HE `DID NOT, in the cricket field, do all that was expected of him'. Thus began Wisden's obituary of Matthew Fleming's great-grandfather, C. F. H. Leslie, acclaimed by some as the finest schoolboy cricketer of the 1870s. A prodigious allrounder at Rugby and Oxford, renowned for the rigour of his back-foot defence, he won three Blues then, at 20, toured Australia in 1882–83, taking a career-best 3 for 31 in the First Test and making 54 in the second, before interest waned and a business career held sway. Sydney Pardon once noted the way he `adopted a sort of hanging guard and almost allowed the ball to hit his bat'.

So much for genes.

Everything you need to know about Matthew Fleming can be gleaned from a statistic: his first two scoring shots in the Championship for Kent were sixes. Cricket is the game, adventure the aim. It would be fair, furthermore, to suggest that this son of Macclesfield has exceeded expectations. At 32, a time in the life of the average professional swardsman when fear has doused hope, he recently marked his international debut with a hat-trick. Now he's bound for Sharjah. Cockles have not so much been warmed as gently broiled.

In a world that can turn eager young men into whingeing time-servers and space-wasters, few match Fleming for unquenchable, uncontaminated enthusiasm. Given that his many hats include those of beefy biffer, jerky-but-subtle seamer, predatory fielder, amusingly self-deprecating Daily Telegraph columnist, forthright players' union chairman and occasionally dutiful father-of-three, this is probably just as well.

In the Royal Green Jackets, he had a ball, did the Cresta Run, then spent his 21st birthday commanding 30 squaddies on the streets of Belfast

 Fleming always has marched to the beat of a different drum. More Keith Moon than Ringo Starr, shall we say. For one thing, he graduated from Sandhurst. Joining the Royal Green Jackets (`my grandfather's old regiment had merged with them'), he had a ball in Germany, Hong Kong and Warminster, did the Cresta Run, then spent his 21st birthday commanding 30 squaddies on the streets of Belfast. Three years later, he quit to pursue his boyhood fantasy. That precious first county contract – worth a princely £3500 – still adorns the wall of the Fleming loo.

He is quick, though, to cite it as a case of jump pre-empting push. `My commission had run out and if I'd wanted to go any further I'd have had to take exams, concentrate on theory. I was good at practice, being in the field, creeping around at night. I had five great years. Without it I wouldn't have met my wife. Even now, most of my best friends are old army buddies. But I had an option to play cricket, which is what I'd always dreamed of. So when people talk about the pressure of a Sunday League game …' Words, momentarily, prove elusive.

`Commanding those guys in Belfast was probably the most responsibility I'll ever have in my life. Someone could have got killed. I'm often accused of looking as if I don't care when I'm playing: I do. But you have to make damn sure you enjoy it. I might get knocked over by a bus tomorrow. It'd be a real pisser if I'd just played my last game and hadn't enjoyed it. Some coaches I know would like to send their 2nd XI players to Tesco for a week. Stacking shelves. So they could see how lucky they are.'

Here, clearly, is a man whose glass is perpetually half-full. Offer commiserations for Kent's three bridesmaid's spots last season and the retort is swift and sure: `At least we get to go to the wedding.' Here, just as evidently, is a man partial to audiences. Which goes some way to explaining his expertise in the abbreviated game: `When I wake up on the morning of a Championship fixture, I think, great, cricket; when I wake up before a one-dayer, I think, GREAT, CRICKET!'

`If I had your f*** in' money,' sneered David Bairstow, `I'd play f*** in' shots like that'

  M. V. Fleming is the first Old Etonian to represent England at senior level since F. G. Mann 48 summers ago (if we discount JRT Barclay's managerial stints). This is not to be sniffed at. Ever since gents began sharing shampoo with oiks, privilege has been more burden than boon. Before long, Fleming found himself within goading range of that belligerent Yorkie, David Bairstow. `If I had your fookin' money,' sneered the keeper after a Fleming welly had middled only air, `I'd play fookin' shots like that.' Unjust, unjustified, but typical. It was the late Colin Page, the gruff and worldly Kent coach, who nicknamed him Jazzer, `as in jazz-hat cricket, country-house cricket'. Water off a duck's back. `I didn't feel insulted at all. I was just happy people were talking to me.'

