Cricket XXXX Cricket

by Frances Edmonds

  The day slipped imperceptibly away in good conversation, good wine, good food and good company, and it was just as well we had our trusty chopper pilot to ferry us happily home. By that stage one of us subjected to a random breath test would have had a 1984 reserve bin Rhine Riesling, a 1983 Chardonnay, a 1982 Pinot Noir, and a 1982 Botrytis late-harvest Rhine Riesling to be taken down and used in evidence against us.

  The Kookaburra’s last-minute efforts to call another lay-day have been in vain. Today, Wednesday 4 February 1987, looks like staging the culmination of the America’s Cup. The small town of Fremantle is bursting at the seams, and the short trip from Perth, which generally takes twenty minutes, is requiring a few hours. The gaily painted weather-board facades have always looked somewhat two-dimensional, insubstantial, like a film set, and today the place looks more like Hollywood than ever.

  The cast of thousands is predominantly Australian, but there is a fair contingent of Americans, some cheekily sporting T-shirts with the legend ‘G’bye. G’day’.

  They, at least, are in no doubt as to which way the wind is blowing.

  The famous Boxing Kangaroo, who, sporting his aggressive red boxing gloves three years ago in Newport, knocked the NYYC into a cosmic huff, is fluttering on pennants everywhere, but today lacks conviction, a bit like Dennis Andries after his drubbing at the hands of Thomas ‘Hit Man’ Hearns. As we wave the yachts off from the harbour he is even walking around in the flesh, or at least in the synthetic fur, and is no doubt silently grateful that there are no Italia crew members driving Alfa Romeos in the immediate vicinity.

  It is only 10 am and already the temperature is up in the high twenties. Papa Luigi’s is full of Italians, taking their mid-morning fix of espresso. Eskies are hauled on to launches, stores of ice are being laid down, zinc cream is slapped on facial protrusions, choppers hover noisily above like so many sci-fi monsters . . . the America’s Cup party is about to begin.

  We have a choice. We can sail on a tender in the ‘triangle’, and seriously watch the racing, or we can sail on the Leeuwin, and seriously hit the vino. There is no competition. Besides, the Leeuwin, a magnificent traditional tall ship built to provide an adventure training facility for the youth of Western Australia, is equipped with several televisions, and if we get bored with the racing, we can probably watch some cricket.

  The atmosphere at the starting line is sheer exuberance. Anyone who can patch his rubber dinghy with an Elastoplast is out here, jostling for a view. The Commodore of the New York Yacht Club sails past, looking snooty. A few drunken larrikins boo, and the sentiment is taken up in pockets. Dennis has become a folk hero here in Freo.

  The rest is history. Kookaburra III never even got a look in. No ferocious tacking duels, no fights around the marker buoys, no pan-national coronaries at the finishing line. Stars and Stripes romped home in a distressingly clean sweep.

  Nevertheless the scenes in Freo that night were positively bacchanalian. God knows what must have happened in Australia the night they won the Auld Mug, the Aussies were certainly having a riotous time losing it: people sitting in the gutter, arms around each other, supported by pyramids of dead tinnies; slurred versions of ‘Waltzing Matilda’ emanating from the favoured watering holes, lyrics morosely changed to fit the occasion . . . ‘And that was the end of the boxing kangaroo . . .’; dancing in the streets; Kookaburra sweat-shirts going cheap; one lone AIDS Jeremiah carrying his lugubrious message on a sandwich board, unheeded by an unashamedly hedonistic crowd.

  The presentation ceremony was an emotional event, even for those who were not commensurately tired. The Commodore of the Royal Perth Yacht Club, Alan Crewe, handed the America’s Cup, glistening in the brilliant sunshine, to the Commodore of the San Diego Yacht Club, Fred Frye. Frye, in turn, presented Crewe with a bicycle spanner, the implication being that the spanner, of metric design, would be virtually useless in wresting the trophy from the San Diego Yacht Club where the Cup would be secured by imperial bolts. True to his end of the bargain, Bob Hawke had ensured that the American President’s bush-hat was entrusted to Conner, for delivery on his return to a rapturous ticker-tape welcome. It was unfortunate, however, that the Prime Minister had not seen fit to append instructions. Subsequent photographs showed the Irangate-beleaguered Ronnie wearing the titfer back to front.

