England - cricket world champions.

England - cricket world champions.

Ben Stokes wiped the sweat from his drained face, brushed off the green stains of grass on his shirt and the rest of England could hardly hold back the elation any longer. In fact some of us are still rubbing our eyes in astonishment. Surely this was never going to happen at any time of our lives. We must have been hallucinating because nobody thought an English sporting combination would ever become cricket World Champions. And yet England did and how good that must be feeling at the moment.

Yesterday evening at a sun dappled Lord's, the official home of English cricket, England finally threw off the restraints and constraints of decades of hurt. True, Sir Clive Woodward, Jonny Wilkinson and Martin Johnson were collectively responsible for English rugby's finest hour with their World Cup victory in 2003 but now English cricket, the symbolic and precious sport of an English summer, presented us with its most historic moment of all time.

True, there were no red shirts skipping and jigging around Wembley Stadium and there were none of those after match celebrations at the Royal Garden Hotel in Kensington. For a few brief moments it did feel briefly as if the spirit of 1966 had once again revisited English cricket. Besides, if we'd waited another couple of weeks  or so the coincidence would have been too uncanny for words. But if English football's World Champions can still hear the triumphant echoes of that iconic day then surely English cricket's World Champions are more than entitled to their day of global fame.

When the players of England had finally completed their last circuit of their gentle wandering around Lord's some of us were beginning to check both our blood pressure and our pulse. This was not an occasion for the faint hearted or those who can barely tolerate great sporting occasions when nerves are frayed and fingers are being bitten to the quick. Why do our sporting heroes insist on putting us through this agony, this insufferable purgatory, the tension, the drama, the whole emotional spectrum?

Finally though our patience had been rewarded, our unwavering loyalty to the cause finally given a proper reason to get very excited, jumping for joy rather than enduring that almost hard wired frustration. It's the moment when we think we've won something only to find that we weren't quite good enough to cross the line. Sometimes you'd be forgiven for thinking that England sporting teams do this on purpose just to test our reflexes.

After seeing off Australia in the World Cup semi finals most of England must have assumed, quite rightly it has to be said, that their Antipodean neighbours New Zealand were just skittles ready to be knocked down on a bowling alley. And yet how wrong could they be. This was not only a World Cup Final, it was carnival day at Lord's, a match that initially struggled to capture anybody's imagination but then blossomed like the brightest of summer flowers into a game that will be raved about, praised, rhapsodised about, discussed, analysed from ever angle and then declared as one of the great classics of all time.

For this was sport at its most sensational, spectacular and barely understood because some of the events that were unfolding before us simply defied rational explanation. In fact towards the end of England's now breathtaking run chase for victory none of us seriously thought we'd ever see anything better than this. The black shirted, black trousered, black caps of New Zealand were straining every sinew, using limbs they must have thought they'd never use again and just driving England back to the pavilion with every ball bowled.

The evening shadows were lengthening over St Johns Wood, the English batsmen visibly wilting in the summer warmth. Ben Stokes was beginning to run out of partners, wickets were falling disturbingly and for those in the crowd this must have felt like Chinese water torture. What on earth would Middlesex giant Denis Compton have thought of this in his celestial cricketing home? We can only imagine the thought processes of former England and Middlesex skipper Mike Brearley among the many former and captivated players in the Lord's crowd.

But with one ball remaining of the new fangled super over about to be bowled by Jofra Archer, even the most neutral of fans must have privately convinced themselves that England had blown it. Archer gingerly ran towards the crease, neatly delivered the ball and New Zealand ran hell for leather. They ran one, knew they had to come back for the second to win the World Cup and then that slow motion moment when time stands still. The ball was slung back from third man like a catapult and New Zealand's last, flailing batsman threw himself forward in a vain effort to complete the second. Jos Buttler, a delightful batting hero for England, sent the bails flying and England were World Champions.

New Zealand though, electing to bat first did start their innings with a promising spring in their step only for the opening partnership of Martin Guptill and Henry Nicholls to be abruptly broken. It was now 29-1. After a breezy flurry of confident straight driving, meaty fours and sixes one of the Black Cats most pivotal and influential figures Kane Williamson was out bowled by a ball that nipped back sharply by Liam Plunkett. It was 103-2. Then Henry Nicholls was smartly bowled out playing on with an inside edge. 118-3.

