Ashes first Test crowd If your worried by a dropped catch, put your hands on your head. It was the silence that was the loudest. Cricket in Australia is not played this way. Quietly. Ball after long coming ball was met with a studied, silent wonder. Would the game end now? Would the wicket finally fall to end this agonizing wait? Or would Australia again find a way to scratch out a run? What of a four? The English loudly asked "what bleeding team has ever made so many with their last wicket partnerships in a test?" Trent Bridge cricket ground in Nottingham. As Stuart Broad - the pantomime villain with the look of the wet-lipped English fop - bounded to wicket, those in the Radcliffe Stand could hear a man clear his throat from beneath the pavilion on the other side of the ground. He could also hear them tell him to shoosh. Seldom has cricket held a spell such as this over a crowd - certainly not in an Australian test - from the first ball of the first day to the last ball on the unexpected final day. Cricket often provides the conversation to a day but this game permitted little chat. There was some song as England sang of how they were an Army and yes truly Barmy. Occasionally they even sang of the team. They chanted for Jimmy, Jimmy, Jimmy Anderson, which coincidence of rhyme permitted the Australians to chant in reply for Jimmy, Jimmy, Jimmy, Jimmy Pattinson. The English little liked this. They sung that Swann would tear you apart, to which one Australian in the crowd was - very - briefly able to offer the call and reply that "Swann. Cowan hit you for four again. Cowan could provide no New Order. Only the occasional cacophony of wickets would inspire this rumbling for in large part the game was played in a quiet fret. When there was a tumble of even one or two wickets the English bravura demanded they sing to the Australians "you're not singing any more" as though they had been singing in the first place. Australians don't sing at cricket. They occasionally chant but singing is for, well, the English. The songs would follow "We are going to win five-nil" and on to other chants to "God Save Your Queen." It was gentle teasing or gallingly obnoxious goading depending on the hour of the day and how many IPA's had been consumed. The songs stopped on the final day. The crowd was quietened by the sport. They were also not told how they should behave by an urger on a microphone and only occasionally encouraged to bet by signs on the scoreboard. Mercifully Tom Waterhouse is unknown here. They have no urger but they did have a tenor. When at the lunch break the players returned with Australia requiring an alarmingly small tally with one pesky wicket still denying England its first test victory they introduced an opera singer to sing sundry psalms before launching energetically into Rule Britannia and Land of Hope and Glory as the English walked on the ground. Then he abruptly stopped and ignored the fact that an opposition had also taken the field. The silence fell on the crowd once more. Even when there was the chance of a final, aching, result, it was quiet. When the ball wafted its feather touch to Brad Haddin's searching bat the crowd held its breath. It was a refusal to believe the spell had been broken. The cue to exhale was eventually taken from the players as the appealed. But they too seemed surprisingly uncertain. Matthew Prior, a chirrupy type, rose to his appeal in a hopeful rather than certain and demanding way. Was this the end? Was it over? Aleem Dar denied the English pleas, but in this test that is far from definitive guide to accuracy and certainly no suggestion of a conclusion to the matter. Dar has been wrong in a sensational way. The final denouement was no different. The replay was shown to crowd and players alike on the scoreboard. This itself was partially a surprise for the scoreboard operators belong to the stain of propagandists who figure it best not to show controversial moments on the screen. Hence the crowd in the ground at Trent Bridge never witnessed on the screen Broad hit the ball to slip only to be allowed to stay at the crease by, ahem, Dar. So in its stead they were encouraged to laugh and taunt the Australians for their silly unwarranted appeal. This time was different. The replay went up on screen. And still no one cried out in celebration. Had it hit? You could not tell from the grainy picture. The Trent Bridge crowd let out a gasp that was more a hopeful 'ooh' than a guttural cry of joy. That was to come. Several angles were shown and finally the definitive answer was sought from the very technology England has condemned for days for the Jonathan Trott decision. This time they had no qualm with technology. The players reacted first, jumping about after one had seen some white ghostly shadow appear on the edge of Brad Haddin's bat. The crowd jumped and ran in the aisles with the excitement that is reserved not just for victory, but for relieved celebration. Australians sat partly in disbelief, partly in resignation. They had pessimistically known this moment was coming as they had quietly pondered ball after ball and the bizarre idea of victory had grown stronger and stronger. England had cause to celebrate for they had just defeated "the worst ever Australian side to visit these shores" by 15 runs. The English finally walked happily from the field. Even Stuart Broad.