The Surfer

Of course sport will survive because it is not something that is created outside some of the most basic instincts of young people to compete and enjoy whatever talent they have been given, and when you have enjoyed pleasure it will never leave you. However, there is no point in denying that in its highest form, on the international stage, it has never been under such grievous threat.

Potential for polarisation and some resentment exists, even if the game being split along the “First v Third World” lines of old is unlikely, and to be guarded against at all costs. The world governing body, the ICC, is not always renowned for its stealth, diplomatic nous or pro-activity. This a good time for it to display decisive leadership -- there may be no choice. It is confronted by a delicate and deeply complex issue, because security for the game’s participants and enthusiasts is one of those “no middle ground” necessities.

In the terrorist mindset, the effete and Western activity of cricket distracts good Muslims from what they should be doing: praying and executing jihad. In the terrorist imagination, cricket, loved by millions of ordinary Pakistanis, is an emblem of evil Western modernity. An innocent pastime becomes a symbol of hatred.

Sport is already a stage and the world is watching. All a terrorist has to do is alter the script and all the publicity in the world is his to command. I have been through a million metal detectors; my laptop has been X-rayed so often that it glows; my bag has been fumbled with and my crotch groped repeatedly by the uniformed and the charmless; and I know that all this performance is just for the look of the thing and that a professional could get through with anything he liked.

From Bundu Khan’s delectable kababs to Younis Khan’s obdurate defence. From the obliging cloth merchants of Liberty market to Danish Kaneria’s more deceptive offerings. The walk to the ground before start of play is pleasant, with just enough time either to imagine what could possibly transpire over the next few hours or for the more methodical to draw up mental to-do lists. Traffic around the circle is usually leisurely, courteous in the manner of everything Lahore. As the red-brick of the stadium nears, the melee of the market falls away.

There is no Geneva Convention-style pact to cover sportsfolk on tour in dangerous places, but since the 1972 Munich Olympics there has been a kind of tacit understanding that terrorists would not target them, for fear of an even more severe backlash.

They are union men who work for each other and back each other up when times are tough. One was a bricklayer from Tasmania, another an axeman from Traralgon and their leader has driven a plumbing supplies van around the building sites of Brisbane. Some are so green they might still be serving their apprenticeship. Each out-bowled the more experienced South African attack and every one of them contributed to a fantastic 162-run win.

When Chris Gayle declared on Sunday night at the fall of Ramdin's wicket, we spotted Edwards, pads and helmet on, brandishing his bat, before furiously withdrawing to the dressing room. He wanted to have a go on this sublime batting surface. Everyone else in his team had. Why should he be deprived? Like any self-respecting West Indian tail-ender he was desperate "to give it some licks". Instead he had to bowl again on this sadistic slab of real estate. And it was only when Edwards had a new ball in his hand that we had a contest worth watching. Why? Because he can bowl fast.

One is to say that the surface (­resurrected from a situation where the grass had been killed off towards the end of last year ­following the annual carnival held at the ground, to celebrate the end of the ­harvest) had rather more about it than that rolled into submission at the ­Antigua ­Recreation Ground for the third Test. Think a ­dormant ­volcano rather than an extinct one, where an exceptional group of ­bowlers might have had their say.

Tireless contributions from the front-line pacemen meant that the pressure on the batsmen was unrelenting. Although the ball did not move much and the pitch had slowed down, the leather flingers made it difficult for opponents to protecting their wickets. More by obligation than design, the batsmen crawled along, scoring 30 runs an hour, concentrating on resisting a committed attack.

On flatter pitches he scores most of his runs with flicks off his pads, cuts and drives through extra-cover. It sounds orthodox but he relies much more on hands and less on footwork and shoulders than most batsmen. But, then, he is not the only idiosyncratic left-hander running around. His opening partner shuffles around like a politician under the spotlight while Shivnarine Chanderpaul hardly bothers with the coaching manual. Hughes's game works. In all forms of the game, he scores a heck of a lot of runs.