I remember Marcus Trescothick coming down to breakfast in the early stages of the 2006–07 Ashes tour. He looked absolutely shot to pieces, ashen-faced, having visibly aged overnight. As he sat down beside me, I asked him what the matter was, expecting him to say that something terrible had happened back at home.
‘I’m fine,’ he said. ‘I’m just having a little trouble sleeping.’
Having never experienced depression, I have very little appreciation of what sufferers go through, but I am led to believe that the times when you are on your own at night are particularly difficult to endure. With Marcus, the warning sirens were loud and clear and, despite my offer to provide company if he felt he needed some at any time, it was unsurprising that a few days later he was on a plane back to the UK.
Although I never felt I was depressed, I found myself desperately trying to show everyone, the management and my team-mates, that I was fine, fully in control of myself and relaxed about the prospect of going out to bat, when I was actually in a state of near panic. Tired beyond measure, under pressure, searching for form and feeling very alone – it is no surprise that my returns in the first two Tests were so meagre.
My mood was greatly improved by the arrival of Ruth and Sam, who at least allowed me to get away from my own predicament on days off or after play, but by the time the final Test started, even their distraction was having no effect. I was being consumed by my fears. My six-ball duck in the first innings reflected my own disorientation as much as the quality of the bowling. I could sense my England dreams slipping from my fingers, never to return.
It was then, at my lowest ebb, that I decided to let go.
I let go of all my fears, all that negative emotion, all my worries and dreams. There was no point in beating myself up any more. If the worst came to the worst and I never played for England again, I would still have my health, my wonderful family and a career that most people would give an arm and a leg for, playing professional cricket. I had also been lucky enough to experience a few of English cricket’s greatest moments. Life would go on.
The night before my second innings, I slept the best I had for some time. I felt as if a load had been taken off my mind, although it was only because mentally I had stopped fighting. The odds were just too great: one innings to ensure your international future, when you are in poor form, exhausted and completely lacking in confidence. Perhaps other people still had some faith in me, but I didn’t. I was just determined to try to enjoy and appreciate every moment of that innings. What would be would be.
As I take my guard and look around the field, I feel surprisingly calm. The New Zealanders, who are full of beans at getting our captain out so early in the innings, are swarming around me, reminding me that I am facing the prospect of getting my second duck in the game.
Chris Martin, an excellent bowler to left-handers, keeps bowling wide of my off stump. There is no way I can have a go at one of those balls. With it swinging away from me quite dramatically, the chances are that I would be giving catching practice to the slip fielders. I have to be patient.
Finally he bowls a ball on middle and leg stump, I feel the reassuring vibrations of the ball hitting the middle of the bat and watch it race away to the square-leg boundary. There is going to be no pair for me in my last Test.
As the innings progresses, I find myself enjoying it more and more. I have no idea where it has come from, but I am feeling unusually stubborn. I have no interest in scoring quickly. I have no interest in relieving the pressure that is being applied by the two New Zealand spinners, Daniel Vettori and Jeetan Patel. I am just batting. If they want to get me out, they are going to have to bowl me a damn good ball, because I am not going to help them.
Even the close of play and a night stranded in no-man’s-land on 42 does little to break my concentration. For one of the only times in my career, I am completely in the zone. No thoughts of what might happen in the future or what has happened in the past enter my head. I am just cruising along, watching the ball and playing the correct shot. If only I could get myself into this frame of mind more often.
I reach 50 and hardly notice. A quick raise of my bat to my team-mates, who are all applauding warmly. I am not finished yet. I take my guard again and face up to the next ball. Shortly afterwards, Kevin Pietersen departs and I am joined at the crease by Ian Bell, who seems to be intent on hitting the New Zealand bowling to all parts. Often in those circumstances I have to fight not to try and score at the same tempo. Not today, though. I am in my bubble. Nothing can take me out of it.
I reach the nervous nineties and for the first time I am aware that the career-saving century is around the corner. This time, though, I am not having to fight myself. I am more than prepared to be patient, even though the new ball is a few overs away, and with its arrival my chances of getting out are bound to increase. I wait.
New Zealand take the new ball while I am on 97. Chris Martin comes steaming in, as if re-energised by the new bit of leather in his hand. He lets it go. It pitches on middle and off stump, evades my attempted defensive shot and goes through to the keeper. A close shave.
A few balls later, I see my opportunity when he overpitches and I launch a cover drive. Ironically, it is the same shot that I spent so much time working on over the previous twelve months. The ball hits the middle of the bat and races to the boundary. I have done it, I have saved my career. I have found myself on the edge of a cliff and have managed to cling on with my fingertips. All my worries, concerns and fears have evaporated in the space of a few minutes. I have passed the greatest test I have faced in my life. I will be part of the side for the summer of 2008. Life is good, I am happy.
I take my guard and prepare to face the next ball.