  Conner, by now an unofficial roving ambassador for Western Australia, could not have been more gracious in victory. The folk of Freo have taken him to their hearts in a way the NYYC never did. When asked where he would like to see the next challenge held, he answered unerringly ‘Fremantle’, and was duly rewarded with an affectionate cheer.

  Watching the last of the sailors leave, the Western Australian talent must have felt like so many Didos saying farewell to beloved Aeneases, not quite managing to stave of the sinking feeling that this could be adieu rather than au revoir. They were not yet sufficiently forlorn to light the funeral pyres, however. After all, Bondy had promised to go and get that Auld Mug back . . . again . . .

  The next day I left for Melbourne, just as an exclusive liner was sailing into Fremantle. Guests on board were each paying a few thousand dollars a day for accommodation, but it was worth every red cent. They had saved up to come all the way from New York to watch the final of the America’s Cup!

  11 / The Grand Slam

  There was a strange, white laundry bag sitting in the bedroom on my arrival at the Menzies at Rialto, Melbourne. On further inspection it revealed its contents: a life-sized doll’s head, with a very large open mouth attached to an ingenious pumping device. Phil, it transpired, had won the Wanker of the Series award.

  England, despite concerted efforts to screw everything up, have made it through to the best-of-three finals of the Benson and Hedges World Series Cup. This, more than anything, is due to the fact that they have come upon a team which atypically ‘can’t bat, can’t bowl and can’t field’ even more effectively than themselves. Yes, the mighty West Indians, tactically bankrupt, psychologically deflated and depressed by the continuing veto on bouncers in one-day games, have been eliminated. The finals will be the old foes, England versus Australia.

  The prospect of a Grand Slam has obviously given England that final fillip of which they were so desperately in need. By this stage, however, there is no shortage of bitching starting to surface, especially amongst the sidelined members of team. It would appear that the only players who are regularly obliged to pitch up at practice nets are the ones who have absolutely no chance of playing in the actual matches. It might not have been bad policy, under the circumstances, to oblige the entire team to practice. Goodness knows, some of the middle-order batting performances, in particular, were sufficiently catastrophic as to warrant the odd workout.

  Much as I would have loved to witness the nets-niggling for myself, I was sadly obliged to fly off almost immediately to Brisbane, to address a Lord’s Taverners’ luncheon. Ex-Australian cricket captain and current selector Greg Chappell was there to give the vote of thanks. He is certainly one of the most suave, impressive and sophisticated chaps, impeccably well-mannered and -dressed, and heavily into the soda water at lunchtime. He is, by all accounts, now demonstrating an interest in moving into politics, having pursued a very successful career in real estate, and speaks disturbingly highly of Sir Joh. It will be interesting, however, to see which party if any he finally embraces.

  It was a delight too to meet that remarkable old man, Ray Lindwall. As with Tiger, I seem to have a much greater affinity with the exes and the formers than with current-day cricketers.

  A revivified England won the first final in Melbourne, and the circus rolled ebulliently back to Sydney, although at this stage no one was entirely sure which day it was nor indeed exactly where we were.

  We were staying once more at our Bondi Junction apartments, where Ian Botham, along with his new Worcestershire teammate Graham Dilley, had taken the penthouse suite. Sensing a 2–0 England victory, Elton John had organised a party there for the evenin
g of the second final. There is nothing that concentrates cricketers’ minds on success like the prospect of packing for the thirty-first time, and taking an early flight next morning back to whence they have just come.

  It was already nearly midnight when England arrived back at our Sydney sojourn. Day-night fixtures tend to roll on until about 10 pm in any event, and then the usual round of presentations, press statements, triumphant toasts . . .

  I had been hard at the tripe-writer all day, and for once was not feeling like a party. Phil, however, who had only played in one of these limited-overs fixtures, decided we had better put in an appearance. ‘Otherwise,’ he said, ‘they’ll all say I’m pissed off about not playing.’

  The wicket that day at the SCG, as indeed the wickets everywhere else with the possible exception of Adelaide, had turned square, but England had resolutely fielded three seamers and just the one spinner, John Emburey. The truth of the matter was that PHE was indeed pissed off about not playing.

