It's a couple of minutes past ten in the morning and I rush into the team hotel – startling the security men, who only breathe easy once they see the media badge – imagining that I'm late for the Indian team's press conference. As I step onto the portico, I see a man dressed all in white posing for pictures near the potted plants. His skin is the colour of polished teak, and the muscles in his forearms wouldn't be out of place in the Yukon Jack arm-wrestling competition. I stop in my tracks and stare at him for a few seconds, an awestruck fan disguised as a journalist. Teenyboppers might swear by Sachin and old fogies may ramble on about The Don, but for most people born the right side of 1950, this man was God's greatest gift to the art of batsmanship. He may be the wrong side of 50 now, but Sir Vivian Richards is in such good trim that for half a second you almost believe he could still be out on the field – picking up deliveries from outside off stump and depositing them nonchalantly over square leg for six.

Perhaps concerned by my having stopped breathing, my companion asks me what's wrong. I shush her and point a finger as subtly as I can. "That ... is the greatest batsman you will ever see." For someone who watched his 189 on TV as it happened (my mother was accommodating enough with the school sicknote), seeing him in the flesh is like a first sighting of the Ka'aba in Mecca for a devout Muslim.

Greg Chappell was tremendous to watch and so are Adam Gilchrist and Tendulkar, but none of them possesses the majesty that Richards exuded in his pomp, and still does. Many can play majestic shots, but too few look the part even when standing still. He may be a fan of Smokin' Joe Frazier, but the Richards aura can only be compared to that of Muhammad Ali.

I go up to him and ask for an interview, stuttering like a spotty 14-year-old asking out the prettiest girl in class. He politely declines ("I don't want to sound too important, maan, but half-an-hour is a lot of time, you know") and my face goes the way of a Coke can under a tractor wheel. But as I trudge off, he taps me on the shoulder and says, "Give me a call in a couple of days, maybe we can work something out." Needless to say, I spent the rest of the morning grinning like an idiot.

The Indian team plead tiredness and the media meeting is pushed back a couple of hours, leaving most of us plenty of time to kill. I end up having a coffee with Jimmy Maher, who is one of the friendliest fellas you'll meet on the international circuit. He can't wait for Australia's game against New Zealand ("Somehow they always raise their game against us, don't they?") and is all smiles when England troop in looking shattered, frankly. I ask Maher about the Ashes and his grin wouldn't be out of place on a Hallowe'en lantern. "They've already started making excuses, haven't they?" he says. "They moan too much."

The two teams that sit behind the microphones today give off very contrasting airs. India are clearly a team on a high, and it shows in the players' body language. England, by contrast, appear to be carrying a few who give the impression that they would rather be anywhere but here. Nasser Hussain and Duncan Fletcher can go on about the endless treadmill of international cricket and misfortune with injuries, but the fact remains that India have played far more cricket in recent months. If this lot leave Australian shores in January without having been drawn, quartered and heaven knows what else, some of us will be very surprised.

Matthew Hoggard is one of the few to give out a positive vibe, and a cheery smile, and we talk about his karaoke sessions when England toured India. "With curfew being so strict most of the time, some of the lads used to get together in a room – which was called the Nag's Head – and have a laff," he tells you. Was there a particular song that he enjoyed belting out? He grins and says, "To tell you the truth, I was pie-eyed most of the time when I was singing ..."

With so much time taken up by the press conferences, I barely get to watch what turns out to be a cliffhanger between South Africa and West Indies. I'm talking to Rahul Dravid in his room when the final over begins, and we both decide that the dictaphone can wait. Shaun Pollock's stunning six inspires the last-gasp win, though both of us are aghast at how West Indies goof up a simple run-out on the penultimate ball (the infamous Merv Dillon wide).

I sense some disappointment on Dravid's face at the finish (if India win their group, South Africa await in the last four). On reflection, though, it's not surprising. As a batsman, I suppose you'd much rather face Merv Dillon and Pedro Collins than Allan Donald and Shaun Pollock. Mind you, Sir Viv would have slaughtered the lot of 'em ... he was special, he was.

Dileep Premachandran is assistant editor of Wisden.com in India.

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