The Autobiography

by Alastair Cook

  There’s the eighteen-year-old kid, straight from the Academy. There’s the twenty-two-year-old who has been around a bit, and has his eye on a county cap. There’s the twenty-four-year-old who is privately fretting, thinking, ‘This is my last chance.’ There’s the twenty-seven-year-old breakout player, desperate to be selected for England, and there’s the thirty-seven-year-old who is still enjoying his cricket and wants to stick around for another couple of years.

  I asked myself what my value would be to such a diverse group. I needed something other than the selfish pursuit of making big runs to quell the scary thought that there was a pointlessness to my presence. I got it when Maggs – Anthony McGrath, our second-year head coach – asked me to be a sounding board for anyone who needed the release of an alternative viewpoint.

  He felt that people would pick up little things from me. I’m not the oracle. I’ve never pretended to know it all, but I suppose I’m not quite so self-contained as I once was. I designed a method to give me success and longevity; if I can share practical examples with a young player who wants to learn, without the hierarchical formalities of being a coach, I’m more than happy to do so.

  Basic guidelines, beyond the complexities of technique? Never over complicate. Don’t make a simple game very hard. Apply yourself, ingrain what you believe to be the best of you. With clarity comes consistency, but always remember that sport can be contradictory. Stuff just happens. There’s nothing you can do about the saddest fact of a cricketer’s life, that you wish you knew, at twenty-one, what you know at thirty-five.

  I’m not quite at the stage where I’m sitting in front of the fire in fond reminiscence of the old days and the old ways, but I am seeing the game through a different lens. As England captain I consciously refused to talk up an opposition player, or team, beyond the bland niceties of a press conference that no one takes the slightest notice of.

  I was desperate not to fail. I wanted to score more runs than anyone else. If that meant keeping my true thoughts to myself, then so be it. Now, though, I have the freedom to be frank. Instead of viewing someone like Virat Kohli as a rival, I see him for what he is, a master of his trade. He no longer represents a danger, a point of potentially unflattering comparison.

  I recognize the resilience it took for him to overcome his early struggles in England. I am in awe of his ability to compartmentalize a life that is not his own. But most of all, I can enjoy the beauty of his batting, the extraordinary way in which he responds to the evolving demands of a run chase in one-day cricket. The placement of his shots, and the consistency of his technique, are stunning. I hadn’t realized until now how good he is.

  I’ve never been one for quantifying a player purely on the evidence of the record books. That doesn’t mean I have any less respect or admiration for those bygone heroes who had occasionally to make their runs on uncovered wickets, or on imperfect pitches without the insurance of a protective helmet. I simply prefer to make my judgements through personal experience. On that basis, and with apologies for omitting Morne Morkel and Ishant Sharma, the bowlers who probably caused me the most difficulty, I consider Ricky Ponting, Jacques Kallis and Brian Lara to be the three standout players of my generation.

  Rod Marsh, who took charge of the England Academy for four years, up to 2005, used to tell a story about Ponting and the ‘bouncer sessions’ he starred in at the indoor centre at the Adelaide Oval when he did the same job for the Australians. Aussie coaches would feed tennis balls, encased in leather, into a bowling machine set to aim at the head at 100 mph.

  Those sessions were brutal and drew blood. Only Ricky seemed immune to punishment; he was never hit and swiped away deliveries in front of square leg. To me, as a twenty-one-year-old breaking into the England team, he was different gravy. He seemed to have so much time to hook and pull the ball, getting his foot down the pitch early. He struck it so crisply and cleanly.

  His 196 against us in the Brisbane Test in 2006 stays with me as the perfect example of his willpower, skill and defiance. He batted for more than seven and a half hours, across two days, before Matthew Hoggard trapped him leg before. He reached 100 in 136 balls, retrenched and survived another 186 deliveries before he left, visibly angry, swishing his bat across the turf at his perceived casualness.

