Despite not being the Hector that everyone wished him to be, Flintoff is still a iconic representation of, say, the last 10 years of English cricket, in the same way that, say, Botham and Hussain were before him (I'm not going to pretend I've got enough knowledge to refer back to players before the early 80s for the purposes of this point).
For this reason, his passing from Test cricket is an existential watershed; another moment when we can pause and recognise the transient part we all get to play in reality.
People mythologised his roots, his northern, "pint and a pie", "mind the windows, Tino" authenticity.
Others, in tune with the modern cynical age, derided him as either unprofessional and duplicitous by turns.
In terms of his playing, I just want to give you this...
And I just want to remind this blog that, for better or worse, he was a paradigm of English cricket at the turn of the century. And the fact that he is retiring provides us with a moment to both applaud and mourn the nature of sport (indeed, all human endeavour) and our place in the cosmos.
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(pretty up its arse, eh? - KKP)
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