When Test cricket is this good, even defeats can feel like a triumph

M emorable things happen at three o’clock in the morning. Perhaps you watched the then Conservative defence secretary Michael Portillo climb slowly on to a wooden stage, to be sent into the political wilderness by a returning officer in a ceremonial chain at 3.10am on 2 May 1997. But forget that – were you up for Neil Wagner?

Were you pulling on your second pair of bedsocks on a chilly February night as he thundered in, all big-hearted fury and handyman vibes, at the Basin Reserve? Were you wrapping your hands round a cup of tea with your ear against the radio? Were you out of bed, in the living room, perched on the edge of the sofa, alone but very much part of the band of brothers and sisters who pepper their days – and their nights – by following Test cricket?

England’s digit of doom came from an official in black trousers and an umpire’s coat – and much as there was disappointment that Bazball’s remarkable run of six consecutive Test wins had come to a halt; there was a pinch-yourself glee at watching the conclusion of one of the closest Tests of all.

New Zealand’s one-run victory – matching only West Indies’ triumph against Australia at Adelaide in 1993 – was just the fourth time a team have won after following on. Not that any of it mattered as Wagner charged about the field like a man pumped with a heady mix of relief and adrenalin, with a hearty dose of vindication on the side, after previously being mauled by England’s attack laboratory.

The day, like the Test, had swung this way and that. First the early wickets of the overnight men in possession, Ben Duckett and Ollie Robinson, then the wicket of the jittery Ollie Pope – whose brief stay at the crease had felt set with bear traps at every angle. The cartoon