As yet, at least, fans haven't decided that the Champions Trophy is a prestige tournament. © AFP

A lot of people took me to task after my last post, in which I suggested that it was a bit odd that most cricket fans don't rate the Champions Trophy very highly, many accusing me of English sour grapes. I was clearly underestimating Asian interest in the tournament, but Chris from Australia commented that there was zero interest in Australia, and when I checked the Sydney Morning Herald and Melbourne Age websites immediately afterwards, they still had the Ashes logo on their cricket pages - which still devoted far more attention to deconstructing Australia's Ashes loss than to prospects for the CT. And Australia are the holders.

Some people suggested that ICC needs to give the CT more prestige. I get the idea, but I'm not sure that prestige can be magically bestowed by the powers that be. ICC tried that with their idea of a Super Series of ODIs and a “Test” between the top-ranked country and the Rest of the World, at which the world's cricket public blew a resounding raspberry. Throwing oodles of cash into the prize pot doesn't do it either, as Allen Stanford found before he was arrested. The point is that prestige is not in the gift of the authorities: it is we, the fans and supporters, who confer prestige on tournaments and series. And as yet, at least, we haven't decided that the CT is a prestige tournament.

I think the problem is that we don't know what it's for. We have a 50-over World Cup already, and we're very happy to think that World Cup is a huge deal.

A World Cup happens every four years – as it does in many other sports, especially those involving inflated leather balls. Four years is a good interval because it basically ensures that there will be a different cast of characters even if the team names remain the same. Last time's Grand Old Men have retired, the then-established stars have moved into GOM-hood, some of the up-and-comers are now the leading players and there are some new faces just making their way. Each World Cup is a whole new adventure.

Contrast this with the CT going on three months after the World Twenty20; Tendulkar, Dravid and Strauss are playing in this after not being included in the Twenty20, but otherwise the differences between the teams which were in England and these ones have mostly come about through injuries (or, in the case of West Indies, total meltdown). Yes, it's a longer format and the results haven't always gone the same way, but it's felt awfully like the slo-mo replay taken to a whole-tournament level.

It's not that it hasn't been entertaining, or that we haven't learned anything. No-one had previously had any inkling that England had any idea how to play 50-over cricket, so their performance against South Africa was a discovery on a par with finding a new planet orbiting the sun. Nor, at a less mind-boggling level, had most of us realised that the final authority on run-out decisions is the fielding captain.

But was it really necessary to mount a whole tournament for the same old eight teams to make these additions to the sum of human knowledge?

In football, when England fail to win the World Cup, they can go off and fail to win the European Nations Cup, a tournament obviously smaller than and different to the World Cup but still big enough to garner its own level of prestige. India can finish out of the medals at the Olympic hockey and then make a mess of the Commonwealth Games, a lesser but still obviously significant event. But cricket's problem is that there aren't enough top teams to have a multiplicity of top-team tournaments without inducing terminal deja vu.

Perhaps what we need rather than the Champions Trophy are two quasi-regional tournaments. One would be for Asia-Pacific, involving India, Pakistan, Sri Lanka, Bangladesh, Australia, New Zealand plus Afghanistan and UAE, while the Atlantic Cup could be for West Indies, England, South Africa, Zimbabwe, Ireland, Netherlands, Namibia and Kenya (or such other European, American and African countries as qualified).

Obviously the Asia-Pacific one would be far more prestigious and have a much larger audience, but the Atlantic Cup would give more of the emerging nations serious competition, which might make future World Cups even more interesting. Most of all, though, it would be fascinating to see how South Africa could contrive to get knocked out at an early stage.

Now, I really must get back to eating those sour grapes.

	Ian Botham and Viv Richards - one of the greatest cricketing friendships © PA Photos

I read the late and great David Halberstam's little gem, The Teammates, this past weekend and like many of its other readers, was struck by the simple story of the multi-decade friendship of four sportsmen (in this case, Boston Red Sox luminaries Ted Williams, Bobby Doerr, Dominic Di Maggio and John Pesky).

Halberstam's tale concerns friendships amongst members of the same team, and of those, I've heard, a few when it comes to cricket. But one cricketing friendship featured two giants of the game who played for opposing teams in international cricket (albeit the same team in a domestic cricket competition): Ian Botham and Viv Richards.

The reasons the Botham-Richards friendship struck me as so distinctive (in clearly idealized ways) were numerous: they were both cricketers I admired for the way they played their cricket; there was something undeniably romantic in the notion that men used to fierce competition against each other in one context, could then put shoulder-to-shoulder in another; a camaraderie amongst sportsmen in a sport centered largely on international bilateral contests was uncommon; the political overtones of a proud black cricketer finding comradeship with a Somerset lad; and so on.

While tales of friendship amongst team-mates were common in cricket (in the Indian context, the friendship between Sunil Gavaskar and Gundappa Viswanath was well-known), this kind of trans-border mateship was rare (though admittedly, in English county cricket, these had become increasingly common), and thus, there were more contrasts to be seized on, many more differences to point to as having been bridged, and many more commonalities to note amongst the two.

The stories that surrounded the Botham-Richards friendship were numerous and of varying quality and veracity: that Richards was responsible for ensuring that Botham never signed for the rebel South African tours because Botham could not have faced Richards' disapproval thereafter; that Botham was resolutely on Richards' side in any dispute including the famous ones with Peter Roebuck; that Richards haughtily waved off a congratulations and a handshake from Botham in a Test, because "this isn't a county game"; and of course, my favorite, that Richards introduced Botham to the pleasures of an occasional toke of cannabis (is that why Sir Ian gained so much weight in the 1980s?)

But I suspect the real reason the Botham-Richards friendship appealed so much to me (especially when I was a teenager) was because the idea of a cricketing friendship spanning the divisions of national sides was a romantic one that brought relief from the tensions engendered by Test cricket. One theme common to many positive reactions to the IPL's first two editions was the sight of erstwhile opponents celebrating together when brought together for an IPL outfit.

I suspect that while we celebrate nationalist rivalry on the ground, some of us like to be reminded that it is a bit of play-acting, that the same men who snarl at each other on the ground, and gladly knock each others' heads off, would in other contexts, put that nastiness aside. That is, despite the quasi-xenophobic bluster, most notably displayed in the comments sections of cricket blogs, we're softies at heart, and such friendships reassure us that all is well, that these men acting like brash warriors are really just folks like us in many ways. Maintaining and sustaining an edgy sporting rivalry can be exhausting, for players and fans alike. The friendships that international cricketers strike up in the course of their careers aren't just valuable for them; they bring us much pleasure too by humanizing the players, and bringing them down to earth.

And as the story of Richards waving off Botham in a Test reminds us, we know that when they step back onto an international arena, they'll go right back to being flag-waving ogres.

Over the next couple of weeks, I expect I shall watch at least some of the Champions Trophy coverage on TV. After all, I'm a cricket junkie and the English season finishes this week, so I've nothing else to watch until April. And, since you are enough of a cricket junkie to be reading a blog on a cricket website, it's pretty likely that you will also be tuning in at some point.

