Three days later, in the NatWest semi-final at Edgbaston, Paul Jarvis's wideish first ball for Sussex was clattered triumphantly to the boundary by Neil Smith. The second was wider and suffered the same treatment. The third pitched practically outside the return crease. Jarvis retired humbly to long leg with figures of two overs for 24, and from then on Warwickshire were unstoppable.
These two different scenarios have a common thread - mental fraility. Both bowlers have a string of assets. Caddick: bounce, accuracy, movement; Jarvis: pace, aggression, stamina - but neither could produce all of them when it counted. The pressure and expectation frayed their skills.
At England practice, Caddick will bowl for half an hour in the nets, hitting the splice or passing the edge with regularity. A half volley is as rare as an lbw decision from Cyril Mitchley. But place him under duress, i.e. a crucial stage of a Test, and it doesn't seem to happen. ``Hit the deck, Caddy,'' the players implore, but among the testing, short-of-a-length deliveries are all sorts of liquorice.
This is not caused by a technical shortcoming, but by a lack of self-confidence. Secretly, Caddick does not believe he is capable of landing six balls on the same, demanding spot, so therefore sprinkles in other types of deliveries - in-swingers, attempted yorkers, etc. rather than face up to his perceived inadequacy.
Jarvis's failure was a product of over-excitement and self-consciousness. It was his biggest match since joining Sussex in 1994 and, as their only Test bowler, he was acutely aware of his responsibility: he envisaged only his absolute best would be good enough. In the adrenalin rush, he tried too hard and, after it all went pear-shaped, became taut with anxiety then completely demoralised.
It was distressing to see the flesh torn from the bones of a fine bowler, and you wanted to shout ``Just relax, Jarvo'', but he wouldn't have heard. Tension plays havoc with the senses. The fact is, every performer experiences nerves: players, commentators, musicians. They are lying if they say they do not. If it's live, it can go wrong and the world will be your witness. That's potentially scary.
What matters is how you deal with it, whether you suffer from nerves. Going into bat at, say, 32 for three, Steve Waugh is on edge, but you wouldn't know it. He would hardly flinch if a bomb went off next to him. ``I think you've got to have a bit of nervous energy when you go in,'' he says, ``but if you've got too much, it's a sign that you're not sure if you're going to do well.''
He draws confidence through having emerged from similar predicaments and via his careful mental rehearsals. Before he goes out to bat, he studies the game carefully, visualising himself at the wicket, observes the bowlers tactics, the field settings, any flaws he can focus on. At the wicket, his only concern is the next ball.
Like many Australians, Waugh is fortified by the prospect of failure rather than weakened by it. Difficulty equals challenge, and he adapts to surroundings, scavenging for survival. With distracted minds, some English drop too many titbits.