A Beautiful Game

by Mark Nicholas

  It took more than a year to get the malaria out of my system. The 1990 season was extremely difficult and, truth be told, I should not have played. I crawled out of bed each morning, barely practised, got through the day and crawled back into bed at night. I would not do the same again. In fact, I would have ignored the committee’s urging and left the bulk of the season to Paul—with David, Chris Smith and Maco at his side. The summer of 1990 was not one during which I felt cricket to be a beautiful game.

  TRIUMPHS

  We had a few. Four trophies in the six years from 1986 to 1992. Over the period September 1991 to July 1992, we held both the knockout cups—the 60-over NatWest Trophy and the Benson & Hedges 55-over tournament. We didn’t believe anyone could beat us at home and doubted they could when we played away. It was a great feeling.

  The John Player League (aka the Sunday League), 1986

  I recall very little of the season other than we played an enterprising brand of the 40-over format. Marshall was so bloody good around this time that I convinced him to bowl with at least one slip in almost all situations, which gave us the mindset of attack in what was an essentially defensive game. He did so reluctantly at the death but I reckoned your average county batsman was as likely to nick him as hit him back over his head, so I won that argument more often than not. (I was still pursuing this belief six years later and, against his will, brought in a slip for Mark Ealham in the 1992 Benson & Hedges Final against Kent. Ealham hit the next ball onto the top tier of the Compton Stand—a huge blow. Maco gave me the most withering look.)

  Gordon batted brilliantly for most of the summer and the rest of us pretty darned well. The bowlers fed from Maco’s confidence and developed both a pattern and rhythm. The fielding was mainly good and athletic, though some needed hiding more than others. The trick was to get the right fielders in the right places at the right time. (I didn’t go so far as to use Paul as a stalker in the way Johnny Barclay used Paul Parker at Sussex. Parker always fielded at cover point in his Sussex cap, or at least we thought he did. Cleverly, Barclay, who wore a white towelling hat, and others, would swap headgear with Parker and then swap position too. Thus, if you were stealing a single to the slowcoach in the floppy at mid-on, watch out, it might not be Blogs, it might be Parker.)

  We won the John Player League on a fine day at the Oval, which should have led to the jolliest of parties but a Surrey member had a heart attack on the balcony above us. Apparently, the tension in the match had got to him and while we were receiving the trophy our physio, David Newman, was up there trying to save his life. We drove home subdued that night and later the next day heard that he had died in hospital. That sure took the gloss off our first trophy together.

  The Benson & Hedges Cup, 1988

  In the quarterfinal, Robin Smith played one of his finest innings on an uneven New Road pitch that suited the strong Worcestershire attack. Without him we would have fallen but with him, and with the magnificently positive Stephen Jefferies alongside him, we rose to the task of an improbable run chase.

  In the semifinal, Paul made a most impressive hundred. This was the innings that no Hampshire batsman had managed since one-day cricket first appeared as a 65-over competition in 1963. Back then, amateurs and professionals changed in different dressing rooms and talent money further split the rooms. Paul had long believed that if one of the top order batted through the innings, a vast majority of games would be won. At times, he attempted this to the detriment of the run rate, putting such pressure on the middle order that collapses became inevitable. My support for him was unconditional but unrest among his peers demanded we throw the debate open to the floor. The problem was not his theory but its practicalities, and they needed ironing out. Everyone had their say and then, on the day that it really mattered, he conjured up something close to perfect. Always an elegant batsman, Paul got down and dirty while Essex scrapped in their never-say-die way. Then, having wrestled control, he paraded his talent to take us over the line. Like Robin Smith in the quarterfinal, Paul had shown just how much Hampshire cricket meant to him. He spoke for all of us with the innings that finally took Hampshire to Lord’s.

  Everyone was so pleased. Demand for tickets reached a provincial version of fever pitch, which was exciting. As Nigel Cowley said, ‘I’ve got family I didn’t know existed.’ There are aspects of the day that will live with me forever. I had a good match personally with two catches when I moved in to short leg and some runs that ensured we chased a low target without a drama. Best of all, I remember the cracking dressing-room party. As cheers rang out from thousands of Hampshire folk on the outfield, those of us lucky enough to have played were awash in the sensations of achievement and joy.

