From Suhas Cadambi, India

	Shane Bond added a touch of genuine class to a workmanlike side © Getty Images

Why don't you go get him?
I'm his biggest fan
You gotta tell him
He's still the man.
- Calling Elvis by Dire Straits, 1991

Mark Knopfler's lyrics ring true when we attempt to sum up our feelings over the last two years of Shane Bond's career. Through the injuries, the hints at giving up Test cricket altogether, the 'defection' to the ICL, the forsaking of a last chance to have a crack at the Aussies, and the final ride into the sunset, we've found ourselves hoping - time and again - that this wouldn't be the end.

But instead of wondering "what might have been?" once more, those of us who had the pleasure of watching Bond in action can choose to reflect on what a strange, exciting trip it's been.

Where the top players of the decade regularly courted controversy, Shane Bond was one for whom universal admiration seemed to be reserved. He was a purists' delight, generating speed from a lovely, smooth action which belied the stress it inflicted on his body.

He also embodied quite a few attributes of the great fast bowlers of yesteryear; there was the judicious use of the bouncer which was reminiscent of Andy Roberts, there was the ability to swing and cut it both ways - an asset which served the late Malcolm Marshall so well, and there were those yorkers which took one back to Waqar Younis' heyday. My dad likened his approach to the wicket and delivery stride to that of Fred Trueman's, but where Fiery Fred was never short of a word or two for the batsman, 'Bondy' preferred to smile and let the ball do the talking.

He was one of those players whose deeds emptied bars and classrooms alike. I recall a cold December day at college in Bangalore, 2002; we had watched the Kiwi seamers dismantle India's batting on a greener-than-green pitch in Wellington earlier that morning on TV, yet all the excited talk was not of the injustice of having to play on that wicket, but of Bond's ripping, inswinging yorker which proved too good for an in-form Rahul Dravid.

While he did save some of his best efforts for the Indian line-up and Brian Lara, for my money Bond's ability to knock over quality batsmen was never more evident than during his debut ODI series, against the Aussies and South Africans. Aided by Stephen Fleming's astute captaincy, he exposed Ricky Ponting off the front foot, gave Steve Waugh a testing time, memorably yorked Adam Gilchrist, and provided journalists with the line "The name's Bond, Shane Bond, and he likes his Martyns shaken not stirred".

Post-2005, following his return from a two year injury-enforced absence, Bond was a slightly different beast. Fitness issues meant he wasn't quite the all-out destructive force of early 2003; yet, he had added subtle variations and changes of pace to his armoury, and was more accurate than before. His performances on the slow Carribean pitches during the 2007 World Cup - where he took 13 wickets at 16 apiece with an economy rate of 3 an over - showed him to have evolved into a thinking man's bowler.

His final stint with the national side saw an increased reliance on the slower ball and the slower bouncer (especially in T20 games), but every now and then the magic of old would still resurface. Fittingly, a match-winning eight-wicket haul in his final Test against Pakistan last November left us asking for more.

Unfortunately, looking back at Bond's finest moments provides a sobering reminder of New Zealand's place in the scheme of things and their struggle for identity as a cricketing nation. That debut tri-series is now remembered for the axing of the Waugh brothers, if anything, and NZ's three straight victories against the Aussies did little to improve their perceived credibility as a touring side. Bond's 6-23 in the World Cup game in Port Elizabeth was a masterclass in strike bowling, but it was Brett Lee's haul which proved to be the match-winning one. He bowled New Zealand to their first ever series victory in the Caribbean against Lara's side in 2002, but they have never been invited back since.

Still, it can't be denied that New Zealand were a stronger outfit and won more regularly with Bond around, and he gave a workmanlike side a touch of genuine class. Bond probably didn't play enough Test cricket to be regarded as a 'great'. He will likely be remembered in the same manner as Frank Tyson or Lawrence Rowe, cricketers closely tied in with their particular eras, yet much revered by those who got to watch them.

His decision to quit while ahead was an intriguing one; it suggested he might have felt there was more to a cricketing life than seeing out one's days in the IPL. However, this is a sad thing for us because we won't have the consolation of watching him bowl for the Kolkata Knight Riders. Again, our collective thoughts appear to have been echoed in Mark Knopfler's musical account of the fan desperately trying to get through to Elvis Presley: "Don't you think maybe, you could put him on?"

