Does Stokes have it in him to lead?

In this age of Instagram and Facebook, it has never been easier, or so we are assured, to create and store new memories. Try telling that to those of us whose brain cells, in the main, have reached a point in their doggedly devoted careers where retirement is much the most sensible option.

As the birthdays pile up, it becomes progressively harder to see or hear something and know, instantly, irrevocably, that you will never forget it. Having heroically defied this seemingly irreversible trend, this column can't quite decide what was more extraordinary: that it has stashed away no fewer than four new golden memories this almost-gone summer or that three of them involved the same man.

Let's kick off with the exception. Nothing in 50 summers of watching flannelled tomfoolery could possibly have served as adequate preparation for that extraordinary opening chapter of the Trent Bridge Test. Witnessing Stuart Broad strut his stuff from a sofa in an Amsterdam bar added another dollop of surrealism. Had the local smokables taken their toll or was this really, truly happening?

A flurry of text exchanges with a pal in the Nottingham press box fed the urge to share those inner eruptions of joy, awe and self-pinching disbelief, but human contact was craved. Happily, it arrived in the shape of a fiftysomething stalwart of Amsterdam club cricket, who had just quit his job with Greenpeace on a matter of principle, in deeply unhappy circumstances. Having keenly, if neutrally, followed both the New Zealand tour and the Ashes, he expressed his gratitude to England - resolute, vigorous, adventurous England - for buoying his spirits and replenishing his resilience. As Joe Root exacerbated Australia's agony, you couldn't tear the smile off his face.

Before long, discussion turned, inevitably, to Ben Stokes, who had already made two substantial donations to this column's hard drive: first with that lordly Lord's century against New Zealand - the fastest ever seen in a Test at HQ - then in that tide-turning partnership with Root in Cardiff on the first day of the wackiest Ashes series of them all. And now here we were, a Pom and a Dutchman, sitting in Coco's Outback on Rembrandt Square, trading whews, gasps and grins during those endless reruns of the semi-Kiwi's astonishing catch that Thursday morning.

Receding ever more rapidly in the rear-view mirror by then were the excesses of youth: banished from a Lions tour for over-ardent devotion to alcohol; hand busted in a one-sided altercation with a dressing-room locker; a humbling feud with Marlon Samuels. Ahead lay not only the six-pack of scalps that wrapped up proceedings at Trent Bridge and the England MVP award (no mean feat given the considerable rival claims of Messrs Broad and Root), but also a minor epic. One that, because of what it revealed about his character and leadership potential, may come to be regarded as the pivotal innings of his career.

When Mitchell Starc struck Eoin Morgan so sickeningly on the helmet at Old Trafford on Sunday, only those with the hardest of hearts and the hardiest of constitutions did not dread the worst. Kudos in perpetuity, therefore, to whichever sensitive soul decided that Sky Sports should resist showing even a single replay.

Still to open his account, Stokes winced and grimaced from the non-striker's end. A year ago, even six months ago, some might have expected him to give Starc a sizeable helping of that fearless, sometimes feckless mind. Instead, there was compassion and consolation for an opponent who had so recently seen a team-mate die from just such a blow. Starc clearly appreciated the gesture.

Innings in tatters, Stokes seized the responsibility for renewal. Not with a vengeful explosion of cloud-denting drives or with strident body language or fiery words, but with a series of calm, sober leaves (four of the next five balls were ignored) and supremely controlled, sublimely orthodox, stump-threatening drives.

Not until his 48th ball did he attempt anything remotely audacious, and even that nimble-footed six off Mitchell Marsh was sightscreen-straight. Marsh trapped him three balls later, snuffing out the flickering prospect of a defendable total, but seldom can an innings of 42 have done more to gladden the heart and steel the soul. If it wasn't quite Eric Morecambe impersonating Ernie Wise, the role of straight(ish) man is evidently a far snugger fit for Stokes than imagined. Another box ticked.

All of which demands reconsideration of a question just about everyone and their dog believes has already been satisfactorily answered: namely, who will succeed Alastair Cook as England's Test captain? Helpfully the incumbent has bought himself - and the selectors - more time than envisaged after the horrors of Bridgetown. All the more reason, then, to wonder whether Root, while a sensible choice as vice-captain, is the best long-term bet.

