Teams in disarray are not much of a home for players in need of security, among whose number can be counted Dominic Cork. Often he behaves like a man uncertain of his place in the world, a raging, shrill young man, an angst-ridden musketeer, a personality in search of a character. Such fellows need strength around them, a life full of duty, a club familiar with greatness or else their energies will run too loose because they are neither benign or malign, merely wilful. Cork has lacked the powerful restraining hand of reality. Humility is now his salvation.

Now it was Derbyshire's turn to bat. Their opening pair included a lad, Steve Stubbins, whose fame had not yet spread, and Cork himself. The finest swing bowler in the country, a painted and sometimes pained warmonger, and yet a mime artist too whose comeback trail has been pitted with boulders. In the press box journalists gathered, waiting upon events, old hands pointing out the futility of sending untrained batsmen to face the new ball, opportunists seeking interviews. But the senior men were absent, injuries and events having torn the guts from Derbyshire's batting.

Accordingly Cork had pressed himself into service. He has never been much taken by anonymity, wants to prove himself special and knows he must not hide. But he does not see the line, lacks the craftiness of the survivor, allows drama and heroism to be the guiding lights of a life led as if in a cartoon. On his way up it had been enough to contribute, now he wanted to dominate.

He used to bowl a nagging length from close to the stumps, angling and screaming the ball into the batsman's pads, a mosquito ball, an irritant and eventually a torment, an appeal, a wicket, another trudging opponent. Upon the arrival of fame his bowling was more scream than angle and his work suffered. He was Terry Alderman but he wanted to be Ian Botham. Although a fierce competitor, he had relied upon skill rather than presence to take his wickets. Perhaps those triumphs had misled him, the Test hat-trick at Old Trafford, the uprooting of Brian Lara, the shouts of the masses, the headlines and the wrist bands. Perhaps it had been too swift.

And Cork had taken a liking to public life, had forgotten about the hard slog. But it is so easy to turn it all into a morality tale. Maybe it was his back. Cork is a skinny type, unsuited to work upon the road. Nor has he been a dedicated trainer. Maybe he could not swing the ball any more and everything stemmed from that, the straining for effect, the bumpers, the attempts to make things happen, the anger and the anguish.

Botham and Darren Gough had been in harmony with life, Cork raged against it, skin drawn tight over his jaw. He lacked the inner calm of that pair, needs attention as they needed affection.

Stubbins took a single as Derbyshire's innings began and Cork took guard against Alamgir Sheriyar, who hurtles to the bowling crease much as the dispossessed rush to the guns of Cawnpore. Cork surveyed the field and settled into his stance, determined to put runs on the board. He had not bowled so badly. Derbyshire's other famous bowlers had been wayward. Only the youngsters had shown much inclination towards the accuracy expected from professionals, and some could not manage it.

Used as a fourth seamer, Cork had bowled with a discretion not always apparent in recent times. Indeed he had summoned the best spell of the opening day, a probing contribution with the old ball that brought down Gavin Haynes and saw Phil Weston dropped behind the stumps and at slip. Nor had he shown any histrionics at these misfortunes. Only in the forlorn evening had he bothered with bumpers.

Sheriyar's opening delivery was respectable and his second tempting. Attempting to drive, Cork played his stroke a fraction late and with his head a little raised, the imprecisions of a promoted tail-ender. Rather than speeding to the boundary the stroke sliced to gully where a neat catch was taken. Cork can be impetuous, had charged at a spinner in the previous match, but this was a sensible stroke. Cork can veer between extremes, a habit reflecting in the simultaneous news that England considered him too wild and Derbyshire had chosen him as their next captain, an appointment greeted with equanimity in his camp. Cork seemed to have future responsibilites in mind as he played this game, a leader incapable of containing himself will soon find followers thin on the ground. Empty words do not impress.

Derbyshire's innings spluttered along and the follow-on could not be avoided. Ten minutes remained and the light was murky. Now came grave disappointment. Far from opening the innings himself, Cork allowed two youngsters to walk to the crease. Opening batsmen cannot shelter from the storm. Next morning his pair-breaking first run was warmly greeted by team-mates. Two bold strokes later he played a loose stroke and departed.

Cork's search for satisfaction continues. His rise was swift and his fall has been sudden. Now he must find an understanding of himself and his cricket or he will continue to suffer. He can be brave, whole-hearted and dangerous. He can also be bombastic and destructive. The time for calculation has come and it cannot be ignored. Immortality has always been an illusion. There has only ever been sweat.

This period of destruction must end and the repairs begin. Cork needs England more than England need him. But he can bat and swing the ball and remains a courageous competitor. He could still be important. His energies must be properly directed. We will all be much wiser in 12 months' time. Hopefully the same can be said of this fine cricketer.