  I suppose we stayed about an hour. As usual with Elton, it was a generous and lavish do, with an enormous barbecue and buffet, courtesy of the Sebel Town House, ubiquitous red, white and blue balloons, and plenty of good bopping music. Sober, unfortunately, I get bored very quickly, and foolishly we left.

  Oh, serious error! How is it I always seem to miss the action? If tabloid tales of unknown ladies wearing nothing but miniscule tank tops are to be believed, we were back to Caribbean standards at last . . .

  Let us not dwell on minor casualties such as ransacked lifts and dismantled ceilings, however. If elevators malfunction leaving Dennis Lillee immured airless and lightless, suspended for hours between Ian Botham’s penthouse and eternity, such things are wont to happen.

  Neither let us dwell on the fact that as a direct consequence of this, a healthy contingent of the team, including Les Edmonds, was summarily decanted into other establishments around Sydney early the next morning. No, such are the vagaries and vicissitudes of life in a touring party, and certainly none of these peccadillos was going to spoil the general euphoria in the England camp or the British nation, where a spate of post-Falklands gung-ho chauvinism had apparently taken grip of the land.

  Just as we were moving our possessions for the thirty-somethingth time, however, the phone rang, and a man operating under the code name of ‘Bill’ from the British Consulate-General in Sydney asked specifically to speak to me. Would I, a mere cricket widow, take delivery of a telegram from the corridors of power back home in London?

  It did seem a trifle odd, to say the least, but I nevertheless agreed, promising faithfully to guarantee delivery to the manager. It had, after all, been the same Peter Lush who had encouraged me to write the piece in The Times diary, criticising the Prime Minister and the Sports Minister, Richard Tracey, for their failure to send congratulatory telegrams when England retained the Ashes. ‘Not that it will make any difference,’ Peter assured me. ‘Probably nobody reads your diary anyway. Certainly I don’t.’

  Oh, naughty, naughty Peter, to get poor debutante hackette Frances E. into such diplomatic hot water. When I returned home to England, it became perfectly clear why ‘Bill’ was at such pains to ensure that I saw the telegram arrive. Back in London, amongst the shoals of unopened mail, envelopes looking like bricks full of American Express counterfoils, invitations to appear in court over unpaid parking fines, and Christmas cards from people who know us so well they had assumed we were in the UK for Christmas, was a very official wodge of an epistle from the Department of Transport and the Environment.

  Dear Mrs Edmonds, (it ran)

  I have come across several references in the press to the failure of the Minister for Sport to send congratulatory telegrams to the team during their hugely successful tour of Australia, stemming I suspect from your Sporting Diary article in The Times.

  (That was reassuring at least. Even if real punters like Peter do not read the wretched column, at least the other organs of the press plagiarise it.)

  This is a trifle irksome. (Oh, dear, the Minister is irked.)

  Mr Tracey sent four telegrams, the first on retaining the Ashes, the second on adding the Perth challenge, the third on the first victory in the World Series Cup, and the fourth on the second and the grand slam it brought with it. (Copies of the same were duly enclosed.)

  The missive continued:

  I enjoyed your reflections on the West Indies tour. This of course is simply in the interest of accuracy, should you wish to refer to the matter of the telegrams in any account you may record of the Australian tour!

  Dear, dear, dear! The Ministry of Transport and the Environment had patently decided that a roving Mrs Edmonds was a serious governmental pollutant. The Minister had indeed sent the telegrams, the first one to Perth about a week after the Ashes victory in Melbourne. I wondered whether the Minister had had to be reminded of the fact in the intervening period. Anyway, does it really matter? David Owen of the Social Democratic Party was first off the mark anyway.

  The majority of the team was to fly back to England at the weekend, although Gladstone, Lamby, Embers, Jack and Both had made alternative arrangements. Phil and I elected to go to Hamilton Island on the Great Barrier Reef for a week’s post-tour R and R, and flew up on the Friday with our ‘dear old thing’, Blowers.

