Making a game of it

"I hope they get skittled," says one of the few English spectators sat by the sightscreen at the pavilion end - and it is not the Bangladeshis he is referring to. "I've come all this way, I'd like to see a proper game made of it."

And so say all of us. Bangladesh's fightback in the morning session was witnessed, once again, by more concrete than colour, but the sense of excitement as four wickets tumbled for 38 was palpable. The boy scouts manning the steps to the roof grinned their hellos with a touch of extra gaiety. Lunch and drinks were handed around with awardwinning enthusiasm, and even that surly official by the pavilion gate managed to raise a smile ... before frogmarching me back to where I belonged.

But nowhere was the sense of optimism more infectious than in the Bangladeshi press box. It is noisy, knowledgable and rammed to the gunwales, and inside the session was rightly being hailed as one of the best in Bangladesh's history. As they willed their boys to make further inroads, attention focused on the senior reporter of the local Bengali-language newspaper. He appeared to have developed psychic abilities midway through the collapse - either that, or he had been studying Mark Butcher's tendency to shuffle across the crease early in his innings.

Upstairs in the English press box, however, torpor reigned supreme. A late night of Champions League football viewing had conspired to drain the room of all its banter (and several of its members), although those present found it hard not to raise a smirk as the wickets tumbled. The stragglers duly floated in at the interval, having watched the collapse from the comfort of their hotel-rooms - and watched and waited for the next instalment.

They didn't have to linger for long. Rikki Clarke's tentative debut was brought to an end by Mohammad Rafique's arm ball, and when Chris Read swished an edge to the keeper, the stands were a fuzz of animation. It was time to leave the air-conditioning behind and head for the cool of the canopies.

Access to the terraces is strictly limited. They are cordoned off from the executive area by an impenetrable barbed-wire fence, and the only way to reach them is to head out of the stadium and battle through the crowds on the concourse. These are busy enough on any ordinary day, but by now word was filtering out about Bangladesh's unexpected successes, and every entrance was a scrum of latecomers.

After winding through the bamboo barriers, the next complication was the helpfulness of the gatemen. My press pass has Gate No. 21 clearly emblazoned across the top - the men at No. 17 quite reasonably assumed that I was lost, and attempted to guide me back to my intended destination. Eventually, though, after several conferences, I was allowed through and aimed for a secluded congregation at deep long-on.

The tiers of the bleachers are misleadingly steep, and it seemed like several minutes of traversing before I reached the knot of spectators in the uppermost corner. As usual I was greeted with warmth and enthusiasm ...and delight, when Gareth Batty nicked the new ball to the keeper - it appeared I was a good omen. One run later, and that was no longer in doubt, as Graham Thorpe lobbed a catch to Aftab Ahmed, the diving sub, on the stroke of tea.

But if it was joy that I was witnessing, it was not exactly unconfined. England were 267 for 8, soon to become 267 for 9, and facing in all probability a tricky run-chase on a crumbling wicket. But there was a distinct air of gravitas to the celebrations. Was I the only man in the stands who believed Bangladesh were in with a sniff?

It seemed I was. All around me, the Bangladeshis took on a lugubriousness I had only before witnessed in Scottish football fans. "We cannae win," they all agreed, and my heart bled. What will this lot be like when they finally break their duck? I don't know, but I want to be around when it happens.