"Bangladesh - catching up with the big boys in Test cricket" © Associated Press

Bangladesh v England was a very boring Test series, which represents a triumph, if perhaps a modest one, for Bangladesh.

Five years ago, a Bangladesh Test involved far more action than it should have. There would be a day and a half of their opponents gaily bashing their way to 500-6 or so, surrounded or followed by a day and a half of Bangladeshi batsmen throwing their twenty wickets away like confetti, and the whole ritual would be over in three days.

Now it takes five days to beat Bangladesh. They have enough batsmen with enough gumption to bat extremely boringly in the name of crease occupation and enough bowlers who may not be threatening but can at least bowl a line and length which keeps the runs down for them to have chances of drawing a game. Another fifteen overs batting at Mirpur and England would have needed 250 off 40 overs, which ought to have been possible to defend, which means Bangladesh came quite close to achieving a draw, which is by no means bad. If they had been luckier with the umpiring, England could well have had to bat for more than a day to get 350, which would have been an even more interesting prospect.

Five years ago, Mohammad Rafique was their only Test-class player; Habibul Bashar was thought to be, but he rightly acquired the nickname “Habitual Basher” and was soon shown to be nothing but a slogger. Now they have three definites and a couple of probables.

Shakib is that rare beast, the genuine Test all-rounder: with the possible exception of Sri Lanka, who might not have room for a slow-left-arm-bowling all rounder, and New Zealand who already have one, any Test side would be happy to pick him, and he would be worth his place in either discipline.

Tamim Iqbal will spend his career being criticised for throwing his wicket away, but since he is liable to have scored at least fifty runs before doing it, the criticism will miss the point. In the time he is at the crease, he can wreak havoc. Alastair Cook was clearly thrown badly off-course during his first-morning assault in the second Test, and such impact can make it easier for his batting partners. Well, some of them at least, because there is no helping Imrul Kayes, who is clearly not up to batting at Test level. But Tamim's ambition is clearly to be Virender Sehwag when he grows up, and there's little reason to suppose that he can't do it.

Mushfiqur Rahim is another class batsman with a rather more admirable temperament for Test cricket. He has some nice shots but also showed his tenacity and ability to bat for long periods. On the other hand, his wicketkeeping leaves much to be desired, being no better than that of Rahul Dravid or Marcus Trescothick, stand-ins who kept in ODIs in order to accommodate extra bowlers.

Junaid Siddique gained a lot of confidence from his maiden Test hundred at Chittagong and played very nicely at Mirpur, but I'm still suspicious that he can only cope with Test-class bowling on pitches which have been drained of all life. Mahmudullah, or “Armadillo” as my wife calls him, may have some talent too, but much more evidence is needed.

That is at least the nucleus of a team.

In cycling terms, they have still not caught up with the peloton, but the peloton is very much in view. One boost, and they will be there. That boost needs to be the discovery of a new bowler, preferably a quick, who is at least as good as Mashrafe Mortaza was before he broke down, seemingly irretrievably.

Without such a bowler, they have almost no chance of bowling a decent side out twice, which means that they are very unlikely to win any matches, but the coming years should see them drawing on a fairly regular basis. Bangladesh are no longer a hopeless joke team who should not be playing Test cricket, but a weak team who still need to do a lot of work, much like New Zealand in the 1930s. Achieving that milestone is a triumph.

"As far as Pakistanis were concerned, all was well with the world" © Getty Images

Eighteen years ago today Pakistan scaled one of cricket's grand peaks when it lifted the World Cup trophy in Melbourne. It was the tournament's fifth edition and the first to be held in Australia and New Zealand. Pakistan's previous best showing had been the semi-finals, which they had reached in each of the previous three World Cups.

In 1992, the United States was a cricket wilderness and there were no easy opportunities for a cricket nut like me to follow the international game. Internet, satellite television, and even Cricinfo were in their infancy. I was a graduate student at Duke University in Durham, North Carolina, and quickly formed a support group with fellow fanatics. At a crisis meeting, it was concluded that our only real hope was a shortwave radio. We tested a few models but the background static left us unimpressed.

The tournament was fast approaching and emergency measures were required. I took the plunge and ran up my credit card debt purchasing a plane ticket to Karachi. School was in full session and my PhD advisor was aghast that I would be taking two weeks off in the middle of the spring semester. I made my excuses. He was a midwestern workaholic and didn't know cricket at all, but understood the pull of passion.

At Karachi airport, on the other hand, everyone was talking cricket. I told the immigration officer I had come to follow the World Cup and he told me not to get my hopes up. This is the Pakistani way of cheering on your team, and I felt at home right away. At baggage claim I overheard two porters talking about selection and couldn't help butting in. They were excited that Javed Miandad, who hadn't made the initial touring party, had been recalled and would be flying out to Australia.

Pakistan were one of the favorites leading up to the tournament but had suffered a string of round-robin losses and were facing elimination. Everybody was perplexed. With the exception of Waqar Younis, who was injured, it was a full-strength team led by Imran Khan. Wasim Akram was opening the bowling and Mushtaq Ahmed was there with his wrist-spin. Miandad and Saleem Malik were the batting anchors, supported by a newcomer named Inzamam-ul-Haq. We were in the middle of Ramadan, Islam's holy month of fasting, and the team's lackluster performance triggered profuse prayers and supplication.

We did not know it at the time, but something crucial had clicked into place. Perhaps it was all the prayer and meditation; perhaps it was Imran’s exhortation that his team should play like “cornered tigers,” which is now part of folklore. Regardless, a do-or-die game against Australia was won, and the national mood lifted.

One thing led to another. Inzamam found his form and Akram found his inner focus. The gods of cricket also pitched in. Pakistan’s entry into the semi-finals depended on Zimbabwe defending 140-odd against England, which miraculously they did.

We had organized a family get-together to watch that semi-final, beamed live from Eden Park. New Zealand racked up 262. Then Pakistan slumped to four-down for not too many and we were all shattered. Nobody had heard of Inzamam then. Even Miandad had no faith in him, signaling for Akram to come in instead as he anxiously waited at the non-striker’s end. But Imran gave the order, Inzamam stepped out, and a great career was launched.

By the time the final came, everyone in Pakistan was walking around in a fog of disbelief. This was utterly unfamiliar territory. At 24 for 2, Miandad walked out to join Imran. Derek Pringle was bowling lively swing and seam. Nerves were overwrought and a batting disaster seemed imminent.

But these two were riding the crest of Pakistan’s golden age and did not let anything get in the way. The final images are a blur. Akram bowled those two impossible deliveries, Mushy dismissed Hick and Gooch, Ramiz took the last catch, and Imran lifted the prize. As the players walked back to the pavilion, Miandad embraced Imran. As far as Pakistanis were concerned, all was well with the world.

I had left the US having made boastful predictions about Pakistan’s inevitable success. Our group of expatriates in the Durham area, which included self-appointed cricket pundits from all corners of the cricket world, had not taken to this lightly. To their credit, they received me with warmth.