  The NatWest Trophy, 1991

  A few days before the final against Surrey, Waqar Younis smashed up my hand in the Championship match at the Oval. Oddly, he was late out of the home dressing room on the second morning and jogged past me and Kevan James as we were walking out to continue from where we had left off the night before. He was very jokey and said how much he was looking forward to the final on Saturday. I agreed and, tongue-in-cheek, told him to keep a bit in reserve for the big day. The simplest way to describe how fast he bowled on an uneven pitch is to relate that the Judge, who had only ever batted in a helmet with side pieces, called for a visor. Fitting it took an age. When we settled down to play again, Waqar’s wrath could not be contained. He bowled every bit as fast as Thomson and Imran had bowled to me when I was starting out, only on this pitch the ball flew from shortish—but not bouncer—length to be close to unplayable. To this day, I can see and feel the one that got me. It trapped my left hand, which was in front of my face, against the bat handle and immediately I knew he had landed a knockout blow. I was soon in casualty, and then touring Harley Street in search of an answer. The best offer was a painkilling injection from a needle the size of my middle finger. The consultant said it was unlikely to help much anyway. Waqar had crushed the left knuckle of my left hand and broken the little finger in two places. No cup final for Mark Knuckleless.

  This helped selection in one way and challenged it in another. We had been wrestling with which bowler to leave out and favoured the use of the two spinners, which had worked so well in the journey to the final—one, incidentally, during which we had not lost more than three wickets in any round. The Lord’s pitch had no great history of helping spin, however, and with a 10.30 am start we thought we would need another seamer if we bowled first.

  Just as in 1988, there was no Marshall. In both those summers he toured England with the West Indies, causing havoc. In 1988, Jefferies had been a magnificent replacement, more than justifying the difficult decision about Greenidge, and winning the man-of-the-match award in the most clear-cut choice there can ever have been—he took 5 for 13! Now we had Aqib Javed, the young Pakistani outswing bowler, whose wholehearted approach was typical of his countrymen.

  Neither was there Chris Smith. His sudden retirement in the middle of the summer of 1991 was a surprise and a disappointment. We were more than fortunate that Tony Middleton stepped into his shoes with such conviction.

  The team had changed since 1985—no Smith C or Greenidge with the bat; no Parks with the gloves; no Marshall, Tremlett, Andrew or Cowley with the ball. In their place were Middleton and Gower, Adrian Aymes, Aqib, Jon Ayling, Kevan James and Shaun Udal. Making up the 1991 NatWest Trophy champions were Terry, Smith R, Connor and Maru.

  Someone had to lead them on the day but should it be Terry or Gower? Over the year or so that it took me to recover from malaria, Paul and I had drifted apart. Almost everything at the club revolved around me, too much so in his view. He argued that this affected my own play and therefore the make-up of the team. He had a point, though it was more the illness than the workload. He went quiet on me but I knew what he thought. In turn, I felt that our long friendship warranted greater support. Time is a remarkable healer. We catch up in Perth these days and things are much as they once were when we were st
arting out.

  As for David, he had led England to the Ashes, for goodness’ sake. His calm authority was easy to follow and we asked him to do the job. The truth is, we were lucky with such riches. Hampshire would have won the match with either of them in charge. Each of our carefully considered ideas worked a treat, not least using the two spinners for their full quota of overs. David handled the day as if he had done it all his life, which, of course, he pretty much had. When he received the trophy he called me forward to share the moment, a kind and thoughtful gesture.

  I had sat on the home dressing-room balcony with my arm in a sling and smoked cigarettes provided by one of the rival one-day cricket sponsors, Benson & Hedges. You think you are nervous playing but watching was unbearable. We chased a decent Surrey score, sticking closely to a rate that did not leave too much to do against Waqar’s reverse-swinging yorkers at the death. The two highlights of this chase were the Judge’s cover drive off Waqar that all but burnt the turf on its way to the Warner Stand boundary—a statement shot that put the chirpy Waqar back in his box—and Ayling’s uppercut for six into the Tavern off Tony Murphy as the night closed in. Those 60-over games were a long haul, especially in September. Photographs from the presentation and the resulting celebrations were taken by flashlight.

