At the start of next week the bowlers in England’s squad will meet at Lord’s to begin their preparations for the first Test against Pakistan. In the time before the first ball is delivered on Thursday, there will be training, and nets, fielding practice, and briefings from the coaches and analysts. Footage of the opposition will be studied and strategies discussed. Kit will be issued and press conferences conducted.
The process is full on, and the scrutiny intense. Has Finny got his rhythm back? Will it be Jake Ball or Toby Roland-Jones, on his home ground, who gets the place temporarily vacated by Jimmy Anderson? On the morning of the match, on the Lord’s turf, the squad will gather in a circle and a new cap will be presented to one of this bowling pair by a luminary of the game who will no doubt offer some inspirational thoughts.
It was not always like this. Forty years ago to the day, 8 July 1976, I was sitting to one side of the home dressing room in the pavilion at Old Trafford when a brown paper parcel (that it really was tied up with string would have met the approval of Julie Andrews), was thrown across the room to me by the tall blond fellow opposite. Inside were two sweaters, one sleeveless, the other long‑sleeved, bearing the three lions and the St Edwards crown on the front; a navy blue cap with the same crest; and, quite possibly (although memory fails here) a tie. No epithets, no round of applause, no handshakes. Little more than half an hour later I was opening the bowling for England against West Indies.
Two days earlier, the latter part of the afternoon had been spent standing around in the outfield at Berkhamsted Cricket Club in Hertfordshire, a match in aid of that year’s Middlesex beneficiary. The following day we were due to start a championship match against Sussex at Lord’s. A message arrived. Arthur Flower, the Middlesex secretary, was on the phone. Someone – John Snow? Chris Old (of course)? Bob Willis? – was injured, he said, and the England selectors wanted me to report next day to Old Trafford for the third Test. What was my cap size? Be there for lunch tomorrow.
So the next morning I drove to Manchester, with no idea what to expect. It was 10 years since I had seen a Test match live. By today’s standards, what followed was almost surreal. Kit was parked in the dressing room and then it was on to the dining room where the rest of the team were gathering. There was no urgency. We would have some practice in the afternoon and a dinner in the evening.
Practice had a randomness to it. There were no coaches in those days and it was the captain Tony Greig’s remit to organise things. Nor were there net bowlers specifically recruited for the occasion so the only bowlers available were those selected for the game. Weeks later, at the Oval, I found this to my cost when, after my own net session, I was asked to bowl at full tilt off 17 yards to Dennis Amiss, so that he could replicate experiencing the pace of Michael Holding. Imagine what this did not just to my natural length on the eve of an international, but to my confidence, knowing that they saw England’s opening bowler as three or four yards slower than Holding.
The batsmen played for maybe an hour. Did I think I wanted a bat? Best have a knock, might be needed, you never know. Then a few high catches, of a kind that would come my way perhaps once or twice in a season, and into the car for the trip out to the hotel at Hale. Dinner was attended by the selectors and tradition had it that the new caps sat next to the chairman, so I found myself talking to Alec Bedser. We loved Alec: he could moan for Planet Earth against Mars. The captain tried to lead a discussion, the kind of thing that these days involves whiteboards and video footage. This Richards plays a bit to leg sometimes. Gordon can square cut. Freddo hooks. Holding and Roberts can be sharp. The Pope is Catholic. Thinking I should say something, I nervously offered a puerile comment which to my embarrassment drew guffaws from the old lags. David Steele fell asleep and was awoken by Greig emptying a sugar bowl over his head. Mike Hendrick and I repaired to the bar for a beer and a bit of peace.
The next morning, at the ground, after a 10-minute loosener in the nets on the nursery ground, Alan Knott spoke to me. Knott is arguably the greatest wicketkeeper who ever lived. Would I mind bowling a few to him on the outfield, he asked me, so he might know how far to stand back. Nice one Knotty. Over to one side, Gordon Greenidge was biffing balls. I’d played against him since he was a kid batting at five for Hampshire second XI. So it would just be me bowling to Gordon again, wouldn’t it, no sweat. Morning Cuthbert. He scowled at me for this was business. He could square cut, though: we got that bit right. Gordon got a hundred in each innings.
