he stomped back to the dressing room. When he came out to bat, it was the first we had seen of him since then; and what an entrance it was. He was at his arrogant, strutting best, thumping the top of his bat handle menacingly with the palm of his gloved hand with every step he took, and staring the bowler straight in the eye before taking guard.
I was standing at mid-off, and could savour every moment from close range. I knew exactly what Gordon would bowl to Richards first ball. In fact, everyone knew – even dear old Dot, one of our most loyal supporters, who was knitting away as usual in the deckchair by the little gate through which Viv had just marched. Viv looked very deliberately towards the deep-square-leg boundary, where a man was standing hopeful of a catch from the hook shot.
When the great man was ready, and not a moment before, he settled slowly over his bat. Gordon came charging in like a wild thing. Barely a second after he released the ball, the ground reverberated to what sounded like both barrels of a shotgun being simultaneously discharged. In fact it was Viv’s bat making contact with the ball, which was now sailing high out of the ground. The next thing we heard was the shattering of the glass roof of a factory some distance along the adjoining street. It was a magnificent shot, and Dickie Bird relished the theatre of it all as he paused before turning and signalling the obvious to the scorebox. Then Dickie addressed Gordon, sufficiently loudly for Viv to hear.
‘That’s it, Gordy lad. That’s your one bouncer for t’over.’ At which point Viv rushed up the pitch, left arm raised, shouting, ‘No, no, Dickie man. Tell him he can bowl as many as he wants!’
I note that Richards was eventually bowled by Agnew for 196. It was the last ball before lunch, and it struck him on his pad, then his thigh, and then his ankle before somehow trickling into his stumps just hard enough to knock one bail to the ground. They all count, I suppose, but Viv could barely drag himself away from the crease.
For a professional cricketer the summers were wonderful; the winters less so, unless one was on tour with England. The problem was that the players were employed only for six months, from April until September. Then your P45 would arrive in the post with the scheduled reporting date for the following year, and sometimes a note wishing everyone a happy Christmas. And that was that.
An average cricketing salary paid pretty well over a six-month period – about £12,000 – but not well enough to stretch over the whole year, so it was crucial to find work in the winters. But who would employ a cricketer who possessed no other skills or experience, and who would be leaving at the end of March anyway? It was an issue that must have dissuaded many talented players, particularly those with university degrees or other qualifications, from taking up the game professionally. I remember interviewing the former England captain, Tony Greig, about this subject, and he strongly advocated the return of the amateur cricketer. By insisting that all of its first-class cricketers are professional, England cannot be selecting from all of the best players in the country.
I drove a lorry for a couple of winters, delivering asbestos amongst other things around the country. The vehicle was so decrepit that I needed to stand up, pressing the accelerator pedal flat to the floor, to get up to speed. Rather like Johnners rebuilding his tank engine, it often seemed that there was more in the back of the lorry when I returned to the depot at the end of a day than when I had set off that morning. One of Leicestershire’s benefactors kindly gave me a job in his window factory, and at least I managed to progress from the shop floor, where I was disastrous with a mallet, to the office. But none of this was really for me, and when I found myself with a young family, it started to become a worry.
Then, right on cue, came one of those life-changing moments. John Rawling, an old friend who was the sports producer at BBC Radio Leicester at the time, suggested that I give local radio a go for one winter, and see how it went. He warned me that I would be paid virtually nothing, which turned out to be true, and started me off producing short reports and colour pieces for the breakfast programme. One reason for local radio being such a brilliant starting point for wannabe broadcasters is that in no time you find yourself having to try your hand at everything. When youngsters ask me how to get into sports broadcasting, I always advise them to go and knock on the door of their local radio station. If no one hears you the first time, go and do it again.
Sure enough, it was not long before someone moved on to another post within the network, and I found myself preparing and presenting the early-morning sports desks with barely any experience what soever. But I loved the buzz of live broadcasting, and in the journalists at Radio Leicester I found like-minded people who worked hard and played hard in equal measure. The combination of working at Radio Leicester during the winter and playing for the county during the summer was absolutely ideal for me. It lasted for three happy years until I retired from professional cricket.
Part of the reason for the kick one gets out of live broadcasting is the knowledge that a cock-up is only just around the corner. With luck and skill, these minefields can be negotiated, but sometimes there is nothing one can do. One particularly disastrous opening to the Saturday-afternoon sports show, which I had only very recently been promoted to present, was described by the usually calm, polite and experienced Programme Organiser as ‘The worst piece of radio I have ever heard.’ That was a bit harsh, I thought: all I had done was failed to get on air for thirty seconds, and followed this with a sudden burst of music played at the wrong speed. Perhaps the fact that the song was Gerry Rafferty’s ‘Get it Right Next Time’ did not help.
My worst howler would have a happy ending, at least. One of the duties of the early-morning sports presenter was to record the news circuit from London. This was a series of tapes and interview clips which was sent automatically every hour to all the local BBC radio stations, and which the newsreaders would use for their bulletins. My job was to record each one onto its own individual blue plastic cartridge, which was basically a continuous loop of tape, label it and hand the whole lot to the newsreader, who on this occasion was a tall and pretty blonde girl in her late teens called Emma Norris.
There were two potential pitfalls: the first was that you had to remember to erase each cartridge meticulously before recording the desired clip. This was vital, because otherwise the new recording would not work, and you would be left with the original, whatever it might have been. The second was that there were literally hundreds of identical blue cartridges lying about in the cluttered and untidy studio.
As it happened, England’s cricketers were in Australia on Mike Gatting’s Ashes-winning tour of 1986–87, and I had to record Peter West’s live report on one of the Test matches from the Radio 4 Today programme, which I would then replay during my own bulletin. Unfortunately there was a breakdown in communications between the studio in London and Peter in Australia, so when I pressed the button with perfect timing, all I succeeded in recording was a harassed Radio 4 presenter calling out in increasing desperation, ‘Hello, Peter. Peter, can you hear me? Peter?’
Disappointed, I went to broadcast my sports report, and returned to record the next news circuit from London for Emma, after which I duly handed her the cartridges.
Settling down to read the newspaper, I was surprised to hear a familiar voice drifting across the newsroom from one of the loudspeakers which relayed the station’s output.
‘Hello, Peter. Peter, can you hear me? Peter?’ This was followed by Emma’s standard BBC apology: ‘I’m sorry. We don’t seem to be able to bring you that report.’
Miss Norris was not her usual cheery self when she returned from the studio. Flinging the cartridge at me, she told me to make sure they had all been properly erased in future.
Shortly before the nine o’clock news, the Tannoy sparked into life with an urgent announcement from London. Another tape was on its way: ‘Stand by to record in ten, nine, eight . . .’
Rushing into the studio, I grabbed a blue cartridge, shoved