  We had a lively celebration dinner on a boat on the Thames with Gary Lineker and Tim Rice making guest appearances. The chairman of NatWest was Bob Alexander, one of the brilliant legal men employed by Kerry Packer for his battle against the TCCB thirteen years earlier. He came in with a couple of magnums of serious champagne for me and I made the mistake of taking them with me to the boat. I should not have been surprised when the Gower–Lineker–Rice axis cracked them open. It was a memorable night, though waking the next morning to a violent hangover, fully dressed and with your broken hand stuck awkwardly under your hip is a most unpleasant experience.

  The Benson & Hedges Cup, 1992

  Maco finally had his day in the sun—or two days as it happened. He scored some runs, took some wickets and lifted the cup. No county cricketer can have more deserved his triumph. I hit a huge six over square leg off Martin McCague and held on to a good catch at mid-off. The video footage of my celebration is embarrassing. We were better than Kent and rode the loss of the toss on a misty, damp morning—conditions that hung around all day—with a minimum of fuss. The weather had delayed the start and most of the Kent innings carried over to Sunday, which takes a little of the sting out of the after-party. We were the happiest team and perhaps the best in the land. We should have won the County Championship too but so badly lost focus after winning at Lord’s that we missed our slot. Bloody silly, but I can’t remember enough of how this manifested itself to explain it here. It was probably as simple as taking our eye off the ball, losing a couple of games and, with them, our rhythm and momentum. There is no doubt that in the weeks that followed the winning of the 1992 Benson & Hedges Cup we failed to justify the talent in a good team.

  ANYTHING BUT A BEAUTIFUL DAY

  Our three-day match against Pakistan in 1992 was a grim affair. Javed Miandad’s team arrived to do a number on Robin Smith, whom they saw as a threat in the Test series. He was in the nets bright and early, as ever, when the Pakistan team bus pulled in. Waqar came over, stood behind him and made the sign of the cross on his forehead. An hour later, just before the toss, Aqib approached Julian Wood—with whom he had played the previous summer, for goodness’ sake—and said, ‘There will be blood on the pitch today, you ****, and it will be yours.’ The match played out in this vile atmosphere and I became involved in an incident that did neither me nor the game any service.

  I had about 25 when I played forward to Mushtaq Ahmed and failed, not for the first or last time, to read the wrong ’un. The ball looped from the inside edge of my bat to the top of my pad before bouncing an inch or so short of the diving hand of the substitute fielder at short leg, Rashid Latif, who came up claiming the catch. Collectively, the Pakistanis appealed with venom. I was nervously given out by Ray Tolchard, who was new to the umpires list.

  Furious with the appeal, the decision and the general spirit of the match, I turned in the direction of the pavilion but stopped after 15 yards or so to speak to the vastly experienced square-leg umpire, Kenny Palmer.

  ‘I’m not going, Kenny,’ I said. ‘He caught that on the bounce and I’m sick of this game and their attitude and I’m not fucking well going.’

  ‘But you gotta go,’ said Kenny. ‘You’ve been given out, captain, you’ve got to go.’

  ‘Well, I’m not, Kenny, I’m sorry, I’m not. You go and speak with your mate over there and tell him the catch didn’t carry.’

  ‘I can’t to do that, captain, I couldn’t see whether it carried or not but he could and he gave you out.’

  ‘I’m not going, Kenny, so go speak to him.’

  Can you imagine! The Pakistanis were incensed. Javed Miandad came over and gave me a mouthful. I told him to piss off and mind his own business. He said it was very much his business.

  David was the non-striker. He came over. ‘Skip, I know your frustration. We’ve all felt it this game but you should accept the decision and go. Believe me, no good will come of you staying here.’