TV companies know that there are many people round the world like us who will watch any international cricket, almost whatever it is, and are therefore willing to part with money for the broadcast rights, and the ICC then spends that money on what it considers to be worthy causes. Slaking our appetite for the game provides money to help develop the game around the world (though why they pour money into salvaging Zimbabwe when West Indies are in danger of collapse passes my understanding), so it seems beneficial all round.

But nobody seems to care very much about who wins it.

This may simply be the perspective of an England fan who knows that his team don't stand an earthly chance and will be doing exceptionally well if they win any of their three games, but I don't detect any groundswell of anticipation amongst the fans of other teams I see on my travels round the net. A 50-over World Cup always stimulates a pre-tournament buzz, but the Champions Trophy generates a tidal wave of indifference.

Like a lot of people, I can tell you which country won any World Cup and where (though not necessarily which ground the final was at). But apart from West Indies winning in England in 2004 which I remember because I was giving daily bulletins to my father as he lay dying in hospital, I have no idea which team won any of the other editions of the Champions Trophy, or even when they were.

Which is odd, if you think about it.

It is a much more efficient way of determining the top team at 50-over tournament cricket than the World Cup with its Scotlands and Bermudas. Adding all the no-hope teams to the World Cup simply expands it without changing the destination of the winners' trophy but allows for the possibility of embarrassment in the early rounds. Just as it is (or would be) amusing if Manchester United exit the FA Cup by losing to a semi-pro team or Roger Federer gets beaten in the first round at Wimbledon by a British wild-card entrant currently ranked 793rd in the world, we can all have a good laugh when one of the major teams gets knocked out in the group stage of a cricket World Cup. If nothing else, it relieves the tedium of the early stages which seem to consist mostly of mismatches.

But the Champs Trophy is what the final stages of a World Cup would look like if none of the major teams tripped over the banana-skin in their qualifying group. It's the business end, the nitty gritty, the chase which is cut to when we start paying close attention to a World Cup instead of just checking that nothing out of the ordinary happened. It's the World Cup without the boring bits. If there were any justice, we'd take a lot more interest and give a lot more weight to the Champions Trophy, but there isn't and we don't.

Instead, we treat it more as an inconvenience, a distraction from whatever the real business of our teams is supposed to be at any given time, and we want it over and out of the way as soon as is practical. What a strange lot we cricket fans are.

When it comes to the vexed issue of the batting Powerplay, I’m convinced that the strategists will soon have enough historical data to crunch some meaningful numbers. As more ODI games are played under the new rules, there will be more data available and clear patterns will start to emerge.

Thus far, the batting Powerplay has been anything but! It has often been the Achilles heel for the batting team - poorly executed, poorly timed and the catalyst for a collapse. One of the problems with it has been this dual sense of fear (what if we lose wickets?) combined with the burden of self-expectation (the Powerplay is a powerful weapon that we MUST save for that match-winning moment). Instead of viewing it as another tactic in the batting arsenal, it’s almost viewed as Devil and Saviour in the one incarnation, thereby giving it that real Jekyll & Hyde quality that confuses clear thinking.

The final ODI at Durham between Australia and England was the last straw in a series that defined itself for a complete waste of this weapon. The sight of Australia taking the Powerplay with Ben Hilfenhaus at the crease, nine wickets down and in the 44th over, was the final nail in the coffin of abysmal tactics by both teams throughout the series. England were particularly dim-witted in their use of the Powerplay throughout the series, arguably amongst the worst examples of getting it wrong that you can possibly imagine.

The Champions Trophy in South Africa will show a different side to this tactic though. I’m convinced that it will indeed be an advantage for the batting team in this tournament. Why do I say that?

To begin with, I think teams will now crunch the data and start to realise that it’s probably wasted if you leave it too late in the innings. The last 10 overs tends to bring with it a flood of runs anyway so why waste the Powerplay then? Connected with this theory, if you can force the fielding side to use their ‘death bowlers’ in the middle of the innings to protect the Powerplay, that leaves even more scope to cash in at the end.

On South African pitches with bounce and carry, to say nothing of the effects of altitude, scoring rates will tend to be higher than during September in England or on the slow, dusty pitches in the Middle East for example (when Australia played Pakistan). These conditions will lend themselves to batsmen being able to clear the boundaries because the extra bounce opens up more of the field. On slow pitches, it is difficult to get under the ball and open up the full 360 degree radius of the outfield. We’ll see a lot more shots square of the wicket in the Champions Trophy when it comes times to push the accelerator. Players like Dilshan, Duminy, De Villiers and Dhoni (and many more that I simply can’t mention) who don’t need to rely on going straight down the ground will revel in these conditions during Powerplay overs.

The pitches at Centurion and Johannesburg will be more suited to the quicker bowlers, thereby removing the choking threat of spin bowling in the middle of the innings. Small boundaries, hard pitches and balls flying further at altitude will reduce the stranglehold that spinners had on the game in the World Twenty20 for example. Fast bowlers who get their yorkers wrong will pay the price in these conditions, especially against batsmen adept at staying deep in the crease or flicking to fine leg. Extra pace and bounce will help established batsmen to plunder the late overs.

Most importantly, I think teams will do the math and realise that a Powerplay taken too late is a Powerplay wasted. I think we’ll see a lot more teams taking the option in the 30-40 over period, perhaps even in the 15-20 over range (if they get off to a great start) and then cashing in at the end against the lesser bowlers, even with the field spread. If the ball’s not turning or holding up and you’ve used your ‘finishers’ like Gul, Malinga, Lee, Parnell and the like earlier in the innings to stem the Powerplay bloodbath, you’ll be left with medium pacers or spinners at the end. I’m predicting some late carnage!

I’m looking forward to seeing the evolution of the Powerplay and to see if anyone’s really learnt anything from the recent past. If they haven’t, what’s the point of all those complicated software systems and statsgurus? It doesn’t take a genius to figure out the bleeding obvious – don’t leave the Powerplay so bloody late!!!!

My weekend got off to a rough start, but the news I read this morning, that India and Pakistan might play Test matches at a neutral venue (sometime after 2012) has put a huge smile on my face.

Hopefully, the sensible thing will be done by staging these in England. India and Pakistan need to stage their Test cricket somewhere else; in stadiums that might actually fill up with loud, enthusiastic fans, of which there will be plenty in England for both teams. Pakistan can regard North England as "home" and India can do the same with the South. Many expats will fly in to watch the games (I would seriously consider flying over for one Test at least), and hopefully, English pitches will co-operate with the weather to produce some result-oriented cricket. The India-Pakistan cricket relationship needs a shot in the arm, and this might do it.

The fact of the matter is that even without the politics that has been getting in the way, India-Pakistan Test cricket in recent years has been a bit of a crashing bore (and not just because both boards have staged too much cricket between the two). The series in 2004 was played in empty stadiums, an especial irony given all the pre-tour hoopla about how desperate the Pakistan cricket fan was to see the Indian team in action. The two series played in India since then have been impressive showcases for India's inability to close the deal in Tests. In both series, India held the upper edge, and managed to royally stuff things up. In the 2004-05 series, they won one Test when Pakistan obligingly rolled over, but failed to drive home the advantage in another, and then completely lost the plot by putting together a nice last-day collapse in the third Test.

