The fearless Robin Smith and his square cuts gave England hope in a grim era | Tanya Aldred

A Robin Smith’s square cut was more than a blow of the bat. For English cricket fans of the late 80s and early 90s, it was a boost that despite the dismal collapses and Rentaghost selections, the national team would fight to see another day.

Smith’s cut, alongside a cover drive from David Gower, gave hope where there was little left in the bucket. Those famous forearms – half oak, half baobab – the white shirt unbuttoned past the collarbone, the chain glinting through his chest hair, smelled seductively of courage, of old spices and a final roll of the dice.

The sight of Smith marching into bat – as opener (in four Tests), No. 3 (six), No. 4 (30), No. 5 (19), No. 6 (14) or No. 7 (twice) – those charmingly indecisive selectors could never quite place him – was a high point in a largely post-Botham era, a clear alarm to those in the ground and a sign to stay on the ground to those on the bench.

Like South Africans Tony Greig and Allan Lamb before him and Kevin Pietersen after him, Smith was bigger and better and sexier than his Test average – which, incidentally, was a healthy 43.67 – second only to Graham Gooch among England batsmen during the period of his Test career. He was completely fearless despite the extreme pace, beyond all expectations, as fast bowlers straightened up at the meeting of their match and came harder.

Watch highlights of him batting against Ian Bishop at Edgbaston in 1995, just six months before playing his last Test. Bishop is ruthless, skilled, brutal – and Smith takes blows to the elbow, the shoulder and the butt with barely a flinch, but he dodges even more. Graceful back bends, swaying leather snorts, dinky knee drops, it was all part of his back catalog long before yoga and pilates were the staple of an athlete’s daily routine. Smith hit 41 in England’s second innings of 89 all out in that match – opening because Alec Stewart was unable to bat after injuring a finger behind the stumps on a delivery that captain Mike Atherton later said was the worst he had encountered in a Test. Atherton also told everyone that Smith’s 41 would have been worth a hundred if it had been made elsewhere.

Smith made his England debut in 1988, joining an England team in disarray during the famous summer of the four captains. Chris Cowdrey was his captain for that match – and would never play for England again. But Smith took it all in his stride and the following year scorched two hundreds and a 96 during the 4-0 thrashing of Australia in England.

Of all his nine Test centuries, two stick out most memorably in the mind. His 101 in the fifth Ashes Test at Trent Bridge that bleak summer of 1989, after Australia had reached 602 for six, and Smith stormed in with the score one for two – Martyn Moxon and Atherton back in the pavilion for ducks. He has ravaged the Australians, with those square cuts shouting across the Nottingham grass and you can feel the joy in the crowd that someone is finally giving them something to cheer for, a kind of stick to wave at the wide greens. I don’t think, even in this era of the Indian Premier League, anyone has hit the ball harder.

And his 175 against the West Indies at St Johns in April 1994 – an almost forgotten innings, as it came in the same match in which Brian Lara hit the headlines with 375. But against Curtly Ambrose and Courtney Walsh it was an innings of pure gold.

Perhaps English players seemed more human to us then, because we could see their faces as they took on the brutal task of batting. We could smell their fear and see the frustration in their eyes. Smith would wear a cap if he could, otherwise his helmet had no bars or visor and he balanced on that famous hair, which moved in a series of shampoo-and-set waves behind him.

Ultimately, it turned out that the larger-than-life cricketer and the arrogant cape did not suit the vulnerable human being underneath. His autobiography The Judge, co-written with Rob Smyth, revealed the loneliness and sadness behind those blows from the great man, and the saddened figure left behind when cricket had decided he was no longer needed. “The judge was a fearless warrior,” he wrote. “Robin Arnold Smith was a panicky worrier.” I hope he knew how much we all loved him.