England in New Zealand 2007–08
1st Test. Seddon Park, Hamilton. 5–9 March 2008
New Zealand 470 (L.R.P.L. Taylor 120, J.M. How 92, D.L. Vettori 88; R.J. Sidebottom 4–90) and 177–9 dec (S.P. Fleming 66; R.J. Sidebottom 6–49)
England 348 (M.P. Vaughan 63, P.D. Collingwood 66, T.R. Ambrose 55, A.J. Strauss 43) and 110 (I.R. Bell 54*, A.J. Strauss 2; K.D. Mills 4–16)
New Zealand won by 189 runs.
2nd Test. Basin Reserve, Wellington. 13–17 March 2008
England 342 (T.R. Ambrose 102, P.D. Collingwood 65, A.J. Strauss 8; M.R. Gillespie 4–79) and 293 (A.N. Cook 60, P.D. Collingwood 59, A.J. Strauss 44)
New Zealand 198 (L.R.P.L. Taylor 53, D.L. Vettori 50*; J.M. Anderson 5–73) and 311 (B.B. McCullum 85, L.R.P.L. Taylor 55; R.J. Sidebottom 5–105)
England won by 126 runs.
3rd Test. McLean Park, Napier. 22–26 March 2008
England 253 (K.P. Pietersen 129, A.J. Strauss 0; T.J. Southee 5–55) and 467–7 dec (A.J. Strauss 177, I.R. Bell 110; D.L. Vettori 4–158)
New Zealand 168 (S.P. Fleming 59; R.J. Sidebottom 7–47) and 431 (T.G. Southee 77*, L.R.P.L. Taylor 74, M.D. Bell 69, S.P. Fleming 66; M.S. Panesar 6–126)
England won by 121 runs.
England won the series 2–1.
10
EVERYTHING CHANGES
Bangalore is one of my favourite cities in India. The centre of the country’s rapidly developing IT sector, it has transformed itself in the last decade into a first-world, fast-paced, thriving metropolis. Nowhere demonstrates this rapid expansion more than the Karnataka Golf Association golf course. Built in 1989, in wasteland to the east of the city, it is now surrounded on all sides by brand-new offices housing some of the world’s most recognisable technology brands. It is not uncommon for the caddies at the club to say, ‘Aim at the Microsoft building in the distance, with a bit of fade, and you will end up in the middle of the fairway.’ Bangalore is a city in a hurry. New five-star hotels are going up at a frightening pace, catering for the increasing numbers of IT executives who are arriving to oversee their company’s operations.
Amongst the ever-developing city landscape lies the M. Chinnaswamy cricket stadium, housing one of the best batting wickets in India and als
o the Indian National Cricket Academy. It is late November 2008, two weeks before England’s Test tour to India gets under way, and I have travelled here to spend a little time with the Performance Squad (which is a fancy name for England A – a group of aspiring young England cricketers). This is the acclimatisation period that cricketers who are in either the Test squad or the ODI squad but not both tend to go through on overseas tours these days. While I am getting used to the humidity alongside my young colleagues, the ODI team is in the midst of a particularly dispiriting thrashing by the Indians. England have always struggled to play one-day cricket in this part of the world, never managing to match the power and audacity of the Indian players in their home conditions, especially when it comes to playing spin. This latest beating, however, is one of the worst. When I turned off the television last evening, India had just knocked off the winning runs with plenty of overs to spare to take a 5–0 lead in the seven-match series.
Although I still yearn to be part of the ODI squad again, I confess I am not missing being a part of this particular series. From bitter past experience, I know what the dressing-room atmosphere can be like once a team gets caught in a rut. This losing run, with a Test series to follow, is likely to be a tough one to get out of. Instead, I am making use of the excellent cricket facilities at the cricket ground in Bangalore, mixing three hours of batting a day with some fitness sessions – and the odd nine holes of golf to provide a little respite.
My accommodation in the ground itself is simple but spacious. One of the privileges of being part of the England Test team is that I do not have to live in the dormitory with the other Performance Squad members. Dave Parsons, the coach, wants them to realise that perks only come when you reach the top. Although I protested to him about receiving this preferential treatment, my protests were not particularly loud or forceful. I am more than happy to be sitting in the relative comfort of my single room, complete with my own television.
In India, hours can be wasted very easily by flicking through the hundreds of satellite TV channels. There seems to be very little rhyme or reason as to where they are situated, so in the midst of twenty or so channels showing Bollywood classics, you can stumble across the National Geographic channel or an English movie channel. You can never be sure what is going to be revealed next. It is like a huge game of roulette.
For a cricket lover, though, there is always a feast of cricketing action to choose from, whether it be current matches or games stretching right back to the 1980s. I think it is fair to say that the only World Series Cricket I have ever watched has been on one of the sports channels in India. I suspect the late Kerry Packer would be quietly satisfied to know that nearly forty years on from the inception of WSC, hundreds of millions of people are still watching the likes of Viv Richards and Michael Holding in his made-for-TV tournament.