It is easy to romanticise these events but we forget the reality of toil and conflict on which such extraordinary moments are founded. Years later, when I was interviewing Miandad for his autobiography, I asked him if he had batted in the final with a sense of destiny. “No, it was nothing like that” he said.

I wanted to probe. “You and Imran had unfinished business left over from the 1987 World Cup semi-finals,” I told him. “Surely your mind was focussed on this god-gifted second opportunity in Melbourne and the backdrop of what you and Imran had done to transform Pakistan cricket.”

“No, you fool,” he said, finally erupting with irritation. “The score was 24 for 2. I was defending my wicket. There was no room in my head for anything else.”

"Why does a nick to the wicketkeeper or a close-in fielder have a different moral obligation than the fielder who caught a bump ball?" © Getty Images

There’s nothing like a bit of controversy to spark a debate about what different sports regard as acceptable within that particular sport’s culture. Recently, in an A League football (soccer) semi-final between Sydney FC and Wellington Phoenix, a striker attempted to head the ball into the goal, missed with his melon but managed a tidy little handball into the back of the net and duly celebrated the goal in typical football style. The defenders indignantly protested but the match officials did not see it and the goal was allowed, even though replays showed a blatant foul.

Following on from the infamous Thierry Henry incident from last year in the World Cup qualifying game against Ireland, it was interesting to note that the Sydney player was relatively unfazed by the controversy surrounding his actions, yet the Wellington coach was furious, even likening it to that famous underarm bowling episode, adding to New Zealand’s list of injustices committed by Australian sportsmen.

I was discussing this incident with some of my university students in a sports philosophy context and we got on to the topic of the curious nature of morality in sport. Why and how are some actions just totally unacceptable in terms of fair play and yet, some other dubious practices are given immunity from the ‘cheating’ tag with the responsibility for the decision ultimately being ceded to the referee/umpire? There exists a duality of morality not just between sports but also within sports. And in some cases, the boundaries of morality actually change according to broad regional differences in the perception of what is acceptable or not.

The handball incident, if likened to cricket, is probably akin to a batsman nicking the ball (and knowing he nicked it) and continuing to bat on if the umpire gives him not-out. The cricket world has always been split on this issue and some of the history can be traced back to cultural myths or truths. It was generally thought that Australians don’t walk and Englishmen did and broadly speaking, there was a consistency to it some years back. I’m not sure if that really applies anymore but some people still stick to those (seeming) stereotypes. And it’s probably fair to say that the cricket world is still split on whether that practice is acceptable or not.

Yet, if a fielder catches a ball that he knows has bounced, it is universally accepted to be poor form to claim the catch. There is a strange gentleman’s code that still permeates cricket globally that generally accepts this unofficial code of behaviour. How has cricket arrived at that moral duality? Isn’t it much the same – if you know that you nicked it or the ball bounced, does it matter what the umpire thinks? Why does a nick to the wicketkeeper or a close-in fielder have a different moral obligation than the fielder who caught a bump ball? IF the guilty party knows (and I concede that in many cases there is genuine uncertainty), what's the difference? What can cricket historians tell us about how these traditions developed?

Similarly, why does cricket not really have a problem with fielders appealing for catches that are clearly not out? Why is that essentially less shameful than claiming a bump catch? I mean, if you know that the ball bounced or the batsman did not nick it, again, what’s the difference? LBW’s are a bit harder for players to judge because it is often a judgement call, except of course if the fielders know that the batsman edged the ball on to the pad. In that instance though, how did cricket come to shrug its shoulders at an inside-edge lbw decision but adopt a pious stance on the bump catch?

What other sports have this inconsistency of philosophy entrenched into its very fabric? Clearly, football in the modern world is a cut-throat business where no one really feels any moral compunction to come clean on handballs or faked injuries or diving or whatever. Are there any ‘special’ rules that demand the honour call in football though?

Golf has a long established code of players calling shots on themselves, even when no one else may have noticed. Are there any other minor forms of cheating that is allowable so long as you can get away with it?

Rugby has recently seen a shift in culture where players will celebrate tries when they know full well that they haven’t cleanly grounded the ball. If the referee doesn’t pick up a knock-on, players will happily play on without any suggestion that this is morally wrong. What’s the difference between that and a bump catch? What special rules does rugby have that should never be crossed? For example, eye-gouging is apparently a shameful act but knocking someone unconscious with a punch that could potentially kill is seen as less heinous. Strange isn’t it?

I’m not sure what moral codes govern tennis etiquette. Perhaps someone can educate us on that. Does the code change depending on whether there’s an umpire or not? If you’re playing tennis without an umpire or linesman, are players morally obliged to make honest calls?

What about issues like sledging? Why is it not OK to claim a bump catch but the same player is fair game to copping any sort of abuse as a legitimate way of dismissing him? “Gosh chaps, we’re too honourable to claim that catch but if you can question his parentage or his sister’s virginity, fire away with all barrels and let’s see if he plays a daft shot”.

Perhaps professionalism has changed sport’s basic historical rules governing etiquette (although golf is about as rich as it gets and still appears to hold on to those Olde Worlde ethics). In my experience, cricket too has some invisible lines that instinctively do not get crossed. For example, I’ve played in League games on Saturday afternoons - bitterly contested - with only the umpires standing between total anarchy and mayhem and yet, the same combatants can play the next day in a ‘jazz hat’ game for Sunday XI’s like The Arabs or John Paul Getty’s XI or MCC (and a million other examples I’m sure) and the tenor of the game changes without any real need for the captains to even mention it. It’s almost like we have the ability to dance to a magic tune that plays silently but can be clearly heard only by our conscience.

I suppose mankind has always grappled with notions of nobility in the midst of unspeakable cruelty. Many an honourable duel was fought with strict adherence to the customs but the end result was still the same. Dead is still dead, regardless of whether you were shot in the back or front. As long as the ball finishes up in the goal, who cares if it was a handball? I mean, it's only called FOOTball? It’s just not cricket!

A couple of years ago, after I read Sambit Bal's wonderful piece on his cricket-watching experiences at Galle, I got to thinking about which cricket ground had provided the best cricket-watching experience for me. And the more I thought about it, the more I realised that once I had moved past considerations of best viewing angles and the aesthetics of particular grounds, I was left with only one choice: the almost-squarish cricket field at my alma mater, Hindu College, in Delhi University.

This judgment is, as I said, not because there were bucolic visions of nature or architecture available. Rather, quite simply, it was at this ground that I've watched the most high-quality cricket, up close, at leisure, and in a state of mind that can only be described as insouciant. And because too, the players were not excessively remote in a crucial way; they were, to run the risk of cliche, just like me and my mates.

In the 1980s (and I suppose even now), Hindu College and Delhi University were the cricketing powerhouses in Delhi. The best high-school cricketers competed eagerly in the trials for admission to the college; some hoped to make the progression to the university team and then the Delhi Ranji team. The more serious followers of the game among us kept track of who was trying out for the team, and who could be expected to feature in the first XI in the coming season. There was always the ever-present possibility that one of these might be an international cricketer down the line.

