Bangladesh's legion of fans a reminder of all that the World Cup is meant to represent

This was an atmosphere painted in the colours of Chittagong, with the soundtrack of Dhaka. Eleven heroes in green roared on by 20,000 tigers. Young and old, male and female, babies and toddlers

It can be easy to forget in today's climate quite what it is that sport is meant to be, quite how it first became so popular and quite why it unites young and old, man and woman.

The uber-commercialisation of the industry has blurred much of that. Indeed, an autograph bat at The Oval yesterday would have set me back the same £20 sum as my match ticket.

Yet, occasionally, in this increasingly murky sporting world – a universe seemingly constructed for the few at the expense of the many, we get one of those moments, one of those days, one of those atmospheres that answers all those questions.

And Sunday in south London gave all of that in spades as Bangladesh took on South Africa. It was everything we ask of sport. And more. Bangladesh's first World Cup appearance came, fittingly, 20 years ago – also in the UK. They were bowled out for 116 by New Zealand on the day of their first ever game in the tournament. This, yesterday, was otherworldly.

It was development in a nutshell, a simple reminder of a straightforward concept: plant the seeds, water the seeds, watch them grow. Not rocket science. In fact, the exact opposite. It is a story that harks back to the most biblical ideas of the Garden of Eden, of human life, of nature. Growth should not be a privilege, but a fundamental right.

^{Bangladesh made 330 - their highest ever ODI score.}

What Bangladesh did to South Africa was an upset in ignorance. It was a surprise to those who have failed to acknowledge a shifing landscape. To those who know, this was coming. The fruits from those seeds are ripe. They have been picked and, at The Oval, thousands tucked in with sweet delirium.

This team is a force. Fiercely led with a world-class spine and a raft of emerging talent, this was a performance for the ages. Dominant for all of the 600 deliveries hurled down on this wonderful occasion, this was a proper team doing proper things.

And they were doing it in front of an audience that deserved nothing less. If anyone ever tells you that sport doesn't matter, bottle Sunday up. Show them this bowl, packed with a glorious deluge of Bangladeshis, British Asians, casual cricket fans. There were South Africans as well, of course; and they played their part.

But this was an atmosphere painted in the colours of Chittagong, with the soundtrack of Dhaka. Eleven heroes in green roared on by 20,000 tigers. Young and old, male and female, babies and toddlers.

When the terrific Shakib Al Hasan dived to save four, he was eulogised afterwards. When David Miller did the same, he received the same applause. One man politely asked him to stop preventing his team’s boundaries – he offered Miller a lollypop as his choice of bargaining chip. But, it was good-natured respect.

Exuberant tunes were screeched at a hundred different tones; everyone with a voice was heard. And if you weren’t heard, you were seen: face paint, Bangladeshi flags, cuddly tigers – everyone had made an effort. It was part of a two-way commitment from players to fans and fans to players: you give us everything and, in return, we’ll do the same.

^{The Bangladesh fans made the occasion an unforgettable experience.}

If you weren’t wearing the strip of your national side, your clothes were paying homage in some other way. It felt like a rite of passage, like those of us there as neutrals were extra-terrestrials operating in a foreign world.

It was, one imagines, all that a World Cup is built to represent. This was unity – a country’s people at one with its cricket team. Success was met with adulation which, in turn, was met with another boundary or a crucial breakthrough. One followed another, both feeding off a rasping atmosphere, drunk on enthusiasm. Telepathy personified.

Mushfiqur Rahim, Mahmudullah and Mehedi Hasan were superb – all three were fasting. Their performances were testament to a collective hunger. If they were short of energy, it never showed – their batteries constantly recharged by an army of fans who would never allow their charges to switch off. The incessant noise, quite simply, would never permit it.

As the final curtain was drawn on an extraordinary day, chants of “Bangladesh, Bangladesh” rung out, echoing around Kennington.

What was especially heartening was the diversity of the youth on show. Two youngsters - no older than six - sung along to chants they had written on the spot. One wore Tamim Iqbal's name on his back, the other that of AB de Villiers.

There were England fans making the most of their weekend. It was a day that will live long in their memories. It showed that the next generation exists, as well as displaying an engaged set of British Asian supporters. The potential was palpable - so much of it untapped.

World cricket should take note. Not of Bangladesh’s performance – anyone who would care to take note knew that already. But, this was team and nation at one. And that, ultimately, is what sport is all about.

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