Each age makes its own heroes. Two hours from the end of the final day of the second-last Test at the fag‑end of the post‑Bazball summer, the cheer from the Lord’s crowd at deep fine leg had something pointed about it, a crackle of event glamour.
Ollie Robinson turned as he ambled back and raised an arm in gladiatorial salute. “Oh Ollie Ollie, Ollie Ollie Ollie Ollie Robinson” was the response from a scattered, woozy swell, again with something arch and transgressive in it, the smell of anti-hero. What are you rebelling against, Johnny? What have you got? Also, if you really want to know, buzzword culture and enforced fitness regimes. Sometimes, you just get the heroes you need.