And from the moment the cricket season started, we, the cricket spectators, were treated to a bonanza of cricket watching, from the extended nets sessions to the fielding practice drills to the warm-up friendlies to the more serious encounters in the college competition. Watching serious cricket talent up close was revelatory in more ways than one: the straight bats, the dazzling strokeplay, the pace of the bowling, the fielders' reflexes, all served to convince us that these young men were on a different plane from us when it came to playing a game we all loved. And yet, they were not that different from us; they had gone to schools we knew about. They were not older men. It was this simultaneous intimacy and distancing that made this cricket watching the most entrancing experience of all.

The college ground itself allowed access right up to the boundary line. One edge was the fence with the Faculty of Management Studies; another a road that ran in front of the Chemistry and Physics departments; one that ran alongside the tennis courts and another along the college boundary road that separated us from other colleges. Tall eucalyptuses, some hedges, some fences with creeper-like growth, softened these edges and rounded out the picture. Legend had it that big hitters had occasionally hit sixes into neighboring campuses; I never saw any of those but some did land on the road that separated us from Kirorimal College.

When games were on, we watched from various angles; behind the bowler's arm from one end, then from another. Sometimes the autumn sun became a little harsh; we sought shade and found it next to the little tea-shop at deep-fine leg. There, armed with a cigarette, a cup of sweet, milky tea, and a fritter or two, we would sit, contentedly, gazing out at the boys in white. Sometimes we were interested in the fortune of our team; sometimes in the fortunes of a player who might be a friend of ours. Sometimes, a Test match would be on. Then, we would monitor two games as the radio commentary kept us abreast of happenings in distant grounds. The immersion in cricket was complete.

It might be asked: weren't there classes on? Perhaps; but it didn't seem to be a pressing concern in those days. I should have been taking notes on the Weak
Law of Large Numbers, but the only statistics I was worried about were cricketing ones. The only worry, if there was one, was whether the last direct bus back to South Delhi would leave while I watched.

Years later, when I had graduated, migrated, and when academic performance became a pressing concern, I thought of my college experiences with mixed feelings: I hadn't worked hard enough; I had been a slacker. But somehow, I could never bring myself to wish that I hadn't spent those lovely winter afternoons in Delhi, sprawled out on the grass, watching young men whose cricketing talents provided me intimate access to the highest levels of the game.

Here is a little bet I set myself: I could open Ray Robinson's On Top Down Under (a collection of biographical essays on Australian Test captains) to any page at random, and find a memorable turn of phrase. So here goes.

Exhibit #1: On GHS Trott: "Harry folded his shirtsleeves as formally as banquet serviettes around elbows that knew how to bend after a hot day's play."

Exhibit #2: On W Bardsley: "He would notice which end had worst visibility, whether a sightscreen was missing, which were the farthest boundaries, and whether they were favoured by slopes, casing the joint for stealing runs."

Exhibit #3: On Arthur Morris: "Hooking to the four winds and the white pickets, Arthur's bat seemed to have no top edge."

I could go on. But I think you get the picture. As do I, as did many, many other readers of Ray's. If there was one thing that he was good at, it was to combine verbal virtuosity with a deep passion and encyclopaedic knowledge of the game. This talent is abundantly on display in his opus On Top Down Under and it has been in every book of his.

Hooking to the four winds and the white pickets, Arthur's bat seemed to have no top edge © Rick Smith Collection

I first encountered Robinson's writing when I ran across Between Wickets, safely stashed on my cousin's bookshelves. I was too young to read it then but I looked through the photographs, made a mental note of his name, and carried on. Years later, I ran into Robinson again, reading the description of the (literally) riotous Bombay Test of 1969-70 between Bill Lawry's Australians and MAK Pataudi's Indians (excerpted from The Wildest Tests). The Test came alive to me; I could almost smell the cordite as it were.

And then, this past (southern) summer, I found him again, running across the first edition On Top Down Under on the top floor of Berkelouw's on Oxford Street in Sydney. (This version ended with a portrait of Ian Chappell; the book has subsequently been re-released with additional work by Gideon Haigh that updates the captain's list). "Score!" I went, under my breath, as I plucked it out of the shelf. Many large lattes later, (all consumed on beautiful Sydney mornings in gentrified Newtown), I had consumed the book; it went down as easy as a fine meal. My enjoyment of the book was considerably enhanced by familiarity with many of the place-names that Robinson sprinkles throughout the book; an excellent example of how the reader's background can affect his take on a book.

Writing a series of concise biographical portraits of cricketers is more difficult than it might sound, for the mastery of what to leave out and what to include is hard to come by. It's made harder because each of the cricketers in this work was the captain of the same country; how many times can you riff on the same theme?

But Robinson does it, mastering this particular challenge by dwelling on a variety of different points of contact to bring out a cricketer's character (both sporting and personal). As Robinson notes in his foreword, he wants to round out the exclusively cricketing view of the men he writes on, because, given the near-mythic status of the Test captain in Australian culture, there is no way these men can be understood as just manipulators of bat and ball. We get formative childhood moments, relationship quirks, weaknesses of character, evidence of candidacy for sainthood; it's all here.

Robinson is sometimes present himself in the book, when he recounts a conversation with one of the subjects of his prose. It is no accident that he comes across as the modest voice of wisdom in the little encounters that he describes. At those moments, we don't resent his intrusion; rather, they serve as a reminder of his place in the world of Australian cricket. It is an exalted position, one well-deserved.

Every serious cricket fan, whether Australian or not, should read On Top Down Under. You'll learn about cricket, and you'll learn how to write well.

The best thing about Clarke's press conference was that he was prepared to accept that life in the spotlight is part of the social contract that an international sportsman has to deal with © Getty Images

Fair play to Michael Clarke; despite enduring a trying week, he has, thus far, maintained a dignity that has so far escaped just about everybody else involved in the B Grade soap opera that has been his life in the last few days.

His press conference today was sensible, understated and realistic. The best thing about it was that he was prepared to accept that life in the spotlight is part of the social contract that an international sportsman has to deal with. For that admission alone, he may yet escape the worst of the media attention that might otherwise have been directed at him – it’s almost like he’s disarmed the media by giving them the gun and removing his bulletproof vest. It takes a cad and a bounder to shoot an unarmed man!

I’m not one of those who feels particularly sorry for him, nor do I get any real satisfaction from seeing his personal life in mild turmoil. To be honest, it doesn’t particularly interest me one way or the other. When he first started dating Lara Bingle, I was one of those who doubted it would last because I doubted the whole “true love” thing that the cheap magazines promoted. Nonetheless, it has nothing whatsoever to do with my life, so if sports stars want to date pretty girls who set their stall out to catch high-profile husbands, that’s their business. Good or bad. Just don’t complain too much when it goes pear-shaped. Not that Clarke can be accused of that. Good on him.

