A Beautiful Game

by Mark Nicholas

  Nick gave Hampshire cricket a brighter face. He was an attacking captain with a splendid innocence that led to some unforgettable moments and matches. Marshall loved him and Gordon Greenidge could see the upsides. He gave faith and love to the more gifted players and rotated the others in the hope of striking it lucky.

  When we finished bottom of the County Championship in his first year, winning only the penultimate match of the season—and that because Marshall returned to the Hampshire ranks after the West Indies tour of England—he gave a memorable team talk telling us not to forget the pain of such humiliation. With conviction, he said that the sweetness of victory in the future would be every bit as striking as the bitterness of defeat right then. It was really quite Churchillian.

  We were better the next year and really very good in 1982, when we finished third in the championship. This was one of only a couple of summers during his thirteen-year Hampshire career that Marshall had a genuinely strong new ball partner. Sadly, Kevin Emery disappeared almost as quickly as he arrived. A tall man and ideally built to bowl fast, he took 78 championship wickets alongside Malcolm’s 134—yup, 134, of which, incidentally, only 14 were numbers nine, ten or eleven in the order. Emery came close to selection for England’s tour of Australia that winter but a suspect action persuaded the selectors, who feared the result of television exposure and the reaction of Australian crowds, to leave him behind. Emery was never called for throwing and remedial work began behind closed doors that led to a purer release of the ball but without any of the venom that had previously been his trademark. He was not the same bowler again. Unsurprisingly, these events led to a difficult and sad period in Emery’s life.

  I must tell you about a couple of ‘Pocock moments’. There was Chris Old at Bournemouth nicking Marshall to slip, where Nick took a good low catch on the bounce. We gathered to celebrate and I said, ‘Skip, that didn’t carry,’ to which he replied, ‘Hmmm, true, but look where “Chilly” is now,’ and we all turned to see that Old had scarpered and was already up the steps, past the members and just yards from the dressing room. The catch carried then, we all agreed.

  On the flip side, there was Eastbourne, when John Barclay didn’t walk for a catch at the wicket off Marshall. The situation was tense because both teams were going well in the championship. The decision was tricky, because Barclay spun his body hard left in trying to ride the bounce of a short ball. The umpire, David Evans, was obstructed by the way in which Barclay’s back had now turned 180 degrees to face him. Uncertain of any deflection and deaf to any noise, he ruled it not out. At the end of the over, two charming men from the hotbed of the old school network came together. Pokers (Shrews-bury) asked Barkers (Eton) if he had hit it. ‘Yes, I’m afraid so, captain. I’m awfully sorry, has it caused a problem?’ Damn right. Marshall was losing the plot.

  At the start of his next over Marshall ran out Barclay, backing up at the non-striker’s end: a Mankad. This is a form of dismissal named after Vinoo Mankad, who twice in the same series ran out Australia’s Bill Brown in this fashion. Seeing the batsman out of his ground, the bowler whips off the bails in his delivery stride. Usually, the bowler would give a warning but not this time, just revenge for the previous over. Evans asked Marshall if he wanted the appeal to stand, to which Marshall said yes. Barclay said fine, and left. The crowd went hostile.

  ‘What do you think?’ Nick asked. ‘Call him back,’ I replied, which he did. Maco went into orbit. Barclay turned down the offer, saying he was comfortable with the decision and that since he had started the whole sorry affair in the first place he should pay for it now. The hostility from the boundary edge ramped up, an embarrassment Barclay later blamed upon himself.

  Maco was incandescent: ‘I get he out twice in two balls, skipper, and he still fuckin’ here? I no fuckin’ bowl.’ And off the great man went to long leg. He had a point but not an argument.

  Nick left him alone during the next over and then called to him at long leg to bowl again. No luck. Ouch. Then he told him to grow up or bugger off to the dressing room. Brave, given Marshall was the stardust in his bowling attack. For a moment the impasse stopped the game. I thought they should kiss and make up. Nick disagreed and called Nigel Cowley to bowl. Brilliant move. Marshall arrived from the boundary edge saying that Cowley couldn’t bowl a hoop up a hill and he’d better bowl himself or we’d never win the effing game.

