The Autobiography

by Alastair Cook

  His wider views, then, carry weight. As an England player, I argued that there was a need to protect Test cricket proactively by redirecting some of the marketing budgets used to promote the white-ball form of the game. Tendo disagreed, on the principle that Test cricket is a business, like any other. It is impossible to protect a business from market forces. Shield it artificially for ten years, and the money men will still be cynical about its prospects. They will act accordingly. Unless Test cricket is willing to fight back, and reproduce itself as a marketable product, it will die a death. To do so, it needs help from the authorities, who must utilize the well-funded promotional expertise that is being employed in other forms of the game.

  Perhaps it is time to embrace the thought that less can be more. A more strategic approach to Test cricket, with fewer, better-promoted matches, would restore a sense of occasion and reduce pressures on players who are having to shoehorn in commitments to other, more lucrative forms of the game. Test cricket is changing, in any case.

  It is not necessarily a bad thing that very few matches last the full five days, because longevity gives it authenticity, but run rates are higher, and games are moving along quicker. The skill of defensive batting, which once produced days in which teams plodded to 220–2, has been replaced by greater attacking intent, which results in being 350–6 at the close. It is more exciting to watch.

  I’ve nothing against franchise cricket, but I wonder whether it fulfils a sportsman’s basic instinct, to leave something behind. Another team, another game, another town. It all seems a bit ephemeral. Does it create the same sense of satisfaction? Yet, to argue against myself, I appreciate how much work goes into it. You cannot approach it half-heartedly, because it will eat you up.

  Yuvraj concentrated my mind in a similar fashion to Tendo, by hinting at the importance of history, despite my natural scepticism. It still seems unreal to consider that I’m the fifth highest scorer of all time. No England player has more Test runs, more hundreds, more catches, more consecutive matches, more games as captain.

  What’s in a name? What’s in a number?

  Comparing players across generations is one of my biggest bugbears, because I question its relevance. Cricket is a game that encourages romanticism and nostalgia, but looking back and thinking ‘it was better in my day’ is self-delusory because, rather like Formula 1, it is now a different sport, tailored to a different time. Making judgement calls between Juan Manuel Fangio, Ayrton Senna and Lewis Hamilton is as futile as adjudicating between Denis Compton, Viv Richards and Joe Root.

  Modern life has been accelerated out of all recognition. Life stories are told in minutes on social media. My hunch is that, in thirty years’ time, the pioneers of T20, like KP and Gayle, AB de Villiers and Buttler, will be treated with the reverence my generation reserves for such Test greats as Hobbs, Sutcliffe and Bradman.

  For me to be linked to them, through the record books, is deeply affecting, and in my more reflective moments a little embarrassing. It’s scarcely believable to be spoken of in the same breath as such players. It means I can look back at what I have achieved with a lot of fondness, but I’m obliged to ask myself whether I am worthy of such associations. It risks offending the cricketing gods.

  It’s slightly easier now that I’ve retired, and don’t have to back it up in international cricket any more, but I’m aware that I might still have to take one for the Oval, just to keep me in my place.

  17. Not Found Wanting

  It was Saturday, 8 December 2018, the thirty-eighth anniversary of John Lennon’s murder. Chelsea ended Manchester City’s unbeaten run in the Premier League. Northampton Saints, my rugby team, defeated the Dragons 48–14 at Franklin’s Gardens in the European Challenge Cup. I had a pleasant off-season lunch, with about twenty friends, and got the surprise of my life.

  I’m not one of those obsessives who feel the need to check my phone every nanosecond, but for some reason I let it rest between my legs, on my chair. It was set to silent, but when it began to vibrate incessantly, I thought I’d better check to see if anything untoward had happened to my family, or the farm. It was a text from Mike Martin, my agent:

  ‘You need to check your emails urgently … and by the way, I am not calling you Sir.’

  So many thoughts rush through your mind at such a moment: ‘Whatever you do, don’t react, Alastair. If this is what you think it is – and it can’t be anything else, can it? – it is highly confidential. Play it cool. Just finish your dessert, excuse yourself, and go outside to tell Alice she is about to become a Lady.’

  You never consider yourself worthy of such an honour, but I thought I had missed out, because recipients tend to be told of their good fortune about six weeks before an official announcement, which, in this case, would come on New Year’s Eve.

  I was aware a knighthood had been the subject of idle chatter around the time of my retirement from the England team. Theresa May, a cricket fan as well as prime minister, gave a rather flattering interview about her impressions of my career. In late October, Lord Tyrie submitted a written question, number HL10964, to the House of Lords ‘To ask Her Majesty’s Government what consideration they have given to recommending Alastair Cook for knighthood’.

  Lord Young of Cookham, the Government’s spokesman, played an immaculate forward defensive: ‘The Government does not comment on individual honours nominations. Due to the confidential nature of the honours system, discretion regarding individual cases is considered important to safeguard [its] confidentiality and integrity …’

  Recommendations are made by ten independent committees. I was unaware of the fact that confirmation of my honour was delayed because it had been posted to the wrong address. The letter from the Palace was redirected later, after Mike had been contacted. I would like to take the opportunity to apologize to my namesake, whoever he is, for the shock and ultimate disappointment he must have felt on receiving it in the first place.