As far as real drama or tragedy goes, it hardly rates a mention on the world scale. Clarke effectively admits as much by not making a mountain of a molehill and accepting that he will inevitably face some sledging from the crowds in New Zealand and perhaps the opposition players too. One really can’t control what the crowd will dish out but it would be a sad thing if the Black Caps turn this incident into a sledge-fest on the field. Cricket is a nobler game than that and Clarke himself is not the most abrasive character in the Australian set up so it would be a credit to Vettori and his lads if they can rise above the cheap shots and just play cricket. In fact, that in itself may unsettle Clarke more; he may well be steeling himself for some cruel taunts and it may play with his mind if the New Zealand fielders say absolutely nothing on the Bingle front.

In Brisbane’s main Sunday newspaper, an excellent writer by the name of Peter Badel wrote a fascinating piece on the Michael Clarke brand and how his management went to some lengths to position him favourably in the public eye. As far as management teams go, Clarke is looked after by one of the best in the business so it was no surprise that it was a carefully planned strategy, replete with flow-charts and statistics and marketing plans, all of it aimed at giving the Australian public a look at the “real Michael Clarke”. Reading the article, it seemed a bit odd that this sort of information was made public. After all, if the intent was to promote him as a normal, everyday sort of bloke who wasn’t the flashy, blonde-tipped pretty boy that the media sometimes portrayed him as, surely letting on that this was all going to be achieved through a sophisticated brand strategy was almost going to have the opposite effect.

Likewise, I think Clarke missed a trick by allowing the engagement split to be announced via a short statement issued by his manager. I reckon it would have been more effective had it been done by him personally in front of the cameras, even if it was followed by a comment like: “I’m sure you’ll understand that this is a difficult time for Lara and myself. We’re hurting inside and we’d really appreciate a few days to deal with this in private”. He might have copped a few awkward questions but generally speaking, even the most hardened journo might have actually softened a bit and left him alone.

Perhaps that’s exactly why he’s come out today and said publicly that he fully expects a bit of stick from the crowd. I think the reverse psychology thing’s a smart move.

Not much else over this whole saga has been particularly smart. Whoever disseminated those compromising photographs of Lara is lower than a snake’s belly for treating any lady like that. Lara’s pleas for privacy sound a bit strange from someone whose entire career was founded on forcing her publicity on us when we didn’t even know who she was a few years ago. Her claims of naivety and wide-eyed innocence were diluted somewhat when it was revealed that she had no such diminutive qualities when it came to dating a very publicly married man with young children. And to top it all off, giving ‘the bird’ to the media just about sealed her fate – no brand strategist could possibly see how that photo wouldn’t come back to haunt her if she ever became the First Lady of Australian cricket. After all, we now know that love comes second to personal brand.

All in all, not much good has come of any of this apart from such cheap jokes on the Internet and a weird fascination with the private lives of sports stars. Personally, I’m more interested in Clarke’s cover drive than what is under his coverlet but it was almost impossible to ignore the media frenzy that this ridiculous circus generated. Let’s just hope that the New Zealand lads can show a bit of class and take cricket back to decent heights by staying true to their integrity as fellow-professional colleagues. Leave the gutter-stuff to any drunken idiots in the crowd and just play cricket.

Mind you, the prize for best sign from the crowd still belongs to that erstwhile chap from Hamilton a few days ago: “Clarkey, where the bloody hell are you?”

Now that’s clever. Even Clarkey must have seen the funny side of that.

Neville Cardus was the spark for a most interesting discussion © Getty Images

On this blog and on Eye on cricket, I'm fond of noting my American location: perhaps to make a complaint about American media coverage of cricket, perhaps to note the similarities and dissimilarities in professional sports rivalries and those in international cricket, perhaps to mildly complain about the lack of cricket books in the US or, like my post yesterday, to report a sighting of cricket-related art (an exhibition at the Museum of Modern Art, featuring the Mexican conceptual artist Gabriel Orozco, whose works feature cricket photographs).

So, in that vein, I would like to report what strikes me as the most unlikely encounter I've had with anything cricket related in the US: an Immigration and Naturalization Service interview. In the course of this procedure, and in process of "becoming American", cricket became intimately involved.

Some ten years ago, after some years in the US with a permanent resident card, I decided, (as can be imagined, with some mixed feelings), to apply for American citizenship. As usual, the paperwork was tedious, and I was required to make a final appearance before an immigration service officer who would review my papers.

On a bitterly cold December morning, I lined up at the Federal Building in New York City, submitted my papers and took my place in the cheerless waiting room along with dozens of other applicants. The room was a veritable United Nations; the expressions of the folks therein reflecting a similar diversity of emotions ranging from boredom to hope to eager anticipation.

Finally, my turn came and I walked in for my interview. The immigration officer, a young man in his thirties, sat me down and turned to a brisk inspection of my passport, quickly (and at times brusquely) querying me on the contents of my passport: what was this trip made for, when, for how long and so on.

Then, at one point, he held up my passport, and pointing to a visa stamp made by the Jamaican authorities, said "Were you visiting Kingston for a holiday?" I replied I had gone to Kingston to watch a Test match between India and the West Indies, that I had spent five days in Jamaica, all of them at Sabina Park (in 1997).

I expected my reply to be met with incomprehension. Instead, my interviewer put down my passport and began a conversation about cricket. He knew about it, he had followed the game occasionally, he was fascinated by it, and all because, wait for it, he had studied Neville Cardus in a class on creative writing back in his university days! To describe my reaction as being flabbergasted would be to severely understate matters.

The interview was now comprehensively sidetracked. We chatted about the game, about its biggest rivalries, its future, modern innovations and so on. Finally, with some regret, the INS officer looked at his watch and noted that we should wrap things up. There was one last step left. I had to write a sentence in English, which would attest to my mastery of the language. What should I put down?

The topic of the sentence was a no-brainer; its content was immediately suggested, on the basis of our conversation, by my newly-made friend: "I prefer Test cricket to the shorter version of the game." I duly complied, wrote it down, and finished the remaining formalities. A handshake later, and I was done.

When I stepped out into the windswept, icy canyons of Manhattan later that afternoon, my naturalization papers in my backpack, I had to restrain a giggle or two. Who woulda thunk it? A conversation about cricket in my US citizenship interview? The deal sealed with an expression of my preference for Test cricket?

Years later, this remains my favourite US-related cricketing story.

	Who says no one would ever care about teams whose name consisted of a pairing of an Indian city and some other noun? © AFP

The IPL attracts, as it should, given its prominence and importance in the world of cricket, a lot of commentary. Some critical, some adulatory. In the former dimension, one finds well-meaning worries about its influence on Test cricket, aesthetic discomfort at the crass commercialisation on display (and the prominence afforded to the grinning visage of Mr. Modi). In the latter, admiration for its delivery of an exciting assemblage of players, the broadening of the appeal of cricket, and an entertainment package neatly wrapped up for the post-work hours.

