Again and again Harmison struck when it mattered, in all formats, and with sufficient consist ency to earn a Test recall against South Africa © Getty Images

All right, so there’s still a few yards left, but in all likelihood, sometime on Saturday, barring any small miracles at Trent Bridge or Taunton, the final day of this summer of foul weather and fairly glorious uncertainty will see Durham breast the tape first and hence carry off the County Championship pennant for the first time. In which case, we will have witnessed one of the more improbable turnarounds in recent cricket history. As a consequence, Steve Harmison, the man whose wickets are currently serving as a modicum of compensation for the agonies north-east soccer fans are enduring at the hands of the fast bowler’s beloved Newcastle United, will be able to spend at least the next couple of months blowing enthusiastic raspberries in the general vicinity of the press box.

Tucking into humble pie is part of a journalist’s lot. The tendency to be pressed into seeing the world in white and black, and ignoring those endless shades of grey, all too often incites rash, often inflammatory judgements that dispense with humanity while expertly, if barely, skirting the laws of libel. And because he can be so good, so intimidating, so damned irresistible, Harmison has attracted considerably more than his fair share of invective. The fact that, at heart, he is both articulate and a complete sweetie somehow makes him an even easier target.

When he and Matthew Hoggard were dropped by England after the first Test in New Zealand six months ago, it appeared to all intents and purposes that Harmy had cooked his own goose for the umpteenth and final time. Always a reluctant traveller, he seemed keener than ever to be anywhere else but on a cricket field, and bowled accordingly, the menace reduced to that of a toothless tabby. The arrival of a fourth child was proving a distraction, sure, but could the selectors really be expected to maintain any vestige of faith in someone of such apparent frailty? Forget those feline metaphors. If the caricature of a fast bowler is a rip-snorting, fire-breathing, no-holds-barring Tyrannosaurus Rex with a sturdy pair of arms, here was a Brontosaurus apt to intimidate purely by dint of size, and prone only to occasional lapses from strict vegetarianism.

Stuart Broad and James Anderson stepped into the breach with such effectiveness that England rebounded to take the series. Surely there would be no way back now for this most exasperating of cricketers, no stay of execution. Yet Harmison remained a contracted player, and the new selection trio hung on in there, consoling themselves no doubt in the knowledge of his uniqueness. After all, when the moon is in the seventh house, the planets are adequately aligned and the mood takes him, no active bowler can generate the same sort of bullying, leg-jellying bounce. Go back to Durham and take some wickets, they told him. The worst that could happen would be that he would respond like so many before him and fail to muster sufficient enthusiasm for the dimmer lights and lesser stages.

Instead, back on the green, green grass of the Riverside, he rumbled in with venom time after time while Hoggard, given the same brief, struggled to find his groove for Yorkshire. Again and again Harmison struck when it mattered, in all formats, and with sufficient consist ency to earn a Test recall against South Africa. The series may have been lost, the tourists mentally on the plane, but with the exception of Andrew Flintoff’s rediscovered mojo, there was no more rewarding sight for English eyes all season than the bite and spite Freddie’s pal brought with him to The Oval, along with that oft-elusive rhythm and control.

That Kevin Pietersen was able to talk Harmison into rescinding his premature retirement from one-day internationals testified both to the new captain’s powers of persuasion and the bowler’s newly relocated peace of mind and renewed ambition. And while the rest of the contracted quicks took a breather once the ODI series was won, Harmison kept his engine going, bringing Durham to the brink of history. Maybe the prospect of those Stanford millions turbo-charged his battery, but so what? He’s in it for the quids, not the kicks.

Speaking as one who had written him off, it gives me an unseemly degree of pleasure to tuck into that humble pie. It’ll taste even juicier if he can help bring back the Ashes.