  ‘I know,’ I said, ‘but I’m too far down the road now. I’m sorry, I’m not going. They’ve abused us from first to last and we have no idea why. Now they’re trying to cheat me out. I’m staying.’

  Palmer went to talk to Tolchard. Incredibly, Tolchard reversed the decision and reinstated me.

  The place went off.

  Waqar and Wasim Akram came back to bowl immediately. Every ball was at my head. Even when I ducked or swayed, they appealed. If I played the ball down at my feet, a fielder would pick it up and make as if to run me out. They followed through almost to my face and told me what they thought of me. Unaware of the facts in the middle, the crowd began to cheer my every run and catcall the Pakistanis. The match descended into chaos. Writing this, I am in disbelief at what I did. Indeed, I have been so ever since.

  Eventually, Wasim and Waqar were taken off. Mushy returned and again they appealed or exclaimed against every ball I played—even a well-struck boundary. Then I played forward to another googly, misread it again and watched as it looped off my pad to Latif. Now, they really went up, en masse, like a pack of wild dogs. Tolchard gave me out, or did he give me not out? It’s a blur. I hadn’t hit it, nowhere near. Either way, I walked off, deeply distressed.

  I bought The Times the next morning to read John Woodcock, the writer whose opinion I most respected. He had given me a mighty roasting. During the lunch break, I went to seek him out in the press tent. I explained the atmosphere of the match and the facts out in the middle. He had no sympathy. In fact, he fired everything back, saying the greater the provocation, the greater my responsibility to the game. John reminded me of more innocent days when the manners that were once an integral part of cricket’s charm were taken for granted. He said it was the chippy English pros and the sly remarks they passed off as banter that were to blame for the attitudes so prevalent on the modern-day field of play. Banter all too soon turned into sledging, he insisted, and the arrogance of the English game was inexcusable. He said that if I honestly thought that cricketers from the subcontinent were the root cause of such crass and aggressive behaviour, I was deluding myself. In summary, he said that anything that came out of the mouths of Pakistan players today could be traced back to the haughty English and the hostility of the Australians. Anyway, he said, you should know better.

  I left with my tail between my legs.

  It took a while to get over. I apologised to the umpires at the end of the match but the damage was done, especially to Tolchard. The part of it I most regret is making it so difficult for him. I think it is why I now strongly support the principle of the spirit of cricket.

  I have often spoken about this with Wasim Akram, who is a dear friend. He puts it down to white-line fever. He does not doubt that the cat
ch may have been claimed on the bounce but neither he, nor any other member of the team, could have seen for certain. None of which, we agree, is the point. I should have walked off when given out, end of story. He laughs about the bouncer barrage, as does Waqar. Neither of them, nor Javed, nor Mushtaq, hold a grudge. Indeed, quite the opposite. In Lahore and Karachi I have been a guest in their homes, and I remain in close and regular contact with Wasim to this day.

  But I learnt a lesson. Don’t mess with a beautiful game.

  HAMPSHIRE’S NEW GROUND

  At a restaurant in Leeds in 1987, the Hampshire president Wilfred Weld, the vice-chairman Bill Hughes and I made plans that would change Hampshire cricket forever. The old ground at Northlands Road was small and dilapidated. There was no space to expand and no sense in patching the place up. Let’s build a new one, I said. Early the next morning, after our long and enthusiastic dinner conversation about the potential of such a project, Bill, who was a surveyor, rang my room to say he had drawn up some plans.

  Initially, it was as straightforward as finding a new site and getting a good price from developers for Northlands Road, which was in a prime residential location. This all went well enough until the developers ripped us off and the club ran out of money. Rod Bransgrove, a true fan of the team and a successful businessman, saved Hampshire County Cricket Club from ruin with his own money. He was neither fuelling his ego nor searching for reward, as bitterly suggested by a prominent figure at the ECB. He did so for love. Rod took over the club in 1999 and remains chairman to this day. The ‘new’ ground at West End, a few miles outside Southampton, is finally complete a mere 27 years after its conception. It is magnificent.