  He tore in, as his heart told him to, but we didn’t win the effing game. Chasing 171, Sussex were 122 for 8 at stumps. We finished third in the championship and joint fifth in the Sunday League: one bowler took 134 wickets and another 78 yet we finished third. How badly we needed a top-drawer spinner! It was a similar story in 1983. We finished third again, though this time without Greenidge and Marshall for a month or so. They were helping take West Indies to the World Cup Final, a match they inexplicably lost to India. It was a win for the romantics, crazy and joyous, but our two Bajans found it hard to appreciate the way simple Indian faith had overcome a seemingly invincible superpower.

  In late July of 1984, Nick dropped the bomb. He had done all he could, he said, and was standing down. It was my time. He left me with a good team, though still short of a quality slow bowler, just as the county had been since Sainsbury retired.

  THE CAPTAINCY

  I was immediately aware of the wider responsibilities. Players, committee and supporters alike wanted success and looked to the captain to drive it. I felt we were blessed with batting talent, adequate catching and a great fast bowler. I urged the committee to strengthen the bowling. I had always been struck by the speed at which other, perhaps more ambitious, counties moved to sign available players from elsewhere.

  During my first few years we tried to sign Neal Radford, Graham Dilley and Greg Thomas, each of whom would have been a perfect foil for Marshall. The committee could not be convinced about Radford, was pipped by Worcestershire’s newfound riches over Dilley, and let Thomas slip through its fingers to end up at Northamptonshire for the matter of a few quid. Money was tight. Hampshire operated to break even at best but this risk-averse approach was in contrast to my tendency for acting now and asking questions of the accountants later. To me, investing in quality had no downside. Incidentally, I thought Thomas got it wrong when he chose Northants. Time spent with Maco would have improved him beyond measure.

  Hampshire cricket had a poor record of raising its own talent. Not a single member of the 1985 team was born in the county. The club had a far better policy with overseas players. The best were sought and, mainly, signed. Thus, we had Greenidge and Marshall, who did not disappoint.

  Gordon, like Trevor Jesty, was sceptical of my appointment, doubtless thinking he was a candidate for the job himself. Malcolm worked quietly on him and we developed a day-to-day relationship that allowed us, at the very least, to bat together, if not paint the town red at night. A mistake perhaps was to not involve him in strategic discussions or team management. I had the best sidekick one could imagine in Paul and leant on Maco, Tim and Chris Smith as an unofficial management group. Gordon’s moods led me to doubt his counsel because I suspected he had a different agenda. Having said that, he was terrific with the young players and never stinted in his efforts for the team. In fact, on big occasions, I felt he tried almost too hard, as if it were Gordon against the world. But that is not a criticism, more a reflection.

  Ted Dexter thinks Greenidge the most complete right-handed batsman he has seen. In full flight, he was a glorious sight. I was at the non-striker’s end when he hit a nicely flighted ball from Ravi Shastri back over his head and onto the road at the Mumbles in Swansea—the ground where Sobers hit six sixes in an over off Malcolm Nash. As Ravi let go of the ball, he saw Gordon coming at him and exclaimed, ‘No!’ We watched it disappear from view and Ravi said ‘There is no bowler, I don’t care who he is, safe from a Greenidge assault.’ Technically sound, physically strong and driven by an almost irrational intensity, he became one of the outstanding batsmen of his own or any othe
r age. For many years, we Hampshire cricketers have talked about the weekend when he made three hundreds against Lancashire—two at Liverpool in the championship match and one at Old Trafford in the Sunday League. He went to each of them with a six. The blow at Old Trafford landed on the railway line, as it was then.

  Thankfully, during my first summer as captain, I played a couple of key innings that he rated and were to help us win matches from tricky positions. They kept the wolf from the door, so to speak.

  The other old sweat left from the early 1970s was David Turner, a gutsy and powerful left-handed batsman who had no designs on the captaincy at all. He was a straightforward Wiltshire lad, a cobbler by trade in the off-season, who gave 100 per cent of himself every time he walked onto the park. An hour or so before the first game I captained in 1984, Turner took me aside, said I was the right bloke for the job, wished me well and said he would ‘keep an eye out’ for any backstabbing. Some senior pro.

