Ian Bell deserved his ton, and Andrew Strauss did the right thing by allowing him enough time to get there © Getty Images

Before play started on the fifth day at Cardiff, I was thinking what a prosaic Test match it had been. Until Ian Bell arrived at the crease, we had seen a great deal of very worthy batting from Tharanga Paranavitana, Prasanna Jaywardene and the seemingly unstoppable Alastair Cook and Jonathan Trott, but there had been little to dispel the rainy gloom and lift the spirit.

Bell's 98* on day 4 was a welcome introduction of poetry. Its colour and adventure had the same effect on me as those daffodils when Wordsworth came across them on his walk. Since nothing was likely to happen on the fifth afternoon, I thought it only right and proper that he be given the chance to finish off the hundred before a declaration.

Bell clearly deserved the cachet of a Test century, and it would have stored up untold resentment if Andrew Strauss had denied him the few balls he needed for it. The England squad are genuine fans of each other and would all have wanted him to get it.

For a captain to declare with a batsman on 98*, there had better be a damn good tactical reason for it. Even though Michael Atherton later admitted he got it wrong, his declaration when Graeme Hick was on 98* at Sydney in 1995 was made with the intention of having two bites with the new ball before and after tea; it had a tactical logic to it, and one could easily argue that it was designed to give the team the best possible chance of winning a match which was there for the taking. Had Darren Gough and Devon Malcolm been only half as effective as they had been in Australia's first innings, England would have gone on to win and Hick might have been able to forgive the captain.

That did not apply in Cardiff. It's all very well saying that England would have a better chance of winning if they had 53 overs of play rather than 50, but no one in their right mind would have thought there was better than a one in seven chance of knocking Sri Lanka over with enough time left to get any runs required, especially with a three-man attack on a wicket which they had found pretty easy to bat on. It would take something utterly extraordinary to pull off a win, and three overs was not going to make any real difference to that. And if both batsmen are in on the plan, it's pretty difficult to stop one of them getting two runs in three overs.

So I approved of Strauss's decision, clapped at the TV when Bell's hundred came up and the batsmen came back in, and began to write about Wordsworth and Trott and Jayawardene (P) so that I would have something ready to fire off when the match was over. I assumed Sri Lanka would make about 140-3 and there would be handshakes almost as soon as the last hour was called, and I could talk of moral victories and who would be taking most heart from the game.

The first couple of wickets made little impression on me. It's not at all unusual for the new ball to take out the openers, and I knew the likes of Mahela Jayawardene and Kumar Sangakarra were old enough hands to know how to play out time.

Then Mahela fell. Suddenly I realised the win was on, and didn't even bother to save what I had written because I felt that something else was going to be necessary. When Sangakarra edged Graeme Swann to slip, it was no longer just on: it had become a question of when rather than if, for Sri Lanka have no Paul Collingwood or Shivnarine Chanderpaul unless it's Thilan Samaraweera, and he had already departed for the single-figure score (0 being a single figure) which is his habit in England.

If a tail is going to hang around to save a match, it needs inspiration, and that can only come from a senior player who coolly calms things down and shows that he isn't going to be moved. Without his example, feeble collapse is inevitable once the fielding side smell blood and go on the charge.

I know how Sri Lanka fans must be feeling today. Shell-shocked, stunned, and wondering when they are going to wake up from this dreadful nightmare which surely cannot be real. I remember it oh so well from the time England were routed for 46 by Curtly Ambrose at Port of Spain. Black despair. Shame. Wondering how your friends who don't like cricket are going to mock you when you see them.

Thing is, though, that in the next Test England stormed fortress Bridgetown, inflicting a first defeat on West Indies at the Kensington Oval in 60 years. As we have just seen at Cardiff, anything can and does happen in Test cricket.

'Sadly, this is how I stumbled upon the disastrous riot at Calcutta in the semi-finals' © Getty Images

This year, thanks to the vagaries of television rights allocations, US residents, if inclined to follow the IPL, and to retain some suspense for themselves, are back to the good old days of the tape-delayed broadcast. It might be 2011, but it feels delightfully old-fashioned. The challenges of not being exposed to the scores are harder but a fan can always find his way around them.

Dealing with tape-delay broadcasts is not just a matter of television of course. Indians old enough to have followed radio broadcasts of Test cricket from the West Indies will remember that the post-tea session, which would have been broadcast from (I think) 2-4 AM, was instead taped and then played back from 5-7 AM. I would, after listening to the pre-tea sessions, sleep with a transistor next to my pillow, and on waking up, tune in again.