In the last series played in India, Pakistan sent over a team which looked so lackluster on the field that I almost felt like asking them to walk back to the pavilion for an intravenous coffee drip. India failed to put this bunch out of their misery as well, managing only a 1-0 win when by all rights they should have wiped the floor with a 3-0 margin. The last Test featured that perennial favorite of Indian Test captains: the meandering, cautious move toward a declaration, which is then delayed so much that a draw is the only outcome possible.

But the crowning glory of India-Pakistan Test cricket in recent times was the series in Pakistan in 2006, which showcased dead pitches and horrendous run-fest snoozes in the first two Tests, before India redeemed matters with a spectacular display of incompetence in the third game (it takes special talent to lose after your quick bowler has taken a hat-trick in the opening over of a Test).

I can only hope with fingers crossed, that the games will be staged in England and that plans will be finalised soon. The current enforced gap is a good thing; it has made cricket between India and Pakistan a little less common, a little more desirable. A good India-Pakistan Test can be the best of the best. But it needs some large crowds and a co-operative pitch or two. I think these will be found in England; I'm sure about the first and optimistic about the second. India and Pakistan will both have attacks capable of exploiting the conditions, the locals will be looking to pick up some bragging rights, and many English fans will turn up to watch as well. It has all the makings of a good summer of cricket. Bring it on.

Cricketers have mentors. Those that inspire them to reach heights they might not have dreamed of. I think cricket fans have mentors too. Those that inspire our fandom, pointing us to corners of the game we might not have thought of exploring, whose influence makes us the fans we are today.

My mentor in cricketing-fandom was (and is) my uncle (my mother's younger brother). He taught me how to read cricket scorecards, to calculate batting and bowling averages, to find cricket commentary from England and Australia (and to tune shortwave radios), and introduced me to many of the game's greats. Indeed, he made me aware of so many different facets of the game, that it would take a column considerably longer than this one to do justice to him. Before I came to the US, it was no exaggeration to say that if I had experienced a pleasurable moment in watching cricket, the odds were high it was in his company.

I still remember the day I was first struck by what seemed like his uncanny ability to read a game. We were watching highlights of a Test between Tony Lewis' English side and the Indians in 1972-73. BS Chandrasekhar strode out to bat. My uncle calmly said, "Watch, he'll be bowled first ball." And so it came to be. I gazed at him in admiration; this man was prescient!

But more seriously, his utter and total devotion to the game - from tracking its minute variations, to his raw emotion when denied victory and his joy when the cricketing gods smiled upon his efforts, served as a model for me to emulate. Nothing quite impressed me like his logbook of cricket scorecards, faithfully copied out from newspapers, with every attendant statistic carefully noted. Here was devotion to the game, writ large in his careful handwriting.

Over the years we watched Test cricket on television, we heard it on the radio, we saw one-day internationals and we dissected games to bits. Some of my favourite cricketing memories (among others) involve him: listening to Pakistan make a brave attempt to chase down 294 against West Indies in the 1979 World Cup semi-final, and Kapil Dev lashing 89 off 55 balls against England at Lord’s in 1982 in a brave attempt to ward off defeat, and of course, watching the 1983 World Cup semi-finals and final on a crystal-clear BBC broadcast.

There were crushing disappointments too: we still haven't got over India's failure to
wrap up the 1985 Boxing Day Test. Denied by Border and the rain sure; but really, by India's inability to close the deal. The memory of that cold Delhi morning, huddled next to a radio, waiting and waiting for the last Australian wicket to fall, and for the Indian openers to get a move on, still rankles, and colours my perceptions of the modern Indian side.

My uncle had a rogue's sense of humour: he taped the end of the radio commentary of the fifth Test in the India-Australia series in 1977-78, played it back for me, and almost convinced me the umpire had called back Chandrasekhar for a second chance at batting. Only his giggling gave the game away.

He perfected the art of playing hooky to watch cricket with me. He would have his elder brother drop him off at my place on their way to work so he could watch the ODIs beamed live from Australia during the 1985-86 season (and then, he would be picked up in the evening; my grandparents never found out). As the game progressed, his old statistics-obsessed self would come to the fore: he would faithfully track the run-rate at the end of every over, and call out projections and predictions. When India won the Benson & Hedges World Championship in 1985, we both agreed it was a better win than 1983, simply because India had been so convincing, and best of all, we had beaten Pakistan in the final. There was no else I would have wanted to share the moment with.

Of all the cricketing losses I've suffered by moving to the US, not having him by my side to watch a game has been the worst.

Four years ago, he turned 50. I called him to wish him a happy birthday and knew there was only one way I could do it. I asked him to take fresh guard and go for his ton. I hope Mamaji does it. Heck, I'll run on to the ground and garland him if he does.

There is always a wistful tinge to the last game of the Lord's season, as Saturday's ODI was; as I leave the ground, there is the gloomy realisation that it will be next year before I next hear the five-minute bell and then see the umpires walk out to start the day's play, but still, I'm at one of my favourite places in the world. I always enjoy going to Lord's on a warm summer's day, even more so if there is cricket being played. Though I've been coming regularly for only thirty years and am thus a relative newcomer, I feel at home at the home of cricket. Even if the cricket is dreadful, I am sure to see some friends and have some pleasant conversation.

Thousands of the cricket-besotted turned up for similar reasons and will have taken equal satisfaction from another day at HQ, happy just to have been there.

However, when the BBC radio commentators inform their listeners that the crowd “are enjoying it” or “purring contentedly”, they seem to be saying more than that people like being at Lord's: there is a definite implication that they are taking some pleasure in the actual cricket.

Hearing those remarks, I wondered where they were dreaming it up from, because there was no evidence of people enjoying the cricket anywhere near where I was sitting in the Warner Stand. Nor was there any in the Pavilion or any other part of the ground I went to.

The cricket was simply awful, apart from the spectacle of Brett Lee knocking stumps over at the end of England's feeble batting effort. When Australia batted, they merely went efficiently about their business. I don't mean to suggest they were under any obligation to try and entertain the crowd with spectacular fireworks, but it would have been more fun if they had.

Some were angry, a few outraged, but most were just disappointed - to a greater or lesser degree, depending on what their expectations had been. Mine had been pretty low and England only sank narrowly below them, so it was no worse than seeing the bus leave the stop just as I left the ground and having to wait a few minutes for the next, but I think all of us would take exception to the allegation that we had enjoyed it.

My companions and I agreed that enjoyment would have been entirely inappropriate, anyway. We were here as punishment. This was the penance we had to do for winning the Ashes, for the joy we had felt when we had beaten Australia at Lord's for the first time in 75 years, for the fun we had had at the World Twenty20 (especially as England had won a World Cup), for thinking that Ravi Bopara's hundred against West Indies had signalled the arrival of a major new talent – in other words, for being English cricket fans at Lord's. I hope the cricketing gods accepted our collective sacrifice.