  He thirsted for more, having blotted out all the pre-match noise. He was measured in defence, barely played a false stroke and used his feet brilliantly. The local press, in typical trampoline fashion, compared him to Bradman a couple of days after questioning his capacity to lead his country. I saw someone operating at a higher level, batting on a different planet from the rest of us.

  Kallis was a complete cricketer, capable of catching pigeons at slip and amassing 292 Test wickets. His batting, ruthless and serene, enabled him to accumulate 13,289 Test runs at an average in excess of 55. His technique had such simplicity and repeatability. His temperament ensured he never looked flustered. He could control matches single-handedly.

  I played against Lara only once, for MCC at Arundel in July 2004. He was recovering from a two-day bout of flu, and laced his 113, from 105 balls, with eighteen fours and two sixes. We probably got off lightly, since his four previous first-class innings were 400 not out, 53, 120 and another 113. He retired ill, complaining about his physical fragility and the strength of our team.

  He took Min Patel, a wily slow left-arm spin bowler who was good enough to make two Test appearances for England eight years earlier, to the cleaners on a turning wicket. I had just been named England’s Under-19 captain, and so wouldn’t have been on Lara’s radar, and was in danger of succumbing to a bout of hero worship.

  The way Lara moved fields around, and played in-to-out shots from the rough against the spin, was touched by genius. Plenty of observers said nice things about me, as a certainty to play for the senior England team, after I scored 89 in a twenty-nine-run defeat, but watching him made me realize how far I had to go.

  Of the current crop, Jos Buttler has Lara’s ability to make you watch and wonder how he manages it. He radiates positivity in everything he does, a state of mind that transfers easily across to his batting. There is never a hint of indecision; he plays with an unforced confidence that tells bowlers, of the highest quality, that they are in trouble.

  Speaking of quality bowlers, Jimmy Anderson is the most skilful I have seen. He is not one of those who can blast a tail out. He doesn’t generate a fear factor, though he reaches 90 mph, and rarely picks up easy wickets. People think of him as a seam bowler, a deliverer of good old-fashioned line and length, but he is more, much more, than that. He might not be able to bat, but he is possibly the best cricketer England has ever produced.

  His versatility, diligence and accuracy, aligned to his game intelligence, have enabled him to evolve as a player while remaining effective at the highest level. He can swing it and reverse it, and has mastered the art of wobble seam, initiated by Australia’s Stuart Clark, who took twenty-six wickets at an average of 17 in his debut Ashes series, in 2006–07.

  Clark could make the ball dart about on the most insipid pitch, by releasing it so that the seam wavered from side to side, rather than slicing through the air in an upright fashion. It involved widening the fingers on the grip, and aiming the ball so that it pitched on the edge of the seam. The subsequent movement was unpredictable and often deadly.

  As so often, the difference between recognizing potential for improvement and actually realizing it is sheer hard work. Jimmy practised wobble-seam constantly, over a couple of years, until it became second nature. He saw how Mohammad Asif of Pakistan profited from a similar technique before his downfall in 2010, and had the open mind needed to make small, subtle alterations.

  On overseas tours, for the past six or seven years, he has consistently worn down batsmen with an uncanny ability never to miss his length. That might not generate immediate reward, but his precision tests patience, erodes mental discipline. It is not untypical for Jimmy to pick up three wickets in his third
spell, having entered it with miserly figures of, say, 0–22.

  We do different jobs, but share the same attitudes. We should never have become best mates, since we appear to be polar opposites in many ways, but mutual respect has allowed us to develop one of those close friendships that rarely flourish in something as intense and insecure as international sport.

  There are not many people, in any walk of life, with whom you can speak honestly, to the point of baring your soul. Our relationship is underpinned by that sort of trust. We are also so comfortable in one another’s presence that we can spend an evening together, ordering room service and doing our own thing, barely exchanging a word.

  On the field, Jimmy used me as a sounding board. I helped him to control his emotions, but knew he had to reach a certain level of agitation to get the best out of himself. To go back to those psychological profiles, I was the assassin, trying to keep the warrior in check. I’d watch for the warning signs, of him walking back to his mark too quickly, for example, and steaming back in without really thinking about what he intended to do.

