It's up to Freddie

Fifty days to the serious business of the summer. Time for the cafe three to talk through the issues.

"Will Freddie be fit?" I ask.

"Unlikely," says the old pro. "He's hobbling. There's not time. Not after an operation."

"He's all right, is Freddie," says the new boy. "He bowls me with a rocket, a bloody Exorcet, last summer, but as I go off, he shouts 'Well played, kid.' And I'd only made 45."

"I saw that," says the waitress, putting down the teas . "I knew yorker was coming, there were unborn babies knew yorker was coming and you've played back before he's delivered the ball. When you was a kid, didn't your mum and dad tell you."

"Anyway," I butt in, "lets pick a team each. I'll keep them and we'll come here the day before the first Test and see which of the three is on the button."

"Four," said the waitress and reached for her order pad. "Here's mine. I've done it already."

"We'll all agree on most of it," says the old pro. "Strauss, Cook, Bopara, Pietersen, Collingwood and Vaughan as batters. It looks as if that Prior has not got a terminal finger injury, more's the pity, so he'll be in; Anderson, Broad, Swann, Onions and Panesar."

"You're right, except for Vaughan," I say. "He's gone. His injury is terminal; you won't see him in an England shirt again. They should have made him coach when they picked Flower. I will put Prior at No.6 and make room for Flintoff, Harmison, Simon Jones, perhaps even Adil Rashid - whoever's fit and firing."

The lad sips what he thinks is a tea latte. "If Freddie is firing, we win," he says. "He is nice to me at Old Trafford, buys me a pint that evening and says "well done" again and . . . "

"All you can do is play back to a yorker," says the waitress. "Freddie won't be fit. He might have played his last match like Vaughan. I'm going for that Yorkshire lad Bresnan. Strong, looks a bit like Botham and Anderson and Bresnan reminds me of Statham and Trueman."

Now it is time for us all to shout at her. "You just don't understand this game, do you?"