Kallis seems as unloved amongst fans and ‘fundis’ alike as Sobers is loved and revered © Getty Images

Kallis passed Sobers’ 8032 career runs ages ago, and now he’s above him on the wickets table. So Kallis is officially the top allrounder in cricket history.

I hope I have your attention now. Let’s discuss.

Sobers’ record was 93 tests, 160 innings (21 n.o.), 8032 runs at 57.78 with 26 hundreds, 30 fifties, best 365*. His 235 wickets were at 34.03 runs each, one every 91.9 balls (surprisingly high), best 6/73, 109 catches.

Kallis to date: 122 tests, 205 innings (33 n.o), 9681 runs at 56.28, 30 hundreds, 47 fifties, best 189*, SR 43.9. Plus 236 wickets at 31.25, strike-rate 66.8 balls, best 6/54, and 127 catches. After 93 tests, Kallis had slightly fewer runs than Sobers – 7337 – and a lot fewer wickets – 189, but averaged 56.87 and 31.6.

Strikingly similar records. On the crude test of all-round ability – batting average minus bowling average – Kallis just shades it, 25.03 to 23.75, but they’re both way above all other contenders. Over such long careers, the numbers surely don’t lie. Kallis is as good as Sobers was.

Yet this is never acknowledged – Kallis seems as unloved amongst fans and ‘fundis’ alike as Sobers is loved and revered. His failings are repeated so often they’ve taken on the status of ‘facts’.

a. Cheap runs against minnows: Excluding Bangladesh and Zimbabwe, Kallis’ average drops, but only to 53.6. But look at Sobers through the same lens: excluding India, Pakistan and New Zealand (the minnows of the time), he drops to 53.1. (Even Bradman suffers, averaging ‘only’ 89.8 against England, his only non-minnow opposition.)

b. Shirks his bowling duties: It beats me how people know that Kallis is reluctant to bowl – I’ve never heard anything like this over a stump mike or from a commentator. Somehow the idea took root. For the record, his 21.7 overs per test as 5th bowler doesn’t compare too badly with, say, Flintoff’s 31.3 overs as 3rd or 4th bowler – only 5 overs per innings fewer. And since Kallis has also been SA’s batting mainstay almost from day one, one could argue that bowling him a little less has shown (surprisingly) good resource management by South Africa. Perhaps that is why he was able to bowl 15 overs today at age nearly 33.

c. Bats for himself, not the team, and is slow/boring: I have often been frustrated watching Kallis, especially in ODIs, just wanting him to get on with it. Yet his ODI strike rate is over 70 and one feels he has carried South Africa to victory with a few balls to spare innumerable time. He has 29 ‘Man of the Match’ awards in 274 matches. Ricky Ponting’s strike rate is 80 with 28 ‘Man of the Match’ awards in 301 matches.

But this is the main point: Kallis is not Ponting or Lara or Sehwag. He is not Viv Richards or Barry Richards or indeed Garry Sobers. He came into the South African team when ‘90 for 5’ was our all-too-regular scoreline. In his seventh Test, he had to bat all day against a full-strength Australian attack in Melbourne to save the match. This is how his playing personality was shaped. Kallis took the approach of Rahul ‘The Wall’ Dravid, the path of Steve Waugh, not Mark – eliminating risk, protecting his wicket, allowing others to bat freely by being ‘Mr Reliable’. Calling this selfish is to misunderstand the interplay that cricket imposes between team needs and personal goals. Calling it slow or boring is to ignore one of cricket’s delights, the inch-by-inch battle for domination, as different from the Lara or Sehwag approach as trench warfare is from mounted charges, but no less enthralling. Criticising Kallis for not batting like Lara is like criticising Thelonius Monk for not playing piano like Duke Ellington – it is beside the point.

Kallis’ real problem is that he hasn’t ‘marketed’ himself well. Steve Waugh and Rahul Dravid are rightly revered for their role and contributions – but Kallis is Waugh together with Jason Gillespie in a single player, Dravid and Javagal Srinath rolled into one. He deserves his spot up there with Sobers.

It would be a foolish person who reads too much into the result of a single Test match and makes sweeping generalisations, far less, unfair criticism of champion players. India’s capitulation in Colombo must be a cause for concern of course but the ‘Greats’ of Indian batting (and surely Tendulkar, Dravid, Laxman, Sehwag and Ganguly must rank in that list) will no doubt turn things around in Galle. Their history tells us that they almost certainly will score big runs soon. Reading a bit more into an Indian post-mortem however warrants a few questions that only those more familiar with the Indian scene can really answer.

First question: is India moving away from being a team that relies on spin-friendly conditions? Perhaps the fruits of the MRF Pace Academy and a steady production line of bigger-framed fast bowlers are giving India a hint of what their future looks like.

Their relatively poor performance on spinning tracks (Colombo 2008 v Sri Lanka, Adelaide 2008 v Australia, Mumbai 2006 v England) is actually in contrast to some wonderful performances away from home on more fast-bowler friendly surfaces. Perth 2008 v Australia, Johannesburg 2006 v South Africa and their series win in England in 2007 are cases in point where India’s fast bowlers dominated more fancied opposition and their batsmen coped admirably with those pitches.

Even in ODI cricket, their VB series victory in Australia and various other good performances away from home (World Cup 2003) contrast sharply with some poor performances in spin-friendly conditions. The Champions Trophy in 2006 and Australia’s ODI series win in 2007 rank amongst the home disappointments.

Is this a sign that India is moving away from a long tradition and now becoming more of a threat on pitches that do a bit more for the quickies? In a perfect world, they would develop this strength whilst still defending ‘Fortress India’. Australia have certainly shown that winning away doesn’t need to come at the expense of domination at home. That is partly because recent Australian teams have wonderful balance and they are very adaptable in all conditions. Can the same be said of India?

Next question: is it about time to start looking at blooding the next generation? Class and pedigree are good things but perhaps the time draws nigh to look to the future. India’s next generation is chock-full of talent and perhaps, there needs to be a slow phasing in process so that there is no massive hole when the aforementioned ‘greats’ all exit the game within a short space of time. It’s an age-old question – do you pick the best XI on any given day or do you also start planning for the future? Is Test cricket meant to be for the best 11 cricketers in the country on that day? If you are the best today, should it matter how old you are? Is it the Best XI or the Best Future XI?

Last question: what are India’s spin bowling stocks looking like? I ask the question with a genuine lack of inside knowledge. It’s clear that Kumble and Harbajhan are no longer as effective as they once were – in Kumble’s case, he has nothing to apologise for.

I daresay it’s not just India’s worry though. Mendis apart, who else in the world is showing signs of becoming a future star of the game? Panesar is steady, Vettori is no spring chicken and Kaneria is by no means the guaranteed match winner that Pakistan was looking for after Mushtaq and Saqlain. Is India well covered in this area or is that a question that’s still up in the air?

India may well be the new superpower of cricket in the administrative sense but I’m not convinced that they’re quite ready (yet) to assume that mantle on the field. One poor performance is not the end of the world but one wonders about the next few years after the senior ‘legends’ move on. Is there any need to worry or is the production line working efficiently with fresh young talent waiting impatiently to carry India forward?

	Middlesex’s chances of retaining the Twenty20 Cup in 2009 will disappear entirely if Shaun Udal retires © AFP

Incredible! Not only was the Twenty20 Final a fantastic game of cricket, but Middlesex won their first trophy since Mike Gatting was playing. And in a format which they have been useless at for the five previous years of the tournament.

But it was the semi-final which really showed up the injustice of the Man of the Match system. Tyron Henderson got it for his quickfire 59 but the real engineers of the win were, as usual, Murali Kartik and Shaun Udal, the two spinners who delivered overs 7-14 for a mere 36 runs. Throughout the tournament their typical combined figures have been 8-0-43-2, the equivalent of putting the opposition batsmen in a box and sitting on the lid for eight overs, or 40% of the innings, and it’s been the ‘Flash Harries’ who’ve got the 60 in 40 balls who walk off with the Man-of-the-Match awards.