	No matter who wins, the unedifying fact, for apostles of an exclusively Twenty20 world, is that cricket’s most venerable competition is still alive and kicking © Getty Images

That the decision to divide the Championship into two tiers from 2000 has heightened competitiveness is beyond argument, as the likes of Justin Langer will attest, and this year’s race has been the most riveting yet. Nothing underlines this more indelibly than that Hampshire, in shedding their relegation fears with last Friday’s victory over Surrey, soared to the top of the table. Indeed, when the penultimate round begins on Wednesday, a mere 25 points will cover the top eight sides. Only Surrey, whose relegation Hampshire all but confirmed, do not cling on to a mathematical chance of emerging triumphant. The majority, by the same token, could still go down. Purr-fect.

For once, we have the weather to thank. Of the 64 First Division fixtures to date, 27 have had a victor. Up to now, the lowest number of decisive results in a top flight campaign has been 34, the average 40; only once, in 2004, have draws outnumbered wins. Even in the similarly sodden summer of 1967, with its diet, exclusively, three-day games, there were more wins than draws. Indeed, this year’s champions may even fall short of Warwickshire’s paltry five wins in 2004, at 31.25% the lowest such proportion since the competition was formally constituted in 1890.

There is, though, another factor. With no dominant side on view – Durham, Nottinghamshire, Somerset, Yorkshire and Hampshire have all topped the table this term - the differential between the number of points for a win (14 points) and a draw (four) is such that avoiding defeat is all too often the priority. Throw in batting (five) and bowling (three) bonus points and a draw can net 12 points. Ed Smith, the Middlesex captain, is far from alone in advocating that victories be worth at least four times as much as a stalemate and that bonus points be scrapped. Many believe, with similarly good cause, that 12 matches per team would be more conducive to fitter minds and bodies, though that would rob followers of both the symmetry of a home-and-away programme and four precious weeks of those numerical soap operas we call scoreboards. Still, a County Championship without tinkering would be like a dog deprived of the ability to moult.

For some, history beckons, at however long a shot. For Sussex, the first hat-trick of titles since Yorkshire in 1968; for Kent, a first Championship since 1978. Neutrals, though, will be torn between the likelier lads of Durham and Somerset, neither of whom have ever worn this particular crown. That the latter have been trying since 1891, whereas the former only entered the lists in 1992, swings the sentimental vote their way. And while Durham’s final assignment is a trek to Canterbury, Somerset will host Lancashire, who have gone two months without a win, and have not won the pennant outright since 1934.

Not since 1974 has its destination been decided by the elements. On that occasion Hampshire watched the rain fall for three days while Worcestershire took two bonus points during the only day’s play possible at Chelmsford, and ultimately took the title by that very margin. If it means breaking their duck, neither Durham nor Somerset would have the slightest objection to a nationwide monsoon.

But no matter who wins, the unedifying fact, for apostles of an exclusively Twenty20 world, is that cricket’s most venerable competition is still alive and kicking what one hesitates, in polite company, to call “ass”. Long may it reign.

	Each of Shivnarine Chanderpaul's Test innings over the past year lasted nearly three hours © DigicelCricket

So there IS some justice in the world. Recent events in Darfur, Georgia and Zimbabwe had not given rise to a surfeit of optimism but at least Shivnarine Chanderpaul has been anointed as ICC Player of the Year. And how he deserves it. Partly for rekindling the spirit of Horatio, partly for services to that most old-fashioned of sporting virtues, namely patience, but mostly for the inspiration he will, one hopes, provide for Caribbean cricket.

Quite how Dale Steyn beat him to the Test award beats me. In 2008, our Shiv has batted 13 times in Tests, against South Africa, Sri Lanka and Australia, the three strongest attacks in the game, remaining unconquered on six occasions, each of which has seen him tally at least 65. He has passed 50 eight times, and averages 101. In South Africa his series average was 82.33; the next most consistent West Indies batsman was Marlon Samuels (52), and only one other team-mate averaged more than 22. Against the Ozzers he averaged 147, scoring one fewer 50-pluses than the rest of the side combined. In all – and here’s the best bit, the clinching bit – he has endured for 2,267 minutes, ie. 37.78 hours. Which gives him an average of 174 minutes per crease visitation: all but three hours.

