From Stan to Ollie

And so, in the wake of one of the more bloodlessly humdrum Test series of recent times, to the burning question. No, not "Can Caribbean batting possibly plumb lower depths?", nor "Will Steve Harmison ever dismiss a good Test batsman again by judgement rather than luck?", nor even "Does Shivnarine Chanderpaul put glue on his soles before taking guard?" or Is "Ryan Sidebottom auditioning for the male lead in Nell Gwynne -­ The Movie"? but "Has Michael Vaughan succeeded Steve Waugh and Brian Lara as cricket's least self-effacing man?"

Even in his leaving of the one-day captaincy (voluntary or otherwise), England's not-always-enlightened despot of a captain sounded like a self-seeking grouse, insisting that having different skippers never leads to success. Displaying an encouraging disregard for mindless deference, Paul Collingwood, rightly and properly deemed his likeliest successor, was quick to cite Australia - presumably referring to the Mark Taylor and Steve Waugh axis - as counter-evidence.

In some respects Vaughan should be arrogant, albeit inwardly rather than outwardly. All cricket captains must have a streak of intellectual - or at least social - superiority. How else to persuade men of often greater stature that they should defer to you? Nasser Hussain and Mike Atherton, his immediate long-term predecessors, both thought they knew better than anyone else, as their vibrant on-air debates bear out. The difference is that they had a touch of grace. They also knew when to go.

Let's do the maths. That Vaughan has led his country's largely feeble limited-overs combo a record 60 times and posted a winning ratio of 53.33%, superior to all bar Mike Gatting among those who have led England in more than 30 ODIs, masks a number of less flattering truths.

For one thing, of those 32 victories, more than half, 17 to be precise, have come against a clutch of sides of whom Bangladesh tower highest in the global pecking order. Which means that, in the other 43 games in which he has captained, England have prevailed 15 times, a 34.88% share. Nor are a highest score of 90 not out in 83 innings, an average of 27.15 or two man of the match awards irrefutable proof of an indispensable cog.

Heaven knows Vaughan has plenty to be immodest about. As a captain, the figures confirm him, statistically, as the Pom King. Under his stewardship, England have gone from revivalists to No.2 on the planet. Few would dispute his stature as a father-figure, motivator, strategist and placer of fields. The 2005 Ashes triumph may have owed more, on paper, to Andrew Flintoff, but he needed a captain willing to lengthen the leash, a friend who knew how to draw the best from him.

As a batsman, Vaughan has been a right-handed Gower, a sumptuously elegant, infuriatingly enchanting chancer but preferable to 99% of all rival brands. In terms of converting 50s into 100s, only Don Bradman, George Headley and Bill Ponsford bettered Vaughan's 53.33%. Among scorers of 2000-plus Test runs, only Bradman (29 to 13) enjoyed a bigger positive differential between centuries and half-Monties than his 16 and 14. Graham Gooch, Geoffrey Boycott, Walter Hammond, Len Hutton, JackHobbs ­ you boys took a hell of a beating.

However. And it's a big however. Since returning to camp during last winter's Ashes tour (gatecrashed would be the more accurate verb), Vaughan can scarcely be said to have exerted a wholly positive influence. First, by very dint of his presence, he undermined Flintoff's captaincy, however doomed that may have been from the moment David Graveney and chums decided that further burdening the team's overworked and recuperating talisman was the canny option. Then he presided over a World Cup campaign that might have been less calamitous had Mal Loye or Owais Shah been picked in his mostly unproductive stead.

Compounding all this was last week's barney with The Guardian, in which Vaughan accused Flintoff of fatally undermining team spirit during the World Cup with his Fredalo shenanigans. This did not seem entirely unreasonable. Unless, that is, one remembered the role Vaughan himself played by sapping Flintoff's authority in Australia. To then deny having said such a thing ­ fuelled in part, no doubt, by a pang or two of conscience ­ was surely evidence of a man ill at-ease, for all his self-portrayal as a "pretty chilled" sort of bloke. That the paper prompted an apology by rapidly producing the (entirely accurate) transcript was even more damning. And even more indicative of a man at odds with self and muse.

There is one exceedingly obvious explanation. In September 2005 Vaughan was at the top of his world; no-one, in John Lennon's immortal words, was in his tree. By Christmas it looked as if a recurring knee injury might prevent him from ever playing seriously again. To have to rebuild confidence - in his surgeons, in himself, in his charges, in his bosses - was no small ask. Is it all that surprising that he should over-compensate for the self-doubt by demonstrating that a superiority complex knows few bounds? If you can't walk the walk, at least you can talk the talk.

No other captain has been indulged the way the England selectors have indulged Vaughan, maintaining his job title and salary during a year in which he did not fasten on a chest protector in anger. Then again, not every England captain gets to regain that infernal urn. Wherein lies the tragedy. In his defining hour. Vaughan doubtless imagined himself unbeatable, unsinkable, invincible, only to be swiftly reminded of the perennial fallibility of anyone who feeds his family with his body.

When Atherton interviewed him at Chester-le-Street yesterday, in the emboldening glow of victory in the first Test series of the second phase of his career, Vaughan was asked to reflect on how far the wheel of fortune had turned his way. He responded by moving on swiftly, reiterating his misgivings about separate captains, revealing that the decision to step down for ODIs had been made weeks ago, stressing his desire to carry on as Test captain for as long as humanly possible. He probably didn't want to be reminded of that dice with athletic death, reminded of vulnerability and impotence, reminded of the indiscriminating capriciousness of fate's fickle finger. You could still see, in that ever-so-slightly glazed countenance, a man thanking his lucky stars, but also one hanging grimly on to the reins lest they fly from his grasp again.

The first time I saw him bat for England, I saw Stan Laurel in him, ­ the same rebellious tufts of hair, the same vaguely bemused expression, the same understated command of his craft. These days he reminds me increasingly of Ollie Hardy: all front and affront, self-righteous and self-aggrandising, begging to be pulled down a few pegs. And yes, a wee bit sad.

I am unstinting in my admiration for Vaughan pre-2006. If Atherton made England harder to beat and Hussain restored the smell of victory, Vaughan forged them into a class act capable of duffing up the best. It is hard, though, not to believe he wouldn't have been better off had those surgeons been less capable at their jobs.