The big difference in Middlesex this year is that they had found the missing piece of the machine. Whereas last year Kartik’s four overs of excellence got lost amid the dross, this year he has had Udal to back him up and they have been oppressive enough to ensure that the batsmen have rarely had to trouble 160. Middlesex’s rickety Twenty20 contraption which fell to bits as soon as it was pushed last year gained in Udal the cross-strut which made it into a stable and powerful engine.

“The Udal Story” ought to be a Frank Capra movie starring Jimmy Stewart. The young man gets his first job as a cricketer and does pretty well, then falls into bad company and loses his way. Running around with the feckless ne’er-do-wells who laughingly call themselves England’s one-day team rarely does anyone any good, but Udal sees the error of his ways pretty quickly and then settles down to a life of honest toil as a good county spinner. Years later, as he begins to coast to retirement, a stranger arrives from across the sea and reinvigorates him, and then by a strange set of accidents there’s a vacancy in the England side and he gets picked. Off they go to India, and in a dramatic vital match the new young pretender [Monty Panesar] loses his nerve and bowls rubbish while the old guy bowls his team to victory.

Thinking his career over, though at least he’s now got the tale of how he won the Test in Mumbai to tell his grandchildren, he decides to hang up his boots, but then John Emburey, coach to a bunch of kids who have failed over and over again, asks him to come and help them out. “Please, mister, will ya, please?” mew the little kittens, and Udal can’t disappoint them so he agrees.

And he and his new kids then go out and win every match (just about), go to the play-offs and win the grand final. How heartwarming can you get? You’d need a Capra not to make such a movie sickly.

We haven’t yet seen the closing scenes: we don’t know how this film will end. There’s going to be one in Antigua, and maybe another in India or somewhere, and then there’s the question of whether he will want to come back again next year. At the age of 39, Shaun Udal may not feel like a full County Championship, but Middlesex’s chances of retaining the Twenty20 Cup in 2009 will disappear entirely if he retires.

Maybe my naming him my Man of the Tournament will persuade him to at least be around for the Twenty20. If Shaun Pollock, Shane Warne and Glenn McGrath can manage these four-over spells in their dotage, surely Shaun Udal can too.

	The problem is that due to its depiction in the American media, cricket comes across as a game not worth playing © Cricket Europe/ICC

In response to the comments let me say a few things. No, it is not necessary that cricket become popular in the US; it will probably survive without American interest. Still, wondering why it is not is an interesting exercise that might reveal something about the game and the US too; an examination of cricket's history in the US and its failure to flourish after a good start is a fascinating exercise in its own right.

No, Americans are not incapable of understanding the complexities of cricket. Millions of them take the time to understand baseball's many variations, pitchers' deliveries, the mechanics of baseball hitting or fielding set plays; the closing moments of a tight baseball game when managers change batters, pitchers and try and manufacture runs can be as complex as a good chess game. And the shortest version of the game, Twenty20, is roughly equal to the length of a baseball game; in fact, T20 is guaranteed to end in a definite time-span, while tied baseball games can carry on indefinitely!

The problem instead, is that due to its depiction in the media, cricket comes across as a game not worth playing because it is not athletic enough, is effeminate, is hopelessly complex, baroque, and ultimately pointless because of its failure to guarantee a result. No game can hope to make inroads into the national psyche and pick up both players and audience in the face of such depictions. That is the issue. And this depiction again, does not tell us anything very deep about American culture; it merely shows us that US sporting media can be just as lazy as any other. Attempts to paint baseball as an easy game, a tip-n-run fest where full tosses are served up as the main course are equally lazy; they do not do justice to the game.

Perhaps all this analysis is moot; cricket is unpopular in the US; its flourishing there is not necessary for the game to be profitable; and like soccer, even if it acquires a large playing population, it might not ever capture the national imagination the way the big three--football, baseball and basketball--do. But in the end, what is interesting about this exercise for me is to note how easy it is to mask something desirable, interesting and passion-inspiring as boring, archaic and insipid. More than anything else, it is yet another interesting demonstration to me of the persuasive power of the visual and print media. And as such it sparks fantasies in me of how it could be combated; perhaps via thoughtful comparisons and contrasts with baseball to make it palatable to that fan base.

I dream, for instance, that a good baseball writer might be taken to games and paired with a cricket writer, and introduced to cricket's rules and variations; I volunteer for this task. The baseball writer might be prompted to write a useful comparison of the two games. I dream that American fans might be exposed to a high-quality broadcast of a one-day international final between two high-quality teams. The athleticism and power on display would be seductive. Indeed, whenever I've managed to show some classic catches to my American friends, they are simply amazed, (as I frequently am by the accuracy of fielder's throws in baseball!).

I dream of a well-written description of a bowlers-pitchers summit where Glenn McGrath and Roger Clemens exchange notes on swing, pace, and intimidation. Or a batter's summit where Sachin Tendulkar and Derek Jeter exchange notes on timing, placement and power (and perhaps strategies for dealing with obsessive, nosy media types). These exercises could teach us more about cricket itself and about its place in the sporting world. And perhaps help us all learn a bit more about other sporting cultures. All in good time, I suppose.

There was a great moment of irony on the radio commentary of the English 20-20 final last night. Kent v Middlesex. Both get to play in the Champions League, if it happens, but the winners also get onto the Stanford bandwagon and various other money-spinning opportunities. Kent needed 16 off the last over and then 4 off the last ball. The commentator – not sure who it was – said, “Here it comes, the most valuable ball in the history of county cricket.”

According to Wisden, Surrey were the first county champions in 1864, so that’s 144 years of history, tens of thousands of first class and limited overs matches, millions of balls bowled. This one was worth more than any other. He continued, “The bowler’s Henderson, the batsman’s Kemp.”

Oops. The most valuable ball ever bowled in England, and both bowler and batsman are South African. The most valuable ball ever bowled in England, and no Englishmen involved.

Being firmly in the neutral corner, I’m going to show rare bravado and put in my two cents worth about South Africa. I suspect my fellow blogger Stephen Gelb will respond by cutting me down, but it might make for an interesting debate.

South Africa is the most predictable team in both forms of the game, Tests and ODI’s. Apart from when they play against the minnows of Bangladesh or Zimbabwe, I reckon their performances can be predicted with some certainty.

Ironically, their Test cricket is almost the mirror opposite of their one-day cricket. On-field pressure is one thing but South Africa seem to have a major problem with coping with the hype and pressure that comes before a major event. The great tragedy is that a lot of it is self-inflicted. South Africa seem to fall on their own sword, often unable to meet their own benchmark standards imposed on themselves, by themselves. Countries like Australia love building them up before a major series, love watching the South Africans work themselves up into a frenzy and then choking on the fumes of their own gas truck.

In Test cricket, their much vaunted pace attack often fails to deliver in the opening Test match of a series. The recent Lords Test aside, Edgbaston in 1998 was one example when both Donald and Pollock got over-anxious on their ‘home ground’ (Warwickshire) and bowled poorly on a green pitch that should have suited them down to the ground. England was 249/1 at the end of play on Day 1.

The more they talk themselves up before a Test Series, the less likely they are to fulfil that potential in the first Test. Port Elizabeth 2004 v England, Cape Town 2006 v Australia, Johannesburg 2006 v India and Port Elizabeth 2007 v West Indies are all cases in point. South Africa was either favoured to win or rated themselves highly before each of those matches.

Their performances in the last Test of a series is markedly better, almost as if they are relieved to be playing without the burden of their own expectations. Their start to the current England series is following that exact pattern. Once the hype was extinguished at Lords, they fought back to salvage a brave draw and then won handsomely at Headingley. They will probably go on to win the series unless someone tells them that they are favourites again!.

In ODI cricket, especially in big tournaments, South Africa seems to react to pressure in much the same way but they take the gas at the end instead when they get to crucial knock-out games. When there’s no pressure at the start, they cruise through the early rounds and then falter once they firm as favourites. An obvious exception to this is their loss to West Indies in Cape Town in the first game of the 2003 World Cup but even here is a symmetry. Big occasion, home World Cup, favoured to win ... and what happens?

On the other hand, one only needs to look at their stunning re-entry to world cricket at the 1992 World Cup and marvel at their giant-killing deeds when no one really fancied their chances. No pressure, no expectation and they almost made it through to the Final but for a ridiculous rain rule.

