How Dhoni turned into my dad and won me over

When MS Dhoni hit 15 fours and 10 sixes in a 2005 one-day innings against Sri Lanka, I was impressed but not won over. With his long hair and unusual propensity to hit sixes whilst airborne, everyone loved Dhoni and he continued to tear bowling attacks into their constituent atoms for some time after that - but still I could take him or leave him. Over time and almost unnoticed, he's stopped doing the furious scything quite so much, and the more grimly efficient he's become, the more I've liked him. As the drama and glamour have receded, he's rapidly become one of my favourite players. You can't beat an uncomfortably played single down to fine leg - that's what I always say. (Actually that's the first time I've said it, but I've got plans to say it more often.)

It's almost as if Dhoni asked himself what cricketers he could learn from. Sehwag? Not really, boundary-hitting was sorted. No, Dhoni's true role models were now Mark Richardson and Paul Collingwood. "Why should they get all the plaudits?" he seems to have said. "I can make the most of my abilities too. I can be a fighter, a battler, a scrapper. I can work the ball into the leg side for one as well as the next man. I want some compliments about how many runs I've scored that sneeringly draw attention to the way in which I've scored them as well."

So Dhoni set about perfecting the skills required to earn those back-handed compliments. He probably spent three months in the nets perfecting the nurdle, which is a shot that you simply have to have if you want to be known as the best workmanlike batsman in the world. Perfect it he did, and now he's cranking out three-an-over fifties one after another. I find this even more endearing because of the simple fact that he can still cream the ball to all parts if the mood so takes him. Dhoni actually wants to score in ugly singles. I think he prides himself on it.

The change can partly be explained by the fact that he's now captain and pleasingly hell-bent on victory by whatever means. However, the true sign that things had changed was when he had his hair cut. Dhoni's old haircut was an eight-year-old boy who'd been given a luridly coloured sugary drink, a pen knife and a log. It stabbed at the log with a wild look in its eyes that was only partly explained by Sunshine Yellow food colouring and its tendency to make children hyperactive.

By contrast, Dhoni's new haircut is my dad. It's chosen the wood carefully, it's got all the right tools for the job, it's taking measurements twice and it's telling you that if a job's worth doing, it's worth doing properly. When the haircuts have finished with their respective blocks of wood, one's a splintery, chipped mess that's spattered with blood and one's an immaculate oak bookcase. I know where Slash's autobiography is in my house.