What sort of batting partner do you like?

In a team sport of individual performances, the batting partnership is possibly the closest relationship in the game. Yes, the swing bowler relies on his slips to hold their catches, and the spinner needs his keeper to whip off the bails when he has drawn his prey from the crease (picture Shane Warne with Adam Gilchrist, both chirping at a batsman scrabbling around for survival), and bowling well in tandem with your partner can keep the pressure on both ends, and thus force mistakes at either.

For the batsman, the wicket is a lonely stage when 11 of your fellow actors don't want you to be there, and the umpire is only a cold arbiter waiting to dismiss you from play.

But fear not, you have a companion.

Some batsmen are talkers, seeking out a chat at every opportunity. Some might wait till the end of the over for a bit of banter, while the more neurotic will even wander down your end between balls, sharing advice, encouragement, strategy or humour. Then there is the serious batsman, retreating into the shell of his helmet. Any words might break his focus, and communication is kept to an austere minimum. I forget the other player in this telling anecdote, but on getting to the middle and attempting a fist bump with Kevin Pietersen, the incoming batsman was left hanging. "Too pumped," was KP's comical reply.

So is it best to partner someone similar to yourself, or do opposites attract?

I spent much of my childhood watching West Indies beat England, watching Gordon Greenidge and Desmond Haynes walk out to bat, and then watching them pile on the runs. And with 6482 of those Test runs from a combined career total of 15,045 scored together, they obviously enjoyed each other's company at the crease.

Liking your partner would seem key to a profitable stand. Although chatting to commentator and journalist, Dan Norcross, formerly of Test Match Sofa and now the BBC, perhaps a cold but functional alliance works too. "We hated each other," said Dan of a particularly loathsome team-mate. "We'd meet at the end of the over and agree not to talk again until we'd put ten runs on." And when those ten runs had been scored, they made a new pact of silence. Apparently this wordless partnership was often effective.

Haynes and Greenidge's success wasn't simply one of friendship. Their differing styles, Greenidge the flayer, hooking and cutting, Haynes happy to play a more taciturn innings, meant bowlers couldn't bowl the same ball at Nos. 1 and 2. Despite Greenidge being the more flamboyant strokeplayer of the pair, it was the fun-loving Haynes who was the more extrovert, and also chaotic: "I only had to look across to Gordon's neat and organised corner and say to myself, 'Man, there's the true pro to aspire to.'"

Haynes also spoke about his acceptance of playing in Greenidge's shadow, and taking a back seat in a winning partnership. Vic Marks once noted that Peter Roebuck's dogged role at Somerset was to "keep Viv Richards and Ian Botham apart as long as possible", as one supposes that neither would be content to sit back and watch the other blast away an attack.

A pair of dour blockers, or a pair of destructive hitters, might be the right coupling in the right scenario. However, that coupling depends on what wickets fall and what state of play the game is in. Only the opening pair are guaranteed a partnership.

On Test average, it is Jack Hobbs and Herbert Sutcliffe who lead all the openers onto the field. In 38 innings together their average stand was 87.81. Much has been written about the fabled duo, but for me what most illuminates the connection these two had is a photo of them walking out to bat in the second Test in Melbourne in 1925 - Sutcliffe, dapper, bareheaded and smiling, while Hobbs, a step ahead, the senior man Sutcliffe would name his son after, is utterly nonchalant. Their stand in that game of 283 was their third century partnership in successive innings, and no opening pair since has come close to that astounding first-wicket average.

If we compare the opening stand to a marriage, with each mate pledged to work through their difficulties till death (a dismissal) do them part, then the unlikely runs made for the tenth wicket are the brief and passionate affairs, the dangerous fling. Watching James Anderson and Joe Root's record-breaking 198-run partnership in the first Test against India this summer, I was transfixed. It was wrong, doomed to fail on every delivery. Jimmy had never made a first-class fifty before, and here he was edging and clubbing his way towards a hundred, ably assisted by Root's manipulation of the strike, now paying Anderson back for staying in long enough for him to get his ton.

These last-wicket stands are compelling to watch, especially when the senior bat is trying to protect and shepherd his less able partner. Here the relationship almost becomes something paternal, with the plucky No. 11 doing his best to help out the father figure of the proper batsman. Although I always feel comfortable with a fellow batsman who likes to steal singles, ensuring neither of us is ever bogged down, it's the old pro I bat best with. Hearing sage words when I'm swinging and missing, the careful and calm advice when a quick is launching it past my ears, I'm not fighting the contest alone.

In my final game this season I watched a father and son stride out to the crease together. The beaming smile on the son's face, after he'd hit two consecutive fours and been patted on the back by his father, will probably shine all winter long.