We had an opening batsman that was never out. Well, this was what he thought. He was, of course. He was so out most weeks that we thought his bat might be a portal in the space-time continuum, something Doctor Who might slip through, plus the odd cricket ball.

He did not appreciate such theories. To his mind, umpires were myopic sociopaths intent on his ruination and in cahoots with every fast bowler in the county. His name, like the many injustices he believed to have been committed against his sporting person, has long been lost in the memory, but his style remains familiar to all. He would play forward, groping at one that was cutting away, or failing to detect the line of one that had cut back, and there would be the inevitable diversionary click, or dull thud of ball against pad, and the fielding players would rise in confident appeal and the umpire's right index finger would join them and the slow troop to the pavilion would begin.

There would then be the clatter of the bat thrown to the corner of the spartan dressing room and the bitter ruminations on the ocular capability and motives of the decision-maker. It had been, without doubt, going down leg side or, if caught by the wicketkeeper, he had not got a touch.

During one game in which the unmistakable sound of ball against willow could have been identified by a deaf school camping four fields away during a flypast by the Red Arrows and the Prodigy's set at Glastonbury, the catch was taken at second slip, the ball having set off at a right angle with the velocity of a Gran guided mortar bomb. “Came off my boot,” said our hero, as he sat, quietly fuming in the clubhouse.

This may not be cricket as recognised by the likes of Michael Vaughan, the England captain, but it will be instantly known to the many well-intentioned amateurs whose club season is beginning at the weekend, and will continue this summer through rain, shine and days when the two alternate at 15-minute intervals and just waste everybody's time. And there are more of us than there are cricketers like Vaughan.

So the idea that the death knell has been sounded for the old-fashioned baggy, woollen jumper is as ridiculous as, well, an English Ashes victory on Australian soil.

“Close of play for a fashion icon” was how The Times reported the arrival of the Clima-Cool cable-knit pullover, made from a man-made fibre and designed to push sweat away from the athlete's skin. Don't believe a word of it. Like grumpy openers, overweight spinners and the rain stopping at six o'clock and the sun coming out during the drive home, the old-fashioned cricket jumper will always be with us.

“The cricket sweater has been my bugbear for many a year,” said Vaughan, which is a surprise considering his recent leadership calls have included what to do with a drunken vice-captain who has nearly drowned on a pedalo after a nightclub bender in the middle of a World Cup tournament. “I am delighted to see its end.”

England's new kit is similar to every item of sports equipment these days, in that its key function is to redistribute perspiration. It is a surprising there is ever a water shortage, really, with the amount of sweat that is being redirected during modern competition. You could siphon off the undershirt of the average all-rounder and irrigate a small village in Ghana, given the technology, although, to the untrained observer, any sport that requires its participants to take two meal breaks - lunch and tea - not to mention several drinks intervals, would appear to require some form of kit with the ability to redistribute Bolognese stains rather than moisture. perhaps adidas, England's supplier, could produce Clima-Cool bibs.

For those that have followed an England cricket tour to Australia, the sub-continent or Caribbean, there is a serious side to this. During Ashes Tests in places like Adelaide and Brisbane, temperatures pitch-side have been known to exceed 110F; in Sri Lanka, the humidity can reach 95 per cent, although in either of these situations why anyone would still be wearing a jumper of any description, Clima-Cool or not, is perhaps a bigger question. Those that are still concerned with layers in Karachi are probably already suffering heat-stroke.

As for the rest of us, keeping cool is not the problem. Not much in the way of sun block required last Saturday when standing at square leg for the school cricket trials. One of the coaches remembered an April game at Fenners, the home of Cambridge University, when it grew so cold that Ray East, the Essex spin bowler, had borrowed the overcoat of a spectator and took to wearing it while fielding in the deep. The umpire took the hint and called the players in. One would imagine that very few were bemoaning the absence of light, efficient man-made fabrics that day. Soak a woollen sweater in brandy and somebody might have sucked it.

The threat to the good old cricket jumper is painted as a serious one, considering that these days the replica shirt is king, and manufacturers of sports apparel believe everybody wishes to parade in the manner of the leanest, fittest, twentysomething footballer, all six packs and perfect BMI. Before flooding the market with figure hugging Clima-Cool cricket jumpers, however, it might be an idea to study the body shape of the average third XI second-change bowler. Not too many Cristiano Ronaldo lookalikes there. Not too many athletes that will be happy about specifically defining the contours of the upper body.

I remember walking down the street at a recent World Cup tournament with a senior executive of the footballwear manufacturer Umbro. His company had just supplied the England team with its most state-of-the-art kit yet. It not only took sweat away, it reinvented it as mineral water, then some of it got together and cleaned your car while you were out. And it was tight. John Richmond tight. Saturday night at Turnmills tight. Coming towards us was an England supporter. He was not a thin man. In his newly purchased shirt he looked rather like a busted sofa. My friend, crestfallen, glanced in his direction and fell silent for several seconds. “Yes,” he said, finally, “we definitely had him in mind when we designed that.”

So hold fire on the last rites for the baggy cricket jumper. I have a hunch it will be with us for many years yet.

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