Oh those doubters, those pouting doubters that never came about. How could they be so wrong? So stout of belief within their belief that Sam Tomkins was nothing more than some light relief.

They've given him untold grief, that was their brief, to rout the realms of realism and ignore the igniting embers of subtlety within the residence of his talent filled abode.

How could they not get it? The man can play.

His game is code to explode the misnomers miscast as fast as a Tomkins flick-on pass. Crass and as ill-advised as a foe underestimating the Englishman's zero to ten metre speed as the former Wigan wonder spies a gap and opens the tap on yet another line break. Stepping and swerving, he may not quite be a quick-stepping Shaun Johnson, but he is effective all the same.

Such hijinks as those doubters disregard the optical wavelengths colouring the delights bestowed upon them by yet another offload to a scurrying teammate keen to flatten a hump of defence.

No matter, they'll never be satisfied. It is oh so indicative of the inclination of the haters to hate, one supposes. Never will they be contented as their content was forever discontented.

And sneer they shall. For fear of petty's prey sitting pretty among the enlightened and the haters darkened souls enlightened only through another's failure.

No, he's not Billy Slater, the games top fullback. The twenty-six year old has not proven to be quite the try scoring machine that Slater is. He does not slice through defences to run the length of the field as the Melbournian can.

He may not even be Roger Tuivasa-sheck, his replacement next year when Tomkins returns home to England. But he isn't half bad. One and a half seasons into his three year contract and barely has a foot been put wrong. So strong to prove the doubters a laughing stock, and despite being out for six weeks with a partial tear of the posterior cruciate ligament in his left knee, he has come back and made an immediate impact.

From a struggling slide to a winning bent, the Warriors with Tomkins back at fullback have slackened the tether of sloppy losses and fettered six wins from their previous nine played.

Even in Yesterday's 24-0 loss to the Roosters the light of Tomkins shone Tomkins upon his overpowered side. He was at his sidestepping best, regularly evading a foe, procuring many a half-break. But not only was he an attacking dynamo, defence became him.

Never afraid to introduce himself to physicality he is no dove as he dove into his defensive duties. Scrappy and niggly, he stands his ground. And organises. It is no coincidence that his return from injury has resulted in a soaring defensive effort. Over the past four matches this team has leaked a paltry fifteen points against. Superb.

Alas, nothing is forever, though. Homesick, Tomkins is heading home at the conclusion of this season, a year earlier than initially planned. Those haters, always lurking, at the ready to tear their target apart, no doubt will label the man weak. A boy. The lad couldn't handle living abroad.

Others, somewhat more sensibly, would proffer that Tomkins has shown great courage and maturity to shift to the other side of the globe. Twenty thousand kilometres away from family, experiencing a different culture and making new friends. That's intrepidity for you.

Whichever way one looks at it, there is only seven more matches this season, maybe a few more if they make the finals (they should) to witness the wonderful skills he displays each weekend.

So make the most of his final appearances. Tomkins will be missed when he's gone.

Don Bradman should have been prosecuted for plundering runs that no normal human had any right to score.

A twenty year career and six thousand, nine hundred and ninety-six runs later, the greatest cricketer of all time had an average of 99.94. Freak.

Whenever he passed fifty, he invariably went on to score a century, as witnessed by his conversion rate of sixty-nine percent. Twenty-nine centuries and thirteen half-centuries. A rare one indeed, to possess such powers of concentration.

Perhaps it was his ability to pick the line and length earlier than anyone else that set him apart, hence putting less mental stress upon him and allowing him to concentrate better than others for longer.

Whatever it was, it was a record without peer and we may not see it replicated for hundreds of years.

Or maybe not.

You simply never know when that next one is coming around the corner. Could the time be upon us?

Joe Root has acquired fourteen hundred and fifty-two runs over the past thirteen months at an average of 85.14. The twenty-four year old is currently attempting a pretty decent impersonation of Bradman.

But it's been one year. ONE YEAR. Let's repeat that: ONE YEAR. Sure the man from Yorkshire has been in the form of his life. There is work to do though.

His conversion rate currently sits at thirty-eight percent, rising to forty-one over the previous year. Yet, as one television commentator commented today, Root has on seven occasions got out for scores between seventy and ninety-nine during his Test career.

