between John and Richie’s Test debuts is surpassed by only one pair of brothers, Johnny and Ernest Tyldesley, whose great-great-nephew is one Michael Vaughan.
It was hardly surprising that Ray Illingworth was infuriated, albeit affectionately, by the distinctly laid-back approach of the youthful, curly-haired David Gower, who would also captain Leicestershire and England. There is an argument that had Gower had the dedication to fitness and practice of, say, Graham Gooch, he might have scored more than his eighteen hundreds for England. But he would not have batted with the carefree elegance that made him one of cricket’s greatest attractions, and the criticism he so often received for perishing to apparently casual shots was born of onlookers’ frustration at knowing his innings was over long before they wanted it to be. It is fair to say that I was also from the Gower school of training and invariably he and I would be some distance behind the rest of the pack, chatting as we jogged along the canal towpath from Grace Road to what used to be Leicester Polytechnic for pre-season training every April.
Although there was always keen competition for places in the Leicestershire first team, the dressing room was usually a friendly place. There would always be a disgruntled player or two who was not in the side, and who would sit chuntering on the fringes, but if you were playing well, and scoring runs or taking wickets, county cricket was about as pleasant an occupation as you could possibly find. My career could be divided up into two sections: the first being when I was an out-and-out fast bowler and played for England when I probably should not have done; and the second being when I slowed down a bit, learned how to swing the ball and did not play for England when I probably should have done.
My first Test, against the West Indies in 1984, was the final game of a five-match series of which the Windies had already won the first four. Let us say that when I joined the England camp, morale was a little on the low side. There was humour all right, but it was of the death-row variety, with everyone apparently bowing to the inevitable before a ball was bowled. Graeme Fowler and Chris Broad, the opening batsmen, who had every right to be shell-shocked after the ferocious and downright dangerous bowling they had faced that summer, went about their preparations cheerfully, if resignedly. The pride in playing for one’s country burned strongly, and the effort put in would be absolute, but despite that, it seemed everyone knew realistically that we would not win.
I did not know many of the other players very well, including Ian Botham, who was a massive presence in the dressing room. I found him very intimidating – not physically or in an unpleasant way, but because he was a superstar, and totally out of my league. It helped me that David Gower was captain, and that I knew him well. But I felt rather sorry for Richard Ellison, who made his debut alongside me, as he not only had the Botham factor to deal with, but also Gower, whose status was every bit as lofty as Beefy’s, if a little more understated. It must be easier these days, with the England team having a much more settled look to it – too much so, some would argue. In fact, there cannot be many players in the current England set-up who do not know their international team-mates better than they know their colleagues back at their counties. This must help enormously. By contrast, at the time I made my debut, England players reported for duty on the morning before the Test, and had a quick net and fielding practice in the afternoon. The selectors, wearing suits, would watch knowingly from a distance, and then it was back to the hotel to prepare for the evening team get-together.
I was curious to experience the eve-of-Test dinner, for this really was entering the inner sanctum. Ever since those days of the blacked-out sitting room at the farm I had dreamed of playing for my country, and although I had not been told that I would definitely fulfil my ambition the following morning, I was at least sitting at the table. To my right was Alec Bedser, the former great Surrey and England seam bowler and a previous chairman of selectors. To my left was Peter May, another legend of the game and the current chairman. How I wished Dad could see me now.
Bedser and I had an interesting, if unusual, eve-of-Test-debut conversation, not about bowling, but about the potatoes he had recently planted in his allotment. He spoke at length about the variety involved, although I cannot now remember what they were. May was polite but very reserved. It dawned on me all too late that the experienced old hands – Botham, Gower, Allan Lamb and co. – had all dashed for the other end of the table. Down there, there was much laughter and banter. Finally, after May had said a few words of welcome, the select -ors left the room. It was now Gower’s turn to give the captain’s team talk. This was taken very seriously, with the players chipping in with their thoughts on how to dismiss each opposition batsman. After a short debate amongst the bowlers about the batsman’s weaknesses, Botham would announce that he would bounce him out. It became apparent that he would finish with all ten wickets in each innings, and the West Indies batsmen would be lucky to make double figures between them. It was funny, of course, but just like Fred Trueman, Ian had absolute, unswerving conviction in his own ability: he meant it.
Ian did actually feature in both of the wickets I claimed in the match. First, he caught Gordon Greenidge at third slip. Then, as his great friend Viv Richards sauntered to the crease, Botham said: ‘Right. Don’t pitch a single ball up at him. Have two men back for the hook, and bowl short every ball.’ This I did for three overs or so, by which time Viv was looking a little exasperated, but was definitely on the back foot. Finally I pitched one up, the great man missed it and umpire David Constant ruled that Richards was LBW for 15. If I am honest, had the umpires’ Decision Review System been in place at The Oval that day, Viv might have had the decision overturned by technology: it looked a little on the high side.
I remained in the team for the Test that followed; a one-off encounter with Sri Lanka at Lord’s which was a terribly disappointing match from an England perspective. Again, the team dinner was dominated by Botham’s plan to bounce out every batsman, but when he executed this theory against Sri Lanka’s captain, Duleep Mendis, the ball kept dis appearing several rows back into the Mound Stand. Mendis hammered 111 in the first innings, and 94 from only 97 balls in the second as his team dominated the match, and we all fared badly. The Test began in unusual fashion when, just as I was about to bowl the first ball, some demonstrators ran onto the field and Dickie Bird, the umpire, panicked. ‘Terrorists!’ he shouted, flapping his arms about. ‘They’re terrorists!’ In fact they were supporters of the Tamil Tigers in Sri Lanka, and after a few minutes they had made their point and quietly left the ground.
I took only a couple of wickets in Sri Lanka’s first innings of 491, and preparing to leave the dressing room to bowl in their second, I heard a discussion on the television between the commentators, who were agreed that this was make or break for me. I do not blame them – it was our fault for having the sound up, and besides, they were right. Unfortunately, I went out to bowl with my head full of negative thoughts, bowled a load of no-balls, and although I was called out as a replacement, I failed to make the original selection for the winter tour of India.
My final opportunity with England came the following summer, in the fourth Test against Australia at Old Trafford. I might have played in the previous game at Trent Bridge, but Arnie Sidebottom – father of Ryan – got the nod despite not being fit. Arnie knew he would probably not get through the Test, but such was his determination to win an England cap that he declared himself fit. He managed to bowl eighteen overs before hobbling off, and was never chosen again.
The Test was played in miserable weather, with a howling gale blowing straight down the ground throughout, and too much time was lost for either team to force a result. I failed to get a wicket in my twenty-three overs, finished with match figures of 0 for 99 and lost my place to Richard Ellison, who bowled magnificently in the next two Tests to win the Ashes.
I was surprised to receive, a few weeks later, an invitation from the Prime Minister’s office to attend a celebration at Number 10 Downing Street, but set off anyway full of curiosity. I suspected that the incumbent, Margaret Thatcher, was not much of a cricket fan when she shook my hand at the top of the famous staircase in Number 10 and warmly congratulated me on my performance. But she was a very generous hostess, and gave a small group of us a guided tour of the building.