Perhaps anyone with an understanding of the South African cricket mentality can help us make sense of this. It’s happened too often to be a coincidence so there must be something going on in the South African psyche that inhibits them wearing the tag of ‘favourite’ with any comfort.

Which then begs the question – why do they keep talking themselves up before an important series or a crucial knock-out game? One thing’s for sure – they seem to fight back well from a bad start. If only they could lead from the front and finish with a major trophy. Their world champion rugby team knows how to do exactly that!

The difference is evident long before one reaches the ground. The bus to Lord’s fills up with elderly men wearing red-and-yellow ties, whereas the bus to Headingley is packed with groups of young men dressed as medieval knights or popular chanteuses. On the top deck, a beach ball is tossed around, occasionally descending downstairs to be propelled back up with some force.

I get off before the more fancily-dressed, heading through the members’ entrance to the sanity of the East Stand while they go two more stops and take up position in the West.

Headingley on Test match Saturday is divided into four zones. In the Football Stand to the south Yorkshire’s plutocracy grace this premier sporting event with their presence. To the north and northeast are the general cricket followers, while the southeast and east is filled with the Yorkshire members, possibly the toughest conversational company known to cricket.

The MCC member’s view of cricket is an impressionist painting, the Yorkshireman’s a sheaf of detailed engineering blueprints. Suggest at Lord’s that Ashwell Prince reminds you of that West Indian fellow Gomes and someone will nod understandingly. The Tyke will snort and give a point-by-point dissection of exactly how Gomes’ technique was different, his range of shot completely other and generally make it clear that you do not know what you are talking about. Only when countered with an encyclopaedic treatment of the parallels will a grudging truce be offered.

But what makes Headingley Headingley is the West Stand. This is where Sir Drinkalot and Amy Winelake (and their clones) are spending their Saturday. Round the ground at lunch, I spotted three separate groups wearing t-shirts proclaiming this to be some lad’s stag do. Enough of them know enough to spot when England are doing particularly well or badly and can organise suitable cheering, but for many the cricket is almost irrelevant.

They spend the morning session quietly enough, sluicing down the beer which will sustain them through a hard afternoon. Thereafter, the rival groups indulge in posturing and taunting each other. They used to make beer snakes, formed by stacking the hundreds of empty plastic pints, but there are signs at the gates now warning that such manufacture will result in ejection from the ground and only one is attempted. They practice the toxic variant on the Mexican wave which involves tearing up newspapers and anything else to hand and chucking them up in the air, the prevailing wind ensuring that the debris will interrupt play as the batsmen clear the wicket of litter.

And so they while away the afternoon, getting louder and drunker, some of them get thrown out or arrested for disorderly or violent behaviour, while a few yards away there is a cricket match going on. It is simply an extension of their normal Friday night routine of wandering around in packs and getting bladdered – they’re just doing it at the Test rather than at the Scarbrough Taps in the centre of town.

And it’s impossible for anyone else to concentrate wholly on the cricket while they’re at it. Your eye is ineluctably drawn to the knot of policemen burrowing their way into the noisiest bunch or the huge clump of balloons they have launched for no obvious reason. If this coincides with a wicket falling or a brilliant shot, the distraction is highly annoying, but at times when the cricket is flaccid one can almost be grateful for their unquenchable enthusiasm – at the safe distance of 180 yards in the members’ area it can even be amusing.

But why they come remains a mystery.

Will it ever be possible to get a fair depiction of cricket in the US media? On current evidence, the prospects are bleak. Every television advertisement that features a cricket game, whether it be a tourism clip for the Caribbean or something else, invariably features a rather staid setting, perhaps with cucumber sandwiches and parasol-holding landed ladies in the background, in which portly men in creams amble up desultorily and deliver donkey drops which are clumsily hoicked past geriatric fielders. In these settings cricket does not so much resemble a game as much it does a government-mandated exercise program meant to replace drug prescription benefits for the rich and elderly.

Every print article in the US press meanwhile incessantly harps on the utter incomprehensibility of the game (which is guffaw inspiring given the Byzantine complexity of NFL penalty rules), the jaw-dropping durations of Test cricket (with no attempt to explain what relationship the length of the game bears to the endless variations it allows on a single theme, and how this cultivates a dedicated legion of fans), the inevitable mention of the quaint customs of 'tea' (its almost enough to make one wish this interval had been named differently) and 'drinks' (American readers might be forgiven for thinking gin and tonics are consumed by players to help with the tedium of the game). Much is made of the gigantic amounts of protection worn by cricket players with snickering about baseball players facing faster pitching with only a visor-less helmet for protection. No mention is made of the fact that cricket allows for the ball to bounce before it gets to the batsman, which allows for varying angles of attack by fast bowlers at a batsman's body (I simplify, of course, comparisons between cricket and baseball need more time and space than I can devote here). And it would be too much of course, to ask that any attention be paid to the rich body of cricketing literature, possibly more varied and complex than that associated with any other sport. There are also some half-hearted, superficial attempts at examinations of post-colonial tensions in cricket, most of which involve the phrase "the new economically empowered Indian middle-class." All in all, it's a depressing state of affairs to be surrounded by a culture which specializes in systematic, cliched misrepresentations of one's most abiding passion.

Despite the growing presence of cricket leagues in the US, despite the introduction of cricket as a recognized game in New York schools, despite the presence of large expatriate populations from cricket playing countries and even an American cricket team, cricket remains a profoundly misunderstood game in the US. Still, one should not complain too much. Soccer has a huge following in the US and still remains misunderstood; plenty of soccer artistry is unappreciated by a large segment of the population.

But, how one wishes the television advertisements mentioned above would instead feature Malcolm Marshall sending stumps cartwheeling, Viv Richards smashing one through midwicket or Jonty Rhodes catching swallows at gully. Pigs would be aviators before then, but one is allowed to dream.

The issue of cricket’s morality conundrum when it comes to walking and low catches in my most recent post, is not an easy one to leave alone. Like facing gentle outswing, it teases me to fiddle outside off stump and not just let it go through to the keeper.

One thing that most cricketers will readily admit to is the fact that in some cases, you genuinely do not know if you’ve nicked it or caught a low catch cleanly. Those instances happen from time to time and it is perfectly acceptable to leave that to the umpire’s discretion. In the case of a low catch, if you indicate any uncertainty, it normally goes in the batsman’s favour anyway.

If I was to take an ultra-cynical approach, could it be that players like Lara and Gilchrist were visionary enough to cultivate an aura of honesty that also worked in their favour? If you were known to be a walker, would umpires be more prepared to ignore their own instincts and wait that fraction of a second longer to see if you walk? If you didn’t tuck the bat under the arms and start that move towards the pavilion, would you possibly dodge a bullet or two because the umpire might think “he mustn’t have nicked it because he hasn’t walked?”

To be honest, I don’t think for one moment that either Gilly or Lara have ever been that disingenuous. But it’s not a bad one for the conspiracy theorists is it? It tends to work better for wicketkeepers too because they can also trade on that honesty when appealing for catches.

I suppose it only really works if you play at a level where you can build a reputation for honesty. Or if you play in a local competition where the umpires and opposition teams know you well after many years and therefore you can exploit that reputation as ‘Honest Joe’.

I’ve done it myself a few times when I’ve deliberately not appealed for marginal decisions and then really gone up in full voice for a closer one that is at a crucial time. It’s not exactly dishonest but there was certainly a sense of orchestrating the moment to capitalise on that build-up of goodwill and trust.

On the other hand, there are always those cricketers who trade on the ‘numbers theory’. Keep appealing, keep acting bitterly disappointed and eventually you know you’ll get one. Even as a batsman, there are times when you’ve survived a few close shouts and you just know in the back of your mind that if you get rapped on the pads again, you’re history. The fielding team can sense this tension too and appeal with more conviction. Perhaps the really good umpires sense this and treat each new appeal on its own merits.

That’s what makes cricket such a magnificent game. So many sub-plots happening and so many mind games being played on the periphery. What other sport has the time to allow these tactics to ferment, during the space of an over, a session, a day or even a career? I’ve come across plenty of wily campaigners who go to great lengths to set up an umpire or opponent with some strategy that has been masterfully executed.

