Nor can the opener choose his moment. Hours may be left upon the clock, or minutes, the terrain is unknown, the behaviour of the ball beyond prediction and the conduct of the umpires still a moot point. Thick clouds may hover overhead. And he must get along well, must appear serene, or else the poor dears in the dressing-room will be all aflutter.
It has long been proven that a team with a secure opening pair are halfway to success. Long ago the correlation between productive partnerships by Gordon Greenage and Desmond Haynes and West Indian victories were shown. Now England, for long wobbly in this and every other area, seem to have found a pair to carry through the next few years, a pair who might even survive in a blighted and far off land where men wear green caps and curse a lot.
About Michael Atherton little more need be said. After years of struggle he has recovered his game and now seems capable of scoring runs even when there are not 17 hours left to bat and a match to save. Mark Butcher is the new fellow, and fresh he is too, for he only started opening for his county three years ago and first appeared for his country last summer. Notwithstanding which, he has found time to take some remarkable catches, drop some sitters, play some resounding innings, enjoy a bad patch, record a pair of ducks, suffer an injury and play the decisive innings as England won a proper Test series for the first time this decade.
It is a partnership that might work, not least because of its contrasts. Atherton, of course, is cerebral, a head full of thoughts, his pen full of wry observations and his being limited by the Prufrockian want of spontaneity that prevents members of the intelligentsia from simply jumping into a pool and splashing about. Butcher is rugged and pragmatic, has about him the unfussiness and imperturbability of the professional, and a desire to be one of the boys, playing hard during the day and enthusiastically joining such nocturnal pursuits as might arise.
Colleagues are confident with him because they can see he grows upon the field. Opponents accept him, too, because he does not bleet or brag. They can see he is a straightforward type, tough rather than hard, determined as opposed to defiant, serious and not solemn, a female impersonator in his pomp, not a man to be broken upon the wheel. Accordingly, he has walked through the door of Test cricket, a step still to be taken by more exposed team-mates busy exploring the canals and rivers of their own minds, unable yet to sail into the high seas.
It says much for Butcher that he looked the part of an opening batsman from the start. His robustness cannot be missed. His very stance speaks of a man prepared to be himself and willing to fight his corner, a man without illusions, without dreams even, save playing his part and winning Test matches, and these are not dreams at all, merely ambitions. He bats without any nod towards style for he realises he cannot match the dainty skills performed by lily-livered brethren waiting in the pavilion upon the appearance of the change bowlers, or so opening batsmen down the ages have assessed colleagues whose preference it is to occupy positions in the middle order.
In some respects this new, slightly damaged and almost middle-aged opener resembles John Edrich, though he is neither as joyless nor as strangely stylish, for Edrich had a hint of the partition among his practicalities. Of course Butcher is not as good as Edrich, not yet anyhow, for his senior had seen it all and had worked out every angle. Moreover Butcher is somewhat excitable, and his head beats to a hot music so that he must cut and square drive and sometimes hook, moments he might regret as Edrich never regretted.
Butcher is full of cricket and full of energy. The game and life itself flow through him, as well they might for he was born into a cricketing family. His dad played a bit, as does his brother. Undeterred, he promptly married into another cricketing family, his father-in-law a former England coach and his brother-in-law the England captain. He was, too, raised in a mixed family because Alan had found a West Indian better half, so that their first son swiftly knew the richness of the complicated life, and the beauty of toleration. He attended the local schools, ending at Archbishop Tenison's - in Croydon, not Kennington - so that he has always been a part of the humble mainstream.
Doubtless this raising has left its mark, taught him to get on with life, to appreciate its moments, to put effort into it, to live it hard and yet to remain healthy. Doubtless he was also lucky to find himself at Surrey. Perhaps he caught the combative mood of his county, perhaps he was born with it. It matters not. Surrey and Lancashire are the strongholds of English cricket and play with a mixture of aggression and ability capable of surviving the journey overseas.
Some men appear impressive at first only to dwindle upon closer inspection. Others grow with familiarity. Something about them suggests they are here to stay. Butcher belongs to the great tradition of left-handed opening batsmen. He is not its most distinguished member, nor is he its worst either, and he is going to be around a while.