Brian Viner: Family final unable to stoke passions like an evening at the MCG

Venus nearly beat Serena, England nearly beat Australia, and I nearly nodded off, which would have been no way to celebrate the rare privilege of watching two great finals in nine hours. Still, lots of cold bottled water and a man sporadically shouting "piss off Poms" into my left ear helped me stave off the jet lag.

My first full day in Australia was a day of matchless sporting spectacle. It was a day of matchless temperature, too, 44C as the women's singles final of the Australian Open kicked off. Mercifully, the Rod Laver Arena has a roof, which was closed. This helped to keep spectators alive, but also to amplify some of their inane shouts.

I had naïvely supposed that it was only Wimbledon where inane shouts are rewarded by everyone else in the crowd falling about, but no, it happens at the Australian Open too. As someone shouted: "c'mon Venus!" and someone else shouted: "c'mon Serena!", a third person shouted: "c'mon Williams!" He then sat back, engulfed by laughter and basking in his new reputation as the Oscar Wilde of the Rod Laver Arena, only for another wag to trump him by shouting: "c'mon Steffi!" That one all but brought the house down.

Still, if this was what passed for atmosphere, the fourth all-Williams final in as many grand slams needed all it could get. Denied competitors of different nationalities or even different families, the final was also denied the partisanship that gives these occasions their electricity.

The only spectator who did seem electrified was Oracene Williams, the finalists' mother, whose features acquired the frazzled look that comes with plugging wet fingers into a live socket. Eventually she could take it no longer and retired to the locker room, doubtless there to ponder how she, a woman who for years had a much more interesting first name than surname, it sounding remarkably like a mouthwash, now has one of the most evocative surnames in all of sport.

Out on court, meanwhile, Venus seemed to be getting the upper hand. Never before in a grand slam final had she even taken a set off Serena, yet when she powered through the second, 6-3, having lost the first in a tie-break, historic writing seemed to be on the wall. But if it was, nobody could read it, as is often the way with historic writing. Serena eventually prevailed, although she needed her grunt to do it.

"Oooh-URRR," she grunted, as she whacked the ball back towards her big sister. The appearance of Serena's grunt, if a grunt can be said to appear, was the point at which a semblance of partisanship did finally envelop the Rod Laver Arena. Suddenly, everyone seemed to be rooting for Venus for, as the young Monica Seles found to her chagrin, tennis crowds almost always side against the grunt. Alas, though, it was too late. The favourite lifted the trophy, and it was time for me quite literally to hotfoot it over to the adjacent Melbourne Cricket Ground, the temperature having plummeted from 44C to 43.5, to see whether England could reverse the day's trend.

England, as it transpired, could not, and under floodlights Australia clinched the VB one-day international series 2-0 in the best-of-three final. However, it was a mightily close-run thing, not resolved until the 100th over of the match at 10.15pm, when England's last two wickets fell with just five runs still needed.

If the atmosphere in the Rod Laver Arena had been muted, at the MCG it was anything but. When Adam Gilchrist ran out James Anderson with three balls remaining, every Australian in the ground celebrated as if he had just found a winning Lottery ticket. Or she. For a while I stood in the MCG's notoriously raucous enclave, Bay 13, and watched a Boadacea-type figure, spilling out of a flesh-coloured bikini, leading the chants. "Aussie, Aussie, Aussie," she screamed. "Oi, oi, oi," responded her dutiful followers.

England's supporters, the so-called Barmy Army, were subdued by comparison. But it has been a long tour and their ranks are much depleted; in truth, they were no longer a Barmy Army, more of a Mildly Agitated Platoon. Those who remained, however, took defeat with good grace, as they have repeatedly these past three months. Football should watch cricket and learn.

Or at least feel envious. When at the end, the Australian players carried Shane Warne on their shoulders, and paraded him around the ground, the England fans applauded as warmly as anyone.

It was Warne's valedictory one-day international on his home ground, and he rose to the occasion with characteristic theatricality. In the Australian innings he was clapped all the way to the middle and was promptly caught and bowled, first ball, by Ronnie Irani. Then he claimed the wickets of England's two most successful batsmen, Michael Vaughan and Alec Stewart, thus becoming the most prolific wicket-taker in one-day internationals at the MCG, pipping Craig McDermott by one.

Even if that record is surpassed one day, Warne already has a place in history. Not that the boy from Ferntree Gully thinks much about history. In Saturday's Herald Sun he was featured in a questionnaire. He was asked to name his favourite food (Hawaiian pizza) and his favourite TV show (The X-Files). Then he was asked who he would like to meet, if he could meet anyone who has ever lived? Julius Caesar, Jesus Christ and Leonardo da Vinci were waiting to shake his hand, but Shane plumped for Jack Nicholson. Let's be generous and blame the heat.

b.viner@independent.co.uk

* Brian Viner travelled to Australia as a guest of Austravel (0870 1662070) and British Airways.