I AM a fallen woman. I was brought to my knees in the time it took a blond called Brett to bring a man called Freddie to the same position; a moment of savage beauty that shattered a life’s resistance to the seductive allure of cricket. This wasn’t a wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am conquest. It was willing surrender. Deadly bowling on the final day of the fourth Test awoke a desire for epic sporting romance.

Feverish television executives charted a mounting national excitement as cricket virgins like myself were seduced: the first Test in the series peaked at 2.6m viewers; the second at 4.1m; the third at 7.7m and the fourth — Yes! Yes! Yes! — achieved a staggering 8.4 on the orgasmatron.

There are only two things to be understood about cricket. First, that it is the language of love. Men who are drawn to this game, who understand its linguistic ironies and subtleties of play, who take the time to teach you about technique rather than physique, who enjoy the commitment of a Test, of taking things slow, over days, weeks, sometimes months or years, will be passionate and skilful lovers.

Beware men who say cricket is too slow (see wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am, above) or who tell you that the sport is gay, thinking you’ll assume they are not. Like most Englishmen, they will believe they play cricket well and make love even better. They are deluded.

Cricket connoisseurs will believe mine is a passing infatuation versus their lifetime’s committed devotion. That I, like millions of others, will walk away once the excitement is over and this historic series has ended. If I do, will it be my fault? They have deliberately obscured the second and most important truth: that cricket is feminine.

Ricky Ponting is Shane Warne’s mum and the auntie of every man on his team. He is maternal, a vixen protecting her cubs, a goddess claiming her children back from the mouth of hell. He’s secure in his femininity. Most Aussies are. Because they play cricket with their mums. It was Ponting’s gran who spotted his talent. He owes her.

This game of guile has the womanly characteristic of dangerous beauty. It offers a greater variety of positions and movements, and therefore more possibilities of delight, than any other sport. There’s a strange balance between elegance and violence. On the pitch all is passionate intensity; in the stands the appearance of serenity. It was a man who explained this to me, lovingly, if in a sado-masochistic kind of way.

I was a fool to resist cricket for so long. I was put off by the little things: like its history of class, gender and racial exclusion. I know better now.

These insights may not be enough for some. But those who really want to know what an over is, why umpires look like doctors, why they don’t play with a soft ball so nobody is hurt or what they have for tea have missed the point.

Which is this: that all great romance embraces tragedy. Cricketers understand this every time they step on a pitch. Once-a-year viewing figures in their millions for a major event and occasional victory do not compensate for the sadness of empty county grounds. Quickie matches, Twenty20s, are no substitute for long, glorious play.

And true love is always touched by absurdity. The Ashes, a contest for an urn containing a bail burnt in 1882, are a joke worthy of Samuel Beckett. Who played cricket. He liked waiting for Godot. Or to be got out. Something like that.

The light is fading. However tragic, however absurd, however appalling the poetry, for lovers of sport and of men, there is no choice. Win or lose, we must up, play up. And play this delicious game.