I recall one bowler who kept telling the umpire how he admired the batsman for whipping the ball so beautifully off middle stump and what a great talent this batsman was. Even comparisons with the peerless Azharuddin were mentioned by this charitable and generous fellow. What a splendid sportsmanlike thing to hear on a cricket field. Not long after, a ball that was sliding down leg hit the pads and the lbw verdict was all-too predictable. “Azharuddin my a**e” was all I heard from the gleeful bowler as I trudged off disconsolately!!

One of the stories of the England-SA series so far is about the number five batsmen. Bell and Prince both started the series with question marks over their places but both responded decisively. The similarities don’t end there – both are small in stature and apparently quiet in demeanour, both showed great early talent as attacking batsmen but now have different personas and different roles. Until recently, neither was a regular part of their countries’ ODI setup.

Their Test records are remarkably similar. Headingley is Bell’s 41st test, Prince’s 43rd. After the first innings, Bell had played 72 innings (8 not outs) for 2821 runs at 44.07, 8 hundreds, 18 fifties and strike-rate 50.8. Prince’s numbers were 70 innings (10 not outs) for 2634 runs at 43.90, with 9 hundreds, 7 fifties and S/R 42.7.

Curiously, there has been a huge difference against Bangladesh: Prince has only 52 in 5 innings, Bell 227 in 2 (both not out). I don’t believe one should discount performances against the weaker teams, but without Bangladesh, Prince averages 47, Bell 40.5.

Prince must now be regarded as South Africa’s best ever number five. Hansie Cronje’s numbers (111 innings, 3714 runs, average 36.41, strike-rate 44.5, 6 hundreds and 23 fifties) are surprisingly mediocre, and clearly inferior to Prince. When Cronje disappeared, Gary Kirsten moved down the order, since there was no obvious replacement at five. Prince has now surely locked up the position for a long time.

Back in the 50s and 60s, the model for number five was an attacking player, lovely to watch but not entirely reliable to get a really big score. Fitting this mould were Roy McLean (a Lord’s centurion like Prince, 40 tests, 5 hundreds, average just 30) and Colin Bland, the Rhodesian (21 tests, 3 centuries, average a very good 49). Also Tiger Lance and Lee Irvine, brief occupants before isolation.

The archetype was of course Ted Dexter (62 tests, 9 hundreds, 27 fifties, average 48), who visited SA with the International Cavaliers. ‘Cavalier’ was exactly right: Dexter apparently specialised in supremely stylish and quick 70s, whatever the match circumstances.

Prince, in his early years in provincial cricket, was in fact very Dexter-like – he would play really beautifully and score quickly, but after getting to 60 or 70, he would contrive to chuck it away. But by the time he first played for SA in the 2001/02 season, he had become a tough-minded, gritty ‘sticker’, a number three. Nerves kept him from a debut 50 (batting at three), but he was the only batsman who stood up to a rampant attack in an Australian rout.

He was dropped later, but since taking over five after Kirsten’s retirement, he has many times rescued SA from disaster or fought a lone battle against it, as on day 3 at Lord’s in the first Test of the ongoing series. Prince is now the ideal number five, the mould for the position having shifted 180 degrees from Dexter to Steve Waugh (or maybe Allan Border?) Five is now the ‘glue’ of the batting order, the one around whom the rest bat. It was great though to see Prince open up a little with some of his old shots in his Headingley ton.

Ian Bell’s 199 at Lord’s was brilliant too and getting out (after two rain breaks in the 190s) cruel luck. Bell started the Lord’s test with a reputation as ‘a Dexter’, but finished it as a modern number five. Did his failure to reach 200 show continuing mental weakness as some suggested? Maybe. But what about Michael Vaughan? Twice out in the 190s, and twice between 175 and 190, yet to reach 200. Like Prince, Bell’s going to be at five for quite a while.

	When things get crowded, hectic and tense, there is invariably pushing and shoving and then, voila, police heavy-handedness © Getty Images

I have attended just one day of Test cricket in India: the third day's play in the second Test of the 1983/84 West Indies tour. I left India some 21 years ago, and since then all the Test cricket I've seen has been in Australia, the West Indies and South Africa (well, not really, because the 2001 Pretoria India-RSA 'Test' was demoted thanks to the Mike Denness controversy). I bring this up because my experiences of watching cricket in India have become distinctly second-hand. Thus, I do not have a first-hand take on how well spectators are treated in India at cricket stadiums. But if the reports I've read in a variety of fora over the years are any indication of the state of affairs at the grounds, things are not good for the entity singularly responsible for the untold wealth that has become associated with Indian cricket: the Indian cricket-watching fan.

Lines are long outside stadiums as entry points are scarce (when things get crowded, hectic and tense, there is invariably pushing and shoving and then, voila, police heavy-handedness); plenty of stands are still uncovered (the mind boggles at the thought of folks sitting there in the sun in the later parts of the ever-lengthening season); food and drink are either of poor quality or expensive or hard to get; public restrooms are not numerous or clean enough; the list goes on. Some grounds are better than others, of course. Mohali has worked hard to make sure its attendees are well taken care of (beer is sold at the ground; not surprising for a Punjabi locale), and the Sawai Mansingh Stadium at Jaipur is quite comfortable. (As always, I welcome empirical data from readers to confirm or disconfirm my impressions.)

But overall, it seems that spending a long day at the cricket in India does not count as the most pleasant experience that one could put oneself through. Yet they still come, in droves. Perhaps they don't fill the stands at Test matches any more like they used to in the past but the one-day internationals are still at full capacity. The Indian fan continues to show tremendous patience in the light of this not-so-benign neglect by those who could, and should, be in charge of improving his cricket experience. There is a small hint here at why Test attendance might have dropped; if you are going to spend a long day in the sun without a result at the end of it, you damn well want your experience to be comfortable. Blame can be assigned primarily to the association that runs the cricket ground in question, and secondarily to the BCCI (or is it the other way around?) With the huge sums of money that are now in the Indian cricketing equation is it so unreasonable to expect that cricket grounds in India be renovated, made comfortable, modernized? The current state of affairs spreads a disproportionate percentage of joy to those to at the top, with little regard for those that underwrite their wealth.

When the ICL kicked off last year, one commonly expressed hope was that they would take better care of the spectators that thronged to their few grounds. When the IPL showed up with its bags and bags of gold ducats, this hope might have surged even stronger in the hearts of those worried about the Indian fan. It's not clear to me how much improvement has followed in its wake. I worry about the influence the IPL will have in the years to come; if its corporate franchises can make the fan more comfortable, they will have my gratitude. While their influence on the longer form of the game yet remains to be determined, this would be an undeniably positive fallout, hopefully applauded by fans of all nationalities the world over.

	When asked if he would walk if Australia was one run away from victory and one wicket in hand, Adam Gilchrist allegedly smiled broadly and replied, “if we needed one to win with one wicket left, I wouldn’t nick it!” © Getty Images

Samir’s insightful take on park cricket etiquette and Stephen’s plea on behalf of umpires raises some interesting questions about the duality of morality. Is cricket unique for its double standards and contradictions which are almost impossible to define in black and white terms?

Let's explore the issue of 'walking' then. Most international players prefer to let the umpire make the decision, a perfectly reasonable position if they take the good and bad with equal grace. But, as we see all-too-frequently, this is definitely not the case. It was never more evident than in the ill-tempered Sydney 2008 Test when Ricky Ponting set the tone for a fractious atmosphere when he was given out in the first innings, totally oblivious to the fortunate decision earlier that morning when he tickled one down the leg side. Live by the sword, die by the sword - not for Ponting that day.

Brian Lara and Sachin Tendulkar on the other hand have consistently maintained their integrity over long careers by accepting umpiring decisions with relatively few histrionics. And to be fair, they've both copped some absolute shockers over the years! Yet, good or bad, they have generally accepted the umpire's verdict with wry smiles and perhaps a slight shake of the head.