  I was soon pretty wrapped up in the job. Once, after a defeat that followed a long run of cricket around the country, I announced a practice session for the next morning—our first day off in a fortnight. Paul Terry told me to go and find a wife and kids. I agree that I became one-dimensional during the cricket season but I cared, I really cared. A wife and kids were the last thing I wanted to think about. I thought about Hampshire County Cricket Club, the game and the players. These were a set of responsibilities that I enjoyed and believe are important to this day.

  THE SUMMER OF 1985

  We had the most marvellous season and won nothing. The County Championship was ours for the taking but we blew two huge chances and were scuppered by rain on a couple of other occasions.

  In one-day cricket we finished third in the John Player (Sunday) League, lost by four runs in the quarterfinal of the Benson & Hedges Cup to Leicestershire and, after finishing with the scores level, lost again in the semifinal of the NatWest Bank Trophy having lost more wickets than Essex. That was the most painful defeat I had suffered in cricket.

  Having said that, in most ways it was the happiest and best year of my cricketing life. The high standard of first-class cricket in England was assured by the quality of overseas players all over the land and the presence of the England players for much of the season. We were properly tested and, in the main, did ourselves justice. Should we have won some silverware? Yes, but then Bradman averaged 99.94. Nothing in cricket is either certain or perfect. It took us three years to learn to win.

  The County Championship

  22 May

  This was one of the great county matches, an advertisement for the game in every way. Ian Botham made 149 in the first innings and Viv Richards made 186 in the second—with ten sixes and nineteen fours, if you don’t mind—but Somerset were beaten. Tim Tremlett and Kevan James made maiden first-class hundreds, rescuing the side from 107 for 7 in the first innings. Chris Smith crafted a match-winning hundred in the second innings. I didn’t play. I was at Lord’s where, captaining MCC, I made 115 not out against Australia. Allan Lamb and I put on 239 in just over three hours, before I declared. Then the rain came to ruin any chance of a result.

  Though my head was in London, my heart was at Taunton, where the sun shone. I followed Teletext much as we follow Cricinfo or Twitter now. Botham set Hampshire 323 in 77 overs, and Smith and Paul Terry put on 180 in thrilling style before the chase faltered. Twelve runs were needed from the final over, to be bowled by Joel Garner. Nobody slogs Joel Garner. Oh, yes they do. It took Marshall three balls to finish it—2, 4, 6. Pity he hadn’t played in the first championship match of the season, against Kent, when having lost only 3 wickets in the run chase we finished 2 short of Cowdrey’s feisty target, with me and Jon Hardy at the crease flailing away in vain. What a waste of a chance.

  Tim Tremlett’s father, Maurice, was once a fine all-rounder for Somerset and England. His son took 5 wickets in that match against Somerset, including Richards for nought in the first innings, and made a hundred in a famous win on the old man’s patch. We all thought we would win the championship after that. Even conservative Tim.

  8 June

  Oh shit, maybe not. Rain denied us a certain win at Edgbaston—like we bowled Warwickshire out for 127, made 400 plus, declared and had them 198 for 7 with more than four hours left—and a very likely one at Middlesbrough the following week.

  Then . . .

  To Bournemouth and a key match against Middlesex, who were second in the table behind us, but were without Mike Gatting, Paul Downton and John Emburey—all away with England. We declared our second innings leaving them 265 in 67 overs and knocked 8 of them over for 82. The tea break was a party.

  But we never took another wicket. Jamie Sykes, remember him? Exactly, but we bloody well do. Sykes and Simon Hughes—I still hate you for this, Yozzer—batted for 29 overs to save the match. The pitch was dead. We dropped two catches and I bowled Maco into the ground. I switched the bowlers around ten times in the last twenty overs. Nothing. Maco took 8 in the match but the rest of us couldn’t help, not even accurate Tim.

