"The infectious roar of a cacophonous Chattogram" - an evening spent in the eye of the Tigers

THE CRICKETER'S MOMENTS OF THE SUMMER - OWEN RILEY looks back on the feverish support of Bangladesh's World Cup faithful

Where the cricketing-hell do you start with this one? This summer has been bonkers and feels like it began in about 2015. The barest of margins. Leach’s single. World Cup insanity. Headingley.

When the season finally comes to an end and the dust settles, you are going to find journalists wandering aimlessly around the streets, gabbling to themselves and having flashbacks of Ben Stokes with back arched and arms outstretched as Headingley rose around him.

Images of Gulbadin Naib bowling himself for some inexplicable reason will be filtering through their minds and have them questioning their own existence. They’ll be grabbing members of the public to question if it was all real, asking them how they dealt with the madness of the thing. “You weren’t there man!”

Much of the above, alas, I did not see live. So to The Oval we travel where I was immersed in the closest thing to a gladiatorial colosseum as I have experienced.

It was Bangladesh vs New Zealand in Kennington. It was Dhaka’s drums beating, Chittagong’s fists thumping, The Oval’s foundations shaking to the rhythms of Bangladesh’s travelling band.

The noise had been steadily increasing from the early hours and by the time leather first met a Bangladesh blade, it was deafening.

^{Bangladesh's were relentless even in defeat}

Every boundary was greeted with a supreme and infectious roar. When you closed your eyes you were not in south London, you were transported to a shaking Sylhet, a cacophonous Chattogram. The Tigers’ support made it a home match.

If I hadn’t been due back in the press box I’d have found myself the nearest stuffed tiger, smeared myself in red and green paint and settled in alongside them.

Sometimes, in the privileged position of having a working role where watching cricket becomes your 9-5 (or 24/7), it is easy to take certain days or matches for granted.

The fans who are there, supporting their team as if their lives depend on it - not present to write, comment, retweet or promote - quickly remind you what it’s all about. Unadulterated passion for the sport in its rawest form.

I’m sure anyone who was lucky enough to be in the crowd at any one of the World Cup’s most atmospheric games will have similar memories which will stay with them for years to come.