Speaking of integrity, no one has done more for cricket in that respect than Adam Gilchrist. By all accounts, his on-field honesty is no pretence. He is genuinely regarded in the highest esteem by anyone who has had much to do with him in all aspects of life. Yet, this has not stopped Gilchrist from appealing for some of the most blatant "not-outs" imaginable. Rahul Dravid in the recent Sydney Test and Lara at the Gabba in 2005 are two examples that readily spring to mind. Is honesty a fickle mistress, swayed by circumstance, seduced by convenience and dancing to a secret tune that only cricketers can interpret?

Can anyone offer a good enough argument to decode this ethical conundrum? Is 'walking' one of those special things that defy explanation, an exotic beast that should be allowed to retain an air of mystique?

Cricket is full of such complex contradictions. Take the bump ball catch for example. Most cricketers, at all levels of the game, would feel honour-bound to admit when they have not taken a clean catch. If the umpire is not sure, the player feels a moral prerogative to honour the spirit of the game.

This is where I get totally confused – what’s the difference then between the non-catch and not walking when you know you’ve nicked it? Why is it acceptable to not help out the umpire in this situation too? Surely, if you feel the need to come clean about a bump ball, how does it differ in morality to not admitting that you edged it to the wicketkeeper? Or why not leave all decisions to the umpire and take the good with the bad?

It’s almost as if there is an invisible hierarchy of right and wrong that is inherent in the very folklore of the game. It’s almost as if some crimes are more honourable than others, a bit like murderous convicts who despise the paedophiles who share their prison cells.

Where do we sit on issues like taking a catch when we know that we’ve touched the boundary rope? Are we morally bound to confess or is that something for the umpire to adjudicate on? Again, I keep coming back to ‘walking’. What’s the difference?

The admirable Gilchrist deserves the last word on this topic. When asked if he would walk if Australia was one run away from victory and one wicket in hand, he allegedly smiled broadly and replied, “if we needed one to win with one wicket left, I wouldn’t nick it!”

On Sunday July 6th, as the Federer-Nadal final moved into the fifth set and into another cluster of deuces, a Federer-loving friend simply stopped watching the television and started doing the dishes instead: the tension had grown to be too much for her. I looked at her and sympathized. While this particular tennis match did not evoke that same reaction in me I knew from past experience, exactly what she was feeling: a tightening of the gut, a nausea whose phenomenology is distinctive, a holistic anxiety that seems to pervade every atom of one's being.

Ever since I started worrying about the ebb and flow of fortunes in the world of cricket, this sensation has been my constant companion during moments of play when it seems the entire fate of the universe hangs in balance. Of all the blessings that cricket has brought into my life, this has been the most mixed one. Without it, the release engendered by the latest development in the match in front of me is not quite as euphoric; when Ponting was caught by Dravid off Ishant Sharma at Perth earlier this year, my yell and air-punch must have woken up my neighbours. But experiencing it is never pleasant; be careful of what you are wishing for when you ask for a "good, hard, closely-fought game."

Examining my past in this regard, I am inclined to say that one truly becomes a cricket tragic when you allow the game such access to your emotions. I suspect it should be possible for most serious fans of the game to point to a cluster of moments in one's cricket-watching career when this became evident. And it is the slow-build up and development of this suspense that marks a Test match as the highest form of the game. Nothing else quite gets into your system the way a Test match on a slow flame does.

Indeed, one of the reasons why I welcome one-day internationals is that it provides a way for me to watch cricket without some of the intense anxiety generated by a closely-fought Test. While the closing stages of a one-day international often provide the kind of drama that triggers such a tension, these moments are brief, the tension has not been sustained over a long period of time, and more to the point, one-day international finishes have become clichéd over the years.

Of course, when a great deal hangs on the outcome of the game, like say, a tournament final, the same tension can be approximated; I certainly remember experiencing this emotion when Dujon and Marshall inched their way towards 183 in 1983. And I'm certain South African and Australian fans' stomach linings were damaged during that 1999 World Cup semi-final. But could anything come close to the tension I felt as Tendulkar inched toward what would have been a famous win at Chennai in 1999? Nine years on, and I still feel the pain. But 18 lost finals later, including the latest Kitply and Asian cup fall-downs, I'm relatively impervious to the pain of a one-day international loss. It just doesn't mean as much.

Twenty20 losses and wins mean even less. When Sreesanth was getting underneath that Misbah skier, I did hold my breath, but had he dropped it, and had Misbah smashed a four off the next ball, I would have resumed my long walk down Coney Island Avenue, away from all those cheering Pakistani fans, had a beer or two, and felt just fine. I would have been incapable of such sanguinity post-Chennai.

Kingsley Amis famously wrote of the metaphysical, and not just physical, hangover caused by excessive drinking; a bad Test loss can do just that, failing to provide relief for this most insidious of sporting emotions.

The Mexican wave may be the highlight of the day for crowds in Test grounds around the world © Getty Images

The house was only 98% full on the fourth afternoon and the cricket was enervatingly tedious to watch, but still the group in the Upper Compton stand who were trying to start a Mexican wave found no takers. Not until the game’s corpse was twitching its last on the final afternoon did one get going.

A Lord’s Test crowd needs little more than the cricket to keep it entertained in the main arena. Announcements of the names of the new bowler and the incoming batsman and instant replays on the big screens are all we get during play.

The only irrelevancies come during the lunch intervals on the first three days, when marching bands are deployed to persuade the lazier punters to get out of the stands and into the numerous catering outlets. Some years ago, MCC were prepared to apply the ultimate sanction, but incorporation of the European Convention on Human Rights into English law has put a stop to the use of bagpipers.

It’s not that a Lord’s crowd is unresponsive. The mighty bass rumble of the massed ranks of the MCC getting to their feet and bull-roaring the England bowlers on as they shot West Indies out for 54 on the Friday evening in 2000 will echo long in my memory, as will the four hours of anxious silence the following day as England inched towards the target, and the near-hysterical yells of relief as Dominic Cork clattered the last dozen or so runs to level the series.

It’s just that you need to do something special to impress a massively-experienced Lord’s crowd. I’ve just completed my 20th full Test there, but there are thousands of people who have many more spectator caps than I in attendance every day and are not going to be fobbed off with any old rubbish.

But it takes more than a Mexican wave to impress the Lord's crowd© Getty Images

Nor is Lord’s too posh to get down and dirty. At the county Twenty20s the previous month, we had all the modern trimmings. When Sky didn’t turn up to get in everyone’s way, we had pre-match entertainment in the form of highlights packages from a Middlesex one-day final win from the 80s and an IPL game, instant replays on the screens, a plethora of announcements, constant yelling and cheering from the 15000 crowd, a fair amount of it fuelled by copious drinking – and those infernal musical stings every time a boundary was hit or a wicket fell.

“Infernal”, yes, but I’m not sure whether my objection is a principled one or simply on grounds of execrable taste. I hate just about every song they excerpt; perhaps I’d be a lot less irritated by them if they were sampling the “Hey-ho, let’s go” intro to The Ramones’ “Blitzkrieg Bop”, the “Oh My God, I can’t believe it” bit from the Kaiser Chiefs, Neil Young’s “Like a Hurricane” and Roy Harper’s “When an Old Cricketer Leaves the Crease”. (Sadly, I can’t think of an occasion when it would be appropriate to use my all-time favourite cricket-related song, Half Man Half Biscuit’s “F***ing Hell, It’s Fred Titmus!”.)

Twenty20 is not Test cricket and does not lend itself to quietly contemplative appreciation as the game unfolds its subtle drama. If you want that, all you have to do is avoid limited-over games and attend domestic first-class cricket – whichever cricket country you are in.

Nor is Lord’s entirely typical of English grounds. Headingley is an altogether different barrel of monkeys, whose delights and disappointments I shall discuss following the next Test.

	Batsmen of an earlier era may have struggled to score boundaries against today's fielders © Getty Images

But that relies on the baselines being the same, on the pack staying where it was – and that is manifestly not the case.

I was sitting with a friend of mine (who, unlike CMJ, has first-hand memory of Bill and Denis in their pomp) the other day when a batsman aimed a meaty biff through extra cover. A couple of the one-saving fielders set off in pursuit, overhauled it and threw the ball in quickly enough to pressure the batsmen on their second run.

