Is it possible for a catch to be at one and the same time both the simplest and arguably the greatest ever taken? How do we judge such things? For sheer reflex and athleticism, not to mention the impact it had on a match and a series, I have never seen better than Andrew Strauss’s astonishing diving claw of a one-hander to dismiss Adam Gilchrist at Trent Bridge during the pivotal match in a momentous Ashes series of 2005. On the other side of the coin, thanks to the advent of Twenty20 cricket in particular, comes the plethora of gymnastic boundary catches that we now see, that of Glenn Maxwell in the one-day international at Old Trafford – a triumph of skill, awareness, invention and athleticism – the most recent of them.
These boundary riders, key now in white ball cricket, are a world away from a game where the time spent practising taking high catches was almost in inverse proportion to the number that would actually arrive during the course of a season, never mind a single match. Either way, Strauss or Maxwell, these are magical displays.
But what if the greatest catch demanded no great catching skill beyond that possessed by a young child? That it required no more athleticism than might be found in an elephant nor reflex any sharper than a butter knife? What if it passed almost unnoticed in the grand scheme of things? And what if, instead, it demanded only intuition and blind courage, a fearlessness of a kind beyond the scope of any other player? As Max Boyce has famously said, I was there, when Garry Sobers made a first-ball duck.
Monday 22 August 1966 at The Oval. It is the fifth and final Test of the series against West Indies, who, led by Sobers, had already won three of the four Tests. The England selectors made wholesale changes for the match, including bringing in Brian Close as captain. By the end of the third day, England were in a commanding position, having gained a first-innings lead of 259 thanks to centuries from Tom Graveney and John Murray, and had already reduced West Indies to 135 for four in their second innings, a position that soon became 137 for five on the resumption following the rest day.
Sobers had batted at No6 in the first innings, but had sent his cousin David Holford out before him in the second, so it was not until now that the familiar figure, collar up, shirt unbuttoned way down the front, and unmistakable walk, made his way to the middle. Sobers had made 81 in the first innings before he was lbw to Bob Barber’s leg spin.
Close had a plan. He always had a plan, some more hare-brained than others, and this was up there with the best. The game has seen no finer hooker of the short ball than Sobers, who had the rare capacity to play the shot from high to low rather than the opposite, and so was able to control the stroke along the ground. You didn’t really want to bounce him. So of course Close asked – no, probably told – John Snow to do precisely that. “You bounce him, Snowy, and I’ll catch him.” Simple, except he intended to do so at short leg.
Close was an exceptional short leg fielder, brave, indefatigable and, so he believed, indestructible, at a time long before the advent of protective clothing. The best short leg fielders of the time made themselves small targets, crouching low, able if necessary to cover up their heads with their forearms. Instead, Close made himself obvious, standing with legs straight, upper body bent at right angles at the waist, head up, forehead jutting forwards, and hands hanging outstretched for the catch, all the while close enough to the batsman to be able to pick his pocket.
This I viewed from the pavilion end, as a young Surrey member. Sobers took his guard, looked around, and waited in readiness. Close took his position. The delivery was quick but perhaps not quite as short as Snow intended. In any case, it came through to Sobers lower than he might have liked. The batsman’s bat-speed was phenomenal, a blur, as he swivelled for the inevitable boundary. Except he did not connect properly. The ball took the under edge of the bat, deflected down on to Sobers’ thigh pad, and from there bounced in a gentle parabola into the hands of Close.
Caught Close, bowled Snow 0, reads the scorebook, and how little such a simple line can convey of what it took. As Sobers’ blade whirled its intent has there ever been anyone who would not have ducked, dived for cover, turned away, covered up, or flinched? Honestly? Close was impassive. He did not blink or move a muscle. There is no one else who could have taken that catch, in that way. So the question can be repeated: is it possible for the greatest catch also to be the simplest? I think it can.