  I think he, in turn, recognized and respected my single-mindedness and my resistance to pressure. He knew I wasn’t imposing my authority as captain on him when I told him he was bowling half a yard too short, or too full. He understood I was thinking with him, rather than for him, when I suggested he should try to swing the ball rather than wobble it.

  A captain’s sensitivity to the mood of his bowlers is vital. On a day when we had the opportunity to bat long and deep he was full of the joys of spring. On a bowling day, he wouldn’t say a word on the bus on the way to the ground. He was absorbed by the nature of the forthcoming challenge; he knew it would be hard, even though he makes bowling look easy. An unguarded comment at the wrong time and there would have been hell to pay.

  Jimmy needed to be half-wired, and I had to be strong enough to ride out the response if I said or did something he didn’t like. There have been times when I’ve had to tell him, ‘You’re gone,’ and taken him out of the attack. He would flare up, go into a strop for a couple of overs, and then sulk for a bit. He would never want to stew in his own juices out at long on, though. I knew keeping him closer to the action at mid-off would accelerate the process of getting his head back in the game.

  Jimmy and I are probably wired a little differently from 90 per cent of people. That doesn’t make us better, merely better suited to our work. We can be prickly, but our success is linked to our bloody-mindedness. At the time, I didn’t realize Jimmy cried at my final England game. I had to have a little giggle to myself, because that blunt Northern exterior hides a shy, reserved man.

  He was there for me when he thought I needed quiet reassurance. He had my back when he believed it was unprotected. When I wanted to chat through a tactic or a problem, we would do so quietly, in the privacy of a hotel room. I wanted him by my side because I knew his intensity, like Stuart Broad’s, reflected his singular purpose, winning games of cricket for England.

  Everyone at that level is, to a greater or lesser degree, aware of their so-called brand, but Jimmy’s authenticity as a bloke is unchallengeable. His honesty may be brutal, and his humour can be deadpan, but players who come into the England set-up having judged him prematurely on false assumptions are quickly converted to his cause. You see a different side to him as a teammate rather than an opponent.

  Hesitant though I am to turn Test cricket into a travelogue, there is no doubt that climate plays its part in a player’s development. Australia’s outdoor lifestyle offers natural advantages. The hard, quick wickets in South Africa are educational. It is as difficult to think of a manic New Zealander as it is to envision a quiet day on tour in India.

  Cricket acts as a release from the drudgery of everyday life across the subcontinent, but is not immune from economic influence. The lineage of the game in Sri Lanka, a small nation capable of producing great players like Kumar Sangakkara or Mahela Jayawardene, is being threatened by financial pressures that prompt promising players to play semi-pro club cricket in England or Australia rather than developing in the domestic system.

  I’ve been fortunate in having responsive dressing rooms, so I am not known as a shouter, or a teacup thrower. I was at my most strident in Abu Dhabi in 2015, where it was as hot, and as humid, as Sri Lanka at its worst. That requires a three-day acclimatization period, but when training becomes a shambles because of the heat you have to act.

  I got everyone in and let rip: ‘All I’ve heard is how hot it is. It’s unseasonably hot. What do you want me to do, turn the fucking sun down? That’s what we’ve got to deal with. That’s what we’re playing in. It’s going to be the same for the other side. Stop fucking moaning. Support staff, sort your shit out. I want ice towels done before we get here. I want to hear us and see us practising like an England team should.’ It worked, possibly because of the novelty factor of me piling into them. Everyone responded.

  The human chemistry of any dressing room is delicate. There is a natural divide between bowlers and batsmen that lends itself to piss-taking. Bowlers will say, ‘I wish I could bowl at you lot,’ and batsmen will inform them of the pleasure they would take smashing them into the next county. I hate the word banter, but internal rivalry usually goes little further than that.

