It was shortly after South Africa bowled out New Zealand for 45 at Newlands that I began to wonder whether Jerry Bruckheimer might be wrong. The Bruckheimer recipe was seized upon by sports marketers. Their logic was solid: if the modern signifiers of action and excitement are sweaty men running in slow motion, accompanied by portentous but ultimately meaningless orchestral music, then that was how they would sell their product. Those of us up in Row Z should have been roaring. There should have been slow-mo high-fives, Bronx-accented yells of “Dat’s whut I’m taakin’ aboud!”. After all, Jerry Bruckheimer had promised us that wherever unlikely drama met overkill, there we’d find deep, manly satisfaction. But it just wasn’t so.