Nor, despite his exclusion from the ICC ODI XI, has his one-day record been shabby: 598 runs at 74.75, at an energetic if necessarily third-gear sort of strike rate, with only one dismissal for under 27 in 13 innings and seven scores of 50-plus. Even if Clive Lloyd hadn’t chaired the adjudicating panel, it is hard to believe that the vote would have gone differently.

A conference held at Headingley on Monday brought home the wider importance of what Chanderpaul, in his own shy, loner-type way, is doing, and why he stands so alone. And why, for all that supporting England is my sole concession to patriotism, defeat in the Caribbean next year would prompt a degree of guilty pleasure.

Entitled “Cricket and Globalisation”, the conference, organised by Stephen Wagg and Chris Rumford of Leeds Met University, attracted academics and writers from far and wide, including Pradeep Magazine of The Hindustan Times and Sir Hilary Beckles, Pro Vice-Chancellor of the University of the West Indies, director of the CLR James Research Centre and soon-to-be biographer of one Brian Charles Lara.

During a panel discussion I mentioned a conversation I had recently had with Mark Robinson, Sussex’s cricket manager, wherein he told me of a point made by Corey Collymore, another Bajan Test man currently on the Hove staff: Caribbean players receive little or no technical guidance once they have graduated to the national side. This, Robinson felt, went a long way to explaining the inability of the extravagantly-talented Dwayne Smith, now seeking to qualify for England, to build on that wondrous match-saving century against South Africa on his Test debut four years ago. Sir Hilary offered a somewhat contrasting take.

	Dwayne Smith couldn't build on his wondrous century on Test debut © Getty Images

For one thing, he suggested, if any member of the current West Indies Test XI was to walk into the room right then, and see either Lloyd or Sir Viv in the audience, he would turn tail in a justified huff and leave immediately. The heroes of the 1976-95 era, Beckles reasoned, want it both ways. They resisted technical guidance, relying on gift and instinct, and on county cricket as a finishing school, yet now berated the present generation for not embracing coaching themselves. More than that, their criticism of Lara and company, and assertions of their own superiority, not least in the sphere of black consciousness and regional loyalty, had reached such a pitch of righteous indignation and contempt that their successors had been grievously undermined.

It is hard not to sympathise, especially with Smith. As Beckles pointed out, having been born and raised in a distinctly unprivileged and unpromising environment, he had somehow lifted himself beyond the temptation of drugs, so often the route taken by the unemployed youth of the Caribbean, and beat a path to the Test XI as a teenager. That debut hundred should have been the start of something; instead, it was the end of a long, determined climb. Denied the requisite support of consistent selection and proper tutelage – Robinson believes he has never been taught how to build an innings, much less the requisite movement of foot, and, as a consequence, “misses shots too often”.

Robinson sees Smith as “a long-term project”. Capable of inflicting damage with ball as well as bat, a dazzler in the outfield, the prospect of seeing him in England colours one day is by no means an unattractive one. But who, honestly, would really want it to end up that way? Infinitely more preferable would be for Lloyd to expend the same sort of energy in making him feel wanted back home as he is currently doing in the case of Surrey’s Chris Jordan, another richly promising Bajan allrounder attempting to qualify for England for reasons of financial security. A few one-on-one sessions with Chanderpaul on the art of crease occupation wouldn’t go amiss either.

And yes, forgiving Lara his lapses, and offering him a prominent role to play in stemming the talent drain, would be another step in the general vicinity of the right direction. Cricket, after all, needs a competitive West Indies every bit as much as soccer needs a strong Brazil.

	While Gough would have been England’s only shoo-in for a World XI in the late 1990s, Hick became a byword for lack of nerve and/or backbone © Getty Images

Let’s get the stats over and done with first, which means a spot of jaw-dropping in Hick’s case. His choc-a-bloc swagbag contains 136 first-class hundreds (eighth on the all-time list); 178 in toto (second only to the boy Hobbs); in excess of 64,000 runs, including more than 22,000 in List A matches, with power to pass Graham Gooch’s record tally; more than 1200 games and 1,000 catches. Readers of the 2058 Wisden will doubtless revere him in the way we do Grace and Hobbs.