Another friend I bumped into said he had come to practice supporting Australia before doing it for real when they come back to Pakistan's new home ground, which rather surprised me: I cannot conceive of supporting Australia, and particularly not against Pakistan, who rank third in my affections behind England and West Indies. Well, so be it: he and I will be on opposite sides during the second of next season's Tests.

Ah, yes. Next season. We'll be back at Lord's again next season. That sounds good.

Michael Jeh's piece about the number of talented-looking players who appear for England but fail to produce the goods when things get difficult is timely, since those he mentions have all just been granted contracts by the ECB for the coming year.

Not that Ian Bell and Ravi Bopara are actually failures. They have each scored a healthy number of Test hundreds. Yes, they have been against West Indies, New Zealand, a Pakistan side depleted by injury and player bans or a South Africa who were bowling very poorly on a flat track, but they were in Test matches all the same. They have only failed against the very best, but there are plenty of those from everywhere. (Owais Shah is in a different category: I have long thought of him as Owaste of Space at the international level.)

I don't think it's because the standard of domestic cricket is too low. Most of the Division One counties could give New Zealand a pretty good game, and Durham have a better bowling attack - or at least had, depending on how much difference the return of Shane Bond makes. Demanding that the county championship be of a higher standard than the Test cricket played by the bottom half of the rankings table (where England reside anyway) is surely over-optimistic.

Nor are Australia immune. Phil Hughes succeeded majestically in Sheffield Shield, county cricket and in Tests against South Africa, who now admit that they bowled badly at him. Then, when he came up against Steve Harmison (for the Lions) and Andrew Flintoff armed with both a plan of bowling fast leg stump throat balls and the ability to execute the plan consistently, he was found wanting. No amount of domestic cricket can entirely prepare you for the very top.

But Fox (Michael Jeh) was talking more about one-day cricket, and there the problem is more likely to be systemic. England have been rubbish at ODIs since the early 1990s no matter who has been picked but their main fault has been that they have so few batsmen able to play the aggressive game. The successful Test batsmen tend not to score fast enough in ODIs so instead they pick domestic strokeplayers who don't know how to graft, at least when under run-rate pressure which requires scoring as well as blocking.

In suggesting that it is a peculiarly English problem, however, Fox has not been paying sufficient attention to the Indian team. How often have Rohit Sharma or Suresh Raina gritted out a match-winning 70 in testing conditions?

The old adage says that form is temporary and class is permanent. It may well be that that is true, but only if you correctly define “class”.

Both England and India have selectors who define class as elegant technique and great timing, and believe that players possessing them are more likely to succeed than batsmen who look to be struggling. I can understand that: when I watch a county game, the batsman who plays beautifully is far more likely to catch my eye. I learn to appreciate batsmen who play solidly for the counties I follow much earlier than those I see only occasionally for an opposition.

An Australian selector going to watch a domestic game has fewer matches to choose from than his English or Indian counterpart. He will inevitably see players more often and notice much earlier that the same ugly bloke keeps getting 75 while the fancy dans get out for 3 against the better bowlers at least as often as they glide to 123 in less challenging circumstances. Such a selector may well acquire a different definition of class.

Where having large numbers of teams may hurt both England and India could lie less in lowering the standard of play than in preventing any given selector seeing enough of the unattractive players to tell the Allan Borders from the genuinely incompetent. What it then amounts to is class prejudice: the selectors favour those who bat like aristocrats rather than artisans – and snobbery is a recipe for decadent failure.

I’ve often pondered as to why English domestic cricket produces so many skilled, pretty boy types who seem to thrive in local competitions but just seem to lack that indefinable ‘X Factor’ when it comes to playing gritty, ugly, effective innings that get you home in tight situations.

Watching every ball of the current ODI series in England has made me dwell even longer on this question. It’s not a question of talent, skill or dedication – Ravi Bopara for example looks classy and is probably more naturally gifted than say Cameron White or Callum Ferguson (on the surface anyway). Yet, when they come up against hard competitors who scrap like junkyard dogs, they forever seem to fall short.

The current Australian team is but a shadow of the vintage of the past two decades but they are the quintessential scavengers, hunting as a pack and feeding on loose scraps. Admittedly, England, sans Pietersen and Flintoff are not without their own personnel issues, but you sense that players like Bopara, Owais Shah and Ian Bell would be in the frame anyway. To watch any of these three players bat is to see fluidity, grace and a touch of class. They look the part. No doubt in County cricket and against some international teams, they act the part too. Their talent is evident for the world to see and yet …

Every time they come out to bat in tough situations that call for attritional rather than attractive cricket, I get that sense of foreboding that precedes an imminent soft dismissal. And so it proves to be, all too often. They don’t seem to get out to particularly good deliveries or struggle for timing but it seems like only a matter of time before they spoon one lazily to cover or get too cute with a lap-sweep or find some soft way to fulfil the prophecy (eg: hit wicket or run-out). The sad thing is I probably enjoy watching them bat more than the effective but less aesthetically pleasing batsmen like Collingwood, Strauss, White, Ferguson etc., but you just know that if your life depended on it, you’d be dashing off to check that the life insurance policy was paid up.

England seem to throw up these sorts of players more regularly than most other countries I can think of. I’m sure all domestic structures have these characters who dominate the local scene but rarely sustain it on the international stage but for some reason, in England, these players seem to enjoy relatively long international careers, recalled time and again for another predictably disappointing reincarnation.

David Gower was an obvious exception – his timeless elegance belied impressive numbers against most opposition but there have been so many others who never inspired genuine confidence, despite always looking a million dollars. On the other hand, you have guys like Collingwood, Thorpe and even Hussain who may not have necessarily been so pleasing on the eye but nonetheless played some memorable knocks when it mattered. When was the last time Bell, Bopara, Shah or even Luke Wright (not quite in the ‘pretty boy club’) scored an ugly 70 that won a tight match against feisty opposition on a difficult pitch?

It’s probably too simplistic to blame the County cricket system for producing these domestic run machines who just can’t seem to produce the goods consistently on the international stage when it really counts. Those issues have been debated for years now and I’m sure the brains inside English cricket have addressed these perceived problems. It’s certainly not a question of talent so much as temperament.

Cameron White is a prime example – in terms of sheer raw talent, Bopara, Bell and Shah probably have more going for them and probably score more heavily in domestic cricket. In fact, their Test and ODI averages are probably higher too. But numbers alone don’t tell the full story. Last night’s game at the Rose Bowl was a classic case in point. It was a slow pitch and a tight game with two relatively mediocre teams (therefore evenly matched) scrapping hard for supremacy but one always got the sense that Beauty would come second to the Beast in that contest. Even Michael Clarke’s tortured innings was eventually a matchwinning contribution. I cannot imagine Bell allowing himself to bat that poorly and yet keep going without throwing it away in frustration.

