the best cricketer alive. I wanted to be the best and if that meant Kath and the family were pushed down my list of priorities, then that was the way it had to be.
I could see the possibilities opening up in front of me. Kerry Packer’s intervention in the world of cricket meant that the game in the future would offer substantially higher financial rewards than it had done in the past. This was the age of the first million pound transfers in football and the elevation of sportsmen and women to superstar status the world over. It was the time of winner takes all, and I wanted to be one of the winners.
Fortunately, under the sobering influences of Closey and Brears, I was still able at this stage to appreciate that there were other things in life except me.
We brushed the Aussies aside at Headingley thanks to Boycs, who followed up his Trent Bridge heroics with a massive 191 in the fourth Test at Leeds, thus becoming the first player to score his 100th first-class century in the Test arena. In front of a packed Headingley crowd (the gates had to be closed on the first two days well before play started) Boycs made sure that the Aussies had no chance of coming back in the series. I got a bit carried away by the excitement and my failed attempt to hit Ray Bright out of the ground from the third delivery I faced meant that I had secured my first Test duck in only my second innings. The Aussies, shell-shocked at having to bowl at Boycott for twenty-two and a half hours since his return to the England side, capitulated without much of a fight in the first innings when I took five for 21, and although I was wicketless in the second innings we eventually crushed them by an innings and 85 runs.
During this match an incident occurred that was indirectly responsible for changing my life. Attempting to field the ball in the deep during the second innings, I stepped on it awkwardly and experienced a searing pain in my left foot. It was a particularly daft way of getting injured. My foot hurt like hell, but it was not until after the match that I found out I had broken a bone, an injury that apparently had been aggravated when I continued to bowl. As a result I was ruled out of the last match of the series at The Oval.
On returning to Somerset from Headingley, I went for treatment at Musgrove Park Hospital in Taunton. On my way to see the specialist I walked through a children’s ward where there were kids with their arms in plaster, heads bandaged and legs in traction. At the end of the ward, I suddenly came across four youngsters sitting around a small table playing Monopoly.
‘What are they doing here? I asked the specialist. ‘Visiting, are they?’
‘No,’ he replied. ‘Unfortunately they’re suffering from leukaemia. Two of them have very little time to live.’
It was shattering news for me. I couldn’t take in what I was hearing. In that moment all those feelings of self-satisfaction over the events of the past couple of weeks disappeared. The specialist went on to explain, in layman’s terms, just what happens to the body when a child suffers from leukaemia. I listened open-mouthed. How could these children, who were playing so happily and who looked to the naked eye as right as rain, be about to die? I suddenly thought of Kath and the baby we were expecting, and a shiver went down my spine.
The doctor then told me that a lack of funds meant the hospital could no longer hold the annual party for the children which, for some of them, would be literally the only thing they could ever look forward to again. I had no hesitation in deciding to pay for the party there and then. It was not a huge amount of money; they just wanted to be able to buy sausage rolls, crisps, party hats and the like, but I wanted to do something and it was the only thing I could think of.
Over the years, the seed that was planted that day grew and grew, and I’m proud to say that the leukaemia walks have not only put the disease on the map in terms of national awareness but, through the generosity of people up and down the country, they have also raised substantial funds for the never-ending fight to beat this ghastly disease. To think, all that started because I stepped on a cricket ball.
A few days later I was in hospital again to witness the birth of my son, Liam. Again, this was only made possible because of that foot injury. Liam’s birth was far from straightforward, however; Kath was in labour for over 26 hours in all and had a terrible time of it. It had all started with minimal fuss, when in the early hours of 24 August, Kath announced she had gone into labour. Around midmorning she told me it was time to head for the maternity ward at Doncaster Royal Infirmary and it was there that the problems began. Originally I had told Kath categorically that I would not be present at the birth because I felt I would just be getting in the way. So according to plan, I dropped her and her mum off, waved goodbye and returned home to wait. But once I was informed that she was really suffering badly, I went back to the hospital and thereafter never left her side, apart from a brief moment when I was advised by the midwife to take a break. When I entered the delivery room for the first time, Kath was in absolute agony, crawling around on her hands and knees and screaming out in pain. My first reaction was shock, then, when I had pulled myself together, I ran off to get hold of the midwife. Unfortunately, because this was a Bank Holiday weekend, the hospital appeared to be short-staffed; the woman who came appeared under stress and clearly made an incorrect assessment of the situation. She told Kath not to make such a fuss, that everything was perfectly normal and that she was just getting hysterical for no reason. At one stage she actually got quite annoyed with Kath and told her ‘Stop being silly.’ What none of us knew, until much later, was that Liam had been in an inverted position in Kath’s womb. No wonder she had been in such terrible pain.
Finally, the doctor arrived and he soon resolved the situation. I was present at the birth, although by that stage Kath was so exhausted that she probably had no idea I was there at all. In the event, Liam was born at 3.50 a.m. the following morning. It was an extremely emotional moment for both of us; indeed the whole experience had been so harrowing for Kath that she went private for the birth of our second child, Sarah. Incidentally, when the gynaecologist reviewed Kath’s case notes over Liam’s birth, he expressed his amazement that she had not had a Caesarean operation.
Becoming a father changes a lot of men. It is supposed to be the time when the word responsibility becomes more than something you laugh about. That, however, was never going to be the case with me. Despite the difficulty of Liam’s birth, it was simply not in my nature to think of anything other than the next day, the next challenge and the next pint. After all, I was not yet twenty-two and there was a lot more of life yet to come.
Having come through one traumatic experience, Kath was soon facing up to another demanding task, this time sewing name tags into the sackloads of kit which I was required to take on my first overseas tour to Pakistan and New Zealand that winter of 1977/78. It was a job she hated but over the years, as she got used to what was needed and learned to ignore the TCCB tour guidelines on preparing for trips, she found ways round the problem. For a while she used a laundry marker and then, later still, simply did not bother at all. Even at this early stage I realized what kind of system I was dealing with at Lord’s: my measurements were sent to the TCCB weeks in advance, yet when the kit turned up the trousers would have been too long in the leg for Joel Garner!
This was another particularly difficult time for Kath. Having been away from her the previous winter when I was on the Whitbread Scholarship in Australia, here I was disappearing again only a couple of months after Liam’s birth. Everything in my life revolved around thoughts of the tour. I was terribly excited about the prospect, and as Kath told me later, I was like a kid getting ready to go back to boarding school. When the day arrived and I set off on tour with England, I was determined that this was going to be the start of something big. That something big turned out to be a tour round the toilets of Pakistan; but more about that later.
Part of the education process I was undergoing at the time was learning about my team-mates in the England set-up.
The things that make Geoff Boycott tick would give Mike Brearley enough material for a dissertation in his current career as a psychoanalyst, but coming face