And now, who knows? The World Cup may beckon. Some might deem the Hong Kong Sixes a modest gauge of worth, but pride beats perspective. `I was meant to get a solid-gold ball for the first hat-trick in the event's history, but  Dermot (Reeve) wangled it a few years ago for getting three in four balls. I'll have to get it off him! Mind you, it was against Hong Kong, and the last decision was a slightly dodgy lbw. But it was nice. Being picked meant a great deal. Last summer, I thought I might make the Texaco squad but I couldn't get a run until June. I was a shambles. When I missed out I thought that would be it. I'd never play for England.

`John Wright [Kent's new coach] showed enormous patience, building up my confidence, and one day it just clicked. I made a hundred against Essex and didn't look back. And once the selectors announced their intention to take a specialist one-day side to Sharjah I thought I was in with a chance, a very outside chance. I needed a Munich air crash or a plague but…' Pause for self-mocking and endearing comic effect.

 `Graveney phoned the morning the touring teams were announced and told me Darren Gough was likely to miss Sharjah and I'd probably be the reserve, so keep the winter free. Which was either flattering beyond belief or an insult to Darren. I suppose the thinking was that we both bowl at the death. It was very frustrating. I couldn't tell anyone. And I was in Hong Kong when it was announced, which was even more infuriating. I couldn't strut around Kent. I was desperate to show off.'

 AND THEN there's Matthew Fleming, chairman of the Professional Cricketers Association. Even there, rules are waived. If he had his way, the Championship would comprise 14-16 teams and two divisions, facilitated by mergers. Each squad, moreover, would be permitted two overseas players. Not exactly the proposals one might anticipate from a man entrusted with protecting jobs.

`Obviously we've got to get the best deal for the players – not those at the top but those who live with the uncertainty of winter. And I think we can get a better one. But the PCA has often admitted we have too many professionals, that there's a soft underbelly. It's got a bit tougher recently thanks to four-day cricket, but I do think we need two divisions, and if that happens some of the members will lose their jobs, but so be it. I hope they look back in the year 2050 and say, Cor! Those boys at the turn of the century: they did us a favour. Our custodial role is more important.'

When I wake up before a one-dayer, I think, GREAT, CRICKET!': Fleming is happy to specialise in the instant game

 Fleming was `very flattered' to be asked to succeed Tim Curtis in the PCA chair, not least given the stark contrast in their respective approaches. `Tim's a good, quiet operator, I'm more of a bull in a china shop. I tend to engage my brain after I engage my mouth. But we're getting things done, slowly. Since I've been around the minimum wage has gone from £14,500 for a capped player to around £20,000. Pension schemes have changed radically, assurance schemes, too. We've done a lot, and we can do a lot, but not as much as we'd like. Nowhere near as much.'

Hence the immediate priority: to see home Test matches `de-listed' from the Government's list of sporting events that are barred to satellite television. `If we could add a one at the front of the next TV deal, it would give the game the oomph it needs and the PCA financial independence. It would be a pity to lose BBC coverage, but no-one seems to worry about the lack of live football on terrestrial TV. And, as a result of the Sky deal, just look at what the PFA offers its members: winter re-training, education, insurance. You rarely hear of ex-footballers falling on hard times, do you?'

All the same, having just signed a four-year contract with Kent, Fleming concedes that he may be contributing to the inertia that so depresses him. `I think I'm worth it, but it might not be in the best interests of the game. What if there's an 18-year-old who's nearly as good as me, who, if the club took a punt, might be better than me in a year's time? No, I wouldn't take it with good grace if Kent went for him, but you've got to break eggs to make omelettes. As John Wright keeps saying to us, shit happens.'

Here, plainly, is a man seldom bothered by what-ifs. After all, as he points out with something of a helpless chuckle, `I usually try the if.' As a summation of the appeal of Matthew Valentine Fleming, Derring-Doer, that'll do nicely.

© Wisden CricInfo Ltd