Ah, the thwack of leather on willow! Surely nothing could be more redolent of an English summer, or an Australian summer as well. Is there anything to compare with the sight of a ball bowled by a guileful spinner biting and turning as it pitches to deceive the batsman, unless it be a shiny red ball being driven elegantly through the covers with an effortless flick of the wrists?

Except that today the characteristic sound of cricket is a faint click from a stump microphone, and the sight, which rivets a viewer’s attention, is a science-fiction image of a batsman in...