Perhaps it’s not quite the best time of the season to expect attractive strokeplayers like Bopara and Shah to make runs in September. I enjoy watching them bat, albeit only too briefly, so I’m hoping that the Champions Trophy on South African pitches will see a flood of runs. But I keep coming back to the point that it’s not just the volume of runs that matter – it’s the context in which they are scored. In England it seems, the pretty boys shine on parade days but go missing in the trenches when it all gets a bit down n’ dirty. I wait in hope…

I've just finished reading Satadru Sen's remarkable book, Migrant Races: Empire, Identity and K.S. Ranjitsinhji. As might be evident from the title, the book is not primarily about cricket, and neither is it a straight-up biography of Ranji. But to read this academic, yet accessible, study is to understand a little better what a remarkable life Ranji lived, to add another piece to the jigsaw puzzle relationship of colonialism to cricket, and finally, to view today's world of cricket in just a slightly different light (compare the language used by colonial authorities to describe lazy natives in the 19th century with that used by cricket commentators to describe South Asian cricketers and you might just squirm a bit in your seat).

Sen's primary objective is to illustrate the multiple identities Ranji claimed and had foisted upon him: an exotic Indian in England, evidence of both the Empire's civilizing influence in making him an honorary Englishman, while simultaneously being a subject resistant to Englishness because of his inherent Otherness, and an England-returned Indian appearing both as a potential agent of modernizing change and a visible symbol of the decadence of Indian princely life. More than any other sportsman of the era, he was Englishman and Indian both.

Ranji's movement between these identities was fluid, and he was not always possessing of full agency when it came to transitions between them. In many ways, he was a tabula rasa for fertile imaginations: those that saw in him the magic and the darkness of the East and the power and brutality of the West.

Ranji was conscious of his multiple identities and he certainly aspired to occupy these roles when it suited him. Ranji moved physically, and he moved psychically: he lived in England, and then moved back to India. Among other things, he studied and played cricket in, and for, England, served in the Great War, returned to India to rule his princely state, became embroiled in disputes with colonial officers over the familiar issues of allowances, jurisdiction and federation, wrote books, cultivated long-lasting friendships with Englishmen (and women), and attended the League of Nations.

In doing all these, he managed to offend those that saw him as a symbol of Eastern decadence or indolence or insensitive princely power. He tried to please many, and didn't always succeed. When he did, it was often as a cricketer, sometimes as a friend, and only rarely as a ruler or Indian. The language used to describe Ranji, his cricket, and his character, is well worth calibrating against that used to describe subcontinental cricketers and cricket today.

The particular plight of the immigrant, his involuntary schizophrenia caused by his locational and cultural displacements, is a familiar trope today. The story of Ranji is a particular instance of this, except that Ranji was an exceptional immigrant in being possessed of a talent colonial masters of the time found useful to celebrate because it enhanced their standing.

In reading these transitions between identities, there is no point in asking, Who was the real Ranji? For the salutary effect of Sen's scholarship is to also illustrate just how much a function of our climes, our backgrounds, and our locations, our supposedly fixed and stable personalities are. Ranji just happens to have played a game which thrust him into the spotlight, and which made his struggles to stabilize his self an intensely public one.

Sen deserves the appreciation (and readership) of any cricket fan interested in understanding why cricketing politics and its attendant literature is such a rich, varied and complex business. This book is about a 19th century cricketer but it continues to illustrate the 21st century version of the game. Much has changed, but power and those who wield it, and resent its usurpation, are still players today.

Like a wildfire spewing flames towards the sky, it erupts uncontrollably when the mix is right. All you need are a few passionate and opinionated Pakistan fans, an atmosphere of spirited contention, and someone willing to light the match. As you can imagine, in Pakistan this isn't asking for much, and so the great debate erupts frequently and fervently.

Most people know instinctively which side they are on, and positions are staked out right away. The few, who start out genuinely neutral, discover very soon they are anything but. Before long, emotions rise to a crescendo and tempers begin to simmer. The exchange becomes intense, headed towards intractability.

The opening gambit is almost always the same, namely that Wasim Akram, who was once described as possessing the left arm of God, could move the ball both ways, sometimes in the same delivery. Footage of Akram swinging it like a yo-yo has left legions speechless, so this point is naturally impossible to refute. It can only be countered by a parallel argument which, if it is to survive the heat of debate, must be based on hard data.

This is usually the time for Imran Khan loyalists to respond with a trusted opening move of their own. Imran finished his Test career with a better bowling average than Akram - 362 wickets at 22.81 compared with Akram's 414 at 23.62. It's not a huge divide - Imran only gave 0.81 runs less per wicket than Akram - but over careers spanning two decades, such a sustained separation becomes significant. Imran's Test strike rate (53.7) and economy (2.54) are also better than Akram's (54.6 and 2.59); again, not by much, but Imran does come out ahead.

Akram's supporters know they cannot win if the battle moves to statistics. Although Akram's ODI figures (502 wickets at 23.52, SR 36.2, econ 3.89) are better than Imran's (182 wickets at 26.61, SR 40.9, econ 3.89), Imran's career was already half-over before ODI cricket at the international level really took off. Akram, by contrast, arrived when the ODI circuit had come into full bloom.

The argument for Akram's supremacy needs a visceral approach. In Pakistani cricket gatherings, it doesn't get more visceral than evoking the memory of March 25, 1992. Everyone who saw those two deliveries that castled Allan Lamb and Chris Lewis were astounded, and even today, if you watch them on YouTube, you cannot help shaking your head. Timing adds to the mystique - the two best deliveries of Akram's career, and what a moment to produce them.

Imran's camp fully understands the emotional weight of this appeal. They reach deep into their arsenal and come up with Christmas Day 1982. This is no ordinary reference: late afternoon in Karachi; the ball begins to reverse as the breeze blows in from the sea; Imran takes five Indian wickets for three runs in the space of 25 balls; which included Sunil Gavaskar, Gundappa Viswanath, Mohinder Amarnath, Sandeep Patil, and Kapil Dev. It's a formidable counter-response, but it can only go so far. A Test match (even one against India) is not the same as the final of the World Cup.

Some friends and I once had the opportunity to ask Javed Miandad where he stood on the great debate. Miandad's initial response was to insist on framing the question narrowly. So we did: Let's say you're having a net facing Akram and Imran, both of whom are at their peak; who would trouble you more? Miandad closed his eyes and for several seconds and appeared deep in thought. Then he gave his verdict: Akram. Why? Because he could move it both ways with greater skill than Imran. Of course, there's more to bowling greatness than bowling well in the nets, but Miandad wouldn't be dragged into the larger debate.

On another occasion, my fellow Cricinfo blogger Kamran Abbasi and I once found ourselves in the company of Sanjay Manjrekar and Ramiz Raja. This was in Multan during a Pakistan-Bangladesh Test that happened to be going through a rather dull period. Sure enough, someone lit the match, and arguments came pouring forth. Ramiz was championing Akram and his view ultimately prevailed, but it wasn't pretty.

It is probably true that Akram die-hards outnumber Imran's supporters in the great debate, and they also tend to be more passionate. Those who argue for Imran tend to be more clinical and academic, probably because the arguments in favour of Imran are themselves rather clinical and academic.

Most people acknowledge that Imran was a more committed bowler, who never gave less than 100%. Akram, for better or worse, is still remembered as the kind of guy who could pull up with a side strain on the morning of a World Cup quarter-final. Imran bowled many overs through a stress fracture of the shin. For about a year and a half - the second half of 1983 and all of 1984 - this injury robbed him of his best bowling days. Who knows how much more he would have achieved without this unfortunate interlude.