Convert those and that conversion rate is significantly enhanced. On most of these occasions this can only be a concentration issue, for when he does reach three figures he tends to go big.

Such as today.

One hundred and thirty-four star-sent runs. And as is often the norm with Root, he saunters to the middle with England reeling at a minimum of runs gained and closing in on a maximum of wickets lost.

In this case, forty-three for three was the damage. Adam Lyth was caught early in the slips while attempting to pan a ball to the legside. Never mind playing straight at the beginning of an inning to one of the best pace attacks in the World. Or anyone for that matter.

Then Alastair Cook tried to cut a Nathan Lyon delivery close enough to cut Cook in half, getting himself caught behind. Two down and then things became somewhat more dire when Ian Bell continued his run of poor form and went one delivery closer to retirement.

But Root always appears up for a crisis. On numerous occasions he saved the day against New Zealand in their recent series. Fortunately old habits die hard, for he was up to his old tricks again. Not that it was easy batting conditions.

This was a pitch that was far from having the verve and carbonation of Adam and Eve on their first meeting. It appeared to have been prepared with only one thing in mind; To negate Australia's pace attack. Fair enough, I guess.

This is debate for another day whether winning at all costs is the go or should the advertisement of the game come first, or does winning alone create enough of an advertisement by itself.

Back to the game in hand, conditions for England should have been worse as Root was dropped by Brad Haddin while still scoreless. If only Haddin had spent the last few months practicing his catching skills rather more than his sledging skills, Australia may have had the English all out for three hundred instead of the three hundred and forty-three for seven they ended on by the close of this first day.

Root, fortunately, is no worrier. He'll simply shrug off the past and launch into a billowing counterattack, often scoring at a strike rate of over one hundred. Sixteen of his initial seventeen runs came by way of fours, his strike rate at one stage even ascending to one hundred and sixty-six.

With the able assistance of Gary Ballance, who some say has limited footwork while others may call it economy of movement, the pair of them combined for a partnership of one hundred and fifty-three. Though Ballance departed at one hundred and ninety-six for four, having accumulated a hard fought sixty-two, there was no panic.

There never is with Root. He simply moves on in life and finds a new partner to share the joys of dampening Australian spirits with. In this case, Ben Stokes.

This dasher is a blaster and while this blaster may not yet be the ultimate master, he casts his sail to the winds of attack. He assaulted fifty-two, and by the time he was bowled by Mitchell Starc, had six fours and two sixes mixed in.

Unlike some, he doesn't gain much flack for his attack, for he more often than not succeeds. So when on the rare occasions he does fail, he is cut some slack.

So he should be. He is a match winner. Much like Root. By the time both had departed, England had reached two hundred and ninety-three for six and had gone some way to quietening the sceptics who believed this series will be a romp for the visitors. England are in good hands. There is hope on that there horizon.

And in Root, there could yet be the chance of that next one coming around the corner.

New Zealand should win this Test. And they most probably will.

However, if they don't, the blame can be placed squarely on Brendan McCullum's irresponsible shoulders. On a day when Kane Williamson brought up his tenth Test hundred, and first at Lord's, through the novelty of batting sensibly, McCullum, meanwhile, was once again displaying his propensity for muddled thinking.

It all started out fine. It often does with the Kiwi Captain. Swaggering to the centre with the loss of his side's third wicket, he settled himself in for the long haul. Playing each delivery like it was an unexploded bomb at Wembley, the utmost care was taken to set the foundations for a long individual stay at the crease, and a team total in the mid six hundreds. Let's get a first innings lead of two hundred and sixty and let England sweat the nerves of even more rigorous public scrutiny.

Sounds good. But as many often point out, nothing about McCullum is conventional. You never know what is going to occur next. Well, not true. In fact, he is the most predictable player in World Cricket. After ten minutes it can be guaranteed that his mind will succumb to the urge to swing at anything and everything. There are swingers out there that would be proud of his natural aptitude to swing at the first thing in sight.

