When it was clear that Australia was about to be defeated by Sri Lanka in the second final of the tri-series, the side collectively lost its temper.
A look of fury crossed the face of Shane Watson, Michael Hussey's jaw jutted liker a comic book hero and David Warner's hyperactivity achieved its greatest height yet. Only the frenzied attempt of the Channel Nine commentators to retain their audience was more pronounced.
It's probably why Australia won the third final. That raised intensity said it may not be as great as it was once but it still has its pride. Sometime soon we will, I suspect, be gazing up to see Michael Clarke and his not so merry men in the lead again.
That ability to accelerate when things go wrong is just one way great sides show their power. You can see it in Manchester United following its manager Alex Ferguson for whom furious argument is a natural condition.
The cricketer most given to bouts of self-critical anger was Vivian Richards although it did not happen often as he and his black knights rode triumphantly across the globe.
Richards was 60 this week and that hardly seems possible; such a life force cannot, surely, grow old. No cricketer has ever looked fitter — from the early morning training routine of a boxer — nor sweated harder nor concentrated more fiercely.
I ghosted his copy for a while and got to know him well. Although I have performed the same service for a full Test team of international stars he was the easiest to deal with.
He was — the last time our paths crossed was four years ago — a complex mixture of strengths and weaknesses, just like everyone else. Mike Atherton wrote this week that Richards was the greatest batsman he saw; all I will say is that he and Bradman have to fight for the No.3 spot in my team of giants.
I'll give you one good reason. He never refused a challenge and in particular he never saw it as anything but his right and duty to bat at No. 3. Too many contemporary batsmen don't seem to have that same pride. It's tough to bat first wicket down; Richards loved it.
His swagger, the swing of the bat, the gleam in his eyes told the bowler “Hey, man, I'm the greatest — what are you going to do about it?” As he took guard you could almost hear him say the words.
I was once the audience while three England captains debated where they would place mid-wicket to stop his trade mark shot while he zipped the ball through various parts of the leg-side even though three fielders blocked his path.
Glorious batsmanship
I was lucky enough to see his World record century off 56 balls on his home ground of St. John's, Antigua which lies in the shadow of the prison where his father was chief warden; and watched him take on Ian Botham shot for shot as they hit Eddie Hemmings, the main England off-spinner for 88 in 10 overs; and most of his Test hundreds. Glorious, unforgettable batsmanship.
If he had been in the old Africa the dark continent of Zulu war parties, of the explorer David Livingstone and mighty battles against British troops, surely Viv would have been a mighty warrior, until his last breath.
Instead he strode the world of sport like a colossus, beating back the finest and determined to make his race respected. He achieved that and a lot more in power and grace not to mention fury. Now he is old and it seems so wrong.