From Apoorv Singhal, India

Cricket needs more of these © Getty Images

Umar Gul is walking back to his run-up mark when it suddenly strikes him he is not playing in the sub-continent anymore. He decides to go round the wicket and asks for a short leg. The batsman, Ross Taylor, stiffens and opens his stance a wee bit. Gul sprints in as he always does. Is it going to be a bluff delivery? Nope, no need to bluff anyone here. He bangs the ball in and it is aiming straight for Taylor's jaw before his gloves come in the way as he fends it off awkwardly, the ball bouncing a couple of feet from the short leg's outstretched hands. A wry smile and Gul tries it again. Taylor goes for the pull but the rising delivery takes the top edge and goes for four to the fine-leg boundary.

I think I know what may have gone through Taylor’s mind after that. "What's that smell? Oh wait, I know that. That's the smell of leather. Wow, it's been a long time since that round, red thing has whizzed past my nose." And Gul? "What's that smell? Oh wait, I know that. That's the smell of fear. Wow, it's been a long time since I have seen the guy with the bat tapping his nose to make sure he can feel it."

So what has happened in the last few years? Why don't the Donalds go around the wicket, bang the ball in and make the Athertons jump and dance around? Since when did the Marshalls start caring less for the wickets and more for the 'spirit of cricket'? If you'd have told Geoffrey Boycott in 1971 that 39 years from then, batsmen will try to scoop 150 kph deliveries over their heads, you'd have heard something like "Now, now, we all have a little too much to drink sometimes, son. Now run along, there's a good lad."

If I were facing Marshall bare-headed, wearing a box that hasn't been approved by research labs around the world, with some foam qualifying as glove protection, and unable to discern the pitch colour from the square adjacent to it, I'd be pretty darn scared. And I'd know that Marshall wasn't lying when he said that "he's going to pitch it short" and that "there was nothing you can do about it". Doesn't matter what happens next. When Marshall started running in, batsmen weren't going to give themselves room, or go across, or try the suicidal - crouch down and try to scoop the ball over the keeper's head. Some overworked grass cutters and bomb-explosion-proof helmets later, batsmen are actually going down the pitch to fast bowlers, cross-batting perfect length deliveries over midwicket, glaring at the bewildered bowler and acknowledging his team-mates' applause for his second triple century of the season.

The captain runs to the disconsolate bowler and puts his arms around his shoulders. "Don't you want to renew your IPL contract next year, buddy? What are you doing, staring back at the batsman and all that? Now let's stick with the change-up delivery and don't let me see you try and bowl the "quicker one" till you get my nod, ok son?"

I'm not sure Lillee or Thompson or Marshall ever sniffed the idea of "varying their pace". Nor were they ever ordered to take care of their daily calorie intake, or told to come back after the day's play and check out their pitch maps, or ensure they complete their monthly 56 compulsory hours of gym training. As these bowlers would tell you, all they needed was a two-month break after every series to recharge their batteries, after which it was difficult for the captain to take the ball away from their hands. What made them tick was the sheer hunger and desire to play and perform every single time they walked onto the field, and they eluded injuries for the better part of their careers.

Now, with the insane amount of back-to-back matches that the fast men have to deal with, they can't steam in without a care for their ankle ligaments. They have to run in, systematically, gingerly at times, hoping they could pull through to the next IPL edition. The ones who do try and push their bodies find out the hard way, that bowling short and fast isn't doing much good, with the slow and barren pitch making it easy for the well-protected batsmen to flay their super-bats around, scoring boundaries from half-timed slogs.

Nowadays, a specialist bowler is expected to master conventional swing, reverse swing and slower balls, contribute with the bat down the order, and shave regularly. What happened to the hairy, muscular, growling, moustache-sporting, curly-haired, chest-baring and loud-mouthed men who ignored the umpire mumbling something about "keeping it easy" and bowled as fast as possible and as short as often as their bodies could allow?

The administrators around the world are flattening tracks in the hope of ensuring five days of run-fests in Test cricket to entice crowds. Only in England and New Zealand, where the administrators can't control the weather, the conditions still provide an even battle between bat and ball. Does anyone remember the countless, meaningless, mammoth run-fests played in the subcontinent?