The illusion was perfect; how could it not be? There was no way to find out the scores and the only intervening experience had been that of sleep. It was thus that I heard the commentary for what I still consider one of the most exciting Test finishes of all (albeit at India's expense): West Indies' chase of 172 runs in 25 overs in the 1983 Kingston Test. I awoke on the chilly morning of 28th February 1983, just in time to catch Roberts’ demolition of the Indian tail, as India subsided from 168 for 6 to 174 out. Suddenly, West Indies were in with a chance, even though they'd have to score at close to seven runs an over. But then Viv Richards played, what was by his own judgment, his best innings ever, to score 61 off 36 deliveries; Gus Logie hit a six off the first ball he faced in the second innings; Mohinder Amarnath lost the plot. When the match ended, I hooped and hollered; it was a great finish; I wanted a result; it didn't matter that India had lost to the mighty West Indies. Losing to West Indies, wasn't such a disgrace, really.

When the 1996 World Cup rolled around, I was living with my girlfriend in Manhattan, and working in the Bronx. The day-night games began early in the morning and ended in the afternoon. I would only be able to watch an over or two live before I had to leave for work to begin the long subway ride on the D train, uptown to the Bronx. The extended-play mode of the videocassette, and an extremely patient girlfriend came to the rescue. I would leave after having set up the VCR with a tape in EP mode; my girlfriend, who worked at Rockefeller Center, would walk back at lunchtime to our apartment, change the tape, and then return to work; the two tapes added up to more than eight hours, more than enough for a one-day international. Fortunately, my workplace's technology infrastructure was primitive enough to not have an internet connection, and I discouraged phone calls from friends calling in with tales of grief or joy in response to cricket happenings during the day.

When I returned home in the evenings from work, I was in a state of blissful ignorance. The tape of the match was waiting, full of pleasures yet to be discovered. I would then watch the tapes till 2AM, resisting the urge, not a particularly strong one, mind you, to fast forward. Sadly, this is how I stumbled upon the disastrous riot at Calcutta in the semi-finals.

Tape-delay will possibly never go away, so long as we want to maintain the pleasures of suspense in sports. And its even easier now, thanks to broadband video subscriptions with their stored highlights and replays. Sure, you've got to keep your eyes off that live scorecard while the game is on, but that’s a small price to pay. Still, I'd rather the tape-delay imposition be a voluntary one, not the kind forced on me.

Over the last two years, even Bangladesh have scored more Test runs per wicket than Pakistan © Associated Press

How long can you last in international cricket without being able to bat? This sounds like one of those impossibly existential how-many-angels-on-the-head-of-a-pin type of questions. In this case, however, we have an answer. Evidence suggests you can last a pretty long time in world cricket without being able to bat. Potentially many decades, as Pakistan's example shows.

Okay, I'm being harsh. It isn't that Pakistani men can't bat at all; every now and then you'll see a fifty or two, and once in a generation someone will come along who could be selected as a batsman in a more successful international side. But no one would call Pakistan a nation of batsmen. And based on current form, Pakistani batting is certainly at the bottom of the heap. Over the last two years, even Bangladesh have scored more Test runs per wicket than Pakistan.

Fans lament the decline of batting in a country that once produced the likes of Zaheer Abbas and Javed Miandad. But objective assessment suggests this complaint is based on a fallacious premise. Zaheer, for example, was a run-machine no doubt, but only when the stars were aligned, which wasn't all that often and certainly seldom when most needed. And while Miandad was unquestionably a batting genius, he remained overshadowed by greater Indian, West Indian, and Australian contemporaries – as it happened with Pakistan's other authentic batting hero, Inzamam-ul-Haq, a decade later.

Of course there is the legend of Hanif Mohammad, who once after following on made a triple-hundred that is still the highest Test score away from home. That's more than enough to earn the choicest of batting stripes. He also bettered Bradman, creating a new first-class record – with his innings of 499 – that stood for 35 years. Clearly, Hanif's impeccable technique and enormous concentration have cast a long shadow on cricket history. But Hanif's batting instincts weren't indigenously Pakistani, as he was already well into his teens by the time organised cricket first emerged in Pakistan. More likely, the secret of Hanif's batting prowess may lie in his Indian roots. He hails from a region (Junagadh) that happens to be in the same approximate part of India that gave rise to Sachin Tendulkar and Sunil Gavasker. Coincidence? Maybe, but maybe not.

Then there are a host of other batting names that various segments of Pakistan supporters keep trotting out to substantiate the nation's batting credentials. Prominently figuring among this lot are the likes of Majid Khan, Salim Malik, Saeed Anwar, Saeed Ahmad, Mudassar Nazar, and Mushtaq Mohammad. Each of these players has one or more definitive match-winning or match-saving performances to his credit. But a handful of special knocks are not enough for a hallowed reputation. In fact, none of these batsmen even has a Test average over 50, which ends this whole line of argument right there.

Some would cite Imran Khan as a world-class feather in Pakistan's batting cap, and in fact they would not be far off the mark. Although his bowling overshadows his batting gifts so much that Imran is rarely thought of as a frontline batsman, this is a gross misperception. Imran is very much a proven batting match-winner, and you need look no farther than the ’92 World Cup final if you doubt this. Even more convincing is that over the 48 Tests that he captained, Imran's batting average exceeded even that of Javed Miandad. That's a phenomenal statistic proving Imran's great fight and resolve at the crease. Yet it also begets the question: where was all that fight and resolve when he was batting under the captaincy of other men? So Imran, too, it will have to be said, falls short in this calculus.

