South Africa v Australia? Now that's tasty

Tokyo 1990, and James "Buster" Douglas has just pulled off the biggest shock in the annals of professional boxing, all but melting "Iron Mike" Tyson. Never one to stint on the theatrical flourishes, Bruce "The Boss" Springsteen used to introduce the late Clarence "Big Man" Clemons, his vast saxophone-toting sidekick, as "the Dean of Mean, the Master of Disaster"; Tyson was the Master of Mean, the Deliverer of Disaster, the postman who never stopped ringing. Yet Douglas, a 100-1 shot in a two-horse race, had knocked him down and out, ripping the heavyweight crown off the head of its most fearsome owner.

Larry Merchant clambered into the ring, thrust a microphone under the new champion's swollen, sweat-drenched features and asked the question on everyone's lips, albeit not quite in the manner anticipated. "Why did this happen, James?" The reply was unhesitating, matter-of-fact: "Because I wanted it."

Those words came back to me time and again during last week's Cape Town wicket-fest. First, Michael Clarke wrested the initiative from South Africa, because, over the decades and centuries, Australians have wanted it more than any other cricketing nation has wanted it. He imposed his will. Cue Shane Watson, who wants to succeed Jacques Kallis as the planet's finest, because, like Kallis, he has to be the best, needs to be the best, to give his life meaning. He wanted it so much, he sent back five men in 21 balls. Then Vernon Philander and Morne Morkel wanted it so much, they left Australia within one false shot of the greatest indignity of all - succeeding New Zealand as authors of the most pitiful Test innings of all. Chokers, us? Coming from a batsman whose technique would have sunk a thousand other careers had it not been reinforced by a heart of steel, Graeme Smith's match-winning hundred felt preordained. Just as Sonny Liston had glowered Floyd Patterson into submission at the weigh-in for their first one-rounder in 1962, South Africa's captain stared down his less-seasoned opposite number; bent on ending his career on a high, he was never going to be the one who flinched first.

At length, nevertheless, having factored in the vagaries of a demanding but far from invincible pitch - one that would doubtless have earned censure had it been in Sri Lanka and the spinners had done the dastardly deeds - I decided that what it was actually all about was us addicts, we for whom cricket is, quite frankly, far too big a fix. We wanted it. We willed it.

HEAVEN KNOWS WE DESERVED IT. A fortnight ago, one national captain and two of the game's finest bowlers were sentenced to jail for reasons too depressingly familiar to bear repeating. A month ago, England were behaving like victory-spoiled brats in India, and Haroon Lorgat was announcing that the World Test Championship would almost certainly not take place until 2017 (confirmation came this Monday): the ICC's broadcasting pals, it appears, are considerably keener on another Champions Trophy, an event for which Indian participation could be guaranteed.

A week ago, Paul Kelso of the Daily Telegraph elicited some deeply pessimistic views about the game's future from Giles Clarke, chairman of the ECB (if I were the England and Wales Cricket Board, I'd ditch that acronym, partly to inject the necessary Welshness, mostly to distance myself from all those rotten bankers). On the same day, one of my students, Jason Mennell, a talented young Zimbabwean, revealed some decidedly dodgy doings at the Thailand Cricket Association, doings that, given what we already know about how ICC funding has been abused in the USA and Zimbabwe (and probably Kenya too), may be increasingly common the further you go down the pyramid. In short, finding nice things to say about flannelled foolishness is rapidly becoming about as tricky as lamenting Silvio Berlusconi's resignation.

As ever, it took that budding dinosaur, the five-day play, to pierce the gloom. Zimbabwe all but chased down 366 against New Zealand in Bulawayo, going for broke even as wickets crashed. In Delhi, West Indies required just 40 overs to capture 10 not-so-little Indians, whereupon VVS Laxman hoisted his average in successful chases beyond 100. Then came Newlands and cricket that whisked the breath away, hid it in a closet and locked the door. If sport's greatest gift is to make us gawp in wonder, this month has supplied a down payment on the debt for all that angst.

