I saw the Englishmen at work in Middleton, it gave these jobs a new dignity. Later I realised why. In South Africa the African must sweep the streets, but he cannot then go home, have a bath, put on a suit and go out unchallenged into the world around him.
Having now been away from Africa for nearly ten years, that does not seem a very dramatic thing to say. Indeed, it is the sort of thing others have said for many, many years and some have chosen to say it with aggressiveness and bitterness. This is not the effect I ever want to give. I have been hurt but I do not want revenge.
During the height of the crisis in late 1968 when it was announced that, if I were not going to South Africa as a Test player, I would be sending comments from South Africa on the Test matches, concern was expressed that these might be angled to stimulate more controversy.
Those who voiced such fears had either forgotten or were unaware that, in the years I had been in England, I had revisited South Africa and spent many months there. I had travelled around the country giving lectures and coaching and never once allowed conversation or comments to intrude on things other than cricket. I had also contributed fairly frequently a column under my own name in South African newspapers about life in England—life as a cricketer.
Never, with a cough or a comma, had I consciously said or written anything that could be considered racially contentious.
I was grateful to have the chance of a summer alone in England before Naomi came to join me. The life of a professional cricketer is a man’s world. Although I missed Naomi very much, being alone did mean that I could be quite single-minded about learning to live in the new world. By the time she joined me, I had more confidence. Perhaps not enough for both of us, but at least it was better than if we had both arrived frightened and confused as I had done.
It was a very slow boat which took me back to South Africa at the end of the 1960 season. I was going back to collect my wife and my child, who was soon to be born, and I was bringing them back to the life which we had always dreamed about and which was indeed as good as the dream itself.
The dream had not been uninterrupted, indeed the first few weeks in Middleton had been more like a nightmare. I was not the only one in that Lancashire town who thought that a ghastly mistake had been made. But, by the end of the month, I had begun to adjust my technique. I recovered from my bad start and finished the season with 930 runs with an average of 48.95 and 71 wickets for an average of 11.72. Middleton had given me a new and better contract and were going to pay my fare and Naomi’s back to England the following spring.
From The Basil D’Oliveira Affair, 1969
THE OBITUARY OF BASIL D’OLIVEIRA
Wisden Cricketers’ Almanack
D’Oliveira, Basil Lewis, CBE, died on November 18, 2011. He was generally thought to have been 80. Basil D’Oliveira was a fine cricketer who, in more normal circumstances, could have played far more than 44 Tests. But the miracle of his life was that he played any at all. His story, and the 1968 crisis known as the D’Oliveira Affair, had consequences that reverberated far beyond cricket and would define Basil’s life. The man himself was not a secular saint or a political campaigner: he was, above all else, a cricketer.
D’Oliveira was born in Cape Town and grew up in the then segregated Coloured area known as Signal Hill. That much is certain; the date is more problematic. When he first arrived in England in 1960, he said he had been born in 1935. According to Pat Murphy, who ghosted Basil’s 1980 autobiography Time to Declare, he revised that figure twice, first to 1933, then to 1931. Wisden adds to the confusion, starting with 1934 then settling on 1931. But in the book D’Oliveira hinted he was even older, and Murphy said he saw a photocopy of a birth certificate saying 1928, making him 37 when he first played for England, 43 when he fended off the Australian attack in 1972, and 83 when he died.
Whatever his age, he was a phenomenon – and he would achieve an honour usually accorded only to all-time greats when, in 2004, it was announced that future Test series between England and South Africa would be for the Basil D’Oliveira Trophy. He grew up in a proud, vibrant and put-upon community with a strong cricket culture that was ignored by South Africa’s ruling whites well before the policy of apartheid became enshrined in the 1950s. His father, Lewis, was captain of St Augustine’s, one of a stack of clubs who played simultaneously, Indian maidan-style, on the bumpy mats and patchy outfields of nearby Green Point. Basil learned to play in the streets before graduating to his father’s team. On days off from his job in a printing works, he soon established a local reputation as both a mighty hitter and a consistent scorer, averaging about nine centuries a season through the 1950s. He was sufficiently dominant to be chosen as captain representing “non-white” South Africa, who scored decisive home-and-away victories against Kenya. The historian André Odendaal said this gives him a better claim than Owen Dunell in 1888–89 to be regarded as South Africa’s first captain, since Dunell’s team represented a minority of the population. But when MCC toured in 1956–57, D’Oliveira, in his cricketing prime, walked seven miles to Newlands and sat incognito in the segregated area.
At the end of the decade, there was talk of a tour by a West Indian team led by Frank Worrell, but that foundered on the political rocks. D’Oliveira was on the verge of forgetting cricket, and now had other priorities: in January 1960 he married his girlfriend Naomi. Out of the blue, a speculative job application, despairingly written in a series of letters to the commentator John Arlott in England over the previous two years, produced a dramatic reply. Arlott had contacted the Lancashire journalist John Kay, who knew the scene inside out, and Middleton of the Central Lancashire League were suddenly desperate enough to punt on an unknown as their professional. They offered only £450 for a season, feeble even then, especially as the air fare would cost £200. But Naomi, already pregnant with their son Damian, insisted Basil take the chance. A local barman-cum-sportswriter, Benny Bansda, set about raising money, and even some of the white stars played a match to help out. He arrived in Middleton on April 1, 1960 – cold, naive about cricket and the world, teetotal, more fluent in Afrikaans than English – and made only 25 runs in his first five innings. Then he calmed down, relaxed, and scored 930 to top the League averages. A fraction ahead of Radcliffe’s pro, one Garry Sobers.
The next year he returned with Naomi and Damian, bought a small house of his own and passed 1,000 runs. He soon became a regular in the televised Sunday Cavalier matches and on tours run by the journalist-entrepreneur Ron Roberts and the coach Alf Gover. Some of these proved racially fraught: Rhodesia had South African-style segregation, less formal but almost as pervasive: Pakistan objected to D’Oliveira’s South African passport, which prompted him to apply for a British one. Soon several counties woke up to him, though not the obvious one: the Lancashire eminence Cyril Washbrook wrote him off as “a Saturday afternoon slogger”. Tom Graveney took a different view, and in 1964 D’Oliveira moved to Worcester to spend a year qualifying. By the time he made his Championship début, against Essex in 1965, he was, according to the birth certificate, nearly 37. Luckily, he did not waste any more time: he made 106 – followed by 163 out of 289 on a raging turner in the return fixture a week later at Brentwood. The doubters were disappearing. He scored 1,691 runs that summer, and Worcestershire retained the Championship.
By now he had confidence in himself and his method, based on a short backlift and a strong bottom hand; he had traded his old off-spin to bowl swing and cut; he had also, less fortuitously, felt emboldened to drink alcohol. The Establishment were gaining confidence too. In May 1966 D’Oliveira was named in the twelve for the opening Test against West Indies: “HELLO DOLLY!” said the Daily Mirror headline, predictably enough. Apart from his age, he was keeping
