Tres,’ this one began. ‘It’s Grav. Can you give me a ring, please? Nick Knight’s broken a finger. We want to bring you in as cover for a couple of games and see what happens. Can you call me back as soon as you get this?’
Blimey, I thought. And then I thought again. First I wanted to check it wasn’t a crank call and second, if it was true, I needed to tread carefully. I knew how desperate Rob was to get a chance himself. I didn’t want to start punching the air and going off on one because I knew how disappointed he might feel at being overlooked again.
‘Hello, Grav.’ I said, as quietly as I could, without whispering. ‘It’s Marcus here.’
The rest of the conversation was pretty much a blur and afterwards, my first reaction was to ring the world, mum, dad, Hayley, Eddie Gregg and my mates at Keynsham, everyone. Yet at the same time I didn’t want to trample all over Rob’s feelings.
I needn’t have worried, of course. When I did tell him, Rob was thrilled for me. So I hit the phone big-time and, of course, everyone was massively excited. And all pretence at remaining cool, calm and collected went out the car window. Inside I was jumping up and down that I was going to be given a chance to do what I had dreamed of doing ever since I stood in front of the telly at home copying those far-away figures in white.
‘Wow. Bloody brilliant. Knackered. Run to a standstill, but 79, SEVENTY-NINE, for England! I loved that drug.’
‘Marcus, can I have a word?’ I knew the tone of Duncan Fletcher’s voice by now. I had been with the England squad for 48 hours, training and netting, initially at Lord’s, then at The Oval, where the first of the matches in the triangular NatWest series with West Indies and Zimbabwe was to be played the next day, 8 July 2000, against Zimbabwe. My first-ever team meeting had come and gone, without the XI being announced, so the moment Duncan spoke I knew what he was about to tell me would either send my spirits skyward or down to my boots. I studied his face to see if I could find any clues. Nothing. On the outside Duncan was the original closed book. On the inside, until you gained his trust, the pages were blank as well.
We were standing outside the Royal Garden Hotel in Kensington, when he pulled me to one side of the group of players with whom I had just returned after dinner.
‘Look,’ he continued, ‘you’re playing tomorrow. I just want you to go out there and play your natural game. Play like you’ve been playing for Somerset and enjoy it.’ And a funny thing happened. After all the waiting and wondering, all the uncertainty over whether I would ever hear those words and the occasional utter certainty I never would, I took what he said totally in my stride. Not in an arrogant way, nor blasé. I just thought: ‘Duncan’s just told me I’m playing for England tomorrow. Isn’t this great?’
By the time I walked into our dressing-room at The Oval the following day, I felt somewhat different. I looked around me and, suddenly, instead of a 24-year-old with several seasons of county cricket under my belt, some better than others, I felt like a spotty school kid on Jim’ll Fix It.
Over there was Graeme Hick, not only my early role model as a player but also my kit model as well. Alec Stewart, who seemed to have been playing for England for about 100 years and was actually about to set a new one-day international appearance record (125) and, in a few weeks’ time, play in his 100th Test, was busy making sure everything was in its place; and Darren Gough and my Somerset colleague Andy Caddick were tearing into each other like an old married couple which they carried on doing for the rest of the time they played together for England. Their mainly pretend bickering had actually boiled over in the recent second Test against West Indies at Lord’s when they and Dominic Cork had taken all ten wickets between them as the Windies collapsed in their second innings to 54 all out. By taking five wickets Caddick had earned the right for his name and analysis to be printed on the dressing-room honours board showing hundreds and five-wicket bowling spells in Test cricket, something Gough was desperate to achieve but had so far failed to do. Caddy had taken it too far and Duncan felt obliged to step in and pour oil on troubled bowlers, but you could tell all was well because they were back to the usual nagging and points-scoring. Graham Thorpe was there, back after having made himself unavailable for the previous winter tour to South Africa, to spend more time with his young family and suffering from burnout. ‘Suffering from what?’ I thought at the time. I respected Thorpe as a top batsman and great professional, who didn’t? But burnout, what the hell was he on about? Still, I was impressed by the way he was operating around inside his own quiet bubble, ready to flick his switch to the ‘on’ position the instant he walked onto the pitch and not a moment before. Matthew Maynard was trying not to show how much he was dying for a fag and a young Andrew Flintoff was bouncing around like a 6ft 5 in, 17 and a half stone Tigger, charming and infuriating everyone in equal measure. I wasn’t exactly overawed, more like brilliantly and blindingly excited by what was about to happen. But I definitely couldn’t calm down so I asked Dean Conway, our one-day physio, if he would give me a head and neck massage to help me try to relax.
By the time the call came through that Alec Stewart, who was filling in as skipper for the injured Nasser, had won the toss and we were batting – or rather I was batting – I was trying everything I could to switch into cricket mode. But I was really cacking myself. Then, almost from the second I walked out of the dressing-room with Alec to open the innings, and the roar went up from the capacity crowd, everything felt just right.
‘God, isn’t this great?’ I thought to myself as we walked down the steps to the pitch, our studs crunching on the concrete beneath our boots. ‘Isn’t this great?’ I thought to myself, when we stepped onto the springy outfield for the walk to the middle and the crowd noise cranked up a notch. ‘Isn’t this great?’ I thought to myself when Alec asked me whether I wanted to take strike and I said, ‘Yes, if you like’. ‘Isn’t this great?’ I thought to myself when I asked the umpire Ray Julian for middle-and leg guard and, when I hit my first boundary and heard the crowd burst into cheers and applause I thought to myself: ‘Isn’t this fantastic?’
It was like a drug. That was it. There and then. That was where I wanted to be. That was what I wanted to do.
Through the tens, with Alec, to 20, to 30, to 40 along with Hick, who made 50 and looked very much like God from where I was standing but who also, super-fit, showed everyone inside the dressing-room just how much work I had to do in that respect by running me off my feet in a stand of 106. Past 50, helmet off, arms up, bat raised. Another boundary, another roar from the crowd. More of the drug, please. More, more, more, and, finally out at 79, more, every step of the way back to the dressing-room.
Wow. Bloody brilliant. Knackered. Run to a standstill, but 79, SEVENTY-NINE, for England! I loved that drug.
Sitting in the dressing-room afterwards, the overriding feeling among the players was huge disappointment that we lost, that after we had barely made it past 200, the Zims cruised home by five wickets and that was not good enough. And there I was, struggling badly to stop myself from racing round the room punching the air and all the locker doors, chanting ‘79, 79, 79!’
Next day, there I was, in all the papers, my face in the photos. Me, in all the papers! And up again and straight on to play the West Indies and Brian Lara … at Lord’s. More, 49 this time in the only innings of a rain-ruined match, then 29 against Zimbabwe at Old Trafford (won) and two wickets for seven runs in ten balls, and, at Chester-le-Street
