out the pint, knowing full well that had he applied the letter of the licensing laws in my case, his profits would have been cut in half over the past 18 months.
When the next day brought my first experience of national newspaper coverage, you could not see my head for the clouds. ‘BLOOD, SWEAT AND CHEERS FOR BOTHAM’, announced the Guardian. ‘YOUNG BOTHAM THE SOMERSET HERO’ echoed the Daily Telegraph. Who was I to argue?
There is no doubt that the whole affair had an enormous effect on my career. Because of the press reaction, people all over the country had been made aware of the existence of somebody who up until that point had been, to almost all of them, a nobody. And it had all happened overnight.
We all want heroes to worship, whether they be sportsmen or women, film stars, actors, politicians, rock stars, brain surgeons or journalists. It may or may not surprise you to learn that John Wayne was mine. Now, because of my exploits on the field, I had set a certain standard for myself that many observers expected me to live up to every time I went out to bat or bowl. (I felt this particularly after the events of the summer of 1981 when the Australians were the victims of the best Test cricket of my life.) This meant that from then on, producing a great performance for Somerset carried extra significance. In terms of national awareness I was still a small fish in a big pool and, certainly in the opinion of good judges, I had nowhere near as much potential as another young Somerset batsman called Vivian Richards. But from that moment on, the name Botham rang a bell.
There is no doubt, either, that at this stage there was a very real danger of allowing the publicity to go to my head. Although my time on the Lord’s groundstaff had taught me many lessons in life, I was still young, raw and very naive. In fact, even to get as far as I had done, I was extremely fortunate to have been in the presence of two men who, despite all my efforts to exasperate them, were prepared to keep an eye on me and encourage me.
Brian Close, the man chiefly responsible for turning Somerset from a social side into a successful one, was a hard nut – some would say a nutter. A tough Yorkshire-man who was never prepared to compromise, his whole approach to the game was based on absolute belief in his own ability and that there was no point in turning up if you weren’t prepared to do everything to win. It was this self-belief that enabled him to play for England and attain the ‘double’ of 100 wickets and 1000 runs in county cricket at the age of eighteen. However, his abrasiveness meant he was never likely to be a darling of the establishment. It was no surprise to anyone, least of all him, when he was sacked from the England captaincy after the Yorkshire side he was skippering were booed off the field following his decision to use time-wasting tactics to ensure a draw against Warwickshire in 1967.
To others more mindful of personal safety, the call to return to Test cricket at the age of 45, after nine years in the international wilderness, might have been answered with two fingers. But when the England captain Tony Greig decided he needed the physical equivalent of a brick wall to stand up to the West Indies pace attack that had been battering his team black and blue during the summer of 1976, it was typical of Closey that he accepted without a moment’s hesitation. No one who witnessed it will ever forget his bravery when standing up to the horrendous onslaught from Roberts and Company in the Manchester gloom. Even Clive Lloyd, the West Indies captain, admitted his bowlers had gone over the top that day. But typical of Closey, he was just as proud of his bruises as he was of his batting. One of the standing jokes in the Somerset dressing room was his insistence that although Muhammad Ali might just beat him over fifteen rounds, he would be damned if the champ would knock him out. This was not just the usual dressing room bravado either, he really meant it. It goes without saying that I loved the guy for his guts. In fact, I would go so far as to say that starting out with Closey was vital for me because he taught me so much about attitude. He was the toughest man I ever played sport with or against and although, at one time or another, every single member of the side had their rows with him, he inspired us because he would never ask you to do anything he was not prepared to do himself and he would never, ever, give up. I’m sure that I had Closey’s example in the back of my mind when I was reacting to Roberts’ attempt at dental surgery in that Benson and Hedges quarter-final.
Closey was also instrumental in helping introduce into the club the young talent that was required to build for the future. Somerset eventually offered me a one-year contract, and I joined on the same day as Vic Marks, Phil Slocombe and Peter Roebuck, with Viv Richards soon to follow.
Although he was a hard drinker, Closey could also be a fearsome disciplinarian. Once, during a one-day game against Nottinghamshire at Trent Bridge he actually sent off one of his own players. Allan Jones was not bowling particularly well that day, but he was not the only one who was surprised when Closey called him across and made various rather undiplomatic observations about his performance and the size of his ticker. After a short row and amid much scratching of heads and suppressed laughter, Jones was dismissed, even though he had four overs still to bowl and there was no other recognized bowler to put on.
His one and only disagreement with me on the field came in similarly bizarre circumstances, not because I had played a rash shot (though God knows I played enough of them) nor because I had bowled badly or dropped a sitter. My crime was to perform a brilliant run out without due care and attention to what might have happened if I had missed. Although I was innocent on all counts, I have to concede that he did have a point. A few weeks after the game against Hampshire in the B&H, we were drawn against Surrey in the quarter-final of the Gillette Cup. I was bowling to Geoff Howarth, later to captain New Zealand, who proceeded to hit the ball back past me. I turned to my left with my back to the play, fielded the ball and, as I noticed the batsmen attempting a quick single, swivelled and hurled down the stumps. What I didn’t know was that there had been a serious communication problem between the two batsmen and, as they were both stuck down the striker’s end, I could actually have walked up and quietly removed the bails. Closey berated me at length for, in his eyes, showing off. We were still at logger-heads when the next batsman arrived to take strike. I argued that no one had shouted to let me know what was happening so I had no idea where the batsmen were. His point was that I should have known. That incident taught me the lesson of thinking, even in pressure situations, that I never forgot though I have to admit I didn’t always follow it to the letter on the field.
Occasionally I settled for simply trying to intimidate opponents with my presence, particularly when it came to my absolute conviction that I could always bounce batsmen out. Years later in 1984 against the West Indies at Lord’s, I overdid the delivery so much against Gordon Greenidge that I managed to concede 117 runs in just over 20 overs as they made 344 to win in less than a day. As far as I was concerned, the next one was bound to get him, but, of course, it never did.
Our success in beating Surrey enabled me to put another of Closey’s laws into practice in the semi-final against Kent. Although we lost by three wickets, I won a personal battle with Colin Cowdrey, then one of the legends of the game. Closey always tried to instil in me a feeling that I should never be overawed by the reputation of whoever might be standing at the other end, whether batting or bowling. He saw things very much in black and white, and if his motto was not exactly kill or be killed it certainly was about imposing your will on your opponent, rather than allowing him to do it to you. People often asked me then how I felt about bowling to a man like Cowdrey. For me, it made little difference. Partly due to my own self-confidence and largely due to Closey’s advice, I made a point of treating all batsmen alike, and I’m certain that I took Cowdrey’s wicket that day simply because I believed I could.
Tom Cartwright was the other major figure in my early development. Tom was an excellent all-rounder with Warwickshire, Somerset and England, and I think in many ways he saw me as a younger version of himself. It was Tom who was instrumental in helping me get my early chances with Somerset after he watched me in the nets at Millfield School, where he had been coaching. Against opposition from other influential figures within the county who saw me as just an average cricketer, Tom pushed my claims. He also saw how desperate I was to become an all-rounder, and my enthusiasm must have struck a chord. Without his