  The news broke, slightly prematurely, in The Times, where Michael Atherton wrote about me as a kindred spirit: ‘All openers know that the scoreboard reads 0–0 when they walk out to bat; the bowlers are at their freshest and most eager; the ball is shiny, hard and new and the seam at its most proud; and the fielders are full of optimism, and mouthy with it. Nowhere is easy to bat in international cricket but coming in occasionally at 200 for two allows the mind some respite and a reprieve. Openers never get that.’

  Remember, though. That’s what we are talking about here – a cricketer. I’m not a life-saving hero, a cancer-curing scientist. I’ve been fortunate to play a game I love for so long, and I must say I do feel a little young to be a knight of the realm. It’s very strange to walk into a room and be announced as ‘Sir Alastair Cook’. I don’t think I’ll ever get used to that, as long as I live.

  People don’t call me ‘Sir Alastair’ when I’m in the Red Lion or the Green Man, my closest village pubs. There are no airs and graces when I am worming the sheep. It will always be plain old Beefy and Cookie when we are together. As for my Essex teammates, they predictably came up with a new nickname, with fourth-form connotations. I am now known to all and sundry as ‘Sac’ …

  I didn’t realize that I was the first active English cricketer to be knighted, but, as mentioned in the previous chapter, identification with icons is daunting. It took Alec Bedser forty years to be so honoured. The other players – Hobbs, Hutton, Cowdrey and Botham – are part of a bloodline that some see as sacred. That’s hard to get your head round.

  As a sportsman you become accustomed to excessive praise and unwarranted criticism from perfect strangers. That’s part of the job. This was my chance to share my good fortune with friends and family. Alice used a special WhatsApp group to organize open house on New Year’s Day. It was a special celebration, one of those memories that will last a lifetime.

  By then the knighthood was public knowledge. We made an appreciable dent in the thirty-three specially labelled bottles of champagne, one for each Test h
undred, presented to me by the England boys. The investiture itself, on 26 February, was surreal. Everyone has a quiet terror at offending protocol. I knelt, head bowed, with my right knee on a crimson silk-velvet stool, as the sword, which belonged to George VI, lightly touched my right and then my left shoulder.

  Sorry to shatter any illusions, but Her Majesty does not say ‘Arise, Sir Alastair …’

  The Queen was serene, and impeccably informed. She congratulated me before commenting on the excellence of the West Indies bowlers in the recent Test series and asked how lambing was going on the farm. I appreciate people have differing views on the validity of the honours system, but for me it was a deeply affecting moment.

  Following afternoon tea at the Ritz, the extended family returned to reality. It was a time of personal reflection, since I found myself at an intersection of my life. I still had cricket, in the form of a three-year contract with Essex, but the emphasis had shifted.

  Another paragraph from Athers’s article struck a chord: ‘In time, he will surely recognize that his greatest achievement was not the gift from some mandarin at Whitehall, but the knowledge that when tested time and again he was not found wanting. The rest is an adornment. That day in September, when the ground stood and drowned him in wave after wave of adulation, will give him a more lasting inner glow than will any reflection from a shiny bauble. That memory will last a lifetime.’

  We all have moments when we wonder who we are, and where we are going. The privilege of recognition, in all its forms, gives you the gift of reflection. A series of questions began to take shape: What were the fundamental lessons I had learned along the way? How would I use them? Would I be capable of living my life at a different pace?

  One of my earliest lessons in cricket was also one of the most important: you can’t do things on your own, but ultimately you will be defined as an individual, despite it being a team sport. I owe an enormous debt of gratitude to Graham Gooch, a constant presence for most of my career, but had to do things my way. I was the one who walked out there to bat. There was no one holding my hand when I did so.

  I accept I was entrenched in my ideas. I am notoriously stubborn. Logically, if that approach had worked for me as a player, why would it not work for me as a captain? Going back to that conversation with Andy Flower, I knew I didn’t know everything, but was so scared of wandering off, listening to too many people and becoming a victim of muddied thinking that I was too reserved.

  It was only as I became more comfortable in my skin as a captain that I realized I had to be more collaborative. Talking to people who see things from a different angle is rejuvenating. It gives you additional ideas, shares and lessens the burden. Self-imposed pressure eases, because you are not preoccupied with keeping things close to your chest.

  I wish I had done so earlier, but how would I have known, straight away, that was the right thing to do? We are who we are. Given the multifaceted nature of the job of England captain, there has to be an element of trial and error. It is a very different challenge, even if your leadership style is seasoned in county cricket.

  It’s a dissimilar situation, a different job but an amazing job. There’s no doubt it brought out my natural resilience. Living through the KP affair proved to me that if I have something in which I believe I will keep ploughing on. I’ve always been fascinated by the psychology of personal achievement, especially when there is a physical element to the challenge.

  I’ve read a lot about the SAS, and the quiet fortitude of their guys. They don’t show out. They never strut around. They step back, analyse and act. I would love to spend time with them, to discover the true meaning of mental strength. Everyone says I have it, but it is also my comfort blanket. Do I take it for granted, or can I develop it into other areas?