There is also the matter of opposition quality. Imran didn’t play any Tests against the likes of Zimbabwe and Bangladesh and played a total of only two ODIs against them. But in Akram's case, 47 of his Test wickets (at 22.36) and 42 of his ODI wickets (at 20.92) have come from these teams.

For an amicable end to the great debate, you need a few people around who are willing to accept that the question of whether Akram or Imran was the greater bowler is complex and many-faceted. I was recently at a dinner party where the mood was right and the debate was kindled yet again. Arguments followed a predictable trajectory, and before long the dialogue had become intransigent. Our host, a moderate cricket follower skilled at diplomacy, brought closure when he said Akram was the greater bowler, but Imran was no less. I have memorised that line for the next iteration of the great debate.

Has anyone else noticed the change that comes over ex-cricketers as soon as they migrate to the commentary box? Even the most conservative of them suddenly see the action unfolding from a bird’s-eye perspective and advocate a far more attacking philosophy than when they played the game.

Throughout the last few months, I’ve thoroughly enjoyed the variety and diversity of the Sky Commentary team in England. The ‘regulars’ bring their own unique regional accents and personalities to the table, complemented by guest commentators like Shane Warne and Greg Blewett who seem to have fitted in seamlessly to the professional, neutral and slightly irreverent tone of the coverage. They provide serious analysis of the game but yet don’t seem to take themselves too seriously. They make the game fun without trivialising it.

What’s interesting though is the tendency among commentators the world over to be far more aggressive in their analysis than in their playing days. It makes me wonder if it is a phenomenon that occurs naturally when you have the luxury of viewing the game from afar, generally from a lofty height, compared to being caught up at ground level on the field where the gaps in the field may look wider and less defendable.

It is rare indeed to hear a commentator refer to a fielding captain as being too aggressive with his field placings. It’s almost always the case where commentators are advocating more catchers or more fielders in the circle. In almost every ODI game, there is a period when the captain has the minimum four fielders in the circle and the commentators reckon they should block up the singles. More often than not, it happens as a new batsman comes to the crease. From the commentary box or studio, there seems to be a general consensus that giving away the easy single, especially down the ground to the spinner, should not be allowed to happen.

Yet, many of these commentators probably did exactly the same thing when they were playing the game (apart from Warne who always had a reputation for keeping the field in). Nasser Hussain and Michael Atherton were probably fairly conservative types, Ian Botham and David Gower played in different eras under slightly different playing conditions and Michael Holding rarely worried about dropping sweepers back when he was thundering missiles down at 99 mph. Across other networks, Sunil Gavaskar and Geoff Boycott were hardly the most attacking players or captains, wonderful batsmen though they were. I won’t go through the entire list from around the world but I’m sure you get my drift.

It’s probably not a deliberate ploy to belittle the current captains. Instead, perhaps watching the game from a different angle or height and not being caught up in the pressure of being a combatant subconsciously allows us to be a lot less conservative. Even in Test cricket, you rarely hear a commentator analysing a field setting as being ‘too attacking’. They’re forever bemoaning the lack of an extra slip or a short-leg. The current fashion of dropping a cover sweeper out relatively early in the game is one that is very rarely applauded by the armchair experts. I must confess to agreeing with them on that one!

Warne is the surprise package of the summer for me. Much to my surprise, his commentary has been insightful, fair, eloquent and balanced. For someone who did not necessarily show such maturity in some aspects of his life, his on-air persona is a very marketable entity. As the most recent cricketer on the commentary team, he sometimes seems to be the most forgiving of captains who go on the defensive, although it is clear that if he was bowling, things would be a lot different!

I haven’t quite had the time yet to see if the bowlers or batsmen lean more towards aggression when they commentate. Mikey Holding of course is clearly in the camp of those who believe in the ‘attack, attack, attack’ philosophy but his pedigree and background may explain that. To be fair to Botham, he always played his cricket that way too but when it comes to the mere mortals like Hussain, Atherton, Mark Taylor, Bill Lawry, Sanjay Manjrekar, Ramiz Raja, Kepler Wessels etc, it will be interesting to listen to them over the next few months and see if they advocate a slightly different philosophy with microphone than with bat in hand.

At least that will give me something to focus on during those middle overs of an ODI when the field drops back and the game goes into a bit of a holding pattern until the Powerplay is taken. Now there’s one thing I agree 100% with the commentators on – why do they leave the batting Powerplay so bloody late?

Strange though it is to remember now, there was a time when Fred Flintoff was not the darling of English cricket and his omission from the England side was seen as a reason to praise the selectors for finally seeing sense rather than as an excuse for the team's dismal performance.

He had attracted a lot of attention as a young player with Lancashire. He was a huge and hugely powerful middle-order batsman who was a pretty good bowler, allegedly of the fast variety. England, so desperate for a new Botham that they had been picking players like Mark Ealham, Adam Hollioake and Ronnie Irani, could not resist the temptation and picked him for both the Test and one-day sides. Over the next couple of years, though, it became apparent that he was too fat to bowl fast and too indisciplined to offer anything more with the bat than the occasional lucky explosion. England sent him back to Lancashire with the stern message that he need not worry himself about future selection unless and until he was fit enough to bowl as fast as his early billing had suggested – and, as history now records, he went off and shaped up with fairly dramatic results.

The point is two-fold. One, is that, what a player is like when he first plays for England may bear very little relation to the cricketer he eventually becomes. The other is that the gulf between English domestic limited-overs cricket and the international variety is far greater than between the four-day championship and Test match cricket. What makes you a very useful allrounder in the county 40 or 50-over formats, is nowhere near what is required to fulfill a similar role internationally.

Over the last two to three years Tim Bresnan has been building a considerable reputation in county cricket, but his nine ODI appearances for England have given little hint of why. His bowling has been tidy enough but has posed no problems for batsmen, and even though he has had several opportunities to do some whacking in a death-or-glory bid to rescue yet another dismal England batting performance, one struggles to remember him even playing an aggressive shot in an ODI. Though the England management are presumably being encouraging, it must have dawned on him by now that he is going to have to improve considerably if he is to have much of an international career.

That it can be done is shown not only by Flintoff but also now by Luke Wright, to whose presence in the England team I am now warming. Nor am I the only one: the gentleman who sat next to me on Sunday morning was also pleasantly surprised by how good Wright's bowling now is. After some discussion in which Barry Knight's name surfaced, we agreed that Wright is the reincarnation of the young Darren Gough. That's the Gough who was a quick but not very subtle bowler and a cheerful biffer capable of hitting Shane Warne and Craig McDermott all round the Sydney Cricket Ground. He was also a great trier; one who would always go down fighting because he didn't believe a game was lost until the last ball was bowled or the last wicket fell.

Gough's batting fell away after he was hit later on that 1994-95 tour, but Wright has played higher up the order often enough to suggest that the batting he clearly learned at an agricultural college is likely to remain a permanent feature, so if his bowling gains some of the guile that Goughie acquired, he could yet become an important part of the set-up.