I've handed out my share of brickbats to the IPL. But I always found one particular line of criticism (or scepticism) directed at the IPL to be utterly baffling. That this strain has almost died down is adequate testimony to just how strange (and revelatory of an almost knee-jerk dismissive mindset) it always was.

For this scepticism about the IPL centered almost exclusively on expressing doubt about whether anyone in their right minds would ever care about teams whose name consisted of a pairing of an Indian city and some other noun. Our cricketing pundit would thus proclaim in a tone of almost pitch-perfect incredulity, "Who is going to care about some outfit called the Jaipur Whatchmacallits or the Rajasthan Rovers or the Landikotal Lotharios"?

What was the basis of this particular rhetorical pitch? As far as I could make out, it was the evocation of two moods: one, a sad post-colonial hangover that associated the names of Indian towns with distance, remoteness, a peripheral existence; the second, a faux-genteel distaste for the in-bad-taste excess of marketing mavens.

Has there ever been a more incoherent basis for scepticism? When I cast my eyes over the names of teams in the English Premier League or the National Basketball Association, I see teams named after English and American towns that very few could locate on a map, often paired with just as unlikely monikers.

The Utah Jazz? (Right, this makes sense, because when I think of Mormons, I think of jazz music). The Orlando Magic (Oh, I get the Disney reference; do you?) Is Aston Villa a city? Where is Fulham? I always thought Arsenal was the name of a quarter in Paris or a place where anarchists went to load up for the revolution. Turns out it's a club based in North London.

A good Vietnamese friend of mine always wore an Arsenal shirt when he could. He didn't know it was based in North London. I'm not sure he cared. He cared about the players that brought it glory. (In those days he obsessed about Thierry Henry). And in the end that’s all that mattered to him. He had succumbed to the marketing, to the creation of a sustained fantasy.

Teams in professional leagues don't acquire auras or brand-value instantaneously. It takes them time, especially, if as in the case of the IPL, they start with a brand-new league as well. Very few teams have the privilege of tapping into a well-established league or an already created market (as in the case of NBA, NFL and MLB expansion teams).

That cricket pundits even imagined this was going to be a semi-coherent basis for dissing the IPL says a great deal about an entrenched mindset that prevailed then (and in some quarters even persists now). It's one thing to express a lack of personal interest (for instance, as I've been reared on international cricket I find it hard to be too invested in any particular IPL team). It's another thing to suggest that no loyal fan base could be built up over a period of time by such a well-marketed, lavishly promoted league.

This is the third season of the IPL. Whatever the particular strains of criticism that will be directed at the IPL this season, I'm pretty confident that the version I've mentioned above will be a fast-vanishing one.

Cricket fans living in the United States used to complain about lack of access to the game. Well, we got live telecasts (on satellite and broadband video) and we got the chance to play the game itself. But one thing is still hard (impossible?) to find: a bookstore that carries cricket books.

Ray Robinson's opus On Top Down Under is yet to be rivalled as an intimate portrait of Australian captains © Cassel Australia

Thus, one highlight of my recent trip to Australia was a chance to visit stores that actually carried decent selections of cricket books and to rediscover three masters of cricket writing: John Arlott, Ray Robinson and Gideon Haigh. The icing on the cake was that two of the books are genuine classics: Arlott's An Eye for Cricket is a pictorial one, featuring the photography of Patrick Eagar, the greatest cricket photographer of all; Robinson's opus On Top Down Under is yet to be rivalled as an intimate portrait of Australian captains. I do not attach the adjective "classic" to Haigh's Silent Revolutions only because its vintage is too recent; give it a few years and it will be so, the quality of the writing to be found in there will ensure it endures and continues to edify.

I purchased books by this trio from both first-run bookshops (Readings in Melbourne) and second-hand specialists (Goulds and Berkelouw in Sydney). My procurement method included the roundabout technique of looking up titles on www.abebooks.com and then calling in orders.

In buying and reading these books, I rediscovered several pleasures which had started to become distant memories: the idle browse through several decades of cricket history, the serendipitous discovery of a classic, and most importantly, when reading cricket history, the chance to find out just how much has changed and how much remains the same in this game. There were other, more tangible pleasures: the chance to start each day with a stroll down to the coffee shop on the corner, followed by a leisurely immersion in cricket history.

Reading these books was also a humbling experience. I used to pride myself on being well-read about cricket. Well, as one of my students in Brooklyn might say, ‘you ain't there, son’. For as cricketing historians, Arlott, Haigh and Robinson stagger with their erudition (and dazzle with their writing flair; Arlott perhaps less so but that’s just because he is a trifle more understated).

Haigh has established himself as a modern master par excellence; one is relentlessly exposed to what a library of 3000-plus cricket books can bring about. He is an allrounder too and I wonder how many Cricinfo readers realise he is one of the best business writers out there? If anyone is qualified to analyse the foibles of the IPL from a business perspective, he is. I urge Cricinfo readers to track down his masterly take-down of the cult of the CEO; the word "cricket" shows up nowhere in the book, yet it manages to teach us about modern cricket.

In the case of the sadly departed Ray, I was reminded again of what a deft touch he could bring to his writing and how prominently his affection for the game comes through in his portraits of Australian captains. He reminds me (in his finished product) of no one more than David Halberstam (also now sadly departed) the great American journalist and writer who showed the same skill of being able to combine staggering amounts of information into a seamless narrative that informed and entertained.

In the weeks to come, I hope to review all three of the books mentioned above; in the case of the Arlott and Eagar book, I will be handicapped by not being able to share the photographs with you, but some of the photos are likely to be so well-known that a mere mention of them should be enough to sustain my verbal descriptions.

Pakistan cricket has plunged into yet another crisis, and it calls for a different reaction from outsiders. © Associated Press

Apparently, there is some drama in the world of Pakistani cricket. The headlines are sensational, and the outraged reaction even more so. But really, is this even mildly interesting? All the banned players will be back soon enough and Pakistan cricket will go on the way as it did before: dysfunctional in the extreme.

There is a way of describing Pakistani cricket, which used to be tiresome but which has now started to strike me as patently offensive. This is the insistence that Pakistani cricket is charmingly erratic, wonderfully unpredictable, beautifully inconsistent, sublimely indisciplined. Right, I'm making these up. But you see the pattern. Pair a couple of adjectives which span the spectrum from the sublime to the sordid and have a go at describing Pakistani cricket. And I suspect the world of Pakistani cricket revels in this description, because this sort of indulgent tolerance gives it a free pass.

A common feature of the calls for a display of solidarity with the Pakistani cricket world in its "time of need" is the invocation of "family" and "fraternity". I find that a bit over the top, but let’s stay with it for a second. If we are going to invoke the family trope, then let’s go the whole hog. What kind of family member is Pakistan then? Your lovely talented nephew who can't behave himself? Your incapable-of-good-manners little sister? What does it take for the family to say "Enough is enough"? (I don't know what "enough is enough" amounts to in the cricket case but at the very least it should be an end of the amused indulgence of Pakistani dysfunction, whether it is within the team or between the board and the team).