“You’d never have seen that in the old days,” exclaimed my friend. "That would have been four runs every time!” Half the old-timers’ fours would now be cut off for one or two, and a healthy amount of their twos would be ones, and so forth. And then there’s the bowling. Where are the 65mph medium-pacers who used to fill in while we waited for the new ball thirty years ago? The people who come on second change these days would have been serious candidates to open the bowling when an Edrich was batting, at least in terms of pace. Good batsmen get far less opportunity to milk utterly innocuous bowling than they used to.

When the tall trees of English batting were felled by Lindwall and Miller or Lillee and Thomson and the team struggled to pass 200, part of the explanation was that county batsmen never experienced anyone who bowled as fast as that.

On the television last week, Joe Denly and Robert Key of Kent dealt reasonably comfortably with Steve Harmison and Liam Plunkett of Durham, who were being clocked at 91 and 88mph respectively. In the televised championship match CMJ referred to in his piece, Andrew Flintoff and Sajid Mahmood were bowling well within themselves on a sluggish pitch, but they’ve both been clocked at 90+ in Tests before now. Today’s batsmen might find a Lindwall, Lillee or Roberts difficult to play because of their command of length and direction, but their pace would now be business as usual for a county cricketer.

And these are home-grown bowlers who are currently surplus to the Test team’s requirements, not the Caribbean imports who used to provide the only serious pace in the county cricket of the 80s.

Whether Bill Edrich was a better batsman than Paul Collingwood might make an interesting debate, but citing their county records on the assumption that they provide a fair comparison is like treating Test performances against the strong India of today and the weak India of fifty years ago as equivalent.

If the Test stars of today do not seem to shine as brightly in county cricket as their predecessors, it may be because they are intrinsically less bright, but it is at least as possible that it is because the background is so much lighter than it was.

	ODI matches attract much more crowds than Tests in South Africa © Cricinfo Ltd

Here’s my five cents worth on Samir’s and Michael’s issue of crowds and fans.

I grew up in the 1960s watching cricket at Newlands, sitting on the grass in front of the grandstand [by law only whites, by custom only men], watching three-day inter-provincial matches and the occasional Test. My first Test, England in 1964, was dull as ditch water. On the other hand, Australia in 1967 and 1970 was fantastic. But before 50-over games and before television [introduced into South Africa only in 1976], provincial matches were major events often with full grounds.

Even on the grass, there was a strict etiquette. Most importantly, you never ever moved during an over. If you wanted a cold beverage or go to the loo, you waited till the end of the over. On your return, you parked yourself at the section entrance. Even the ice-cream sellers, the only blacks in our section, picked their way among us only between overs. By mid-afternoon drinks, the Castle Lagers, abetted by the sun, had done their work on the adults on the ‘white’ grass and on the ‘black’ grass just across the sight-screen, and the wisecracks came fast and loud. But not during play: barracking between balls and overs only.

It wasn’t just about form. Us kids also learned cricket, listening to the adults around us talking about the match. We learned to distinguish guff from good sense, and later could participate ourselves.

Today, you could miss a wicket or a great cover drive because the idiot in front of you stands up at the wrong moment. The conversation you overhear is probably on a cellphone, about last night’s party or tonight’s movie. The noise between overs is rock music on the PA system.

Even so, I don’t miss those old days. Watching India play Pakistan simply wasn’t possible then, but they have provided two of my all-time favourite cricket experiences. During the 2003 World Cup, my wife and I sat on the Centurion grass, surrounded by South Asians from Kolkata, London, New York and everywhere between. The singing and shouting was non-stop [but non-threatening too], and the cricket was good, even great - remember that Tendulkar-Shoaib duel? Last year, all of us, even 11-year-old Aisha who ‘hates sport’, had a great afternoon at the World Twenty20 final.

The crowd’s passion and involvement added hugely to the thrill both times. If the price is a little more noise or a sometimes obscured view, it seems to me worth paying. It was the same when Waqar took 5 for nearly nothing to turn defeat against South Africa into victory in 1992, with a crowd of South African Indians on its feet around us chanting ‘Pakistan Zindabad!’ each time he ran in to bowl. And when a packed Wanderers screamed our team to a rout of the Aussies in the ‘Cricket Ethics Memorial Match’, the day after Hansie Cronje admitted his crookedness and resigned.

You’ll notice I’ve only mentioned ODI matches. Tests don’t fill South African grounds these days, and Test crowds are different than they used to be - lots more women, and parents with kids – and also different from ODI matches - fewer young adults. Not too much beer is drunk, and the space on the half-empty stands create a sense of leisure perfect for the long game. Watching a Test match is still a great way to spend a day in Johannesburg, and for your kids to learn the game. If you don’t see a four or don’t hear a snick, there’s a big-screen television replay a moment later. All I miss, really, is being able to walk onto the field at lunch and tea, to play tennis-ball cricket or to stare closely at the pitch and make sage comments about how it should ‘turn’ later in the match.

Some of the responses to my previous post got me thinking: do cricket administrators consider the modern game an unattractive product? Why do I say this? Well, it must be. Why else would you need a host of other ‘sideshows’ to keep the public entertained? Is the cricket itself not enough?

Perhaps I’m old fashioned. Perhaps I’m one of the minority who still likes to go to a cricket match to actually … wait for it …watch a game of cricket. Why do I feel slightly guilty for admitting that? Because I know that I will cop some stick for not “lightening up” or for not moving with the times or for not embracing the ‘circus’ that cricket has become.

Boorish, drunken, loud spectators aside, we’ve now got a situation where the organisers themselves are almost admitting their product is so poor in entertainment value that they need to put on a ‘Variety Show’ between overs to keep us from falling asleep. Pop music played throughout a match, handicapped athletics races during scheduled breaks, cheap radio station promotions on-ground and PA systems that introduce every player as if they were announcing a heavyweight boxing fight.

If I wanted a rock concert or a children's show, I would have chosen to spend my money elsewhere. The cricket itself was enough to keep me riveted to every ball bowled. Obviously, people like me are not the ones that administrators want to attract to the stadium.

In an era where batsmen are regularly scoring at over four runs per over, bowlers are nudging 150 kilometres per hour and the standard of fielding is taking the game to new heights, why do real cricket fans need any other entertainment? Compare this to the 1970’s when 220 runs in 80 overs of military medium pace was probably considered a good day’s play.

I used to love the quiet moments, especially after a wicket fell, when I could turn to my neighbour and dissect the nuances of the dismissal and bask in the glory of being a sideline expert. What about a quiet lunch break when a robust discussion could take place with a dozen strangers sitting near you, each one bringing their own personal perspective to that session’s events? Silence created it’s own deafening tension when there was a close game to be won or lost. Listening to the radio commentary whilst watching a series of maiden overs was like sipping a fine wine, a slow and gentle seduction of the senses. The new atmosphere is like being at a disco, slamming down ‘Alcopops’ so you get drunk in a hurry.

We now have the latest abomination: American-style cheerleaders in a Twenty20 game that is already so fast-paced that it leaves you breathless. You’d find more culture in yogurt. Is it not enough that McCullum is smiting mighty sixes every few balls or that Symonds’ acrobatics in the field defy belief? Breathless between brilliance, do we need to be assaulted by yet another form of entertainment, lest we get bored and leave before this three hour game is finished? It's like needing to watch a thriller film during sex.

Today’s cricketers have every right to feel aggrieved. They are fitter, faster and more skilled than ever. Yet, their employers feel the need to augment their entertainment value with cheap add-ons. Perhaps it’s just a cynical way to attract more than just 'cricket fans'. This is now packaged entertainment for consumers with empty minds and full pockets.

PS - Some of my mates tell me that watching the cricket whilst making love is perfectly acceptable behaviour. Now there's a true fan.