With central contracts paring Championship outings to the bone, the four-day fray is no longer a reliable or even viable training ground for wannabe national coin-tossers. These days, those with Test pretensions almost always have to learn on the job. So England are fortunate indeed that that Old Trafford XI numbered no fewer than four plausible candidates.

First, the rank outsider - a rather curious way, admittedly, to characterise Morgan, who has overseen an admirable post-World Cup revival thanks in no small measure to a daring reversal of selectorial custom in times of extreme humiliation: sack the crew and keep the captain.

Options, granted, were few-to-non-existent, but the renaissance of the past fortnight has also accentuated regrets that that singular batting technique has withered on the first-class vine, compelling Morgan to focus on the shorter variations. Advancing years may not be the only explanation for the enormous problems this column is having recalling an England captain with quite such a gift for leading by example.

Next up, the third favourite, James Taylor, Morgan's stand-in, Chris Read's second-in-command at Nottinghamshire, and a much-maligned batsman whose infectious energy, sprightly eye for gaps and quirky effectiveness have been obliging several sound judges to shelve their scepticism. A career-best 291 at Horsham in July - Sussex failed to muster that much in either innings - should be seen in the context of a severely depleted home attack, but there are hints in his approach that he may have the patience and guile to prosper on subcontinental tracks much as Graham Thorpe once did. From there, all things are possible.

And so to Root, whose principal credentials - besides being the nation's niftiest willow-wielder and doing more than anyone to exile Kevin Pietersen to the margins of polite public debate - have long been apparent: positivism, indomitability, exceptional self-belief and intoxicating enthusiasm. Questions nonetheless persist. Does he possess the tactical and strategic nous to dictate the course of a Test? Is he empathetic enough to lift fallen crests? Can he make dispassionate decisions about friends? Does he know when to play the fool and when not? And if not, can he learn merely by watching Cook and listening to the learned firm of Bayliss, Farbrace and Gillespie?

The most important question, however, is simply a variation on a hardy perennial: would the burden of leadership dilute that impish spirit and sap productivity? Ricky Ponting answered that one with conviction, but Michael Vaughan, the last England-born batsman to meld eye-catching style and scorebook substance, was never the same force once he succeeded Nasser Hussain as captain - and even he hasn't laid all the blame on his knee troubles.

In Vaughan's case, the collective benefits outweighed the losses: blessed with a prolific opening pair in Marcus Trescothick and Andrew Strauss, a budding world-beater in the young Pietersen and a meaty No. 6 and 7 in Andrew Flintoff and Geraint Jones, England missed Vaughan's runs a good deal less grievously than they would miss Root's.

All the same questions, of course, can be asked of Stokes, who suffers from the additional disadvantage of being an even more versatile weapon than the Yorkshireman. Tony Greig, Imran Khan and Kapil Dev apart, the best batter-bowlers and bowler-batters have found international captaincy a challenge too far (or else, as in the case of Keith Miller, been denied a chance to prove otherwise). Any mission Jacques Kallis turns down has to be treated with at least a modicum of wariness. Small wonder Cricket South Africa recoiled at the risk of overloading Graeme Smith's heir apparent, AB de Villiers, and plumped for Hashim Amla.

Helpfully, Stokes, much like Greig (and unlike Flintoff or Ian Botham), is neither an indispensable bowler nor a batting fulcrum - at least not yet; one eminent county opener of recent vintage told this column he fancies Stokes as England's David Warner. While plainly one of the lads, he also exudes authority and presence, assets that suggest he can maintain the distance, however slight, required by any leader of men.

And if those gym-sculpted biceps make him much the most imposing physical specimen, an aura of absolute inner certainty distinguishes him further still. Even from Root, who aside from being dropped in Australia two winters ago has never so much as stumbled on his ascent to global renown.

"To p or not to p" sniggered the heading over a snapshot Stokes tweeted from Trent Bridge after the urn was recaptured. Such a promising facility with Shakespeare, cricket history and social media should go down splendidly with readers of the Times. To those who would countenance caution in the light of that turbulent past, this column can only urge a close inspection of the message in those steely, glinting, grey-blue eyes: let's have some fun out there, but failure will not be tolerated.