Pakistani cricket has been lurching from disaster to disaster for a very long time, marked by endemic indiscipline and a stunning lack of professionalism in all too many fronts. From Inzamam-ul-Haq’s assault on a spectator, to the many player-captain disputes, to Test-match forfeits, to the doping scandals, to the failure of security. Yet, the worldwide perception of it as, you guessed it, charmingly erratic, persists. And the clarion calls for solidarity to support, shoulder-to-shoulder, whatever latest species of misbehaviour it throws at us never cease. Where one would demand introspection and self-correction, we are asked to look for failures elsewhere: umpiring conspiracies, non-cooperative neighbour boards, ignorant, racist, paranoia about safety, the list goes on.

We could all do with a little tough love. The continued winking at the indiscipline that pervades both the PCB and its team is part of the problem that affects Pakistani cricket. Crises of behaviour among members of a group demand introspection and change from all members of the group. The first step for outsiders (the Pakistanis have their own work to do) would be to ask themselves what role their constant indulgence of the foibles of Pakistani cricket has played in its random walk down Indiscipline Street.

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The Rawalpindi Express chugs into the platform © Getty Images

That sports-writing is full of clichés is, well, a cliché. And that isn't too surprising when you think about it. There are lots of variations on a theme but the theme never quite goes away. Journalists write for deadlines. And even good writers get lazy sometimes and reach for the favorite (case in point: I loved Dileep Premchandran's use of the word "coruscating" to describe a batting performance from a few years ago. A short while later, I felt he was using it excessively. Sure enough, a google search for "Dileep Premchandran coruscating" shows too many hits for his liking. Just last week, a reader pointed out I tend to overuse the word "tend").

But this post isn't about to complain about clichés. Rather, since I'm feeling pretty self-indulgent today I wanted to focus on a little phrase used in cricket writing, whose frequency of usage I’m not sure about, but which always seemed to me to be marvelously evocative in many different ways.

The phrase I have in mind is "steaming in" or "steams in" when applied to a fast bowler, as in, "Michael Holding steams in from the Vauxhall End" or "He's been steaming in all day from the Paddington End". I don't know where I saw such usage first, but I'm pretty sure it was a long time ago.

So what is so great, you might ask, about a little verbal trickery that analogizes a fast bowler to a steam engine? Many things, for this little verbal flourish brings me face to face with the power, dynamism and sheer irresistible nature of the fast bowler. (It also helps that it conjures up images of those beautiful, majestic, steam locomotives that dominated the railways in India many, many years ago).

I associate a veritable library of images on reading that phrase. I think of a fast bowler running in powerfully off a long run up; the approaching menace as he nears the wicket (perhaps triggered by thoughts of a steam engine's shrieking whistle?); the compressive force generated by the violence of his delivery action. There is also, buried in there somewhere, an associated image, of a fast bowler working patiently through a long spell, unflaggingly putting his body on the line, summoning up all the force he can muster in an attempt to break through the defensive line arrayed against him (oops, slipped into war imagery there).

I do not mean to say the inventor of this phrase meant to summon up all of these but just that this is how I respond to it (or at least think I do when I pay closer attention to why I find it evocative). And shouldn't a good turn of words have this ability to be evocative for different reasons to different readers?

I don't know where I've seen "steaming in" the last time and don't know when I'll see it again, and certainly I'm not sure if it’s used that much these days. But at times when we are used to getting impatient with writing on the game, it's nice to be able to note how someone, somewhere, got it right. Perhaps not for too long for this might get tired too. But it’s sure fun while it continues to work.

"Monty's problem, actually, is that he isn't Indian enough and is only an English spinner" © Getty Images

I don't know what headline has attracted you to read this piece: I don't do headlines. I occasionally suggest a title, but always with the understanding that the excellent Cricinfo sub-editors will substitute their own if they can think of something better, which they invariably can. Occasionally, it has to be said, their headline strikes a note slightly out of tune with the text, after which I can expect to receive a number of comments arguing more with the headline than the words for which I was responsible.

After reading Samir Chopra's response to it, I suspect something similar has happened with Mike Atherton's Times article about British Asian cricketers. Atherton has never given me the impression that he has some kind of downer on Asian cricketers, and the phrase to which Samir objected, “culture of failure”, appears nowhere in the text. On the other hand, the Times is not notably foreigner-friendly, and perhaps the sub-editor was putting his own spin on things.

Ignoring the headline and looking at the text with the expectation that the author did not believe in a culture of failure, it reads to me as a fine debunking of the idea which has begun circulating among the backwoodsmen and newspapers of the Little Englander persuasion and to which this article is mostly replying, though he also attempts to deal with the counter-view proposed by the odd Asian advocacy group that they have been dropped because the English establishment wishes the Asians would go away.

Dutifully he examines the cases of each of the British Asians who have fallen from the selectors' favour recently and assembles as much evidence in favour of either view that he can find. Stepping back to look at the resultant piles, they are pitifully small, amounting to cases with more holes than a worn-out string vest. Some are sociable, some aren't, some are very anglicised, some aren't. There is no common factor, no pattern, nothing that would lead a rational person to believe that British Asian cricketers are somehow doomed to disappoint.

The most extreme reaching comes when considering Monty Panesar, when he digs up a sociological study which shows Indians to be more deferential than Brits and pulls in his traditional Indian wedding as additional ballast, and while you might just be able to spin something out of it, it's very little when one considers the earlier question, is Graeme Swann just a better bowler?

Monty's case is an interesting one, because it was the Anglos who had the most extreme hopes for him. Here was a left-armer who wore a patka and had a beard, just like Bishen Bedi, so presumably he was Bishen Bedi reincarnated. When picked he had a brilliant stock ball – few spinners have as powerful a leg-break as Panesar's customary delivery – and we all assumed that since he was still pretty young, he would soon develop the other balls he would need to succeed as a Test cricketer. However (as I start whistling “Colonel Bogey”) it turns out that Monty has only got one ball, while Swann has several. Monty's problem, actually, is that he isn't Indian enough and is only an English spinner.

But Atherton shows that all the other cases are extremely prosaic – Saj Mahmood and Owais Shah not good enough, Samit Patel not fit enough, Ravi Bopara unable to withstand a verbal working-over, or Adil Rashid by no means ready for selection. Space restrictions imposed by the printed media (by which we Different Strokers are not strictly constrained) probably prevented Atherton from making the point that it is in any case absurdly early to be writing Bopara and Rashid off.

Bopara was dropped because there was the Ashes to win and Jonathan Trott came in and saved the day, which means that he isn't going to be dropped for the Tests against Bangladesh despite failing against South Africa in exactly the same way for exactly the same reasons. That doesn't mean Bopara's career is over: he just has to wait his turn to get another chance – a chance which will surely come.

