In the last two years, Herath has almost certainly been the most popular active cricketer on the island, partly because the new generation has failed to capture the public imagination, but also because, more than any other cricketer, he has felt like one of us. The great battles of his career are not with form, or technique – what does the policeman, or the bus driver, or the marketing executive know of those? But he has been doubted, he has known toil, he has been overlooked, accused, ignored, spat out. One time in 2016, he was hit in the box by Josh Hazlewood, and he walked funny for the next three sessions. That he claimed yet another five-wicket haul and won that Test upon wounded groin only made him more endearing.His body, he says, is now properly giving up. There’s only enough strength left in his audibly creaking knees for one more five-day stint of toddling up to the bowling crease and waddling around the outfield. There will only be two more reverse-sweep laden innings, at most.In looking back at his career, it is tempting to recount only the astounding highs – the frequent ambushes of Pakistan, the 2011 revelry in Durban, the home rout of Australia, that spellbinding defence of 176 against India on his favourite track, in Galle. All that is worth enshrining. But don’t forget the other Herath. The one who has tangoed unsuccessfully with the rough for sessions on end. The Herath who could have let his career slip all those years ago, but sweated for a decade, for a dream. He finishes now in the realms of the game’s greatest, but it is not genius that got him there. It is the lean years that have made him what he is.

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