of the wicket, I’d done my duty by running down to look after the batsman out in the middle, Mike Atherton, taking him a spare pair of gloves, a drink and some ice. I then went back up to the dressing-room, sat down in my seat and started sending a text message to my missus. (Those were the days when we were still allowed mobile phones in the dressing-room.)
All of a sudden, across the other side of the room, Nasser erupted: ‘I’ll get my own f***ing drink then, shall I?’ he shouted at me. At this time, he was sitting right next to the fridge and could have reached over to open the door himself to get a drink. I was sitting miles† away from the fridge, presuming that I’d done my duties by attending to Athers. But poor old Nass was a bit upset at getting out and I was in the firing line. I heard a couple of the lads sniggering behind me but didn’t think it wise to join in. I don’t think Nass was in the mood to see the funny side at the time.
So I had plenty of run-ins with Nass because he was a strict disciplinarian as captain and, in those days, I was one of the class clowns. There was one practice day during a one-day series in Zimbabwe when I had taken to making chicken noises all day. I can’t remember why, but I’m sure there was a very sensible, grown-up reason for doing so. For some reason, Nass was getting a bit fed-up of the chicken noises, so he bought Chris Silverwood into the dressing-room and said: ‘Spoons, your job is to keep that twat over there quiet. If I hear any more bird noises out of him. I’m sending the pair of you back to England.’ Spoons and I looked at each other and both started clucking at the top of our voices. Nasser just burst out laughing, shouted, ‘Piss off,’ and legged it out of the dressing-room. Just as well he saw the funny side, really. I wouldn’t have wanted my international career to end for making a few bird noises.
His stricter side was more evident out in the middle. Whenever I bowled a bad ball, I’d turn round to walk back to my mark and see him kicking the dirt at mid-off, which I’m not sure was the most constructive of responses. But Nass did a hell of a lot of good for English cricket while he was captain. He is an immensely passionate person and that rubbed off on a lot of people. His relationship with Fletch was the catalyst for our recovery. They started the consistency of selection that helped to create such a healthy dressing-room environment. Once the older brigade had gone, you wouldn’t just go out with your mates in the same groups for a meal in the evening. Anybody could go out with anybody else.
I think that tour to India, with such a young team, gave Nass and Fletch the opportunity to really stamp their mark on the England team and its culture. And in the longer term we were much better for it.
For the tour that followed to New Zealand in early 2002, we had a couple of older heads back on board and drew the Test series 1-1. The first Test in Christchurch was one of the most bizarre in history, played on a drop-in pitch that seamed about all over the place to start with and then became flatter as the game went on. Nass made a magnificent hundred out of 228, then I got seven for 63 as we skittled them for 147. Nice to have a slightly friendlier pitch to bowl on after slogging away on those dead tracks in India.
We then set New Zealand 550 to win after Thorpey had made a double-century and Fred hit his first hundred, so our victory was just a matter of time. Or so you would have thought.
By now, the pitch was as flat as a fart and Nathan Astle started to chance his arm. The result was that he scored the fastest double-hundred in Test history, hitting sixes left, right and centre. It was a freakish innings. The ball kept going just over someone’s head, or landing just out of somebody else’s reach, but he certainly made the most of his luck.
Chris Cairns had been injured and came in at number eleven—he only came in because they had an outside chance of victory—and when they whittled the target down to fewer than 100 to win, we were feeling seriously jittery. I don’t think we’d have been allowed back to England if we had conceded 550 to lose a Test. Come to think of it, I’m not sure we would have wanted to return. So just when I was wondering whether I would be spending the rest of my life shearing sheep in New Zealand, I managed to get Astle out, caught behind by James Foster off a slower ball. There was a photo in the papers the next day of me celebrating and all the veins looked like they were going to pop out of my neck. We were that relieved.
We may have only drawn the series but I took seventeen wickets in the three Tests and was starting to feel like this Test cricket lark might not be quite so bad after all. As ever with this game, though, you can never make yourself too comfortable. The saying that you are only as good as your last game is one of sport’s biggest clichés, but as an international cricketer it’s something you’re of aware of all the time. You could play like a king one game, but then as soon as you mess up in the next match the first game may as well have never happened. Get ahead of yourself and the game will catch you up and bite you on the bum.
In the first Test of the 2002 English season, against Sri Lanka at Lord’s a couple of months later, I really struggled. I took a couple of wickets, but I went for more than four an over and I was some way short of my best. To make matters worse, before the second Test at Edgbaston I played a Benson & Hedges Cup game for Yorkshire against Essex and got knocked around by Nasser Hussain, of all people, who hit a hundred. Great timing to come up against the England skipper when I was scraping the barrel for anything resembling form.
When I turned up at Edgbaston, my confidence levels were fairly low and Duncan Fletcher knew it. Whether Nass had had a word in his ear or not, I don’t know. In the old changing-rooms at Edgbaston there was a small coach’s office off to one side, and Fletch called me in. ‘Uh-oh,’ I thought. ‘This could be bad news.’
‘Sit down, Hoggy,’ said Fletch. So I did, and held my breath. ‘I just wanted to ask you whether you want to play in this Test match,’ he said.
‘Hell, yes, of course I do, Fletch.’
‘Do you think you are confident enough to play?’
Difficult question to answer. I wasn’t feeling on top of my game and there had been a bit of debate about whether I should hang onto my place. But if you tried to pick and choose your games at international level, waiting until you felt on top form, you’d be no use to anyone.
‘I know I haven’t been at my best in the last couple of weeks, Fletch, but I’m desperate to make it up in this game and, yes, I’ll back myself to do so. I definitely want to play.’
I was lucky at this point that I’d had a good winter in India and New Zealand and this was the time that Fletch was really trying to impose some consistency in the selection. He showed faith in me, gave me another chance and I was extremely chuffed to be able to repay that faith. I took a couple of top-order wickets in the first innings, got 17 not out with the bat, helping Thorpey to add 91 for the last wicket, and then picked up a five-fer in the second innings. We won by an innings and I was named Man of the Match.
I was ecstatically happy after that game, pleased that I’d justified Fletch’s confidence in me and proud that I’d shown the balls to stand up and fight my corner. We had a team meal after the game and then went out to the Living Room in Birmingham. As David Brent would say, ‘El Vino did flow.’
That evening, I was due at my friend Tony Finch’s house on the outskirts of Birmingham for a barbecue. Sarah had gone there to wait for me and Allan Donald was there with Tina, his wife, and their kids. By the time I rocked up in a taxi rather late in the evening, I could barely speak. To get myself to Finchy’s house, I had to ring him up and pass the phone to the taxi driver because I was in no state to pass on directions.
We finally got there and I continued to have a thoroughly marvellous time until it was time to for Sarah and me to go home