This usually seeps into his psyche when fifteen runs have protruded from his bat. The bulge of brutality saunters into his mind and suddenly he sees the bright lights of fours and sixes serenade his ego. He naively falls for it and a blistering barrage of bountiful riches ensues. Then, just when he has set himself up for life, he takes one gamble to many and loses the lot.

So predictable.

Sadly a majority then justify this idiom of rehearsed selfishness with "it's just the way he plays". Instead of holding a batsman that could be so much better than he is to account , they empower him to believe he answers to no one.

Perhaps McCullum doesn't answer to anyone. Mores the pity, because here is a player that has averaged nigh on fifty over the last two years that could be ten runs higher.

Interestingly, there are parallels in his case with Kevin Pietersen. The Exiled English star was regularly lambasted for losing his wicket needlessly with irresponsible shots that let his team down. And quite rightly he was criticized.

Sounds familiar doesn't it. On one hand Pietersen is dragged over the coals for his misdemeanours, and on the other, McCullum, a vastly more popular personality, is celebrated for his. Sounds a lot like double standards.

So, when McCullum swung wildly at a delivery from Mark Woods that was far too full to flay away at, skying the ball over the wicketkeeper's head down to Joe Root on the boundary, instead of for six on the on-side, he should have been pondering what words his apology to his teammates would consist of.

With a responsible attitude from their Captain, the kiwi's could have avoided having to bat again. And this pitch is showing signs of low bounce and turn. Not the sought of environment you want to be in chasing runs to win on the fifth day.

Yes, New Zealand still finished on five hundred and twenty-three. Yes, they have a lead of one hundred and thirty-four. And, yes, they have England struggling at seventy-four for two at the end of the third day.

It could have been so much better though. Much like McCullum's career.

You're a beauty England.

First you generate a day fit for the tropics. Glorious sunshine and a sweltering twenty degrees to see in a new summer of exciting Test Cricket. Add to this vista a pitch perfect for the first morning of a Test; A fine smattering of grass, but not too severe, allowing for generous sideways movement, and overhead conditions that contributed just enough swing to the potion to make the first session fascinating.

Sure, having the home side thirty for four after 12.2 over's wasn't part of the plan. Put into bat, Alastair Cook lost the toss but won the day. Like Britain's many battles throughout history, his batsmen took a pounding early on. Four good deliveries, four wickets. At times one must accept a foe has unleashed the unplayable. And Ian Bell, in particular, received a delivery fit for the heavens from Matt Henry. That Henry, who was on debut, and at Lords, the home of Cricket, made a ball seam just enough to hit the top of Bell's off-stump all the more remarkable. So much for nerves.

Adam Lyth, too, on debut, was sent on his way by Tim Southee, with a cherry picking up enough steam to swing the slightest and garnering the grisliest of thin edges through to BJ Watling. Not the ideal debut though there are still three innings left for Lyth to cement a place as Cook's opening partner against Australia.

The downfalls of Cook and Gary Balance may not have been quite as excusable as the aforementioned. Nonetheless, the batsmen were entrapped in the bowlers lair. One where good line and length was always going to be triumphant initially.

Thankfully, though, for England, like many of those great battles throughout history, they managed to slave away through the tough times and save enough troops to fight the good fight for Queen and Country.

Two of those troops, Joe Root and Ben Stokes, know a fight when they see one and know how to fight that fight. Now the battle had shifted from the bowlers lair into the batsmen's enclave of attacking defence. For the hour leading into the lunch break, the two newbie's blazed away at a run per ball. The hazardous conditions decreased and Stokes and Root ripped shots to all parts, having a hoot on this hallowed turf.

Not that there was anything extravagant about their play. Yes, they blazed, but they certainly were not crazed. Just the simplicity of playing each delivery on its merits. If only certain others in the very recent past could have learnt their lessons and comprehended this. That's bye the bye though, I guess, and anyway, not a risky shot countenanced and by lunchtime, 113 for 4.

This was a fightback to show England the way in this new era of attacking Cricket. Gone are the days where run rates of two runs per over are considered acceptable. Closer to four is now the norm. As it should be. Root and Stokes displayed what could be done once the conditions had settled and they returned serve with some pressure of their own.