Gough’s figures are even more impressive, and all concern his derrings and doings for country rather than county: most ODI wickets for England (236); second-best strike-rate (35.9); ninth most Test wickets (229, though Steve Harmison and Andrew Flintoff will soon relegate him from the Top 10); second-best average, 28.39, behind Angus Fraser among England bowlers claiming 100 Test scalps since Viv Richards hammered Bob Willis into retirement in 1984; an Ashes hat-trick; kick-started the Nasser Hussain era with 72 wickets at 21.20 in 15 Tests spanning five series against West Indies, Sri Lanka (away), Pakistan (away and home) and a Flowered-up Zimbabwe in 2000-01, all of which would have been won but for a horrible post-tea collapse in the final session of the streak; most impressively of all, only Fred Trueman has bettered his Test strike rate (51.6) among Poms harvesting 80-plus victims since the First World War.

When they first played together for England, in an ODI against the Kiwis at Trent Bridge in 1994, Hick actually outbowled Gough (2-32 v 2-36), but their paths, in terms of international achievement, diverged greatly from then on. Whereas Gough, chest and cheeks puffing with pride and unstinting effort, would have been England’s only shoo-in for a World XI in the late 1990s, Hick became a byword for lack of nerve and/or backbone. Whereas Gough was still busy talking up his England prospects long after he’d been put out to grass, one always had the sense that Hick couldn’t escape the spotlight quickly enough.

Perhaps we judge him too harshly. Perhaps we shouldn’t use that Test average of 31 as the ultimate barometer. For one thing, had he made his debut 10 years later and Ian Bell his 10 years earlier, given the way the planet’s bowlers have suffered at the hands of legislation and pitches this decade, it is eminently possible that their averages would have been reversed. For another, his one-day record – sixth most runs for England, ninth highest average, second-most catches by a non-keeper, better strike-rate than Monty Panesar – is far more representative of his value to the national cause. Then there is the small matter of expectation. Has any cricketer ever made his Test debut burdened with so many predictions of greatness?

What, then, of the fact, of which much was once made, that he is an Englishman by trade rather than birth? When Mark Ramprakash and Andy Caddick decide they have finally had enough of the county-go-round, we will probably be making similar comparisons and drawing much the same conclusions. The difference is that whereas the Harrow-born Ramprakash is the Hick in statistical terms, it is the converted Pom, Caddick, Goughie’s erstwhile new-ball partner, who took to the highest stages with the greater zeal.

At the highest level, it all comes down to attitude. Does your self-belief outweigh the belief others have in you? Can you keep self-doubt at bay? Can you convince yourself, and your team-mates, that no mountain is too high, no sorcery beyond you? Do you carry yourself like a winner and talk like a champion? Are you, above all, a competitor by instinct? Gough and Caddick tick most if not all those boxes, treading as they do that thin line separating arrogance from complete self-assurance; if Hick and Ramprakash tick any of them it is only because, for the most part, they possess the dignity of those accustomed to receiving accolades and laurels.

To hear the two pacemen squabble over their respective Test records on TV a few Saturdays back – and the jocularity was barely skin-deep - was to bear witness to one of the most enduring rivalries in sport. They couldn’t help themselves. Even now, in their professional dotage, they need the edge of competition like the rest of us need oxygen. You wouldn’t necessarily crave their friendship. Can you imagine Hicky and Ramps having a similar bout of verbal fisticuffs, even in jest? Nor me. Ramprakash has always been too serious, too hard on himself, Hick too sincere, too soft on others. Lovely blokes both, but neither has the inner security to be able to bluff his way out of a hole.

Hick should be treasured as one of the greatest runmakers in history, period. Gough ought to be remembered as the bowler who did most to restore his country’s cricketing self-respect. Both deserve our respect and gratitude. But as the prizes for playing ballgames grow, it’s getting that much harder for nice guys to finish first.