But when Maxwell arrived in India, MI did not have a spot for him in the XI. He had played two games for Delhi Daredevils the year before; he would play only three in this edition. “I was probably acting my age and being more interested in how many social media followers it would get me,” he confesses in The Showman, his autobiography.
Even during this early period of his career, he wore his stubble, chewed his gum, and rocked his hairy forearms. At least to a subcontinental teenager like me, he was the quintessential Australian cricketing alpha. But through these initial years of waiting to become a star, then becoming one, Maxwell has lived an engrossingly contradictory public life. His irreverent batting – back when reverse ramps and scoops and unnameable shots behind the wicket were still almost taboo – made him one of the world’s first properly viral cricketers. He was, at times, also a reminder of its pitfalls.
If Maxwell’s approach to the game, and its patchwork returns, have been described as an enigma, the sentiment has been repeated often enough for it to veer on cliché. Especially because he has always been one of cricket’s most honest chats, in interviews and on social media, while still an active cricketer. He even announced his retirement on a podcast – the Final Word, hosted by Adam Collins and Geoff Lemon – before posting any statement on his own socials.
Mental health, unlike a tricky run chase on the pitch, has never been an equation to be solved or a battle to heroically vanquish. But Maxwell was always willing to let people peek behind the curtains. In his autobiography, he talks about a depressive episode he had while playing club cricket in the UK in 2008. “The fact that it peaked immediately after making a century should have been a sign that it had very little to do with cricket, and much more to do with a chemical imbalance,” he said. “In hindsight, that should have been when I put in place the type of processes that I have now… This wasn’t talked about in the game then, not in the way it is these days.”
You have surely seen the edits, often set to Bollywood music: Maxwell cramping up with both his legs straightened out on the ground, then Maxwell holding his arms aloft after securing the win. For once, no one talked of the opposition’s bowlers or the significance of the occasion for a Maxwell blitz. After a career-long wait, still chewing his gum and using his powerful wrists, Maxwell had played the innings he always had always promised to: an ultimate catharsis to brand of cricket.
The double century will now surely be the image of his career, a moment of lasting greatness that supersedes any Maxwell we might have known once. But as he now shifts his full focus to the T20 franchise circuit, it is worth remembering his career was significant not only because of all his highest highs and lowest lows, or stardom in the social-media age, or embodying the hyper-modern T20 alpha. He was a significant cricketer because he also broke from the norms of the sport – he was frank about being a globe-trotting cricketer, and being in his own mind, while millions watched on.
The public eye can be cruel and pry open the privacy of the most private cricketers. But with time, Maxwell’s success will surely also come down to how he used his platform. Batting in Wankhede, he might have, finally, become superhuman. But throughout his career, watching – and hearing – Maxwell was the ultimate reassurance. A reminder that in the end, it is okay to be human.
Abhijato Sensarma is a sub-editor at Cricinfo