	Walking is supererogatory in international cricket; in park cricket it is obligatory © Getty Images

A reminder on how park cricket works when it comes to umpiring: the umpires are drawn from the batting side, and can be changed during an innings; the bowling side agrees, implicitly, to abide by their decisions. When the side bowling gets to bat, they supply their own umpires and soon. The fabric of a park game, and indeed, the entire competition if there is one, holding together is dependent on the bowling side not losing respect for the umpires and this convention continuing to work. When the bowling side starts to think umpires aren't being honest (and not just incompetent), accusations of cheating fly and the game quickly degenerates into acrimony and recrimination (retaliation by bad umpiring just makes things worse; in cricket, like life, revenge doesn't quite bring us the rewards we might like). Unlike international cricket it is quite easy for a park game to end because of a team walking off in a huff. But by and large this does not happen; umpires do their job reasonably well and the world of recreational cricket moves along. Indeed, recreational cricket would not survive if umpires could not be called upon from the batting side. In some lower-level settings it might be possible to call upon neutrals consistently but this is rare.

It should be clear why batsmen should walk in this cricketing setup. Umpires are doing a demanding, required job, and they can clearly be accused of self-interest when decisions go against the bowling side as they aren't neutrals in any sense. The umpires stand out in the middle, they don't relax on the grassy sidelines with the rest of their batting mates as they banter, score, drink beer, and relax. They miss out on camaraderie but cop all the tension and aggravation out in the middle. Under these circumstances, the umpires must be rendered all assistance possible. My feeling is that the following thesis underwrites park cricket conventions about walking: when umpires are not neutrals and are your own team-mates, you must help them do their job by walking when you know you are 'out'.

I hesitate to describe this convention as universal, because I've not played cricket all over the world, but it seems to me batsmen generally co-operate in these settings, and those that don't are not regarded favourably (I welcome clarification and education in this regard). When an edge flies into the wicketkeeper's gloves, batsmen walk. Those that stand around glowering and making faces when given out LBW run the risk of a dressing down from their team-mates. The umpire is your mate; he's doing a difficult job, exposing himself to the chatter of opponents; it behooves you to help him out. To be someone who gives his team-mates a hard time under the circumstances is not a very clever move in lots of ways; you can unravel your own team's fabric for one.

This leads me to my further claims: a) I suspect the not-walking convention comes about in settings where the umpires are not your team-mates i.e., in more organized or higher-level games; b) Not-walking is not universally accepted, even in cultures whose cricketers believe in not-walking in international or state-level cricket. It might be that not-walking even happens in the settings I describe, but I've not seen it other than as a species of behaviour which was not approved of. Walking is supererogatory in international cricket; in park cricket it is obligatory. This is a distinction, I think, which most cricketers recognise. And I think it complicates the easy lines we like to draw between different cricketing contexts and cultures when it comes to the ethics of practices like walking.

After five months of close combat at both ends of the earth, England and New Zealand have confirmed what the formbook had told us before we started: England are better at Tests and worse at fifty-over cricket than New Zealand are.

Overall, the standard of play in the Tests was pretty low. Far too many batsmen on both sides simply gave their wickets away; several innings were rescued from ignominy by lower order bats shovelling manfully to get out of the hole dug by the alleged specialists. Every Test featured at least one team (and usually both) losing five top order wickets for under 80, more usually under 40.

A couple of those collapses were induced by magnificent bowling - Sidebottom at Wellington and Anderson at Trent Bridge would have demolished most batting line-ups – but most were evidence of inadequate technique or application. On the other hand, they led to matches which swung back and forth with alarming consequences for the blood pressure of partisan supporters. Rarely were the games dull.

But for me, the thrilling stories to come out of the Tests were the emergence of Ross Taylor and Stuart Broad, who started the campaign as rookies and ended as established players.

Taylor is the best batting prospect New Zealand have had since Martin Crowe. We are liable to hear a lot about how he bats in Twenty20 mode, but all that means is that he plays as many outrageously ambitious shots as a Kevin Pietersen or Adam Gilchrist – or, to mention some people who played Test cricket long before anyone had even mooted Twenty20, the three Ws, Viv Richards or Ian Botham.

His 154* at Old Trafford was the innings of the back-to-back series. Granted, he had early assistance from the waywardness of Anderson, but that merely got him off and running. It was an innings of clean hitting, thoroughly demoralising for the bowlers, and it should have won the match.

I found his tour diary interesting, revealing a player very keen on extracting the maximum education from each match. Unless he succumbs to the Kiwi fondness for frequent and bizarre injuries, Taylor will soon be one of the game’s major stars.

What Stuart Broad will become is a lot less certain. He is a decent enough bowler, but he’s impressed me more as a Test batsman. He may yet add a yard of pace and learn to do more with the ball, but he does not pose all that many problems for a Test batsman who is content to work him around. He is learning: you watch him after he’s been hit and he is not cursing his luck or the batsman but pondering how it happened and what he can do to avoid it next time. Even so, as a pure bowler, he does not deserve his place in the side yet.

Having him at number eight, though, means that we have more than filled the hole left by the much-maligned Ashley Giles, the value of whose tenacity while Thorpes or Pietersens completed centuries only became clear once he had gone. In the longer term, I can easily see Broad moving up to seven and then six; his technique is that of a top-order batsman, even if the results are not quite there yet.

Two special cricketers, Broad and Taylor. It’s been fascinating to watch them emerge, and I’m looking forward to seeing a lot more of them in years to come.

Like my playing career, my umpiring career has been short and of very modest achievement. For the past 2 or 3 summers, I have occasionally filled in as umpire for my son Samir’s matches for Old Parks club in Johannesburg. This year he played for the under 13Bs and Cs in matches of 20 or 25 overs per side over 4 hours on Saturday mornings. It wasn’t exactly high-pressure, but you do have to follow every ball, and appealing was a big part of the boys’ game (they watch a lot of cricket on TV). Even so, by the end of a morning in the Highveld sun I felt totally knackered, though I’m reasonably fit and healthy (and not too old).

The experience has made me think about what real umpires have to do, how exhausting it must be standing in a Test, 6 hours a day, 5 days in a row, in the much hotter sun of Kingston or Kolkata, with the eyes of the world on your every call.

After the Australia-India Test in Sydney last January, marred by very poor umpiring – decisions and player management – by Steve Bucknor and Mark Benson, I wondered how much of the problem was the result of fatigue. Most umpire-related flare-ups – Darrell Hair, The Oval 2006 (and Adelaide, 1997), Rudi Koertzen, Hobart 2007 – tend to happen late in Test matches, with the game on the line and tensions high.

I suspect that umpire weariness leading to poor judgment was a big factor in these controversies. One of the ‘criometricians’ on the It Figures blog could check if there is a strong correlation between mistaken decisions and the stage of the match, but I bet there is. And it is worth asking Test umpires whether it is a problem.

Players rest while their team is batting. We acclaim the endurance of batsmen who spend 80 or 90 percent of a match on the field, because they have played a long innings. Players learn how and when to ‘switch off’ while on the field. But the poor old umpires are on the field throughout and can never really ‘switch off’.

The solution seems simple: introduce shifts. Have a squad of three or four umpires in a Test match, and rotate them every session out on the field and as 3rd and 4th umpires. Optimally there should be four umpires per match but even with three rotating, umpires would spend only two sessions per day on the field.

Of course Test matches already have four umpires, but only two actually work. The 3rd umpire relaxes in an air-conditioned booth watching the game on television, the 4th brings on the drinks and occasionally a box of balls. Clearly, these guys are pretty underemployed.

Possible objection 1: changing umpires in the middle of an innings will produce inconsistent decisions. But the rules on 'line calls' are very clear. Major league baseball rotates home plate umpires in series between two teams even though the umpire’s view of the strike zone is far more subjective than anything in cricket.

Possible objection 2: there are not enough quality umpires. Perhaps, though some of the worst problems recently have involved those regarded as amongst the very best. In the short-term, a better referral system will help, and over the longer term, more exposure and experience will improve quality. But if short supply is the real constraint, maybe we need to think about Test match umpires from the other – distaff – half of humanity?

