The Surfer

This summer in England has been a cricket crossroads. The Ashes of 2009 followed closely two of cricket's hottest versions of its new variant: the Indian Premier League in South Africa, and the Twenty20 World Championship in England. In fact, to so soon after be plunged into a five-Test series, cricket's most traditional and now almost obsolete format, felt a little like dressing in period costume for an activity of the society for creative anachronism. What ensued was not a vintage Ashes series. The teams were too weak, and the Tests generally too one-sided. The advantage did not fluctuate; it swung back and forth like a wrecking ball, indicative of two teams at war with their frailties as much as each other.

A prominent domestic player, who has also played for India in the recent past, said: "It's a small example but did you know we also beg for the cheaper SG balls during Ranji training sessions? It's just another way for officials to make some extra money. If the BCCI is doling out Rs 30 crore annually to these bodies, why can't most Ranji teams have proper trainers or physios? Why can't age-group teams have trainers like in Australia?

We were forewarned, in the light of previous reports which lay buried, that our efforts would bear no fruit. Little did we realize that decisions on the most vital aspects would be taken, kept secret for a considerable period and then eventually obscured under the guise that approximately 47 of our 65 recommendations had been approved.

Ponting never runs out of ideas in the field, whereas Waugh, even with a more experienced and varied attack, was often devoid of inspiration on the few occasions when his captaincy was really tested.

As he approached the dressing room steps, he swivelled to the left and raised his bat to the crowd and then turned and repeated the gesture to the members in the Pavilion. It was a modest gesture by a remarkable cricketer whose Test performances have only rarely reached the peaks of which he was capable, but who never lost the affection of his large and loyal audience. So great is the interest still that Fred's Knee has sometimes seemed to be the biggest sports story of the summer.

This had the makings of Flintoff's perfect Saturday afternoon: an England lead of 340, Australia under the cosh and an expectant Oval crowd humming with the belief that the Ashes were almost won. He had the licence to swing the blade, not that permission really mattered. A Flintoff batting farewell should not be legislated for. It had to be unlicensed, untaxed, uninsurable.

Broad took over the match just after lunch and a shower of rain. He bowled with accuracy and purpose and complete dominance. He moved the ball both ways, late and subtle. He ran in like a sprinter, hurled the ball like a javelin thrower and finessed his opponents like a chess grandmaster.

Ponting is the most distinguished Australian batsman of his era, and an improving captain — it was pleasing to hear a suitable tribute from the crowd as he came to bat today, in what might be his last Test in England. But his physique has absorbed a lot of punishment in the accumulation of his splendid record. A disc in his spine occasionally catches on a spur on one of his vertebrae, part of the trouble being that he spends so much of his time crouched, in the field and at the crease. Last June in a one-day international in Grenada, he tore ligaments and damaged the sheath that keeps the main tendon in place in his right wrist, a tennis injury less common in cricketers that impairs him in playing the pull shot. They are not, strictly speaking, injuries: more infirmities that he lives with. But they are signs of an impinging sporting mortality that Australia will have to deal with.