In terms of gobsmackability, I can recall witnessing just three occasions comparable to that madcap second day at Newlands, Anglo-Caribbean affairs all. Exhibit 1: Port-of-Spain, March 29, 1994, England ambushed and Ambrosed as the West Indian empire roared its fading roar. Exhibit 2: Lord's, June 30, 2000 - 76.1 overs, 21 wickets, the first Test day ever to span four innings. Exhibit 3 soon followed: Headingley, August 18 - England recover from 124 for 6, 48 behind, grit out a lead of 100 then skittle Lara and Co for 61: all over in two days. Wickets clattering with gay abandon, triggered by irresistible bowling rather than irredeemable batting: now that's cricket, or at least cricket at its most mesmeric.

NEWLANDS, TOO, WITNESSED the start, end or entirety of four separate innings. That four decisions were reversed on review was a rousing vindication of the much-maligned, immaculately imperfect DRS (that out-of-range Hot Spot signal, mind, really was a horrid cock-up). Twenty-three wickets, the most in a Test day since 1902, and barely a murmur about the umps. What twilight zone is this?

Even so, what my internal hard drive will hoard longest is the day before. When Dale Steyn showed why he is head, shoulders and midriff above his peers, by a distance no bowler has opened up since SF Barnes nigh on a century ago. When Clarke looked more like a coconut shy than a national leader yet summoned his inner growl to counter-attack with such exquisite elegance, it was exceedingly hard to believe he was in the same continent, much less the same expanse of grass. When the more Steyn snarled the softer Clarke smiled (let him demean his own efforts all he likes, the rest of us know how special they were). When Australian and South African went toe to toe, eyeball to eyeball.

The Boss was wrong. We weren't born to run, we were born to confront. Issues, problems, parents, colleagues, rivals - but mostly ourselves. And confront is what Australia and South Africa, when they occupy the same cricket field, do better, more spine-tinglingly, than other contemporary duellists. Toe to toe, eyeball to eyeball.

India v Pakistan is all about sibling rivalry; ditto, to a less toxic extent, Australia v New Zealand, England v Australia - or England v Anyone for that matter - is strictly Oedipal. India v Australia, a pair of playground bullies locking fists, may have sparked the loudest rows in recent memory, but for sheer bite and edge, Australia v South Africa is now the daddy: it's sibling rivalry, Jim, but so much more than that.

Every series, every match, is a spiritual tug of war, a right royal scrap between fierce but fallible wills. In the first four Test series after South Africa's re-entry, the scores (Australia first) were 1-1, 1-1, 2-1 and 0-0; the two rubbers prior to this were mirror images - 2-1 to South Africa in Australia, 2-1 to Australia in South Africa. Australia have won 12 of the last 24 ODIs, South Africa 12; after eight T20s, the score is 4-4. Even when 18 men fell in those crazy 23 overs at Newlands, they split the spoils down the middle. Parallels are hard to trace. Even when West Indies and Pakistan were slugging it out in the '80s - three drawn series and a 1-0 squeak to Viv and Co, who edged the conclusive Tests four to three - the former dominated the one-day debates. Back to another North American troubador with poetic inclinations, Joni Mitchell: "They dare not look away, you know they dare not look away."

Of late, however, the Aussies have tended to blink first: Herschelle Gibbs' fearless assault at the Wanderers in 2006 as the hosts chased down 435; those nerveless last-innings stands by Smith and Hashim Amla in Perth three years ago and in Cape Town last Friday; the 180-run ninth-wicket alliance between JP Duminy and Steyn that transformed the 2008 Boxing Day Test. Have the South Africans truly, finally, drawn a line under that 1999 World Cup semi-final, the bout that more or less defined ebb and flow?

That evenness reflects the similarities. White Australians and white South Africans are not only brothers but twins in spirit. Conjoined in guilt over injustices to their coloured kith and kin yet resistant to what the Australian historian Geoffrey Blainey dubbed "the black armband view of history"; that mutual belief in the life-enhancing, nation-lifting, masculinity-affirming properties of sporting success persists, unbreakable and unmatched. And if that sometimes means naked aggression, macho posturing and all the nasties - well, that's the price Shane Warne was eminently willing to pay if it meant mentally disintegrating Daryl Cullinan. And the price we're prepared to pay for spice.

So roll on Jo'burg. And terminate with extreme prejudice whichever profoundly unwise men decreed that a two-chapter tale was sufficient in any circumstances, let alone our current plight.