The big change since Wright's debut is that he has moved up from being a 75-80 mph bowler to an 85-90 mph speedster with a dangerous, skiddy bouncer – that lifts him from being a county all-rounder to an international-class bowler-batsman. It will be interesting to see how he progresses from here. It will also be interesting to see whether Bresnan can effect a similar improvement.

	The tactically astute Richie Benaud will lead Rest of the World © Cricinfo Ltd

In my last post, I selected an Old-Timers Twenty20 XI for England, old-timers being defined as those whose international career finished before 1970. India, Pakistan and New Zealand had too little history by then to pick reasonable teams, so I went for Rest of the World as England's opponents.

Before we go any further, Don Bradman does not make the team. Many will protest that he could adapt himself to anything, but the successful Twenty20 batsman is comfortable with hitting the ball in the air to clear the infield or the boundary and accepts that he will sometimes lose his wicket cheaply because of the risks he takes. Neither of these can plausibly be seen as traits of Bradman's batting. Maybe he could have adapted, but it would have been through gritted teeth at the gross offense to his principles, and I'd rather pick players who are going to relish the thrill-ride of a Twenty20 batting career.

The first two names are obvious. Twenty20 could have been invented for Learie Constantine. Tearaway fast bowler, whirlwind batsman and a strong candidate for the greatest fielder of all time, he was born 80 years too early to be the Maharajah of the IPL he would have become rather than the king of the Lancashire League that he was. Of course, he would have been in competition with Keith Miller, tearaway, whirlwind and superb fielder in the deep, taking running catches the way Constantine ran batsmen out.

As Les Ames was for England, there is a standout batsman-keeper in Clyde Walcott, who might as well open the batting because he would be excellent in Powerplay overs. Unlike England, though, one of the great Australian openers will be ideal as his partner. Victor Trumper, the legendary stylist, was quite happy to send the first ball of a Test match back over the bowler's head if he thought it deserved such treatment.

Charlie Macartney, the Governor-General, is mostly remembered as the great Australian batsman between Trumper and Bradman, but he was really an all-rounder, since his left-arm spin took over 400 first-class wickets at under 21.

Number three looks like his berth, and six and seven for Miller and Constantine, so I want a four and five. Stan McCabe in particular will be disappointed, but I'm picking Everton Weekes and CK Nayudu. It's just about arguable that Nayudu's big-hitting 153 for the Hindus on MCC's 1926-7 tour of India tipped the balance of persuasion that India were ready to join the ranks of Test-playing countries.

Now things get difficult. We will have a leg-spinning all-rounder as captain, but I change my mind hourly on whether it should be the great South African Aubrey Faulkner or Richie Benaud. At the moment, I favour Benaud as the more tactically astute.

We will want a couple of medium-pacers. Fazal Mahmood will be one, moving the ball both ways and being highly economical, but then there is a choice between Amar Singh and Alan Davidson. Amar was the better bat, but Davidson is a left-armer and will add variety.

Finally, we need an off-spinner, and here I shall plump for Hugh Tayfield, the South African spinner of the Fifties who bowled maiden after maiden after maiden, and who will strangle the England batsmen into false shots just as he did in Tests.

So here is the Rest of the World XI I have finally decided on:

Victor Trumper
Clyde Walcott (k)
Charlie Macartney
Everton Weekes
CK Nayudu
Keith Miller
Learie Constantine
Richie Benaud (c)
Alan Davidson
Fazal Mahmood
Hugh Tayfield

Now let battle commence as you tear this side to shreds and propose a whole load of people I didn't even consider!

	"I could have sworn Duleep Mendis' square-cutting and driving was the fiercest I'd ever seen in my life" © Getty Images

One of the things I promised myself I would do when I started writing on Cricinfo was to point out cricketing achievements that didn't seem to have been noticed enough by the cricketing world. I'm not sure I've done that adequately yet, but thought I'd make a start by talking about two Sri Lankan batsmen who played two of the most amazing innings I've ever seen: Roy Dias and Duleep Mendis. And they did it in the same Test.

I saw Dias and Mendis bat - on television at least - for the first time during Sri Lanka's first official Test against India at the MA Chidambaram Stadium, Madras, in September 1982. The monsoons had just ended in New Delhi but their traces remained: I was down with a viral fever. This meant I couldn't attend school, and would have to stay in bed. And be forced to watch Test cricket. Truly, it was a tragic time.

I knew enough about the Sri Lankans by then to know they weren't pushovers. They had handed India a crushing loss in the 1979 World Cup when they were (unfairly) regarded as minnows, and in their first ever Test, had put up a brave fight against England. Still, they were relative unknowns in my mind. I didn't know what to expect when the first day's play started.

To say that I was taken aback on the first day was an understatement. Mendis smashed 105 off 123 balls with 17 fours and a six. I could have sworn his square-cutting and driving was the fiercest I'd ever seen in my life. Indeed, I thought this short, burly man with bulging forearms would decapitate an Indian fielder or two by the time he was done. I had seen Viv Richards and Collis King batting in the 1979 World Cup final, but I was suddenly doubtful whether they hit the ball as hard as Mendis. Later that evening, when I was talking about the day's play with my uncles and brother, I struggled to explain just what a revelation his batting had been. The flair and style on display had been staggering.

The Sri Lankans might have been unknown, but they had suddenly created an indelible impression; they had rattled along on the first day, scoring 311 for 8, at a run-rate then unknown in Tests in India, before ending up with 346. India easily outstripped this relatively modest total and posted a 220-runs lead - they did have a strong batting line-up of their own.

Some time was lost to rain on the third day but the Lankans still faced a daunting task when they began their second innings on the fourth day. Matters quickly became worse as the first wicket fell with only six runs on the board. At this stage Dias walked out and launched into an amazing counterattack.

	Roy Dias on the attack © Wisden Cricket Monthly

The best way to describe this innings is to mention one simple statistic, which I've never forgotten, and never will: when his score reached 61, Dias had hit 15 boundaries. I've never seen that percentage approached by any batsman in any class of cricket for a score of over fifty since. The boundary rate slowed down thereafter, as did Dias. Finally, when he was out - almost sparking tears in me - at 97, the score was 157. The Sri Lankan second innings continued on the fifth day, and amazingly, Mendis hit a second ton as they went on to make 394 at four an over. India needed 175 to win as time started to run out, but were thrown into a spin by Asantha De Mel who grabbed a five-for to reduce them to 130 for 7 before Gavaskar batted out the last few overs to ensure a draw.

Phew. What an impression to make in your first Test against the local big league. And how. Thanks Duleep. Thanks Roy. I'll never forget those innings.

PS: Wisden disputes my memory of the Dias innings in saying "Dias scattered the Indian attack, reaching his 50 in 53 minutes with twelve 4s." By that calculation, he would have had to make 62 to include 15 boundaries and not 61. But this is one occasion where I trust myself more than the Almanack. Part of the reason Dias' innings sticks out in my mind is that it was always 'fours plus one', and I kept waiting with bated breath to see when he would score his second non-boundary run. And the reason I remember 61 so clearly is that that's when it happened. So I'll back myself against the Almanack. Only the scorer's sheet can settle this dispute.