Easily, the most memorable tournament this decade was the Ashes 2005 series, where the fast bowlers decided the fate of the series. One man gave us indefatigable fans few of the greatest Test cricket moments. Andrew Flintoff has been one of the few bowlers in this era who could actually make top-order batsmen stand rooted to their guard. I can vividly remember that Edgbaston moment, when he had just taken Langer's wicket and Ponting came to the crease. Fred turned on his run-up mark, and started sprinting in. Ponting took guard and wondered for a fleeting moment whether he had filed his health insurance papers when the noise from the crowd brought him back to his surroundings.

Flintoff steamed in, and the crowd went 'OOOOOOOOOOOOOHHHHHH' in a united chorus. Flintoff hit the length, the ball seamed away, taking Ponting's outside edge and landed in Jones's gloves, and the din that followed enveloped your senses. The fan in you was entranced, as if transported to Edgbaston, and transported to those times when the batsman knew what leather smelt like.

From James Contos, Australia

The moment Dilshan executed his shot, the bowler's final sanctuary was lost, and what was the batsman's no man's land was conquered © AFP

The Twenty20 format has caused a frenzy since the first international game between Australia and New Zealand in 2005. It was truly inconceivable five years ago that an offspinner, who could more accurately be described as a slow bowler, would be opening the bowling on a relatively regular basis in limited-overs cricket. But Twenty20 is here and as the recent expansion of the IPL to 10 franchises indicates it's here to stay.

Personally, the most intriguing consequence of Twenty20 cricket has been the invention of a new shot, or the way I like to think about it, the conquering of a new scoring zone. The shot was first attempted (and successfully so) by Sri Lankan limited-overs opener Tillakaratne Dilshan in the IPL of 2009, and the moment that ball went up and over the keeper's head for four runs, the final piece of the scoring jigsaw was complete.

If you think about a scoring map, it is easy to imagine the shot that yielded runs. For example, anything to point was probably a square drive or cut, anything to square leg probably a pull, and anything down the ground almost certainly a straight drive. But there was an area that you could only really guess how the runs were scored. The batsman's no man's land- directly behind the keeper. Prior to Dilshan’s ramp shot, if a batsman scored runs in this area one could only assume it was an edge of some sort; that is, the 'shot' and consequential runs were unintentional. In fact, in most scenarios it was a win for the bowler, the only area a batsman could not make runs through a 'true shot'. Dilshan has now made that zone his own; or at least only has to share it with a select few players in the world (Brendon McCullum comes to mind).

Just yesterday I was discussing the evolution of shots with a friend. He believes this is just the beginning of the development of new, exciting shots, the invention of which will be not only facilitated but also demanded by the newest, shortest format. I must say, he definitely has an argument. In the five short years of international Twenty20 cricket, not only has Dilshan has blown our mind with his artisan-like innovation, but we have seen reverse sweeps being played far more regularly, even appearing the odd occasion in Test matches.

I could be made to swallow my words, but I do not believe we will see such radical innovation as Dilshan's any time soon as far as shot-making goes. Why? For one reason- there is no need. Dilshan's ludicrous disregard for his teeth was born out of an inability to play a certain delivery, and to score in a certain area. In the past five years bowler's have had to master the yorker. It is- or should I say- was, the only ball that, if executed perfectly (and not accounting for a lucky edge) was certain not to be blasted to the boundary in the dying stages of a limited-overs' innings. Now, not even the sacred yorker is safe.

Players like Dilshan, McCullum and Kieron Pollard are now able to intentionally hit a boundary off what use to be considered the 'perfectly-pitched' ball. They can simply take a step or two down the track so to get leverage underneath the ball and use their willow as a ramp to the boundary. The moment Dilshan executed his shot, the bowler's final sanctuary was lost, and what was the batsman's no man's land was conquered. So then, the question I would ask to anyone who, like my friend, believes new shots will continue to be invented is this: Why would a batsman invent a shot when he, assuming he is reasonably accomplished, can already hit any ball to the boundary? To summarise, Dilshan's invention was born out of need, out of a desperate urgency to overcome bowlers like Umar Gul and Lasith Malinga who their captains could rely on to restrict the last over of an innings to a miserly 6 runs. With the vanquishing of that need, I do not believe the evolution of shots will continue, however unfortunate that may be for fans.