Out with the old, in with the new order

This is a tale of two men called Stephen. It unfolded over the space of a single, remarkable over lasting precisely five minutes at Melbourne Cricket Ground yesterday. It began at 11.55am and by its end it was High Noon for both of them.

For one of the combatants there was no future, for the other the future had just begun. Stephen Harmison, of Durham and England, was bowling to Stephen Waugh, of Australia and the world. About all they had in common was a name.

Moments earlier, Harmison had taken his career haul of wickets to 10, costing 45 each. Waugh came in with 9,917 runs, averaging 49.5. They were figures yielding one conclusion: it was no contest. Nor was it.

At the start of the fifth day in the fourth game of a lopsided series, Harmison had bowled with a woeful disregard of the conventions. Line and length had become two of life's deeper mysteries.

The two wickets, from nowhere, in his previous over had undoubtedly helped. Now self-belief coursed through Harmison like the River Yarra over the way bursting its banks.

In Australia's first innings, Waugh had relieved the pressure on his place by scoring 77. But now the bat in his hand might as well have been a feather duster brushing away the cobwebs of batsmanship.

The noise was deafening and perpetual. The "Barmy Army" were at full throttle. Harmison, tall and serious, stormed in from the Press Box End for the day's 12th over. Australia were 66 for 3. He bowled fast, very fast. The first ball took an inside edge and flew for four, agonisingly close to stumps and wicketkeeper.

A no-ball followed and it was a dreadful portent. Harmison raced in again. Waugh stabbed and missed. The next one hit him on the pad hard; then he shouldered arms. But this was a batsman all at sea, not waving but drowning out there. The fifth legitimate ball lifted, enticing Waugh into the shot. It appeared to deflect and ended in James Foster's gloves.

Nobody moved, nobody could hear for the din. The big-screen replay was soon confirming that Waugh had nicked it. The crowd yelped. But it was all too late for any appeal to be decently upheld.

Of course, Waugh might have walked but he never has, he never will. He was asked about it and wondered if a driver, after noticing he was travelling above 70km an hour in a 70km limit area, would walk into a police station to report himself for speeding. Australia's captain might do well to avoid the radar guns awhile.

The sixth ball was fuller, Waugh drove low to the ground. Nasser Hussain, at short extra cover, took a wonderful rolling catch, leapt up, passionately pointed one finger at the umpire, another in the direction of the pavilion, presumably having been perusing his copy of The Spirit of Cricket before play. Waugh turned and for one of the last times began his Charlie Chaplin trudge to the pavilion.

He was 15 yards into it before the no-ball signal was spotted. Harmison had overstepped the line again. Except, as video replays indicated, he had not. But the condemned man returned. It was as if the noose had not gone properly around his neck and then the trapdoor had failed. Because it was Waugh, he promptly drilled the over's last ball for four. It was surely only a stay of execution.

Harmison had effectively exterminated a great career. He might have begun another. Waugh said later he was suffering from a migraine which made him dizzy. He has surely passed it on to his selectors. The migraine will vanish but the feeling that will not go away is that at High Noon in Melbourne the generational baton was passed.