Chris Martin was a fine new-ball bowler for New Zealand, capable of swinging the ball at a lively pace and troubling the best batsmen in the world. He was also, statistically and visually, the worst batsman in the history of Test cricket. His career batting average of 2.36 from 71 Tests tells only part of the story — his 36 ducks (a Test record at the time) tells the rest. It wasn't just that Martin couldn't bat — he couldn't bat with such consistency and thoroughness that it became a skill in itself.
Watching Martin bat was like watching a man trying to operate heavy machinery for the first time while simultaneously receiving bad news. He would approach the crease with the air of a condemned man walking his final mile, take his guard with the conviction of someone filling out a form they don't understand, and then proceed to miss, edge, or be bowled by pretty much every ball. His forward defensive shot was more of a forward hopeful prod, and his attacking shots were largely theoretical concepts that had never been successfully tested in match conditions.
The comedy reached its peak when Martin was batting with a set batsman who desperately needed him to survive. Partners would try to shield him from the bowling like Secret Service agents protecting a president, farming the strike with elaborate running schemes designed to keep Martin away from the dangerous end. But Martin had an uncanny ability to get on strike and immediately get out. It was as if the ball was magnetically attracted to his stumps and repelled by his bat.
His teammates were simultaneously exasperated and amused — he was such a good bloke that nobody could stay angry at him. His batting was so bad that when he actually scored a run, the crowd would give him a standing ovation normally reserved for centuries. When he once hit a four — a genuine, honest-to-God, hit-the-gap four — the reaction in the ground was equivalent to witnessing a minor miracle.