  This island was purchased a decade ago, on a long lease from the Queensland Government, by entrepreneur Keith Williams. Keith, a wonderfully extrovert man, is one of the major developers to have opened up the Gold Coast to the tourist industry, and is now devoting his boundless energies to turning Hamilton into the ‘most desirable tropical island in the world’.

  The major attraction is, of course, the proximity of the reef, where imperceptible hours can easily be spent scuba diving and snorkelling, dazzled by the underworld infinities of coral formations and fish. Nearer to shore, all the usual water sports are also available; as well has hang-gliding and parasailing.

  Keith invited us out on his supercharged speedboat, Awesome, which it most assuredly is. It takes him all of three minutes to do a tour of the island, pointing out ex-Beatle George Harrison’s villa as he goes.

  A modern-day Prospero, Keith orchestrates the island entirely along his own lines. Early on, in a joint venture with Ansett Airlines, he created a landing strip out of nothing, and nowadays all but the largest jumbos may put down there. He oversees every development with the eye of a benevolent dictator. ‘Anyone can build anything they want here,’ he claims, ‘so long as I like it.’

  He is currently winding up negotiations on the construction of two first-class hotels, which should give a further boost to the influx of tourists. At the moment, most of the accommodation is in self-catering apartments, with the option of eating at any one of the resort’s dozen excellent restaurants.

  It was a relief and a release to be off our own ‘today is Friday it must be Sydney’ tour, and fascinating to watch the collegiate behaviour of other people’s. A healthy contingent of Japanese had just flown into Hamilton, though not quite so healthy as the state of their ever-hardening yen against an ever-depreciating Australian dollar. They were all, of course, extremely polite, and were all, of course, earnestly intent on learning the noble art of scuba diving in a mere two-hour session at the swimming pool . . .

  The morning after our arrival on the island, after a superb lobster and mud crab dinner in the ‘Outrigger’ with Blowers and Peter and Pauline West (Westie, just retired from the BBC, has been covering the tour for London’s Daily Telegraph), Phil and I took the chopper up to the reef for a look at the sub-aquatic action. Apart from us, everyone else flying up the reef that day was Japanese, and there were a few minor linguistic problems. There was one of them who seemed to have some vague notions of the English language, presumably picked up from a Berlitz teacher with a very pukka accent. This, however, was doing him absolutely no good in his efforts to communicate with indigenes operating in the English-based patois commonly referred to as ‘Stryne’.

  As we we
re leaving at 11 am, and returning at 3 pm, our driver to the heliport thought it wise to advise us that there would be no lunch provided. I thought this a superfluous piece of information. Surely no one in his right mind would have expected an otherwise ubiquitous Big Mac outlet to be glistening brightly, red and white, on the Great Barrier Reef?

  Our Japanese friend with the vague notions of English had patently been elected team interpreter, and jabbered something quickly to his uncomprehending mates. Goodness knows what the misunderstanding was, but before you could say ‘Sony Walkman’ they had all disappeared, to return ten minutes later, each bearing twice his body weight in club sandwiches and hamburgers. Phil and I shared a helicopter with four of their number, Phil very sensibly sitting in the front and chatting to the pilot, and I very quietly sitting in the back, watching their diminutive frames forcing down these vast quantities of fodder.

  In charade-type gesticulations, I did my best to convey the impression that stuffing oneself with convenience food immediately prior to a forty-foot submersion was possibly not the most sagacious course of action. They thought I was very funny, filmed my Jacques Tati efforts on their video cameras, and offered me some chicken nuggets.

  It was a glorious day out on the reef, not a cloud in the sky, but the strong wind created quite a swell. The instructor gave us each a handful of bread with which to attract the multitudes of fish feeding on the reef. Some distance away I could see Phil, arm outstretched, totally encompassed by swarms of bright blue chrome fish, gaily striped sergeant-majors and duller, but eminently more edible coral trout. It was a wonderland of multicoloured corals, brain-shaped, stag-horn-shaped and fungus-shaped. The shoals of fish, in no way inhibited by the presence of humans, came up to us unabashed and cheekily nibbled at our fingers in their efforts to relieve us of the Hovis. The blistering sunshine refracted dazzlingly through the water. The only sound was that of your own breathing. Such tranquillity. Such peace. It was then I felt the shadow of a large body fall across me. It was a shark . . .