Crisis at the heart of our Ashes summer

Updated: 13:52 EST, 25 April 2009

The Northamptonshire innings was reaching its close but the tail-ender was determined to sell himself dearly.

He skipped on dainty feet to the pitch of the ball, unravelled a flowing swing, then held the pose as it soared through the sunlit afternoon.

Monty Panesar was smiling long before the sightscreen resounded with a quivering clunk.

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Gamble: Andrew Flintoff

The Kentish crowd, benign and unpartisan, acclaimed the shot. Such is the precarious currency of English cricket that with six elegant runs a spin bowler may be rendered an authentic all-rounder.

This is what happens in an Ashes summer; straws are clutched, hopes are renewed, omens are gratefully grasped.

Canterbury, perhaps the most beguiling cricket ground in all of England, was looking far beyond county considerations to the dreamy months ahead.

Could Monty substitute solid performance for seductive promise? Could England assemble a pace quartet of menace and ferocity? Is there a middle-order batsman out there waiting to be recognised? And can we count on fielding a fit and firing Freddie Flintoff? That was on Wednesday.

By Friday afternoon I fear we knew the answer to the last question.

Flintoff agreed a £1.1 million fee to turn out for a clumsily concocted team in a meaningless IPL circus in South Africa. He then fell victim to a knee injury which required surgery and ruled him out of the home series with the West Indies.

He may now miss the World Twenty20 in June and few tears will be shed over that.

But then we reach the whole point and purpose of the summer and Flintoff's Ashes participation is suddenly thrown into doubt.

If the worst should happen, then England would be missing far more than a mere cricketer. They would be losing the heart and soul and spirit of the team. And for what?

The public are bewildered by Flintoff's presence in the IPL. They understand his desire to lay hands on the enormous fee and they realise that the sporting life of a professional cricketer is short.

But for Flintoff to gamble his well-being in such a cause seems like a cricketing form of Russian roulette.

Of course, other English cricketers have seized the cash.

These include Kevin Pietersen, who has discovered that even the most acute homesickness may be cured by a gargantuan cheque.

Yet we are not surprised by Pietersen, whose very presence in the England team owes much to his mercenary instincts.

But Flintoff is different, or so we tell ourselves.

In fact, certain people have been telling themselves some extraordinary tales in the wake of Flintoff's injury.

Hugh Morris, the managing director of England cricket, declared: 'If there is a saving grace it is that the injury has occurred now, rather than on the eve of the World Twenty20 or the Ashes.'

If Monty and his chums can impart such spin when the Aussies arrive, than all may not be lost. Yet the fear must be that our Ashes hopes have suffered a needlessly grievous blow.

There will be questions raised about the governance of the English game, and properly so.

The system of central contracts was specifically designed to protect both the national team and its players in such situations.

Yet the people at the ECB have brought their customary ineptitude to bear on the latest problem.

And Flintoff himself, the Laughing Boy whom we idolised in that summer of 2005, may never be seen in quite the same light.

Sure, he has done great things for English cricket, and deserves reward. But English cricket has also done pretty well by him and, since he knew the roughand- tumble risks of the IPL, he might have done well to avoid them.

Still, as harrassed politicians always say, we are where we are. And where we are is a sadder place than it was a few days ago.

When the sun shone on lovely Canterbury, and Monty batted like a latter-day Cowdrey, and we spoke with heady optimism of the Ashes summer.

And wondered what Freddie Flintoff might do to the Australians.

Great football but not very English, is it?

The Liverpool-Arsenal match was moving towards its frantic conclusion the other evening when the Sky commentator grew lyrical. 'I don't care what anybody says,' he panted. 'You don't get games like this anywhere in the world.'

His attendant pundit blathered effusive agreement. You couldn't see them but you just knew that they were hugging themselves.

It was a remarkable match. And there have been other, similarly exciting contests these past few weeks.

The quality of the Premier League is high, as is the level of public interest.

Amid the euphoria it would be easy to believe that the underlying problems of English football have melted away. Not so.

When that rose-tinted reporter made his observation at Anfield, there were just three English players on the pitch - Jamie Carragher of Liverpool plus Arsenal's Kieran Gibbs and the substitute Theo Walcott. And this in a league which was created with the declared aim of strengthening the England team.

In truth, there is much to be said for the 'quota' systems of squad selection which have been put forward by FIFA and UEFA.

Unfortunately, whenever Michel Platini attempts to argue the merits of his case, he is met by a knee-jerk squeal of Little England abuse. And his persuasive arguments go unheard.

Sure, we are aware of the Premier League's benefits.

Attracting the world's best players has delivered Champions League trophies to Liverpool and Manchester United in the past four years.

But in the nine seasons between 1977 and 1985 - long before the Premier League was conceived - Liverpool won four European Cups, Forest two and Villa one.

And these at a time when the competition was restricted to champions.

Then there are the debts. Manchester United owe £667million and Liverpool £350m while Roman Abramovich has loaned Chelsea £340m and has purchased £370m of shares in the club.

The total indebtedness of all 20 Premier League clubs is way beyond £2.5 billion.

Even in these turbulent days it is a staggering amount.

The debts are made up of many factors, including the monstrously inflated salaries of the players and the still more scandalous sums paid to agents.

But none of these things matter, it seems, because this is the richest, most envied league in all the world.

Yet still it divides opinion. Some believe it is indestructible. Others shake their heads at the mountain of debt and the implacable vanity of the debtors.

And they fear for its future.

P.S. He hasn't changed, not a bit. He remains a study in surly self-absorption.

He aimed a couple of slights at Mark Hughes and Steve Bruce and sneered at his former international colleague Tony Cascarino.

He spoke of his fear of losing, his burning desire to achieve, his implacable independence, as if he possessed the monopoly on those qualities.

And he switched on lots of icily dramatic stares.

In short, he produced a typical Roy Keane performance.

The act is wearing tediously thin.