Dean Jones, later my team-mate at Durham, once told me the full story of what took place between him and Border on the field during their partnership in the first Test at Madras on Australia’s 1986–87 tour to India, in which Deano compiled the double-hundred that put him in hospital. Suffering from a combination of the heat, humidity and the other debilitating ailment this part of the world is notorious for inflicting on foreigners, Dean first reached his maiden Test hundred, then, fighting through cramps, nausea and loss of bodily fluids from all imaginable areas, doubled that and finished with 210 from 330 balls during eight hours and 23 minutes at the crease.
To keep Deano going in the moments when he felt he just couldn’t stand up, let alone carry on batting, Border used three tactics: he bullied him, he taunted him, and he scolded him.
Whenever Dean complained about the state he was in, Border would come back at him with: ‘I never realized you were a quitter’, or ‘Okay mate. You go off. I’ll get someone out here who cares.’
The night after the innings was over Dean spent several hours on a saline drip. He cursed Border for the way he treated him, but later grew to understand that his captain was merely demonstrating that this was the level of commitment they all required if they wanted to be the best. Furthermore this was not simply ‘do as I say’. Students of the ‘81 Ashes summer will recall that, amid all the excitement and carnage, Allan ended the series with a hundred at The Oval made with a fractured bone in his hand, which I subsequently hit twice more during the innings.
And players knew he wouldn’t stand for any nonsense, as Craig McDermott, the quickie nicknamed ‘Billy’ as in ‘Billy the Kid’, found when he protested that the captain was using him at the wrong end in a county game against Somerset at Taunton on the ‘93 tour. ‘Do that again and you’re on the next plane home… What was that? You test me and you’ll see.’ Billy got the message.
Border’s attitude was non-negotiable. But players knew that if they gave him and the ‘baggy green’ everything they had and were prepared to make the necessary sacrifices, the least they could expect in return was unshakeable loyalty. When the Australian Board decided to drop vice-captain Geoff Marsh for the final Test of the 1991–92 series against India, AB was so furious his right-hand man had been axed without his prior knowledge that only Marsh’s intervention persuaded him from quitting the captaincy.
The bitter taste of defeat was what fuelled AB’s desire to win. And when he retired he passed on the message to his other great mate David Boon. He told Boon, ‘Now it’s up to you to never ever let these younger blokes know what it’s like to get their backsides kicked.’
Max Boyce may be the royal rugby bard of Wales, but I will always regard him as one of my poorer subjects from my panto days as the King in Jack and the Beanstalk. Whether it’s on the cricket field, golf course or on stage, Max has always made me laugh. He’s also played a big part in my rugby education. Max came to national prominence during the glory days of Welsh rugby in the 1970s, appearing on the TV show Poems and Pints and gaining a string of gold records, starting with Live at Treorchy. His catchphrase was ‘I was there.’ Even the sad decline of Welsh rugby has not dampened Max’s bubbling enthusiasm. When Wales kicked off the 1999 World Cup in the spanking new Millennium Stadium, Max was there belting out his beloved Hymns and Arias.
I first came across Max long before the panto days – in a benefit match for my Somerset colleague, Graham Burgess, at Monmouth School. Max was billed as the demon fast-bowler for the Welsh Invitation XI, and came in off an enormous run that even Michael Holding would have been proud of, something in the region of 80 yards. Unfortunately, by the time Max got to the wicket he was knackered! That experiment was abandoned after an over that took a quarter of an hour. Off a less strenuous run, Max did capture the wicket of I. V. A. Richards with a catch in the deep. Very deep indeed, because the fielder had been shrewdly placed in the field next to the ground. Max celebrated in style, then announced that as he’d done his bit by getting the best batsman in the world out, he was retiring from bowling. This common sense continued when it was his turn to bat and he saw the bowler he was about to face was Joel Garner. We were wondering where Max had got to when he suddenly appeared in a motorcycle crash helmet.
Max obviously had a sense of humour, so I suggested that we cement our friendship with a night out before the next Somerset game in Swansea. This we did in some style, although it can’t have been that bad because I got a century before lunch the next day. I kept looking for Max in the St Helen’s crowd because he’d assured me that he would be there for the first ball. Instead, when I answered a phone call at lunch-time this pathetic voice croaked: ‘I’m still in bed and not very well!’
He got his own back when I turned up at Glynneath Rugby club, which backs onto Max’s house, on the Friday night before the 1993 Wales vs England game in Cardiff. Will Carling’s England had claimed back-to-back Grand Slams in 1991 and 1992, and were firm favourites to make it a unique hat-trick. Max’s beloved Welsh team had not won anything for ages, and the Red Dragons were favourites for the wooden spoon. I made a presentation of a black beret, black scarf, black gloves and even a black leek to Max that night as I kept on about England’s domination. So far, so good. During the game I was surrounded by Max and his Welsh mates. Unfortunately, we were sitting right in front of where Ieuan Evans caught Rory Underwood napping and kicked through for the stunning try that was to give Wales a 10–9 victory. The Welsh went mad, and at the final whistle I was presented with the whole lot of black gear back again in front of a packed National Stadium. Not a pleasant experience.
Max was the person responsible for my time as a stage performer – or guilty of causing it, depending on your perspective. I don’t really know why, but he asked me if I fancied doing panto. I was forever challenging Max to do things and calling him a wimp if he declined, so I had little option. He invented the role of the King for me in Jack and the Beanstalk. We opened in Bradford and I’ve still got my first notice from the local paper. I was so nervous. Max said, ‘This can’t be any worse than facing the likes of Michael Holding and Malcolm Marshall.’ Don’t you believe it. Without too much prompting, I somehow got my lines out and waited for a favourable review. After several paragraphs about Max’s energetic performance, near the bottom of the article came my mention – ‘The only thing more wooden than the Beanstalk was Botham.’ Max consoled me by pointing out that things could only improve. ‘Theoretically’, I said.
In fact, by the end of our three-season stint at Bradford, Bournemouth and Stockport, I felt reasonably comfortable and competent, and I later went into panto with Robin Askwith in Dick Whittington at the Wimbledon Theatre. After my wooden start, Max gave me a valuable prop. It was a toy dog with a weak bladder but an excellent aim, the perfect weapon to deal with hecklers. My favourite story from our days in panto together concerned the guy at the front end of ‘Daisy’ the cow. Early on in the run Max’s funniest speech was interrupted by the sight and sound of the cow’s head falling off, rolling down the stage and dropping into the front row of the audience. Having been upstaged during one of his big moments Max told the bloke in no uncertain terms to take the necessary steps to ensure that, from then on, the cow’s head stayed attached to the rest of its body. The following night, however, at around the same moment in the performance, Max became aware that the audience’s attention was drifting away from him to a point at the back of the stage. Daisy had wandered on, several minutes earlier than she was due, and to the obvious delight of the full house, was stumbling around as though she’d been at the merry milk. Then she ran sideways to the front of the stage and launched herself into Row C. Max was puzzled to say the least, and it wasn’t until after the disobedient ‘beast’ had been helped back to the dressing-room that the cause of the problem became clear. Inadvertently, Daisy had been sniffing neat superglue,
