It was a moment of Zen. Andrew Flintoff was down on the Lord’s pitch on his aching knee, his arms spread like a mythical bird posing for a sculptor, watching Australia crumble like a grand piano that had fallen from a ten-storey building.

Four years later, it seemed like 2005 all over again. For Australia, the horror of that lost Ashes returned as Ricky Ponting sat in the pavilion biting nervously on a spent chewing gum. For England, the triumph was bittersweet because Freddie, their inspiring, infuriating, all-rounder would not be part of another such encounter at the home of cricket.

The epiphany, however, was not about the significance or the result of the ongoing Ashes. It was the realisation that, at its best, Test cricket evokes more vivid representations of heroism than any other form of sport.

The bulge at the back of a football net may have the same effect as the stumps shattered on the fifth ball of a grinding over; a down-the-line tennis pass may possess the mystique of a bouncer that crashes into the helmet; and a dazzling 25-foot golf putt could compare with a flighted delivery that beats a charging batsman in the air. But Test cricket’s charm lies in both its simplicity and its complexity. It’s not seen as a tussle for space and free movement, but a well-directed delivery cramps the finest of batsmen. It’s not perceived as a battle against the terrain and the elements, but the pitch and cloud cover dramatically change the nature of a contest. It’s not considered a contact sport, but the knocks on the body are all inflicted by design (if you miss, I hit).

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