man for that Test, chosen for the Second and became a star in the Third and Fourth, with three successive half-centuries for a team that was being outclassed, including 88 at Headingley, mostly compiled in a stand of 96 with the tailender Ken Higgs that turned near-extinction for England into a mere innings defeat. His maiden Test century arrived a year later, at Headingley against the weak 1967 Indians. He was an obvious pick now, usually batting No. 5 and often bowling first change, and beginning to build his reputation as a breaker of stands. No one queried his right to tour the West Indies that winter; indeed the speculation questions were starting about the effects of his possible selection for South Africa a year later. As early as April 1967, John Vorster, the South African prime minister, suddenly wavered from hardline apartheid and said racially mixed teams would be accepted “from countries with which we have had traditional sporting ties”. The way seemed clear for him to go.
But by now Dollymania had started to fade a fraction. He had a poor tour in the Caribbean, playing in all five Tests but averaging 22 with the bat, 97 with the ball and dropping catches. “Socially, it was a great tour for me,” he said in Time to Declare. Some felt that was precisely the point – he was now far from teetotal. He did make 87 not out in a shock defeat in the opening Ashes Test of 1968, when England ludicrously picked only three frontline bowlers, then blamed D’Oliveira for not being one of them. Now he was omitted, and remained on the outside, performing patchily for Worcestershire, while England tried and failed to recapture the initiative against a poor Australian side. But all the while the “what-if-he’s-picked?” speculation swirled. And then came The Oval: Roger Prideaux withdrew with pleurisy, D’Oliveira came in, and the speculation ceased. He made 158, which helped win the match. He was dropped four times, but he had rediscovered his form, and triumphed. Surely there could be no doubt now? The press thought not: umpire Charlie Elliott thought not: “Oh Christ,” he whispered to Basil when the hundred came up. “The cat’s among the pigeons now.” It certainly was, but not in the way Elliott expected: five days later the tour party was announced, without D’Oliveira.
Quite clearly, all manner of dirty work had been afoot that year. D’Oliveira posed a threat to the credibility of South Africa’s policy of rigid racial separation and inequality. What if he came and succeeded? The Vorster government were desperate to avoid this, and sanctioned all kinds of bribes to persuade D’Oliveira to rule himself out, carefully detailed in a 2004 biography by Peter Oborne. MCC, with the former prime minister Sir Alec Douglas-Home high in their counsels, did not want to jeopardise their long and, from their perspective, happy relationship with white South Africa. It is possible to believe that the selectors were leaned on not to pick D’Oliveira by an unholy alliance of Lord’s and Pretoria. There was a narrow, rather convoluted, cricketing case to support his omission, based on the fact that there were better specialist batsmen and he was not quite a fully fledged all-rounder. (And he was not young, whatever his real age.) Doug Insole, the chairman of selectors, always maintained this lay behind the decision. There is another explanation, more plausible than either, and supported by well-placed sources: that the selectors remembered the West Indies tour and took that into account, perhaps fearing a disastrous late-night incident. It is notable that the other great socialiser, Colin Milburn, was also left out.
In Cape Town, the South African parliament roared with delight when the news came through. In England, the storm broke over the selectors’ heads; MCC became an object of contempt and ridicule. Then, two weeks later, Tom Cartwright, a bowler who batted, pulled out through injury; D’Oliveira, a batsman who bowled, was inserted instead. The cricketing case for this was again elaborate, though perhaps not as elaborate as Cartwright’s thinking. He had unusual political awareness for a cricketer (probably more than the chronic appeaser Douglas-Home) and harboured mixed feelings about touring at all; it seems likely he used his twinge as an excuse (see Wisden 2008, pages 1552–53). Vorster almost certainly could not have banned D’Oliveira had he been chosen originally. With world revulsion building against apartheid, that would have been too nakedly racist, even for South Africa. But now he had his chance because it looked, not just in South Africa, as if the selectors had caved in to political pressure. The night after D’Oliveira’s inclusion, Vorster was speaking (half-drunk, it is said) in the heartland of white supremacy, to members of the Nationalist Party in Bloemfontein. He was able to tell them: “The MCC team as constituted now is not the team of the MCC but the team of the Anti-Apartheid Movement.” He got a phenomenal ovation. D’Oliveira would not be allowed in, and MCC had to cancel the tour. Short-term, Vorster had won. But both Vorster and apartheid would be dead before South Africa played cricket against England again, and the sporting isolation created by banning D’Oliveira marked the start of the regime’s painfully slow downfall.
Only one man emerged with credit. D’Oliveira made a habit of rising to the major occasions of his life, and he behaved throughout this one with integrity, dignity and implacability. In the years of political strife ahead, he would not let himself be used by either the rigid boycotters or apartheid’s apologists: he remained his own man. He played on for England; indeed for the four years after the great rumpus, he did not miss a match (so much for the selectors’ original judgment). His performances included perhaps his greatest innings: an unbeaten 114 on a shocking pitch at Dacca in the hastily arranged riot-torn series that replaced the abandoned South African tour. And he continued to play well for Worcestershire until 1979, when he may well have been past 50. He then became county coach for 11 years, forming a notably successful partnership with Phil Neale as captain.
D’Oliveira had always been a good watcher – he worked out how to pick the Australian mystery spinner John Gleeson – and he was a conscientious, tough and effective coach, if stronger on the importance of mental attitude than on the minutiae of technique. And his essential decency shone through in odd ways. The former county secretary Mike Vockins remembered him being saddled with a coaching commitment at a school in Redditch on a snowy day. He was not sure he could make it, so he drove there in the morning to convince himself it was possible, then went back to do the job in the afternoon. Basil also became a proud patriarch. His son Damian played 14 seasons for Worcestershire, and in 2011 his grandson Brett followed them into the team, and also became the fourth generation of D’Oliveiras to play for St Augustine’s. By then dementia had overcome Basil, but his family – led by the staunch Naomi – sustained him. And he was revered across the cricket world, most of all, far from Worcester, in the country that once spurned him.
From Wisden Cricketers’ Almanack, 2012
‘I like to think that people are building these West Indians up, because I’m not really sure they’re as good as everyone thinks they are. I think people tend to forget it wasn’t that long ago they were beaten 5–1 by the Australians and only just managed to keep their heads above water against the Indians just a short time ago as well. Sure, they’ve got a couple of fast bowlers, but really I don’t think we’re going to run into anything more sensational than Thomson and Lillee so really I’m not all that worried about them. You must remember that the West Indians, these guys, if they get on top are magnificent cricketers. But if they’re down, they grovel, and I intend, with the help of Closey [Brian Close] and a few others, to make them grovel.’
Tony Greig speaking ahead of the 1976 Test series against the West Indies
In 1976 I was on the Surrey groundstaff and was present in the pavilion at the end-of-series match that would ultimately complete the West Indians’ 3–0 domination of the series. To this day I can remember the amazing atmosphere at the Oval, with the West Indian supporters calling for Greig to grovel, which he duly did. Although Tony was one of my great cricket icons at the time, to see him on the outfield in front of the West Indian supporters on his hands and knees was both funny and sad; it was, however, the right thing for him to do. Tony was a great showman and if anyone was actually going to get down and grovel in front of thousands of people, then it would be Tony. Having spoken to him on many occasions about it since, I know