Bowlers, like most others, don't like being put under pressure. Their utopia is that of the batsman blocking and blinking at balls firing just outside off-stump. Turn the tables on them and slash and smash wayward deliveries to the boundary and they'll lose their line and length and linger in doubt over after over.

Let them conquer, they'll conquer. Make them hurt, they'll hurt. Which is what Stokes achieved after the break. Though he came up short of a second test century by eight is no slight on his ability. Much like his maiden test century against Australia in Perth, this was an inning of a fighter. And, like in Perth, one up against a top line attack.

He was in good company, too. For Root also fell just short. By two. This guy though is fast heading toward being in the company of the all time greats. In the past twelve months he has averaged 96.76, all against respectable opposition. Sure, he has another few years to go to truly prove himself. There is no reason he won't. He can attack, he can defend, a calamity or two does not offend his sensibilities - He's a man for all seasons.

In this inning alone he showed the aptitude to change when needed. Before lunch it was attack, after the break he slowed his scoring rate down considerably and held up an end while Stokes took the attack to New Zealand. Often leaving he ball outside off, playing defence with the straightest of bat's but positively, and respecting a foe without cowering. That was his lot.

In the circumstances, two scores in the nineties were gold. That England finished the day on 357 for 4 displayed a team not devoid of fighting spirit.

New Zealand, for their part, are a very good team. And yet quite possibly the most overrated side in World Cricket. Let's put this in perspective: Here we have an English side that if they had gone any lower in recent times would have been residing in Antarctica. Yet, by the day's end, an average English side have come out on top against the World's third ranked team. Yes, it's only day one - Anything can occur.

Knowing this lot, anything probably will occur.

On the British programme Top Gear, they have a segment called "a star in a reasonably priced car".

This car, a Suzuki Liana, is, much like Brendan McCullum's batting philosophy, decidedly average. The driver, a star in some sphere of life, is not. He or she may be an actor or a sportsman or woman or some celebrity of note. Whoever it may be, they have achieved more than the Suzuki Liana ever will.

The New Zealand Cricket team is, in a way, the equivalent of the Liana. It's reliable enough but it sure isn't fancy. It will do a reasonable job, to a point, but it will never win you anything when it counts.

Trent Boult, though, is that star in a reasonably priced car. No matter the average state of the vehicle he is driving, he'll find a way to extract higher performance levels from it.

New Zealand's best bowler by bounds, this leftie can swing and seam and send a foe tumbling with Yorker's to crush a dream or three. Without this Tauranga raised twenty-five year old and his twenty-two World Cup wickets, there would have been no final's appearance for this team.

Even on a day when the batsmen wore the tag of chokers with distinction, here was Boult to bolt down Australia, despite New Zealand having set their neighbours a measly one hundred and eighty-four to win, with a wicket in his first over.

They didn't win a match nor glory but ten over's later, and one for forty, one could never accuse Boult of misfiring under pressure. No matter the situation, this easy going swinger has a delivery to suit his every whim. Over the wicket or around the wicket, no wicket has tamed this talismanic wonder with a average of fifteen for the tournament and a career average of twenty-four.

And, until recently, the New Zealand selectors would not countenance the possibility of Boult playing a onedayer. No longer. For, now he is the first selected, and even on a day when conditions did nothing but humour him, he still contented himself with a display unmatched by any of his teammates.

With his Captain appearing to lose his nerve for all out attack, Boult hung tough and displayed his substance. Unlike some others.

Not so easy, is it, Captain Courageous, when you're not on top and up against a fearsome foe, to attack at will. There was a potential catch go missing as McCullum pulled back from all out attack. Maybe he is not as confident as he portrays himself to be. So easy it is to talk big when you are winning.

For all his pre match bluster about not been intimidated and believing in themselves, McCullum failed to show complete faith in the one man who never lets him down: Trent Boult.

A second wicket came beckoning when Boult did what Boult more often than not does; put the cherry on the correct line and length and caught the outside edge of an Australian batsman's bat.

Except that Captain Courageous mutated into a lily-livered yellow belly, removing third slip, and a chance to turn the match went begging.

Sure, they didn't have the runs to play with, and yes, there has to be a balance between all out attack and being too negative. Just play what is in front of you.

Except that you have the one star at your disposal that may change the game for you. Back him.

