Goodbye ugly duckling, hello Swann

Bruce Springsteen records with the E St Band every half-dozen years or so. Joni Mitchell’s last sheaf of original songs is nearly a decade old. To bring home new creations from both sources on the same day is the stuff of an ageing hippy’s dreams. There was no option, therefore, but to mute the Sri Lanka-England ODI on Sky. It made, as you might guess, for a distinctly surreal experience. Then again, teaching resumes tomorrow, and too much reality, as Woody Allen put it, won’t sell tickets in Kansas.

What struck me was how fresh it all seemed, how inspiring to those who, like myself, are currently obsessing about age (well, my 50th is 53 days away). Bruce, Miami Steve and the gang machine-gunning their way through some thrillingly rocky rock-outs that make them sound 25 rather than 55; Joni, now in her sixties, running the customary gamut of jazzy-funky-folky assaults on the planet’s vices, even an update of Big Yellow Taxi, but this time with added venom (signing a distribution deal with Starbucks certainly demonstrates an enduring sense of humour).

And then there was Graeme Swann, fast approaching his 30th year, proving it’s never too late for an unreconstructed maverick to enjoy a rebirth - provided, that is, you have sufficient wells of character, self-belief and talent to keep a battleship afloat.

Paul Collingwood’s first overseas ODI in the hot seat was not, overall, a happy occasion. On-air, David Lloyd stopped just short of mimicking Terry-Thomas’s immortal expression of extreme annoyance - “You absolute SHOWER!” - but only just. Yet despite a terrifyingly accomplished batting collapse and a thumping defeat, there was a sense, especially while Sri Lanka were batting, that this, like it or lump it, was his, Collingwood’s, team. You could sense it in the vigorous outfielding, the turning of twos into ones, the aggressive use of bouncers, the strangulation of the home batsmen over the final 10 overs. You could also sense it every time Ravi Bopara ploughed headlong into the crease, beating the throw by the frayed skin of his forearms. However misplaced at times, the energy was palpable.

And nowhere more so than in the efforts of Swann, last seen representing the nation in January 2000, in Bloemfontein, on Duncan Fletcher’s first tour. He was revoltingly young for an English spinner, fairly full of it, a bit of a wag. Unafraid of expressing himself, he wasn’t scared, either, to give the ball some rip and flight. A Tufnell minus the insecurities. He also slept through his alarm one morning and missed the team bus. That was more than enough for Uncle Dunc.

Climbing back into contention has involved a switch of county, from Northants to Notts, backwater to Test ground. In essence, he remains the same, if a tad wiser. He still needs no encouragement to open those slim shoulders and clout balls to all parts but now, as today’s innings underlined, he can place and flick, pace and judge. Had it sped two inches wider, either way, the reverse-sweep that cost him his wicket, and England’s last chance, would have flown for four. Credit the idea and cherish the mindset rather than curse the narrow failure.

Better yet, he still puts more revolutions on the ball than any English twirler I’ve seen lately. And he still tosses balls up in that inviting, curling arc. The combination of the last two assets was good enough to have a customer of Kumar Sangakkara’s nous and ability deceived, beaten and stumped, when Sri Lanka’s second-best bat was well-set. Will there be a more encouraging delivery by an English cricketer this winter? I suppose we can dream.

A regular on Cricket AM, Sky’s chucklesome Saturday morning magazine show, Swann also writes a monthly column for the magazine All Out Cricket. The photo at the top of the latest finds him resplendent in a handlebar moustache. Or “Mo”, as such things are apparently known Down Under, where November is “Mo-vember” and men grow their facial hair to raise funds for charity. The Nottinghamshire first team recently stole the idea, turning August into “Mo-ugust” and sprouting for all they were worth in aid of Cancer Research, beneficiary Paul Franks’s chosen cause. Typical of the Swann outlook is the entry for August 9:

“What a day. 38 overs have completely sapped my energy, my body feels like lead and the tramp over the road is angrier than ever. Perhaps he is a true Notts supporter pissed off at conceding a hundred-run deficit. Even so I think trying to urinate on my car as I drive past is a little harsh.”

“I think I deserve to be here,” Swann had told Sky’s Lloyd in a pre-recorded interview screened between innings today. The emphasis was firmly on the “I” rather than the less certain “think”: declining to toe the company line on non-stop modesty is a risk, refreshingly, that he was fully prepared to take. An example, perhaps, of coach Peter Moores’s willingness to loosen the reins and embrace individuality where his predecessor shunned both. Neither did Swann blush at, much less resist, Lloyd’s entreaty to regale viewers of his famous impression of…David Lloyd. A man delighted to be in front of a camera, yes, but even gladder to be back where he always knew he belonged.

To resist tossing another thought into the bubbling Twenty20/Fifty50 debate would not be consistent with the principles of blogging, so here goes. Reassuring as it was after the breathlessness of the World Twenty20, the comparative sedateness of the longer format could prove its undoing. Make that should. Broad, Malinga, Fernando and even Collingwood did their best to enliven matters in Dambulla with some ungenteel bouncers (whoever thought they’d re-emerge as a major one-day weapon?) but maintaining focus was far from easy. If I want sedate, I want the entire enchilada: white flannels and forward defensives, bags of slips, the exceedingly occasional shot of airborne persuasion, and no bowling or fielding restrictions whatsoever (bar, that is, those designed to prevent Bodyline – The Return).

If space is to be made for the golden goose’s golden gosling – and space must be made if the best players are not to be driven to career-ending injury or useless pottiness - the only sensible option, surely, is to ditch the former. I’m sure the ICC’s precious TV deal could be rejigged to everyone’s satisfaction once the broadcasters calculate the profitability of screening three non-simultaneous games a day.