  When I announced my retirement a lot of people, including Athers, suggested I should have taken a sabbatical. Sports massage therapist Mark Saxby, a constant feature of my England career, and a valued source of personal support, came to me at the Oval and said: ‘I’ve got to ask you this. Why are you retiring? You’re only thirty-three years old. You’ve got your whole life, a whole world of cricket, ahead of you. You didn’t need to retire. You should have just taken the winter off.’

  I did think about it, for about five minutes. But, as I told Mark, I was in a good place. This wasn’t a decision taken out of desperation, when I was deep in the bush. No one around me really needed the uncertainty of me marking time in what is often a horrible halfway house. You might not be there, in the dressing room or out in the middle, but the story will still be all about you.

  When will he come back? Who will be under threat when he does so? How will his teammates feel? Was that fair, in my own mind? How would I feel as it all played out? Everyone might be looking at me as if I was mad to walk away, but was hanging on a realistic option? Was it really what I needed at this time in my life?

  So many questions, but only one answer. I was done.

  Obviously, I can’t say this with any great certainty, but on balance I don’t think six months off would have refreshed me. Knowing myself, and recognizing my inherent intransigence, I had reached a point of no return. Any selfishness on my part, because of some romantic notion that I would be transformed into a fresher, ageless version of me, would have been counter-productive.

  I’d had my time. I didn’t want to be the elephant in the room. I didn’t want someone like Rory Burns to wonder if he was merely keeping my place warm. He has a position to secure, a career to forge. It is his turn to see if he can handle everything that comes with opening the batting for England.

  Despite the speculation, no one came asking me to reconsider before this summer’s Ashes. In any case, I had moved on. Even taking the emotional power of memory into account, eight months or so on from that perfectly scripted farewell at the Oval, I am not missing playing for England.

  Playing for England was all I ever wanted to do, and my life was structured around fulfilling that ambition. The transitional period is tricky, because one of my identities, that of international cricketer, has been taken away. It was always going to happen at some stage, and it is inevitably a hold-your-breath moment. It takes a while to rebalance your life.

  There are differences, though my life with Alice has always been slightly disorganized, in being here, there and everywhere. I still bounce between cricket and the farm, the kids and cricket, and sometimes wonder where I am going to land. I’m around for odd days, but I’m still dancing to the rhythms of a cricket season.

  Playing for Essex is distinctive, because you are in performance mode the whole time. That’s unlike playing for England, where you are in preparation mode for most of the time. Test cricket has a different cadence. You might have a month off after a tour, have a couple of games for your county to start ticking over, and then go into the rituals of another series. You become used to the routine of a five-day Test match being sandwiched between separate bursts of two to three days’ preparation. You must deal with the intensity of competition, chill out briefly, and build yourself up to do it all again. It is a life of structured highs and lows. Compared to that, in county cricket you are flatlining.

  That’s taken a while to get used to, because I found the intensity in the international game surprisingly energizing. I’m not demeaning or disrespecting playing for Essex, because it is demanding in a different way. I’m still coming up against very good, extremely dedicated, consistently skilful players. The level is high, but not as severe.

  This is the first time, since the age of twenty-one, that I am playing with the security of something other than a one-year deal. I have a three-year contract, so I’m no longer obliged to endure the ‘what if?’ scenario, which usually looms two or three months into a professional cricketer’s summer. Even when I appeared settled with England, I went through the annual process of review and renewal. I no longer deal with the strategic uncertainty of living from tour to tour, central contract to central contract.

&nbs
p; There can never be true stability at the highest level. The world may seem bigger when you step into the England team, but there are still obstacles to overcome, boundaries to be breached. A better pay structure carries the threat of complacency, but the more far-sighted player realizes that, by playing twenty-five Tests or fifty one-day internationals he can earn the sort of money that can substantially change his life.

  Inevitably, exposure brings pressure. Your profile is higher, so more people want a piece of you. You must learn to read character, find a way of working out who and what you can trust. If you are lucky, as you progress in your work you will have a young family to consider. You must rationalize their demands while never losing sight of the need to score enough runs or take enough wickets to keep the carousel turning.

  Abu Dhabi, in April 2019, was the start of the transition to the final phase of my career. The stadium was deserted, apart from a small tour group escaping the English winter to watch Essex’s low-key pre-season friendly with Somerset. When our bus pulled into the stadium forecourt, feral cats retreated out of the sun and watched intently from underneath parked cars.

  Workmen painted the lobby and put up plasterboard partitions without energy or urgency. The dressing rooms were musty and carried veiled warnings to which we have become accustomed in an age of suspicion. ‘Mobile Phones prohibited’ read one sign. ‘No internet access’. The number of a confidential whistleblowers’ hotline was on a poster in the corridor outside.

  Sitting behind clear plastic in the players’ section of the stand, after scoring 50-odd, gave me the chance to weigh up the dynamics of a different dressing room. An England dressing room is a ruthless place, in which the preoccupation of highly motivated individuals is survival. A county team contains players in different phases of their careers, with contrasting motivations.