My walk to the wicket is greeted with plenty of ``Good luck!'' calls but all I'm trying to do is act as relaxed as I can.

As usual I ask the umpire for my guard - ``two please'' - and scratch a line with my spikes. Only then, when I look down at my feet to check they are in the right position, does it dawn on me that I am on a king pair, back-to-back first-ball noughts. I look up and the umpire tells me: ``Right arm round, one to go.''

``Hell, he's round the wicket, what does that mean? This wasn't part of my plan,'' I think. ``It's bound to be short. Just cover your stumps, Gus.''

Only Doug Cowie's outstretched right arm is now stopping Allan Donald from charging in and potentially causing me, my team-mates and millions of England supporters heartache.

``Come on, Gus, you can do it, get forward,'' I tell myself unconvincingly as the umpire drops his arm and Donald starts his run-up. Now, from the boundary, watching a fast bowler is a great sight. The beauty of it, though, is lost on the fella 20 yards away, who, I can tell you, has other things on his mind.

``Christ, where's it gone?'' I say to myself as the predicted short ball hits the shoulder of my bat. Happily, on this occasion, the ball bounces well short of third slip. ``Thank God for that, at least I'm off a king pair now,'' I say to myself as the umpire calls ``Over''.

Robert Croft and I meet for a chat. Not that I say much. My mouth keeps drying up halfway through each sentence. We decide he is to take as much of the strike as he can - we desperately need two runs to make South Africa bat again and so waste 10 crucial minutes, so if it's there, Crofty, hit it.

Hit it he does. Makhaya Ntini's second ball is smashed through the covers for two, the small crowd erupts and part one of our plan is accomplished. Crofty keeps the next four balls out but fails to get a single, so leaving me to face another Donald over.

I ask Peter Willey, the other umpire, what the equation is. He informs me that if we can bat until 5.50, roughly two more overs, the game is saved. I relay this information to Crofty, who wishes me luck.

Allan Donald continues round the wicket for two balls. I duck under the first, an 88mph bouncer. Bloody hell, he's been in the field for two-and-a-half days and can still bowl at that pace - remarkable.

The second is wide of off stump and I leave it, like a top-order batsman - well, that's what it feels like to me, anyway.

Hansie Cronje, the South African captain, walks over and has a chat with him. ``What are they up to now?'' I wonder. ``Obviously I've got them worried!''

They decide he should come over the wicket. Now I can put my cunning plan into action. . . lunge forward so I cover my stumps and get my front foot well outside the line of off stump, so I can't be out lbw. If it's a short ball, I'll drop my hands and let the ball hit me.

The next four balls I somehow manage to smother. Two hit me on the gloves, but fortunately don't carry to short leg, the other two crash into my thigh guard, which isn't doing the job it's designed to do, namely to stop the pain.

``I've done it, thank God for that, I've done it,'' I say to myself as I watch his last delivery safely hit the ground. ``Come on, Crofty, you Welsh git, it's down to you now.''

Robert and I meet for another chat, believing that if he keeps this over out the match will be drawn. He duly does this, every ball hitting the middle of his bat. From my end, his defence looks bullet-proof.

During this over, Peter Willey doesn't seem as confident about the situation as he was. He has been in regular contact with the third umpire, David Constant, who apparently is wading his way through the rule books. This has got me worried so I go down to the wicket at the end of the over not to congratulate Crofty, but to tell him I don't know what's going on. We then walk over to Peter Willey and he says: ``Sorry, Gus, bum info,'' with a smile on his face. I tell him he's as much use as a chocolate fireguard.

So, here I am, Angus Fraser, with a Test batting average of 7.2, with not only the result of this summer's series resting on my shoulders, but also the future of the game in this country, if you are to believe the Press recently.

Anyway, here we go again. ``Get forward, watch the ball, don't be the one that ruins everyone else's hard work,'' I tell myself, over and over again.

Donald's first ball is once again short and straight. My game plan goes out of the window as I take evasive action, but fortunately the ball hits my forearm not my glove and goes to the slips. This doesn't stop the South Africans going up for an enormous appeal and Allan Donald ends up about two feet away from me.

``Not out,'' says the umpire.

Something strange happens next delivery. I hit the ball with the middle of the bat - for the first and only time of my innings. In response to such confidence Cronje offers his team some words of encouragement, in English: ``Come on, lads - one mistake, that's all it takes, he's under enormous pressure.'' Best I can muster is: ``Good one, mate.''

The next three balls hit me either on the hip, thigh or glove. One falls rolling towards the stump but I kick it away. Each success is greeted by a huge cheer from the crowd.

So it all comes down to the last ball.

Once again, Cronje and Donald have a chat and I'm trying to read their minds. I prepare for a short one but as it comes down I think: ``He's done me!'' It's a yorker. In a state of panic I try to get some bat on it, but can't. Fortunately it's not straight, and hits me on the back boot going down the leg side. Every South African appeals and I look up nervously to the umpire, thinking: ``Oh no, he's not going to do me again.''

This time he says: ``Not out,'' but my abiding memory is of Allan Donald virtually on his knees, knackered at the end of his follow-through, looking at the ground in frustration.

Once again nobody seems sure what's going on, but eventually Cronje calls it a day after an uneventful over from Adams.

I actually don't know how to react. You can't exactly go running off the field waving your bat when you have just scraped a draw, even if the crowd is going wild around you. So, calmly I shake the opposition's hands, give Crofty a hug, and make my way numbly off the field.

Back in our dressing-room, there are plenty of relieved smiles and Mike Atherton has great pleasure in telling me he hadn't backed me to get through it. My reply is unprintable.

Nearly every face that has greeted me since has said: ``Well played.'' Now I know what it's like to be a batsman after all these years, even if I didn't score a run.