was it for me on the international front; just a taster, and it is hard to avoid the feeling that I should have done better. Still, my England cap remains one of my proudest possessions.
One thing my brief experience of Test cricket did teach me is that it cannot be easy to be England captain and then go straight back to one’s county and lead that team as well. But that is what David Gower had to do. It certainly would not happen today. Although there is now much more international cricket than there used to be, I refuse to accept that being captain of England against Australia in 1985 was any less stressful than it was in 2009. We knew in the Leicestershire dressing room that David would return from Test duty exhausted, and that taking us onto the field in a comparatively dull championship match was probably the last thing he felt like doing. It did lead to some amusing incidents, however, like the time he lost the toss and we found ourselves in the field against Surrey.
‘Bowl the first over then,’ he said to me rather wearily as we approached the middle. ‘And set your own field.’
David wandered off to second slip, while I did the rest: point, mid-off, short leg, fine leg, third man . . . Hang on. Third man? A quick headcount revealed that we had twelve players on the field: David had forgotten to tell one of our squad that he was not playing in that match. In the end my old sparring partner Les Taylor, who was profoundly deaf in one ear, was despatched from the field after a great deal of long-range shouting and arm-waving from the skipper in the slip cordon.
I loved playing under David’s captaincy, and he remains a regular dinner companion when we are commentating on England’s winter tours. He always allowed bowlers to think for themselves and work at their own plans. If he was not happy with the way things were going, he would suggest a change, but he was nothing like as pernickety as modern captains, who seem to make fielding changes after every delivery.
Peter Willey, who led Leicestershire when David was absent and for one complete season when David took a breather, also played a huge part in my development as a cricketer. Peter was as hard as nails, and his legendary bravery at the crease meant he was regularly pushed out to do battle with the terrifying West Indian fast bowlers of the late 1970s and 1980s. He could not tolerate anything other than total commitment, and hated what he called ‘namby pambies’, of whom I would certainly have been one. He would exact his revenge for my gentle dressing-room teasing by making me nightwatchman whenever possible. This has to be the worst job in cricket. Having bowled for most of the day, the victim is then ordered to go out and bat against opposition fast bowlers who have only a few overs in which to give it everything they have. The theory is that a tail-ender is more dispensable than a front-line batsman, but it is a no-win situation, the cricketing equivalent of being blindfolded, having your hands tied and being given a last drag on a cigarette.
The situation is far worse when one is also a complete coward, a weakness I cannot deny, and which Willey knew only too well. It always disappointed me that I was not braver as a batsman, but the sight of a huge West Indian fast bowler hurtling in to bowl at me turned my knees to jelly, while at the same time not rendering me incapable of retreating with an impressive turn of speed towards the square-leg umpire just as the bowler let the ball go. Jack Birkenshaw, who became an umpire after his playing days, once held up play when I was batting against Michael Holding. The problem was that I was stepping to leg to give Holding a good view of the stumps which, hopefully, he would then aim at and hit. But Holding, armed with a new ball, thought there was some sport to be had, and fired bouncer after bouncer at me as I moved further and further away from the pitch. In the end Birkenshaw had to inform the fielding captain that he was moving from square leg and would take up his position on the other side of the wicket, because he believed he was in danger of either being trampled on by me, or being struck on the head by a Holding thunderbolt. A cricket ball hurts, as is a recurring theme amongst the celebrity guests I interview on Saturday lunchtimes on Test Match Special; they all love the game, but many of them were put off playing it because they were hit as youngsters.
I remember Willey gleefully sending me out to bat as nightwatchman against Hampshire when only a few overs remained in the day, and the great West Indian fast bowler Malcolm Marshall was in full cry. It always took me by surprise, after my time came to pick up my bat and leave the sanctuary of the dressing room, to discover that, against my better judgement, I had actually managed to transport myself to the pitch. Rather like getting from the dentist’s waiting room to his surgery chair, you know you do not want to do it, but something overrides your anxiety and you make the walk. It is hardly surprising that I was particularly hesitant on this occasion, because Marshall bowling at full tilt gave you less than half a second to see the ball, let alone hit it or, more important still, stop it from hitting you.
I once had the sort of view that money cannot buy when I was at the other end when Marshall was bowling to Gower in a county championship match. From twenty-two yards away it was a wonderful contest, with Marshall’s naturally competitive nature making him strain every sinew to get Gower out. Only from that position – leaning on one’s bat and determined not to leave the non-striker’s crease – can you appreciate the extra time to see the ball that sets batsmen like Gower apart from lesser mortals. Sometimes, having played Marshall defensively off the front foot, Gower would smile up the pitch, nod his head and say, ‘Well bowled.’ Then a graceful flash of the bat would send the next ball flying through point for four, at which Marshall would acknowledge the stroke. It was high-octane stuff with no quarter given, but carried out in an atmosphere of absolute mutual respect. I was almost sorry when Marshall ruthlessly brushed me aside at his first opportunity, because it had been a very special experience.
To be fair, Marshall and I always got on very well. He apologised whenever he hit me, which I took to be a compliment. On this occasion, a couple of hostile deliveries flew past my nose at high speed, and I could see Willey, the next man to bat, sitting and laughing on the pavilion balcony. Marshall dug another ball in short which fizzed nastily towards my ribs and passed down the leg side to the wicketkeeper. Someone on the field uttered a stifled appeal for caught behind – not much of one, I accept, but enough for a sporting ‘walker’ like me to do the decent thing and give myself out. After all, there must have been a chance that the ball had flicked my glove on the way past.
There was some surprise amongst the Hampshire fielders when I tucked my bat under my arm and set off for the pavilion. Sam Cook, the umpire, certainly was not expecting it, while Marshall, who had turned and started to walk back to the start of his run-up, could not believe his eyes as I overtook him.
‘Where are you going, man?’
‘I’m out, Malcolm. A little glove. Well bowled.’
The mood had changed somewhat on our balcony, and I had not made it to the small gate by the sightscreen when a furious Willey appeared, pulling on his helmet.
‘I’ll have you for this,’ he hissed through clenched teeth.
After taking some nasty blows from Marshall, Willey settled the score in the next match, which was played in the peaceful setting of Chesterfield’s Queen’s Park. It is a beautiful cricket ground, surrounded by trees and with a duck pond at the far end, but it lost all its serenity and calm whenever Michael Holding was bowling for Derbyshire, when it quickly came to resemble a war zone. As it was a local derby there was a decent crowd gathered as I went out to bat, fully padded up from head to toe. The pavilion at Queen’s Park is a wonderful building, with a large balcony running virtually the entire length of its first floor, on which the redundant members of the batting team sit in the open air and watch the game.
Again, it was one of those surreal journeys to the middle, and I was halfway there when it was rudely interrupted by a recognisable voice shouting from the balcony:
‘Oi! You forgot something!’
I knew it was Willey, and decided to ignore him and stare deter-minedly at the ground, although