I was amazed when Rashid was picked by England last year: I've long thought he will have an important future as an England all-rounder, but he was down on my list as ready to be picked in about 2011 or 2012, not now. Trouble is, England selectors start frothing at the mouth and slavering when they hear that a leg-spinner has taken a few wickets, and so Rashid has to endure the stigma of early failure before he takes over from Swann as the No.1 spinner.

Unfortunately, those who espouse the extreme views mentioned above tend to be slightly unhinged and will point to the undeniable fact that the players have been given chances and then been dropped as proof of their case. Only when one (and then another and another) British Asian makes the grade as a picked-if-fit England player will it be possible to quite shut them up, so Ajmal Shahzad, as the next cab off the rank, would do us all a favour if he could be persuaded to be successful.

Mitchell Johnson and Scott Styris during their mid-pitch clash in Napier © Getty Images

"Many remark justice is blind; pity those in her sway, shocked to discover she is also deaf." - David Mamet – Faustus

A few months ago, when Suleiman Benn clashed with Brad Haddin and Mitchell Johnson, I wrote a piece critical of the seeming double standards that the ICC applies when dealing with such unsavoury incidents.

Much earlier, I wrote a similar-themed piece when Gautam Gambhir and Shane Watson clashed in India in 2008.

Watching the live telecast from Napier yesterday when Mitchell Johnson (again) and Scott Styris clashed tongues and heads, there was never any doubt in my mind that justice like the type meted out to Benn and Gambhir was unlikely to happen here. An insignificant fine perhaps, depriving already rich men of some pocket money, and talk of responsibilities towards the Spirit of Cricket and role models but nothing that really resembles justice.

After the Benn-Haddin-Johnson incident, one could have been forgiven for thinking that physical contact on the cricket field was a clear no-no. Nothing ambiguous about that. Both Gambhir and Benn were suspended on the basis of making physical contact with an opponent, regardless of provocation. Fair enough too. So long as that applies to everyone.

How then does Johnson, a repeat offender in the last three months, escape with a mere 60% fine when it was clear that he headbutted Styris (albeit fairly gently - quite sensible too considering Styris was wearing a helmet!)? One explanation is that the Australians and New Zealanders know how to play it just that bit smarter when it comes to limiting the post-match post-mortems. They both explain it away with quotes like "harmless banter, heat of the battle, nothing untoward out there, a friendly exchange, part of the game, international cricket is competitive etc etc" which then ensures that both parties provide a bit of protection for each other and the case is then judged through more tolerant eyes.

Isn't it funny how similar incidents involving Benn and Gambhir weren't explained away so casually? Would Styris have been that forgiving if his opponent had been Benn or Gambhir? Or is just something unique about Australia v New Zealand that makes this, as Styris said, “nothing more than normal”. “The Australians play good competitive cricket and I'd like to think that we'll match them in that competitiveness; there wasn't anything untoward out there,” he said. On the question of a head clash, he actually feigns some ignorance, claiming only that "he might have come quite close. I don't know, he may have done."

Perhaps it's a cultural thing where some cultures are more accustomed to this sort of competitiveness on the field, which would explain both Johnson and Stryris being relatively unfazed by the incident. The problem with this convenient explanation is that these same cricketers generally seem to be much less relaxed when their opponents don't share the same cultural values.

Also, the argument fails on another front too; considering that Chris Broad was Match Referee for the Benn and Gambhir incidents, you would think that he too would share similar laissez-faire views on these sorts of incidents. Instead, surprisingly, we find that Ranjan Madugalle is the only Match Referee who shares the Aussie-Kiwi sense of competitiveness that Styris dismissed so casually.

The inherent danger with adopting a cultural tolerance when ruling on such cases is that it then becomes open to suggestions of bias, based on race, ethnicity or colour, even if it was never intended that way. Cricket's family is too global and too dispersed to allow such latitude in interpreting the rules of engagement. As we saw a few years ago, Brad Hogg was given a slap on the wrist for calling an Indian player a "bast***" because it was deemed that in his cultural make-up, such an insult was not too offensive but to another person from a different background, this might be a deep insult.

With something like physical contact, why should there be any grey areas of uncertainty? If you make deliberate contact with an opponent, how can one player cop a two-match penalty and the other get a small fine? Oh, that's right - plead guilty and you can play the next game. Easy as that. Cop a small fine, pay it from petty cash reserves and put it down to "good competitive cricket". And when you do it again in three months time, plead guilty again and so it goes. Meanwhile, some other players who fight for justice cop two-match bans. That's justice?

Interestingly, in todays Australian newspaper, the coverage of the cricket was buried deep, three pages into the sports section. Completely coincidence of course that Australia lost this match! More revealing was the writer's preview of the incident, referring to "the talkative Styris". Clearly, the Australians keep their mouths shut at all times and only ever get caught up in friendly fire. Poor lambs!

We keep talking of consistency from umpires when it comes to lbw decisions or wide calls or anything else on the field. Likewise, match referees need to adopt a similar stance when dealing with clear breaches that apply to any cricketer, regardless of which country they come from. If not, there will be accusations of bias, of East v West of Rich v Poor. And cricket does not need that sort of divisiveness.

"Justice is a whore that won't let herself be stiffed, and collects the wages of shame even from the poor" said Karl Krauss in The Good Conduct Medal. I tend to think that Anatole France was more on the money in Crainquebille: "Justice is the means by which established injustices are sanctioned".

How tough is it to deal with the stress of giving a decision under stress? © Associated Press

Like every single cricket fan on this planet, I've cursed umpires and given the finger to the gentlemen who give my heroes the digital salute. But I like to think I've grown (just a little bit) out of my previously immature reactions to them. For willy-nilly, I took Atticus Finch's advice, and walked around in an umpire's shoes. And from then on, I never viewed umpiring in the same light.

In my university days, I played a bit of casual cricket with my mates at college. Nothing too serious; our talents were limited. But Hindu College, my alma mater, was a cricketing powerhouse in the Delhi cricket scene, and there were plenty of stars to watch up close and admire. The concentration of cricketing talent in our institution meant the inter-departmental competition often afforded some of the best cricket viewing of the year. We could get close to the action, and we could see players that were Ranji, and possibly India, aspirants. The strongest departments (History, Political Science, Economics, General Arts) were packed with members from the college team. (Unsurprisingly, the sciences were left to fight for the scraps).

One fine morning, a group of us gathered to watch Political Science take on General Arts (Indian folks will know the latter better as "the BA (Pass) boys"). The games were 40-overs a side and approximately ten players from the college side were out there in the middle, playing for the two departments.

A few overs into the game, one of the fielders trotted over to us (down at long-off) with a request. One of the umpires had to go off for a family emergency; would one of us agree to umpire? (I hasten to point out the reason the fielder had picked us was because we knew him from some friendly games earlier in the season). I eagerly volunteered; umpiring seemed like a great way to get into the thick of the action and watch it up close.