After all, Boult backs himself. Does each and every match. That, skill, copious portions of hard work, and it isn't hard to see why those selectors eventually saw the light.

Every sport has its share of lunatics. Unfortunately, some of them occasionally manage to take control of the asylum. In cricket's case, that asylum, the ICC, has had some of the inmates run amok. It wouldn't be the first time, it sure won't be the last. And, man, what fun these paupers of intellectual endeavour get up to.

The latest genius notion that their oh so virile minds could conjure up was to eliminate the break between innings if the side batting first was all out before the allotted three and a half hours. So, as in the case of last evenings encounter between South Africa and Sri Lanka, when the latter were dismissed for one hundred and thirty-three runs after only thirty-eight over's, instead of taking the normal thirty minute break, the former had to face their first ten over's, then, and only then, could the normal tea break be commenced.

Oh how fair. South Africa's reward for bundling out a foe cheaply with superbly accurate bowling was to have the momentum of their innings broken when they were going along nicely with forty runs on the board and only one wicket down.

Sure, South Africa still went on to win comfortably, and, yes, you could argue a rain delay can have the same effect. Except that there was no inclement weather, therefore rendering that argument obsolete.

But, before we finish, let us point out something somewhat more valid. And that is, as someone pointed out yesterday, New Zealand recently removed their opposition so quickly and forcibly that they had time to wipe off the majority of the deficit before the lunch break. Let the word "majority" be stressed, for with approximately fifteen runs needed to win, yep, you guessed it, the ICC's rule book intervened and forced some grub down the oesophagus's of both sides.

Which is all fine, I suppose, except that all but a hardy few in the crowd chose to go home early. It may not have been a classic encounter, but, still, why not advertise your sport in the best way possible.

And one of those concepts would be to have the viewer get value for money and witness the whole match.

Ireland have come so far and are so near, yet a quarterfinal is still many a mile away.

On six points, in pool B, with three wins, one more and they will garner a coveted position in the final eight. Having lost to India, today, they must now turn their attention to Pakistan on Sunday. Draw or win and they're in, lose and they're not. Be negative and hope for a wash out, that'll do too.

That win seems far away. Some say five days, others say when the Irish come to grips with the vagaries of World class spin bowling, then they can play with the big boys.

Ranked eleventh in the world, it is not often they are greeted with the opportunity to compete against the heavyweights. When it does come they are regularly found wanting. On the most docile of pitches, at Hamilton's Seddon Park, they sauntered their way to eighty for the loss of none against the Indian pacemen. Which, at first, appears contrary to the point. Until, that is, R Ashwin was brought on in the fifteenth over. And how it all changed.

Suddenly the Irish, who seemed comfortable with pace, threw open the notion that they are clueless against spin. They spied this attractive looking cherry, but try as they might they were out of sync with its flight. From crashing and bashing fours off of pace to being teased with turn and variations of speed by Ashwin, Ashwin scattered this pitch with the ash of Ireland's hopes.

Ireland's batsmen had no chance of sashaying down the pitch to the pitch of the ball. When they attempted to do so they were outsmarted. From the moment Paul Stirling, who was beaten in the air by this spinning maestro, holed out to long-off, the rot set in.

From a run rate of six an over to four and a half in the space of only a few over's, Ireland's batsmen could do no more than awkwardly block. Eight over's later and he had gone for a miserly nineteen runs. It was only in Ashwin's final two over's that Niall O'Brien decided to take to him, blasting a further nineteen off twelve deliveries.

Still, by then, the damage had been done and any hope of the men in green achieving three hundred plus had disintegrated. With their own attack lacking a spinner in the same class as Ashwin, and pacemen for whom the radar gun barely registers one hundred and thirty clicks, India's star-studded batting line-up were never going to be troubled gathering in this meagre total of two hundred and fifty nine.

India achieved this with over ten over's to go, exposing this minnow's myriad of weaknesses in the process.

But now Ireland know what they are up against on Sunday. Pakistan may not be quite the same level as India, but they are not far off. They have a useful leg spinner, too. So that particular headache isn't going anywhere.

And until the men in green can improve their abilities against spin, they may be even greener with envy at the sight of others going for glory in the quarterfinals.