instant superstar - ‘Gatting still doesn’t know what’s happened’ said Richie Benaud on commentary as the bewildered batsman left the field shaking his head - and that level of attention and fame never let up. Wherever Warne was, that was where you’d find the action: and, as often as not, that was where you’d find trouble too.

His off-field indiscretions were as integral a part of his persona as his cricketing talent. Affairs, bookmakers, diuretic pills: you name it, he’d get himself involved. But there was never any malice in what he did, and even those he hurt would acknowledge that. Gideon Haigh, maybe the best cricket writer out there and someone who knew him well, described Warne as ‘long on charm and short on responsibility.’ He was cricket’s version of Amadeus as played by Tom Hulce, a rockstar manchild who wanted to please, who was always up for fun, who had neither airs nor graces, who made time for everybody, who drained the cup of life every day and always found it refilled the next, but who also discovered that nothing in his life or personality could handle all the ramifications of being the talisman his skills made him.

As so often with flawed geniuses - Maradona and Gazza spring to mind here too - Warne was never happier than when out in the middle. For some cricketers, the ground is a warzone, testing their capabilities to the maximum and beyond. For Warne it was home. His cricketing brain was second to none, he understood the game’s myriad intricacies better than all but a handful of those who’ve ever played, and he relished the competition like no other. When he was bowling, it was impossible to tell the score simply from his body language. Australia could have been a wicket away from winning the Ashes or they could have been 500 behind, but either way he would be bowling just the same: menacing, posturing, scheming, chuntering, grinning, totally engrossed in and loving not just the battle but the whole theatre of it too. 

His statistics, stellar though they are, don’t show the effect he had on both the opposition and his team-mates, the times he’d run through teams like a fox in a chicken coop, a sorcerer causing pure havoc. Even when it was against your team, it was a privilege to watch. And on the few occasions he came off second best, he was always the first to offer congratulations, and they were invariably sincere and generous.

I saw him in the flesh during the first Test of the 2005 Ashes, a series which will live in the memory for as long as the game is played and in which his role was pivotal. Late on a sunny Lord’s afternoon, he came on to bowl. The crowd booed as he warmed up, and he took it as it was intended, the highest possible compliment. He was the pantomime villain and he relished it, because he knew that this was entertainment and that if sport was not fun then it was not anything. 

Two months later and five miles across London at the Oval, the series finally won 2-1 by England (it would have been 4-1 without Warne), the fans sang to him: ‘we only wish you were English.’ A proud Aussie, he could never have shared the sentiment, but he would surely have appreciated it nonetheless. He would retire less than 18 months later, so those present that day were witnessing the twilight of a god. Now night has fallen, and we have lost a giant. RIP.