  Bowlers tend to talk to one another on the field, especially when they are operating in tandem, since the era in which they were routinely hidden at fine leg between overs has gone. They are now usually found at mid-on or mid-off, close enough to share observations and strategies. Obviously, they will be unhappy if their own batsmen fail to give them the opportunity to rest by losing wickets quickly, but as long as criticism doesn’t become personal, it is manageable.

  Social instability is invariably magnified by sport’s prominence. One of my trickiest situations as England captain came in Bangladesh in 2016. Reg Dickason, our security expert, said it was safe to tour, despite terrorist activity. I addressed a team meeting, told the lads I trusted his judgement and said we should fulfil our obligations.

  There is no right and wrong in such situations. The players on the Test leg of the tour opted to follow my lead. Eoin Morgan preferred not to travel. There was no resentment at such an acutely personal choice, because, as a tightly knit group, we operated on the principle of mutual respect. Security concerns sit differently with different individuals, because external factors vary. We all have family members to consider.

  My situation was complicated by Alice being in the last stages of pregnancy with our daughter Isobel. I couldn’t miss a Test match, because of the strength of the views I had expressed, but flew back to England at the tail end of the one-day series. Alice was induced on 13 October, and I spent fourteen hours with Isobelle before making the return journey.

  As you can imagine, I was in bits. The emotional intensity of birth stirred the most powerful of feelings, and I was lucky that I had the moral support of a friend, who coincidentally shared a connecting flight to Oman. I felt I was letting my wife and my family down. The justification, that I was chasing my dreams, was wearing a bit thin.

  I was no different from a globetrotting businessman or a foreign correspondent. My job meant I had to spend long periods away from home. I had rationalized that with Alice early on in our relationship. I wasn’t the normal, run-of-the-mill boyfriend, not because I was somehow special, but because that was how I made my living.

  The one huge change in my life since the Oval has been the birth of our son Jack, who could have caused all sorts of havoc by turning up, as predicted, on the day of that 147. He was less than two hours old when I was given an insight into his future, as the son of a former England captain. ‘Has he got his first cricket bat yet?’ asked the midwife.

  Give him a chance. It might be that he absolutely loves driving tractors, just as Elsie or Isobel might fancy themselves as the new Charlotte Edwards. You never know, do you? That is part of life’s beautiful uncertainty. Like all fathers, all I pray for is that they will be h
ealthy and happy. If that involves sport, then great.

  There’s a cool photograph of me, with Jimmy, on the cover of the 2019 edition of Wisden. The skeletal frame of the Oval gas holder is in the background. That’ll be something to look back on when we are in our sixties, and our families will be glad to get us out of the house. I don’t want to sound like a human fortune cookie, or one of those centenarians who are asked for the secrets of long life when the Queen’s telegram arrives, but I can sum up cricket’s most important life lesson in four words.

  Don’t be found wanting.

  Epilogue: One Moment in Time

  I was batting at Chelmsford, helping to set up the win against Warwickshire that took Essex to the top of the County Championship. It was a surreal, semi-detached experience. Like almost everyone in the ground on that Sunday afternoon, I had half an eye on the historic drama unfolding forty-five miles away, at Lord’s.

  Every couple of overs, the umpires quietly updated us on England’s run chase in the World Cup final. Both teams were second guessing the significance of murmurs and exclamations from spectators. Attention wandered occasionally, to indistinct figures on a half-hidden TV screen in a hospitality area on the boundary. From the middle, I could not quite make out the score.

  Once play had been completed for the day, with me unbeaten on 34 and Matt Quinn, our Kiwi night watchman, yet to get off the mark, we jostled for position in front of the set in the home dressing room. Ben Stokes and Jos Buttler were yet to reach their half centuries; even amongst experienced pros, the tension was palpable.

  The sense of anticipation was so gripping I did not take my pads off until the super over was confirmed. The changing area was alive with conjecture; the tenor of texts grew in intensity as the countdown entered a critical phase. As I reflected, in a message to Michael, my collaborator on this book, ‘Only sport can do this.’