Ollie Robinson’s metronomic medium-nip represents the new age – sometimes, you just get the heroes you need

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.

The tourists offered little but Jofra again invited us to marvel at what he is and mourn what could have been

At almost exactly 4.19pm on the second day of the second Test something almost happened. The sun, only ever grudgingly present, appeared just enough overhead to offer a lime green sheen to the late-season outfield, as weathered as an antique heirloom carpet.

Pakistan had gradually slumped under the table between lunch and tea at Lord’s. They were lolling at 110 for nine, product of 37 overs of almost entirely anonymous batting. This is an unusual Pakistan, if only in their absolute and unyielding ordinariness. The classic Pakistan Test team are an uneasy balance of stars, perhaps a little overwhelmed by their own weapons: speed, seam, spin, luminous top-order batting, all mixed in with the ballast of some unspectacular other guys.