Woody Allen, in his stand-up days, claimed that he played baseball at his local psychiatric institution, turning out regularly for the Paranoid team: “I used to steal second base and feel guilty.” The complexities of this joke, of this sporting state of mind, seem to whisper secret truths about Stephen Harmison.

Perhaps he feels guilty when he hits a batsman, beats him all ends up, takes his wicket. Perhaps he finds it hard to live with the part of himself that makes great men look like fools, that part of himself that creates dismay and disappointment, that fills his opponents with self-doubt and self-disgust.

Sometimes he seems to resent his power, like a tormented superhero in a Marvel comic. He has been given great powers – the power to hurry the greatest and terrify the rest, the power to force an error from any batsman who ever took guard, the power to blast out an entire team with the force of his nature.

He can work sporting miracles, but, like Bruce Banner, he is not happy about what the process does to himself. It is not always comfortable to turn into the Incredible Hulk: “Hulk is sick of words! Hulk will smash!” Sometimes it would be nicer to be the nice guy.

In the comic, Banner always does turn back – seething with horror and resentment – into the Hulk. Alas for the England cricket team, Harmison doesn’t invariably turn back into the Monster of Sabina Park, the bowling hero who in 2004 blasted West Indies to smithereens in as fine a fast-bowling performance as has ever been seen.

The fact of the matter is that Harmison is a fully paid-up member of the Sensitive Fast Bowlers’ Union – a body of talented, temperamental men whose skills never seemed suited to their natures: Andrew Caddick, for ever fearful of rejection; Chris Old, full of saucy doubts and fears. John Snow never lacked confidence, but he sneaked off to write poetry, a mighty fellow with an inner Fotherington-Thomas.

Harmison is a decent man, a strong man, a brave man. After that never-to-be-forgotten first ball in the Ashes series of last winter – the one that went straight to second slip – he admitted that it happened because he was nervous, too wound up, got it wrong. And yet it was his power and his accuracy, his self-belief and his willingness to create havoc, that were vital parts in England’s victory in the Ashes series of 2005.

The England batsmen had West Indies flat on their backs in this Test match, but the bowlers failed to jump on them. Matthew Hoggard broke down injured, Harmison failed. West Indies fought back with great spirit and it was too much for him. Not that he didn’t try. He gave it everything – he always does – but his accuracy, his menace, his spite were missing. You can never quite escape the feeling that he would sooner be playing centre half for Newcastle United.

A fast bowler needs to relish the fear he creates. This is not always a physical fear – just as often it is the simple sportsman’s fear of losing the contest, the fear of being mastered. But Harmison does not enjoy his mastery. In a dismaying way, he sometimes seems more comfortable with himself as a second-rater, an honest trier, a good fellow who is first class of the second class. I have nothing against such indispensable types, but Harmison is a world-beater. It’s just that he doesn’t really like beating the world.

Yesterday began with a chance of an England victory if the weather held and Harmison struck early. He responded by giving Matt Prior, the new wicketkeeper, a serious agility test, sending down the occasional good ball just to keep him on his toes. It was painful to watch because Harmison, as always, was doing all he could. He comes over as a man deeply unhappy with his lot.

I once rang a taxi firm to ask what had happened to my car and was unexpectedly asked: “How would you like to be a bloody taxi driver?” Sometimes, I think Harmison is going to ask in a tormented fury: “How would you like to be the best fast bowler in the bloody world?”