While flicking through the channels this morning, looking for a few cricket highlights to inspire me for what is likely to be a busy day’s training, I come across one of the many Indian news channels. It is clear straight away from the dramatic footage in front of me that something terrible has happened overnight. Pictures of the train station in Mumbai being sprayed with bullets are being looped continuously alongside reports of bombs, indiscriminate killings and a large number of hostages being held in the Taj, probably India’s most iconic hotel. This is being played out in front of millions of television viewers. I watch the scenes in complete horror. There is no editing of the footage here. It is all happening too quickly. Shots ring out from around the Taj Hotel. Bodies are being dragged out of one of the side entrances. It looks like a movie, but this is real. People are dying and the terrorists who are perpetrating these heinous acts are doing it in a chillingly cold and calculated manner.
What I was witnessing was the Mumbai terror attacks in which 166 people were killed and more than 600 injured. Although I was sitting safely in my room, hundreds of miles from the scene of this terrible tragedy, I suddenly felt very vulnerable and a long way from home. India was under siege, speculation was rife that further attacks were imminent and everyone was nervous and jumpy.
In the hours that followed, all the cricketers staying at the academy, including myself, were of the opinion that we needed to get out of the country as soon as possible. Looking back, it seems very much an emotional and illogical response. There was no reason to think that Bangalore was likely to be targeted, but there was something about the scenes of families being ripped apart that made us all desperate to be with our loved ones.
Nearly 1000 miles away, there were similar conversations among the members of the ODI squad in Cuttack, the venue for the previous night’s one-day loss. It did not seem to be a time for playing cricket. India needed to mourn its dead and come to terms with what had happened. After consultation with Reg Dickason, the England team’s security expert, the decision was made for both the members of the ODI squad and the players involved in the Performance Squad in Bangalore to go home and let things settle down.
As I sat on the plane heading home the next morning, my head was buzzing with thoughts about what I had just witnessed. Of course, I was still heavily affected by what I had seen on television. The scenes of fathers, mothers, sons and daughters being murdered, families ripped apart, seemed more poignant when you had children of your own. The Taj, in particular, seemed very close to home. I had stayed there many times, and the Middlesex team, full of my friends and colleagues, were due to be staying there less than forty-eight hours later in preparation for a newly formed Twenty20 competition, the Champions League, bringing together teams from around the world who had won their domestic Twenty20 competitions. If the timings had been a little different, cricketers from Finchley, Southgate and Ealing could have been among the dead.
I wondered what this would mean for the game in India. Pakistan had ceased to hold international cricket at all because of safety concerns regarding terrorist activity. Could the same happen to India? If so, how would the game survive without all the income generated there? It was clear that in the space of a few hours, everything in the world of cricket had changed.
Earlier in 2008, all those involved with the England cricket team had been through a difficult summer. It had started uneventfully with a relatively straightforward 2–0 series victory over New Zealand, with us chasing down a challenging 294 in the second Test at Old Trafford. I was once again at peace with myself and my game. All the worries, soul-searching and distractions had gone, to be replaced with a Zenlike state in the middle. I was relishing my return to form and determined to make the most of it. Two fifties and a century in the series were enough for me to take home the Man of the Series award, less than two months after being convinced that I was playing my last game for my country.
Behind the scenes, though, things were becoming increasingly fraught. An ODI series defeat against the same opposition brought with it the spotlight of media interest and some searching questions for Peter Moores and Paul Collingwood, the ODI captain. There was a growing feeling, both inside and outside the squad, that something wasn’t quite right. With the arrival of South Africa’s extremely talented squad just around the corner, the omens were not good.
One player who was finding himself under increasing pressure was our Test captain, Michael Vaughan. The consistency he had shown en route to becoming the number-one player in the world in 2003 had deserted him, and although he was still getting the odd big score, they were coming along less frequently. Also, with hindsight, it was apparent that he was beginning to suffer from the effects of being England captain for a long period of time.
I remember the gaunt expression on Nasser Hussain’s face when he resigned from the England captaincy in 2003. He had the exhausted look of a man who had simply run out of steam, worn down by the constant demands of players, administrators, media and, of course, his own worries and expectations. Although Michael Vaughan was still very much in control of himself and the team, the fault lines were beginning to appear. He desperately needed a
strong series against South Africa in order to release the pressure that was simmering below the surface.
The final two months of his career must have been, by some distance, the most painful. The four-match series against South Africa proved to be a stark reminder to our team that we were some way behind the best in the world. To some extent, we all struggled with the potent combination of sheer pace demonstrated by Morne Morkel and Dale Steyn and the nagging accuracy of Makhaya Ntini and André Nel. Their batsmen, meanwhile, demonstrated huge reserves of patience and discipline that our bowlers were unable to match. Even though we took the series by the scruff of the neck in the early skirmishes at Lord’s, they were able to bat out the last two days of the game to secure a draw and in doing so wrest the initiative away from us permanently.
A shocking performance at Headingley, where we lost six wickets before lunch on the first day, was overshadowed by the left-field selection of Darren Pattinson, an Australian with an English passport who had been taking plenty of wickets for Nottinghamshire. It was an unaccountably strange stab in the dark by the selectors, especially as his hit-the-deck type of bowling was not what was required in the swing-friendly conditions in Leeds, but his selection had no bearing whatsoever on the result of the game. The batsmen were to blame.
Driving Ambition - My Autobiography Page 14