The cherry on the cake is that even the two world-class batsmen who have graced the Pakistan side in recent times – Mohammad Yousuf and Younis Khan – have been harassed and victimised beyond belief. Their accomplishments have already placed them in the Pakistani batting pantheon, and you'd think that in a country where batting skill is at such a premium, they'd be treated like kings. Yet both have been kept out of the side on petty whims, dragged before dubious disciplinary committees and parliamentary commissions, caricatured in the media, and demonised in back-room cricket board politics. Instead of the PCB helping them achieve the height of their potential, it has throttled their talents to ensure that they are kept from giving their best.

One is amazed at how far Pakistan have actually come despite this handicap. Batting, along with bowling, fielding and captaincy, is one of the four key departments of the game. It is simply stunning that Pakistan won Tests against England and Australia last year, and managed to reach the World Cup semifinals this year, with two major departments – batting and fielding – virtually threadbare. Adding competent batting to this mix could make them almost unbeatable; that is surely worth aiming for.

Sickened to the core by collapse after batting collapse, the fan base keeps demanding a quick fix, but of course there isn't any. Everybody's favourite remedy is to appoint the most awesome batting coach possible, which is just magical thinking. If only the acquisition of great batting skills were that simple.

No doubt a batting coach is needed, but a lot more is needed besides. The hard truth is that improving Pakistan's batting resources requires a long-range strategy and a patient mindset that is prepared for delayed gratification. It has to be approached like the grafting of a lengthy innings, not a wham-bam slog. There must be tremendous rigour in domestic cricket and nothing but merit in all team selection. These measures must be unfailingly sustained for at least a generation before thinking about reaping the rewards. Needless to add, a stable administrative infrastructure is a prerequisite. Perhaps at some future point all this will come to pass, but from today's vantage it appears a very tall order for Pakistan.

If you leave too early, you risk missing out on watching your team make a thrilling comeback © Getty Images

On March 11, 2011, during the World Cup qualifying round, as Bangladesh stumbled to 169-8 chasing England's 227, several spectators at the Zahur Ahmed Chowdhury Stadium in Chittagong started heading for the exits. I was watching the game on my desktop machine in my living room; I was accompanied by an American colleague and friend that had stopped by, on my invite, to try and catch a bit of World Cup excitement. He seemed perplexed by their exit, and honestly, so was I. Bangladesh needed 58 runs to win in a little over 10 overs with two wickets in hand. It was unlikely, sure, but it was a World Cup game, only 10 overs were left. Sure, your team had come an absolute cropper in the last game, but surely, it was worth it to hang around and see if they could pull it off, given that they were this close?

Right. Well, we know how that turned out. And those folks in Chittagong that did leave must have wanted, if only they had the ability of professional contortionists, to be able to deliver a swift, painful kick on their own backsides. For nothing is quite as painful as deserting a game, whose eventual resolution is one you craved. You desert a dream in the process. (On these very pages, I have written about my painful decision to abandon India's run chase against Australia at Mohali last year).

The Bangladeshi rush for the exits reminded me of an abandonment with a twist. During the
epic Kirti Azad game at Delhi's Jawaharlal Nehru Stadium in September 1983, I sat in the stands, shell shocked and dismayed at India's collapse to 101-8, chasing 197. Victory seemed unlikely, and to make things worse, it would happen at home against Pakistan. Sitting next to me were a young man and his father. Soon after the eighth wicket fell, the father began pestering his son. It was time to go; the traffic would be bad later; these losers deserved no more of their time. The young man stoutly resisted for a while. But, eventually, an over or so later, he agreed to leave. Father and son departed.

Later, that night, after Kirti Azad and Madan Lal's pyrotechnics had won the game for India, as I rode home in a sweaty, smoky bus, I was haunted by the memory of that young man trying to get his father to stay.

Would he ever forgive the old man? Would this episode occur again in familial conflict? "The last time I listened to you, you made me miss the Kirti Azad match!" I haven't forgotten about it. I'm sure that lad didn't. I just hope it didn't turn him into an embittered rebel.

But the credit for the most catastrophically wrong abandonment must go to Alan McGilvray, the erstwhile doyen of Australian radio commentators. On 14th December 1960, as Australia chased 233 to win against the West Indies at Brisbane, McGilvray decided at lunch the game was heading for a tame draw, and took a flight back to Sydney with Keith Miller, leaving the business of commentary to other ABC commentators. McGilvray later described his decision to leave the Tied Test as the "biggest error of judgment in my life" and never abandoned a match again. (Thanks to Gideon Haigh for this story).

Commitment gets us the good stuff in life; a lesson that sports fans sometimes have to learn the hard way.