Jimmy Anderson rang the morning’s five-minute bell. England tracksuit on and a gentle smile for the cameras: one still shrouded in mystery a month since his Lord’s hurrah, an internal monologue you’d pay good money to cup an ear to. Does he wish he was still out there, dressed in whites? How would he have gone in the morning, the ball swaying and jagging, against this Sri Lanka batting lineup? Should this have been where it ended, bowling at his home ground from his own end? Should it have ended at all?
It still feels a slight shame that this great experiment, a test of how long the human body can withstand the rigours of hurling a cricket ball, has been cut short. That he will spend the next few days with a mitt, not a fresh Dukes ball, will be a sad sight for ardent Anderson fans and some neutrals, too.
