It was not just how many, but how Williamson scored. The slightly-built Bay of Plenty product had a boyish air at the crease, his armguard, bulging thighpad, helmet and bat all seeming oversized. Waiting for the bowlers he was crouched and angular, his bat pumping eagerly in the air from ****ed wrists, finding an imperceptible rhythm with the bowlers' approach and load-up.
For all the tight-sprung energy of his top half, what was most noticeable was the stillness of his feet. His toes wiggled in his boots, but Williamson did not move his feet until the ball arrived. Then it was one late movement, forward or back, decisive. No trigger movements, no guesswork, no eccentricities: just textbook cricket shots played as if in front of a mirror.
Every seven balls he faced, Williamson hit a boundary, distributed evenly around the ground as if he was handing out merchandise and making sure nobody missed out. Regardless of which Mitchell he faced, or Josh Hazlewood or Nathan Lyon, Williamson's square cutting, driving, hooking and pulling was so precise that no bad ball went unpunished.
His batting had no limitations, no habitual hitting zones, no particular strengths, no glaring weaknesses. It always loses the argument to invoke the B-word, but Williamson's batting brought to mind what they said about Bradman: no particular flamboyance or flourish, no muscular power, simply a mechanical ability to hit the ball through the gaps. And what's that, he's a hundred already.