Now the morale of the New Zealand attack began to crumble like a decaying wall. Batsmen began to slash rashly at the good length English ball. An air of wild recklessness began to descend over the Black Cats. Soon the likes of Tom Latham, Ross Taylor were walking back to that grandly august Lord's Long Room where the chandeliered splendour of its portrait filled walls must have been gazing down on New Zealand with a gleeful grin. After a disastrous tumble of wickets New Zealand thought they'd got away with a perfectly respectable total of 240-8.

Soon though they'd be regretting their judgments. England came bursting out of the blocks like Olympian sprinters. Jason Roy and Jonny Bairstow laid the strongest foundation for a run chase that seemed attainable but firstly Roy was bowled decisively by Tom Latham followed by the dashing, cavalier Jonny Bairstow who looked set fair for a big innings only to be bowled out fairly cheaply for 36.

There ensued a rickety collapse for England as Joe Root, brave, courageous and red blooded played back awkwardly onto his pads and lost his wicket for seven.  A period of settled steadiness fell over the English batting before captain Eoin Morgan bounded onto the Lords wicket. Morgan, full of natural leadership qualities didn't really assert himself and was bowled by Jimmy Neesham for nine.

Somehow though this was an occasion tailor made for Ben Stokes and when Stokes flourishes his bat you can bet your bottom dollar that he means to stay at the betting crease until the formalities are complete and the transaction sealed. Stokes swung his bat so impressively and meaningfully that you sensed that here was an Ian Botham moment for the core of this England team.

From the moment Stokes settled his bat and shouldered arms, English cricket knew that something very significant and game changing was about to happen. And indeed it was. Stokes revealed the whole panoply of his power hitting game. There were the imperious lofted drives that seemed to be destined for St Johns Wood tube station, the monumental clips and immaculate pulls through the covers and point that went hurtling towards the boundary for a whole succession of fours. We mustn't forget those impish scoops for four, models of improvisation that took everybody by surprise.

Stokes was carefree, majestic, wonderfully adventurous and totally fearless. He slashed and cut the ball through gully and mid wicket with almost heartless relish. The runs flowed from Stokes bat like a tinkling stream in the Lake District. The bat became his most loyal friend, sprinkling singles when he had to and then launching a series of powerful shots that either ended in the Lords tavern or ended up high in the terraces where nobody could find it. Eventually Stokes couldn't be budged and was not out for a match winning 89.

Then Jos Buttler compiled a gutsy and tenacious, valiant 59 but Liam Ferguson bowled him out when he also appeared immovable. The lower order English batsmen were rapidly tumbled out as Chris Woakes went for two, Liam Plunkett was clean bowled for 10, Adil Rashid crazily run out, Jofra Archer went back to the pavilion for a duck and Mark Wood suffered a similar fate right at the end.

The turning points of the game were crucially decisive. There was the Ben Stokes six that became a terrible accident for New Zealand, Dominic Boult's unfortunate dropped catch that was then adjudicated as a six.  The sight of Boult, stumbling back on his feet to prevent a six, must have been utterly demoralising for New Zealand. It was the six they'd privately dreaded and New Zealand were psychologically burnt out.

So it was that England slowly built up their head of steam for those final and conclusive overs of the game. Painstakingly but with a deep gulp of relief England levelled the Black Caps well crafted 240 and the game finished all square.

We had now the super over, a mysterious brain child of somebody who obviously felt there was no other satisfactory way of deciding the game. Jofra Archer running in almost nervously or so it seemed conceded a wide then the New Zealand batsmen fought like lions to match their English opponents as if their lives quite literally depended on it.

With just a two runs to win the World Cup, the ball was thrashed wildly towards the boundary but Mark Wood, on whom lay the biggest responsibility , ran furiously for two in  what would have been a dramatic victory for New Zealand. Lunging for the line he narrowly missed out and Jos Buttler sent the bails flying into the air. England are the new cricket World Champions. What a game, what a day, what uncertainty, how finely balanced until the last ball.

Cue the whole of the England team sprinting off ecstatically into different directions, chests bumping each other, arms waving, leaping up and down as if somebody had just informed them that they'd just won several National Lotteries. They smiled, laughed and joked uproariously into the night and probably deep into early this morning. The champagne kept pouring, the World Cup proudly flaunted and still Ben Stokes couldn't find the right words which was perfectly understandable.  England had finally won the cricket World Cup. Now some of us could quite happily get used to that sentence.