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Four balls left, one run to win: Fleming to Klusener. I watched the television with Alan Coren in his dressing-room at BBC Pebble Mill. We were about to record a couple of games of Call My Bluff.

Klusener jabbed to mid-on and set off. Coren was on his feet: he had become Klusener, wafting a heavy bat for victory. No runs. Ah! Donald was stranded. Coren now became Donald, stretching for the safety of the crease he had just left. Reprieve: the throw misses the stumps. Three balls left.

Where were you when this all happened? My wife, for example, was driving away from her caddying job at the Welsh Women's Championships down a steep hill into Aberystwyth. Fleming to bowl . . .

``Araf'' was the Welsh sign on the road. ``Slow''. The advice was to engage low gear. This was no time to be cautious and do things slowly. South Africa had a World Cup final within their grasp.

Or had they. She braked: brakes squealed behind. Klusener's fate was ``live'' action in West Wales.

Bob Woolmer, pressing frantically on his laptop ``help'' key, was searching the glossary for ``human error''. Klusener scanned his brain for memory of the latest Woolmer print-out. He was, however, on his own with the truth which we all knew in the first place - coaches and computers do not win big cricket matches.

Is it possible for players to prepare for such situations? Fleming knew he had to pitch the ball well up; the fielders knew they had to save the single.

The batsmen were the only ones to have room for doubt. Should it be this ball, or the next, or the last one? Experience might have taught them to leave the daft run until last.

But it is more than that. The prize is so big that fear of failure can invade and mask all daylight; fielding hands become hard and pushy; legs move but they do not run. Bowlers suddenly forget length and make the pledge never to bowl a wide in their lives. Batsmen throttle the bat handle and try to hit too hard.

The noise of the crowd heats the blood and when blind emotion takes control of this cool, technical game, it is cock-up time.

Great players adore the big match. Incredible, gut-wrenching tension to young Klusener is to Viv Richards an opportunity to show of his virtuosity. Richards could treat tension as an old friend around whom he would put an arm and say: ``Relax, old chap. I'll handle this.'' He loved to place his predatory talent on the line.

Shane Warne had lost form but not the ability to dominate the big occasion. He kept his shoulders level at delivery, took all the physical strain needed to conjure up again the in-drifting leg-spinner, and the rest is history.

After Donald's run-out, Coren had relaxed to sit in delight and recognition of the incredible events on our screen.

Think again of the last two balls.

``Come one,'' yelled Klusener. True or bluff?

``True,'' responded Donald, but it was a bluff. And he nearly got run out.

``Come one,'' yelled Klusener. True or bluff?

``You're not catching me out this time. Bluff,'' responded Donald.

It was true - and South Africa went home.