This is not an obituary. There is life after Test Match Special. Henry Blofeld, recently back from the Real Marigold Hotel, is proof of that, although the odds on Geoffrey Boycott following him on to that programme in the next series may be slim.
Geoffrey will no longer be a regular on TMS, which is hardly surprising in this summer of all summers. He is in his 80th year and even he recognises it is a good idea to shoulder arms to the pandemic.
Like David Gower and Ian Botham he is withdrawing – or has been quietly withdrawn – from the commentary box since he has not been offered another contract. The departure of an almighty trio of cricketers turned broadcasters marks the end of an era, in which Geoffrey, in contrast to his career on the pitch, played rather more shots than his former colleagues.
My contact with Geoffrey spans at least four decades – though we have never been particularly close. Even so I’ve admired his work as a batsman especially and a broadcaster/pundit. I played in the same team (on the field) once. In 1980, I was first selected in an England squad for two ODIs against West Indies. As the net session on the eve of the first match at Headingley (where I would be 12th man) came to an end Geoffrey asked me to stay on and bowl to him; I was more than happy to oblige. When he had finished batting he asked if I’d like him to bowl at me, an invitation I declined, but I was impressed that he had asked.
I played in the second match at Lord’s, which England won by three wickets after chasing a target of 236. Geoffrey top-scored with 70. At the close the teams assembled on the balcony, where the man of the match award, which had been given to Boycott, would be announced. One problem: there was no Geoffrey. He was already on the train to Middlesbrough, where Yorkshire were playing Sussex the following day.
In one sense this was a highly professional act; once out he could contribute no more and he wanted to be as fit and alert as possible when opening the batting for Yorkshire against Imran Khan. It was another reminder that here was a remarkably single-minded man.
He was one of the two most treasured wickets among bowlers on the county circuit in that era (Viv Richards was the other one). I have not forgotten having him stumped by Trevor Gard at Weston-super-Mare (he wasn’t yards down the wicket; he just lost his balance as the ball spun down the leg side). He also remembers this well and still grimaces at the memory.
He does not forget much and this has helped in his journalistic career. He has written many columns and two of his longest-serving ghosts, John Etheridge of the Sun and Nick Hoult of the Telegraph, make the same observation: he never forgets; he is rock-solid reliable; he will always be there at the arranged time; he knows exactly what they want and gives it to them. More often than not their job has been one of transcribing rather than chiselling out a story.
Likewise as a broadcaster Boycott was ultra-reliable; he never missed his slot. Moreover, he recognised he was not being employed for his discretion. It would be a disappointment – and a surprise – to his employers and the majority of his listeners to hear Geoffrey start a sentence with “But on the other hand …”. One of his books is entitled The Corridor of Certainty.
He has always been capable of sending shivers down the spine of his producer when he sets off with a: “Don’t get me wrong; they’re lovely people …” And he could be tricky to keep quiet; Tony Cozier occasionally managed that by talking so fluently he would not let him in; Matthew Hayden did this more spectacularly – and disrespectfully – at Edgbaston in 2009 on his first appearance in the TMS box, when suggesting on air that Boycott’s batting style had “emptied cricket grounds”, which prompted Geoffrey to throw down his microphone and storm off.
The game has been his life; batting was his obsession and the crease his natural habitat where he was at his most relaxed. But he soon became comfortable in a broadcasting box. It has always been fascinating to listen to him talking about the art of batting and to unpick how his cricketing brain was operating.
I remember seeing the light once when Geoffrey was asked who he would prefer in his team, Shane Warne or Glenn McGrath. “You’ll pick Warne,” I said and we both understood why, which cheered me up since I was briefly on his wavelength. As Geoffrey explained: “They’re both brilliant bowlers but you might find someone who is almost a like-for-like replacement for McGrath; Warne is unique.”
Whenever he was wound up by Jonathan Agnew on TMS, he could eventually laugh at himself. The best sequence was over the venue of his 100th hundred; the bogus suggestion, delivered deadpan by Agnew and Andrew Samson, the TMS scorer, was that this momentous event took place in Faisalabad rather than at Headingley against Australia in 1977 after a new ICC ruling, a source of considerable angst to Geoffrey, who had just commissioned some memorial plates to celebrate the 40th anniversary of this landmark.
While some revelled in his bombast about Brexit, the honours system or uncovered wickets, I enjoyed chatting to him about his early days and was increasingly struck by the warmth and respect he showed when recalling some of his peers. Players such as Brian Close and, in the end, Fred Trueman, with whom he had a few fierce arguments over the years, and his old opening partner for England, Bob Barber, who, he gratefully noted, “looked after me at the start”. Believe it or not, he has mellowed a bit.
