Even without caring who would win the cricket World Cup semi-final between Australia and South Africa at Edgbaston yesterday, I must admit I felt sick with dread from the moment at 10.45am when Shaun Pollock bowled the first ball to Adam Gilchrist (and nearly got him out) to just after half-past-six, when we finally knew the match had been tied in a truly unbelievable last-second drama involving Lance Klusener, the fourth ball of the last over, a desperate run, Allan Donald paralysed at the wrong end of the pitch and the sickening sight of exploding stumps. By a quirk of the rules, Australia were through. I nearly fainted from relief, giving thanks for the simple blessing that this game was over. But as the mists cleared, one interesting fact became evident at last. Hey, just as Frank Leboeuf in the World Cup in France last year, so Shane Warne in this one. Yet again, The Times columnist will be playing in the final.

This was always a gigantic match by all methods of reckoning. But it had additional pressures to contend with. Most importantly, how would it measure up to the extraordinary alarms and excursions at Old Trafford on Wednesday? One expects fireworks - literal and metaphorical - at every match now, you see. You want a good reason to invade the pitch and go berserk with excitement at the end. Good grief, I went to the theatre this week and as the final line was delivered and the cast took their bows, I experienced a barely controllable urge to run on stage and steal the props.

But this semi-final was more entertainment than anybody bargained for. Indeed it was almost more than a frame could stand. This was epic, mate, and Australia's captain, Steve Waugh, said it was the best game of cricket he'd ever played in, despite its unpromising start with a weird, weird innings from Australia. The day began cloudy and there was no denying the sense of gloom as the match commenced. One suspected - completely wrongly - that this would be a match lost by strange inertia, not won by genius. The crowd was quiet. Yes, it was the morning after the night before, and when Mark Waugh was caught behind from the fourth ball of the match I started calculating wildly that at this rate the whole Australia team could be out in ten overs, and a kind of history made.

Australia's batsmen rallied briefly, but then sailed into a terrible doldrums - a doldrums so languid and hopeless that you could see the limp sails flapping on the mast and taste the weevils in the ship's biscuits. Between the 21st and 31st over (during an excellent spell from Jacques Kallis), only 17 runs were scored. It was like something out of the Ancient Mariner. Depressing sea serpents and everything. True, Steve Waugh finally got the old barque moving, driving his team to 158, but it transpired he'd been blowing superhumanly into the sails, and couldn't sustain it indefinitely. Pollock and Donald got four Australians out for ducks, and the whole side were out for 213. Ruefully I admit there was a time when the happy sight of Donald's ducks (tee hee) was all I expected to take away from the game.

Which was when it started getting rocky. Because the entire South Africa innings was a glorious demonstration of cricketing vicissitudes, and a lesson in how feverish extrapolation (however natural) simply won't do. At first South Africa batted with confidence, and looked set to win. This seemed fair enough. Kirsten and Gibbs had 43 from the first ten overs and the Australian bowling looked workaday. Then Shane Warne's first three overs (taking three stupendous wickets) undid all that expectation at a stroke. Suddenly, they were 53 for three. Whose wind had gone out of their sails now, eh? By the end of the 35th over, South Africa had only 116 for four, and I was close to tears, to be honest. All the information cricket gives you all the time; all the innings and match comparisons you can make; all the extrapolations you compulsively calculate - and you don't have one earthly clue what will happen.

I mean, at what point was this match won or lost? Well, take your pick. With a game like this, the attempt to identify a turning-point leaves you clinging giddily to the vertical while your inner-ear swirls like water in a bucket. When the South Africa batsmen got their third wind (or was it their fourth?) I decided the most obvious influence on this match was the beating of a butterfly's wings in the Indian Ocean. When Donald supplied such cause for grief at the end, I decided (irrationally) it was all down to those Breathe-Right devices he wears on his nose. I mean to say, if a man can't breathe unaided, what on earth is he doing in the sporting arena?

Excuse the note of resentment. It's just that emotion takes its toll. At the end of the fortieth over, I noted that South Africa were 144 for four, whereas at the same point Australia had been 158 for six. And now I ask myself: what on earth did I think this would prove? It just takes a brilliant catch or throw from Michael Bevan, or Warne getting his fourth wicket in the 45th over, or Klusener (how we will miss him) hitting last-minute boundary after boundary - and such comparisons look utterly pointless.

I once complained that there wasn't sufficient drama in this World Cup. Then Klusener needed a single run to win the match. I certainly got what I was asking for.