  24 August

  This was the start of Bournemouth week, a festival of cricket that included two championship games and one in the Sunday League. Good holiday crowds attended and the boundary was lined by marquees that sparkled in the summer sunshine. In those very different days the club took cricket around the county, playing four matches at Bournemouth, two at Portsmouth and one at Basingstoke. We enjoyed them all and invariably got results on pitches that offered more to bowlers than Southampton.

  The day before the start of the first match of the week against Gloucestershire, I drove to Bournemouth and met with the head groundsman. My view was that the pitches needed more life if we were to regenerate our championship ambition. I asked him to leave more grass on the surface and water it, which he did on the promise that I should answer to the committee if it backfired. Then it hammered down all night and continued raining for most of the morning. When the covers came off around lunchtime, the pitch was emerald green and sweaty damp. A start was agreed for three o’clock. I won the toss and put Gloucester in. We bowled them out for 140—the gifted young quick bowler from Lymington, Stephen Andrew, took 6 wickets. We made 197 ourselves and then bowled them out again for 157. Rajesh Maru, the little left-arm spinner we had signed from Middlesex the previous winter, took 5 for 16, which I cannot claim was in my master plan but then Marshall was hustling in with some venom at the other end, which sure forced some shots against Maru.

  We needed 101 to win the game against Courtney Walsh, David Lawrence, Kevin Curran and David Graveney. Walsh trapped Greenidge lbw and had Chris Smith caught at slip. It was 19 for 2 when I walked to the wicket, very conscious of both the pre-match gamble and the fading championship dream. An hour and twenty minutes later, the game was over. We won it by 7 wickets. I made an unbeaten 71 in 68 balls. It was the best I ever batted.

  In a later chapter, I refer to what Sachin Tendulkar calls his ‘floating technique’, a dream-like state where he responded intuitively to conditions and tactics. By this, I think he means a Zen mind. Barry Richards describes it as the magical place where you feel as if you have control over the bowler’s thoughts and come close to an accurate premeditation of each ball you receive. I swear I felt exactly this that day. I can only think of three times in my professional career that I found this magical place. There were other days when I had a clear mind, moved well, had the requisite desire for a performance and was technically sound enough to produce it. But to float? No. The floating technique truly is magic.

  Long after the crowds had left Dean Park and the Gloucester players had departed for home, I went out to the middle to see the groundsman again. He was preparing the pitch for the next day’s championship match against Leicestershire. ‘More of the same, skipper?’ he asked. ‘Sure thing,’ I replied, with the same caveat. This one looked really green, more naturally so than the Gloucestershire pitch, which had been coloured by the sweating under the covers. Again I won the
toss. We bowled them out for 100 on a pitch tailored to Tremlett’s medium-paced seam and cut. He took 5 for 42 and Marshall 3 for 12, in 15.2 overs!

  We made 371 for 5. This time I went in at 15 for 2 and made 146. I can’t say I remember floating but I played pretty well. At my side, in a partnership I shall not forget, was Robin Smith, who made an unbeaten 134. We put on 259, demanding concentration from one another between the bursts of laughter that were part of the beauty of time at the wicket with the Judge. He could spot a pretty girl from a distance: ‘Skipper,’ he said, ‘do you see the gentleman just left of the sightscreen in the third row, the chap in the blue towelling sunhat?’ ‘Indeed I do, Judgey.’ ‘Well, I’m going to ask the girl next to him out for a drink tonight!’ We declared 271 ahead, knocked over Chris Balderstone by the tea break, and the Judge, instead of following us back to the dressing room, headed for the bleachers and his date. We won at a canter the next morning. Judge said his night out was a modest success. Our championship dream was alive.

  11 September

  I have said that it was usual practice to set up games of cricket on the third afternoon of championship matches because, if not, so many of them drifted into nothing. In the original structure of county cricket, the pitches were left uncovered and this made for more interesting surfaces in general and more results. There has never been much pace in English pitches and once they were covered it became harder and harder for bowlers to take twenty wickets. In the mid-1980s I was a young buck on the Test and County Cricket Board’s (TCCB’s) cricket subcommittee and strongly supported Bob Willis’s argument for four-day county cricket. As the position stood, however, I was damned if three-day games would be left to die. At the denouement of the 1985 season, I was more desperate than ever to keep one alive.