I cannot think of ever watching a county championship match from first till last - I have played in a few, mind you, and grumbled with injury from the sidelines at others - so arrival in Derby on Thursday morning, while not exactly sharpened by a cutting edge considering the time of year, was at least accompanied by interested anticipation.
It was one of those end-of-season mornings when spectators wrap in anoraks and sip at coffee steaming from plastic mugs while players stretch in padded track suits and net in thick sweatshirts. No one admits to being cold, which would signal the conclusion of summer, but no one looks warm either, which suggests autumn.
Those who were allowed gathered at the pitch and discussed what they already knew, that Derbyshire must win and then might claim the championship for the first time since 1936. That the pitch was covered by a little grass, though not unreasonably so, and that the home team were on a roll so would be hard to beat. No one really mentioned Warwickshire, the defending champions - not even Warwickshire.
There was nothing remotely end-of-season about the cricket, which was spirited, skilful, and well worth the 6 gate money. Warwickshire swung the ball around and nipped it off the seam in the way that typical English bowlers are supposed to do, and Derbyshire responded with their compelling mix of play-and-miss or smack for four.
Chris Adams confirmed he might have been given a place in the England 'A' team, if only to see how he responded to wearing an England hat. He comfortably out-batted Dean Jones, who has a Test average of more than 46, but who looked at sea against a generous sideways movement. He fought, of course, but was not in his best form and suffered for it.
Watching Jones during this match further convinced me of the value of cricketers from overseas. Jones is an enforcer, as much Indiana as Dean in his private Raid on the Lost Championship, a man whose personality wins rounds by gnawing at the opposition and by galvanising his own. That he could not deliver the knockout punch was a twist in fate, a fracture in Cork's shoulder, rather than a short fall in performance. Jones has taken the doubt out of Derbyshire, rid the club of the suggestion of second fiddle, given the place an air of importance, arrogance even, and given its people a buzz.
He has not done it on his own, of course, his Victorian sidekick, Les Stillman, and a willing dressing room have done it, too, but the Raid would not have happened without Jones.
IT might have happened without the others. Around the County Ground, the faithful were chuffed. They liked the consistency of the team and the energy of Jones. They liked the lively running between the wickets, which gave them something new to applaud and were knocked out by the quality of the catching, which they said had improved beyond recognition. They were sorry to see so little spin but were compensated by ``Dev'' (Malcolm), who had given something in return for their lasting support, and by ``Young Harris'' , who had a big heart and didn't nancy about.
They congregated around Carol's Cabin, the caravan with the best instant grub on the circuit, and commended the administrative staff who take the trouble to patrol the ground and listen to the members moaning and groaning.
On Friday morning, the ground was drenched by September sunshine. Spectactors stripped off and players turned to shorts and T- shirt. In the nets, Stillman watched a leg- spinner on trial for a contract and then summoned Jones to bat against him. Stillman has had Shane Warne on his side for Victoria, so knows the business, and 10 minutes of Jones driving and pulling, advising and abusing, confirmed his interest. ``Yeah, he's OK, let's give him a go; I'll leave you to sort out the small print, Les,'' said Jones, who was quickly into his flannels and in residence at first slip, where he still chews gum and squints his eyes above that sun-creamed bottom lip, as he ever did.
Stillman suggested that the county with a leg spinner to augment a strong seam attack would win the championship. He said he couldn't see much wrong with English cricket but that dead pitches were the main reason why goodlooking county players failed to shine against top-class opponents.
He added that if a batsman could only play forward, or a bowler only hit the seam, which is what some pitches let them get away with, then the cricketers would not progress. He thought the country full of talent but that it played a little, and only a little, too much for its own good.
He also pointed out that the disparity between the England and Australian teams might not be so marked if Warne swapped sides.
By Saturday evening, Stillman was quiet and Jones sad. The three-pronged Derbyshire attack, exposed for fatigue by Cork's incapacity, could not retain their penetration and Warwickshire, underestimated again, romped home. Stillman said that the club was on course and that next season would better reflect their work. Jones said that he was proud.
Warwickshire had sneaked up on the match and through crafty thinking had snatched it from their tired opponents. Without Dermot Reeve, never mind Lara, Donald, or Pollock, they look a plain team, but their calm commitment to an unglamorous task, after the glory of the past three seasons, reminded one of their brains and tenacity.
It was a good match that did not hint at a weak county championship. The pitch, though slowish, provided a fair balance between bat and ball and was the reason for it.
There is a lesson in that, and in the impression of Jones, the words of Stillman. There is a lesson, too, from Warwickshire, who do the simple things well and who do not give up.