Male professional sport in Australia is facing an image crisis at the moment. Despite strong spectator numbers, the various football codes (rugby league, AFL, soccer and rugby union) are continually fielding awkward questions about player behaviour, alcohol abuse, respect for women and violence. The National Rugby League’s brand is apparently so badly damaged that they are thinking of re-branding it and selling it to the public in another disguise. A dinosaur by any other name is still a dinosaur – for genuine change to occur, the culture of the sport needs to change. Merely calling it by another name won’t be enough to fool the community for too long. Sometimes, you have to surrender before you can start winning again.

Refreshingly, club cricket in Queensland is taking an innovative approach to addressing the spirit of cricket by introducing a new initiative called ‘Custodians of Cricket’. I attended their inaugural workshop earlier this week, aimed at all captains and club officials, cleverly designed to imbue them with the responsibility of honouring the spirit of the contest at all levels of grade cricket. In fact, Queensland Cricket are taking it so seriously that if a player who has not attended the ‘course’ ends up captaining a team during the season, that team will be deducted points.

I deliberately used the word 'contest' because it is in no way meant to detract from the competitiveness and winning desire that is endemic to Australian club cricket, even in the lowest grades. Especially in the lowest grades! This new programme is mindful of that culture, one of the bedrocks of the domestic system, yet it is trying to arrest a growing trend of anti-social behaviour that, if not halted in its tracks, will damage the sport.

I was particularly impressed with the way it tried to encourage the captains from different clubs to get to know each other on a personal level and break down the silly barriers that sometimes come with misplaced territorialism. At the end of the day, almost everyone in the room agreed that they play the game to win but also for the sheer enjoyment of it. The two need not be mutually exclusive. There is room for courtesy, manners and basic decency in a highly competitive contest.

Like any new initiative that attempts to break the mould, there will always be a period of flexibility and learning that can only come with time. One young gentleman appeared particularly vexed by the fact that one group suggested that it would be against the spirit of cricket to encourage fast bowlers to “kill him mate” (or words to that effect). He seemed to think that it was calling for a ban on short-pitched bowling, rather than the point of the argument (that it is in poor taste to wish physical injury on an opposition player). When he likened cricket to boxing and asked why it was okay to hit someone in the head in the boxing ring, it was clear that he missed the whole point of the evening altogether. When this same person later complained that watching cricket would no longer be much fun if he wasn’t allowed to abuse umpires or players from the grandstand, it became clear that some dinosaurs still roam the plains!

Workshops and forums are one thing – the proof will be in the pudding. As cricketers, we’ll be looking to see if the actions match the rhetoric. Not only do the captains have a moral responsibility to set the tone for their team’s culture but the administrators now have the tougher job of enforcing the standards. Previously, there was a sense that the benchmark was a fluid beast – depending on whether you were a representative player or not, the rules did not apply equally. At least, that was the perception. Cricket is by no means alone in this regard – match winners in all sports tend to be treated differently. That’s human nature.

An interesting discussion that arose from my group was the general consensus that the most frequent flashpoint for bad blood came in those first 2-3 seconds after a batsman had been dismissed. The ‘send-off’ and the subsequent tit-for-tat insults that flow often spill over into the rest of the game, sometimes even carried over into the next season. This is how inter-club vendettas can begin. If captains can somehow manage those adrenalin-charged moments of high emotion and allow the batsman to get away from the square without incident, we may well avoid a host of unseemly incidents.

Interesting times ahead….I’m a huge supporter of this new program to bring dignity back to our great game so long as all the stakeholders take it upon themselves to take this process seriously. Queensland Cricket can take a bow for taking this first important step towards re-inventing the culture of the sport. That’s the easy bit – the really brave decisions will come later in the season when the new rules are put to the test. Unless they are enforced uniformly, swiftly and without fear or favour, the dinosaurs will never truly be extinct.

In my 23rd year of club cricket, I have rarely looked forward to a season as much. Bring it on….

	Fetch that: Fifteen of Gilbert Jessop's first-class centuries were scored in under an hour © The Cricketer International

As the rain washed away the first T20I between England and Australia, I started to ponder how the old-timers would have done at Twenty20, and fell, as one does, into constructing imaginary XIs for England and Rest of the World selected from those who finished their international careers before 1970, so as to exclude anyone who ever played an ODI. It is more of a jigsaw-puzzle than picking an all-time Test team because of the need to cover all the angles. You want at least eight batsmen who are unafraid of taking the aerial route, six bowlers covering every speed from 50mph to 90mph and a couple of really good fielders you can put in key positions.

Beginning with the England XI, SF Barnes is always the first name on the sheet for any team I select for which he is eligible since he was the best bowler ever, a master of swing, swerve, spin and pace.

Next for Twenty20 comes Gilbert Jessop, one of the most amazingly fast scorers ever seen. Fifteen of his first-class centuries were scored in under an hour. He was initially regarded as a bowler, of fast-medium pace, and was also a brilliant fielder.

The other two certainties for me are Denis Compton, whose talent for batting improvisation remains unsurpassed, and Frank Woolley, a man capable of peppering the roof of the football stadium at Bradford against the powerful Yorkshire attack. Furthermore, Woolley was an almost Test-class slow left-armer and Compton's leg-spin was good enough to bring him 622 first-class wickets.

So, with Woolley, Compton, Jessop and Barnes as the nucleus, who else?

Of the three great H's, only Wally Hammond seems cut out for this team. Hutton spent his career worrying about the weakness of those coming in after him and curbed his aggressive talents, and Jack Hobbs was a timer and placer as well as a great stealer of singles and would, I fancy, have been as unsuccessful a Twenty20 player as Michael Vaughan. Hammond, however, crunched the ball through the off side with immense power and frequency. That he could (if reluctantly) bowl fast and was a brilliant close catcher are also useful add-ons.

The obvious batsman-keeper is Les Ames, who can also open the batting. But with Hobbs and Hutton ruled out and most of England's openers before 1970 being a stodgy lot, his partner needs some selecting. I will go for Colin Milburn, whose England career finished when he lost an eye in 1969, but who had broken the mould of English openers with his blitzkrieg style.

Still room for one more specialist bat. My choice is Percy Chapman, who will also captain the side. A batsman who hardly knew the meaning of defence and a brilliant cover fielder, he was appointed captain for the fifth Test of the 1926 Ashes and won them back, and then went to Australia and rested after the fourth Test because England were already 4-0 up.

Three places left. We have no off-spinner and no top-quality fast bowler yet, and we can give those spots to Jim Laker and Fred Trueman, whose credentials hardly need further elaboration. The last place goes to Maurice Tate, the great medium-pace bowler between the wars who also opened the batting rumbustiously for Sussex.

So here is the final XI in batting order, with the proviso that Jessop might well be sent in early if it seemed like a good idea:

C Milburn
LEG Ames (k)
FE Woolley
DCS Compton
WR Hammond
APF Chapman (c)
GL Jessop
MW Tate
FS Trueman
JC Laker
SF Barnes

My Rest of the World Old-timers Twenty20 team will appear in a couple of days.