Reading Michael ‘Fox’ Jeh’s post on ‘Australia’s Indian affair’ has prompted me to type in a little excerpt from Mihir Bose's A History of Indian Cricket:

This [the 1959-60 tour] was the third visit by the Australians in nine years. On their two previous visits they had played eight tests, won four, and also won both series comfortably. But despite the batsmen and their bowlers proving vastly superior to the Indians they were always the most eagerly awaited of cricket visitors. Outside cricket, Indians still knew little about Australia. But when it came to cricket, India adored Australians....We feared their cricket but we respected them as cricketers. The Australians we felt took India and its cricket seriously. England always sent what looked like 'B' team. Before an English tour the Indian press would be full of stories of major players declining the tour. Australia never seemed to have that problem....England also often appointed a tyro captain to lead the side to India, as if it was a training ground....Whoever was the Australian captain always brought the team to India...it meant more to the Indians to be playing Australia. It was a surer test of ability. Indians felt they were playing a country that did not treat them as an inferior cricket nation

The excerpt is interesting in so many ways: it speaks of a very different time, ordered in its power relations in very different ways; of a very different set of priorities on the part of the nations then playing cricket. Australian attitudes toward cricket, touring, its role in cricketing world affairs, were already interestingly different from the mother nation; it had already struck out a new path in forming its cricketing identity and not blindly imitating England had already been established as a solid guide to action. India looked for respect in the world; at that point in its cricketing history, just being taken seriously enough to play with was a significant gesture. Dreams of ruling the world's cricketing roost were surely distant ones.

Earlier this year as the India-Australia post Sydney fiasco brewed, and as chapter and verse was written about the misunderstandings between the two cricketing nations, I was reminded of this little excerpt from Bose's book. The oft-invoked vision of the realignment of the cricket world invariably points to its racial lines; the history of cricket suggests all sorts of interesting alliances are common. In the 1950s, both Australia and India might have wanted an identity for themselves that lay outside the ambit of England. Australia could do so by building a set of cricketing ties independent of its relationship with England; India by developing a healthy rivalry which acknowledged the sporting prowess of its adversary.

The growing relationship between India and Australia - a crucial one as this brand new world of cricket emerges - would do well to pay attention to all aspects of its history, including those that suggest their interests converged in the past.

	The transformation in the way the team plays since Chris Gayle’s elevation to the captaincy has been marvellous to see © AFP

I looked at the fellow who had thus interrupted my purring about Michael Vaughan’s and Kevin Pietersen’s hundreds at Headingley last year and realised that he was too young to have 'blackwashes' burned into his brain.

I made my Test debut as a spectator at The Oval in 1976, seeing Viv Richards go from 200 not out overnight to 291 and being disappointed he didn’t break Garry Sobers’s record. For most of the next two decades, West Indies exercised global domination practising a kind of cricket the Pentagon would later call "Shock and Awe".

They scored runs at four an over, impossibly fast to a generation reared on Test cricket going at two-and-a-half. They mounted the most relentless, most fearsome pace attack that had ever been seen, and were constantly able to refresh the supply of frightening demons to hurl the ball at the world’s mostly cowering batsmen.

You might be able to argue that Steve Waugh’s Australian teams were more complete with a champion legspinner to round the attack, but they were also only an excellent cricket team. The Windies of the 1980s were more than that. They tore up most of the principles established since Don Bradman’s time and showed us a new Test cricket; Australia may have done it better since, but they stood on the shoulders of literal giants.

No, “only the Windies” is not a phrase that can ever have a place in my vocabulary. West Indies can have a weaker-than-normal team and they can play badly, but they are still not “only the Windies”.

They were admittedly terrible in England last year, but the transformation in the way the team plays since Chris Gayle’s elevation to the captaincy has been marvellous to see.

Winning the First Test in Port Elizabeth when they visited South Africa at the turn of the year was entirely merited, and now they’ve given Australia a great run for their money. Australia may not be quite the force they were with an undercooked McGill in the side, but the Windies of a year ago would have failed to expose any vulnerabilities at all. The bowling attack may not be up to the awesome standards of 1984, but it now stands comparison with any other country’s, and they now field as though they mean it.

The strange thing is that their batting hero, Shivnarine Chanderpaul, is the unlikeliest Caribbean idol ever. Possessed of a batting style best appreciated on the radio, he sells his wicket so dearly that in the present financial climate opponents simply cannot raise the cash required to dislodge him.

He has no business being a West Indian middle order batsman: he ought to be appearing in 1920s Roses matches so that Neville Cardus can construct myths about him being hewn from millstone grit.

Since the beginning of the series against England last year, which constitutes the post-Lara era for West Indies, Shivnarine Chanderpaul has scored over 1200 Test runs at the phenomenal average of 105.42. In 22 innings he has passed 50 fourteen times and converted five of those to hundreds. In the same period, only Sourav Ganguly and Pietersen have scored more - but they have had many more innings and average less than half as much.

Rahul Dravid and Jaques Kallis play for more successful teams and get more plaudits as a result, but for me, Chanderpaul is currently cricket’s most indomitable batsman. They may write fewer calypsos these days, but he’s a little pal of mine, that Guyanese man Shivnarine.

Samir, with respect to your generous portrait of Australian cricket fans, I beg to differ.

There’s no doubt that Samir’s 'friends' exist in Australia, as is doubtless the case with knowledgeable cricket lovers from Mumbai to Manchester and exotic places in between. What I’m referring to is the loud, obnoxious minority, who by virtue of their sheer ability to make complete idiots of themselves, makes you think that they outnumber the genuine fans that Samir fondly eulogises.

There’s a pretty clear pattern though. In international matches, the behaviour tends to get progressively worse after the first few hours of play. Any early rowdiness, normally restricted to on-field happenings, becomes increasingly less cricket-centric as the day (night) wears on. The poor behaviour reaches a crescendo towards the end of the day before it easing off into a drunken stupor at the close.

This type of parochial Australian fan (who only care about beer, beer and more beer) are a particularly unedifying sight to those who’ve paid good money in the forlorn hope of enjoying good cricket. The mere glimpse of a $2 beach ball is greeted with a louder roar than the most sumptuous cover drive or delicate leg glance. If not for the giant replay screen, they’d miss all the highlights.

Then there’s the ubiquitous Mexican Wave. What more is there to say about something that is about as amusing as toothache? Round and round it goes, a shower of beer and food scraps thrown to the heavens and proud ‘high fives’ from a thousand oafs who would barely know (or care) if The Don himself had been reincarnated. Their interest in the cricket, marginal to begin with, has now clearly been washed away with the last 12 beers in the hot sun.

It is about now when the really clever ones start to come out of the woodwork! You know, the ones whose ancestors thought that “Hadlee’s a wanker” was our own unique contribution to literary genius. Twenty years on and nothing has changed apart from a few other choice insults to any foreign player who has the temerity to actually field the ball or inhale oxygen. Any foul-mouth hooligan who attracts the attention of the police becomes an instant hero, a modern day Ned Kelly or Robin Hood. Poor old Hadlee’s alleged personal preferences are now attributed to the constabulary and “Hurray for the Drunken Idiot” is adopted as the new national anthem.

Speaking of anthems, no one comes close to us for sheer imagination. “Aussie, Aussie, Aussie, Oi Oi Oi” is right up there with the great poetic works of all time. When matched by the equally brilliant “Enger-land, Enger-land, Enger-land”, one could be forgiven for thinking that Shakespeare was nobbut an illiterate peasant.

To be fair, I haven’t seen enough international cricket in other parts of the world to know if this is a uniquely Australian trait or not. Perhaps a few bloggers might enlighten us with some salutary tales of national embarrassment from their corner of the globe.

One redeeming feature of Australians though is our ability to readily laugh at ourselves when the joke is reversed. At one of the ODI matches in Brisbane, a burly South African man wearing a Springbok rugby shirt was being mercilessly “sledged” by the local crowd. As the fast bowler was steaming in from the Vulture St end, the fans started beating the advertising hoardings in a frenzied call to arms. When the noise died down, our brave African friend stood up and proclaimed in a guttural Afrikaans accent, “don’t worry about the convicts – they’re just calling for their dinner”.

Once the laughter had died down, he was instantly swallowed up by a sea of Aussie supporters. No need to fear for his welfare though - he was last seen weaving unsteadily towards the Aussie National Pub, arm in arm with a dozen of his new best friends, proudly croaking “Aussie, Aussie, Aussie……..”

Meanwhile, those of us who stayed till the end of the game watched South Africa narrowly beat Sri Lanka. Australia play tomorrow!