A few minutes later, I had started to regret my decision. The action out on the middle felt fast and furious; the fielders were aggressive and hortatory; a fast bowler who was constantly over-stepping didn't appreciate my no-balling; and the fielding side's captain, who came on to bowl his off-spinners, was a pesky, inquisitive, irritating type, who kept moving me around.

I was surrounded by young men, older, and bigger (make that much bigger) than me. It was noisy and even the unambiguous sounds I expected to hear out in the middle were not so clear. Bat against cloth, pad against ball, pad buckles against bat, ball against body; the sounds were a little potpourri of clicks and nips.

I felt a buzzing in my head; I was keeping track of too many things, and was worn down by the stress of feeling I might get things wrong. And I did. A batsman went down to sweep the off-spinner; the ball had pitched on off and middle. He had plonked his leg down the pitch; the ball would have spun past leg. I was worn out. I raised the finger. He glared; I averted my eyes.

Shortly thereafter, I asked to be relieved of my duties. I wanted to be back on the sidelines, smoking a cigarette, sipping a cup of tea, soaking up the beautiful Delhi winter sun. I didn't want to be hassled and harried out in the middle. I wanted to enjoy the game, damn it all.

I think my experience is instructive and it forms the basis of the following modest proposal.

An international cricketer could do with a little apprenticeship in umpiring as part of his graduation to the highest form the game. The Don studied for, and passed, an umpire's exam. In similar fashion, I propose that a pre-condition for playing in a Test should be that the player in question should have umpired in a few games; perhaps first-class games, perhaps something a level just below. (Australians could consider umpiring in the city grade competitions, for instance)

They should stand for a few days in the sun and properly soak up the hurly-burly an umpire experiences. They should experience, in no particular order: the stress of giving a decision under stress; being pressured by constant appealing; feeling like all eleven men in the fielding side dislike you and multi-tasking that would put a modern computing architecture to shame.

Perhaps then, with their felt experience of an umpire's lot under their belts, they might experience some empathy for the lot of those who "only stand and wait."

"Is Monty Panesar too deferential toward the people who are giving him bad advice?" © Getty Images

Yesterday, I read Mike Atherton's article on the 'failure' of British Asian cricketers with mixed feelings. Mixed because in the course of a worthwhile investigation, Atherton offers an analysis that goes hither and thither, travelling some well-worn and predictably non-informative grooves and ends up going nowhere. (One hint of the problem in his analysis lies in the choice of headline "Depressing culture of failure" (my italics)).

It has been evident that despite the greater visibility of Asian players on the English cricket scene, few have managed to stake out a firm regular spot in the English side. That includes Bopara, Rashid, Ramprakash, Solanki, Panesar, Patel(s), Mahmood, Shah, Chopra et al. Some have shone briefly, others not at all. Monty Panesar enjoyed the longest honeymoon in recent times but even his star seems to have described its arc and is now in decline. (Incidentally, why does Atherton not consider Nasser Hussain in his list? Is Hussain "too English" to be counted here? Is that because of his mixed parentage, or is it because Hussain has somehow transcended "Asianess"?)

So what’s the problem? After all-too briefly wondering, and not really entertaining as a live hypothesis, whether English cricket has been welcoming enough, Atherton considers cricketing reasons: Mahmood is not good enough, Patel is not fit enough and Rashid has been over-promoted (perhaps in a rush to find an English Warne or a spin replacement for Panesar). These three form part of a brief denying of any charges against English cricket. Their putative counterexamples apparently suggest any facile generalised charge against the management of English cricket is unlikely to stick.

But Atherton does not consider that a lack of welcome from English cricket might not be a necessary condition in the failure of the players but merely a sufficient condition. Given the importance of dressing room politics and the notorious ease with which players slip into cliques, this would have been an angle worth investigating.

Cultural reasons poke their head up when it comes to Panesar. Perhaps he is in awe of authority (measured by something termed a "power-distance rating": India is high, England is low on this scale) and so perhaps is too deferential toward people who are giving him bad advice (Atherton also gratuitously throws in mention of Panesar's wedding being "an Indian affair" as proof of his irredeemable grounding in his Indian background).

But Shah and Bopara do not fall into this category; they have never seemed deferential enough. The failure might be the cricketing equivalent of "lack of moral fibre" for Atherton suggests Bopara was "mentally shot" after his failures (against Australia) and that Shah has suffered from selectorial slights.

But Atherton fails to consider another factor when offering this social-scientific analysis (if you're going to do it, do it right): that those in power seek to emphasise their distance from those below them, that those in power are capable of recognising and emphasising a power-relation that suits them. Might Vaughan and Fletcher have failed in this regard? Power relations are not maintained by one party in the relationship after all; they are constructed jointly. Atherton does not wait to consider this possibility. He is in a rush to figure out the cultural underpinnings of such failure. We might ask: whose culture?

What about Shahzad? Well, he seems to be doing some things right. Apparently, he isn't eating his mum's "rotis and curries" (and has substituted fish and chips with beers at the pub?) and his private school background has helped his integration into the English team. His success would, for Atherton, help dispel two notions: that British Asians can't hack it, and that English cricket is not welcoming enough. The latter seems to be Atherton's primary concern.

Could diet be the answer? Well, that would certainly explain why lots of Indian players never did well. But would that explain the success of those (like most in the Indian team) who continue to pack away rotis and curries? The "it was the curries wot did it" explanation is a silly one and especially in this context; is the English diet known for its sports-ability enhancing qualities? I know that Atherton has in mind a proper sportsman's diet, but following that is a problem for plenty of people in the English team.

The problem with Atherton's analysis is that it is scattershot in dealing with a complex problem: there are leads that Atherton considers but does not chase down, and he throws out enough suggestions to keep the waters muddied. And as noted, he simply does not consider the flip-side of the possible solutions considered. Any kind of causal analysis needs to pay attention to a variety of factors; sure, the short-circuit caused the spark that caused the carpet to catch fire, but it needed the presence of oxygen and a flammable material to get going.

British Asians are not a monolithic bloc. They are made up of a variety of different religious, cultural and economic backgrounds. And that includes their English class and regional ones. To treat them as a bloc is the first problem in Atherton's analysis. There are many equivalence classes in a set; the first step to finding an analysis that works is to divide up the set of English cricket players properly. There are working-class players from the North who don't integrate (Rashid for one, but do all the lads from up North fit in easily?); there are fitness slobs who don't do the hard yards (the young Flintoff and Samit Patel); would going in this direction enable Atherton to answer the broader and perhaps more interesting question of why English cricket in general is mired in a level just above mediocrity? Is the failure of British Asians in cricket their problem or is there a larger problem in English cricket waiting to be discovered?

Indeed, as Atherton bounces from hypothesis to hypothesis, he might have realised the answer was staring him in the face: the young men he is talking about are Englishmen. They have more in common with Englishmen than with any other nationality. Any analysis of their success or failure should begin and end by considering their case along with those most like them: other Englishmen, no matter what their ethnic background.