A Beautiful Game

by Mark Nicholas

  ‘What now?’ I ask hopefully.

  ‘I get he out.’

  ‘Excellent, when?’

  ‘Now.’

  ‘Oh, good. How?’

  ‘Lbw.’

  ‘Good, good. You best set the field then.’ Off I go back to slip.

  ‘Rat [Maru, at short leg], come straight, Rat. Perfect, Ratty. Cardy, come back, man, come to me, straighter, straighter, right a bit, there, there, stop there. Okay. Don’t move, Cardy, you’ll be fine, my brother.’

  Edmonds asks if we can get on with the fucking game. Marshall tells him to mind his own business. We used to say that Philip didn’t need an armguard because he had seven gold Rolexes up his sleeve. Connor is now at silly mid-off, so a long half-volley and he’ll wear a well-hit drive. Maco is in top gear; let it be.

  He moves back to his mark, hindquarters swaying much as Sobers’ once did when the young Marshall was starry-eyed with the game. He wipes his forehead with one of his two sweatbanded wrists and turns to face us. Then he dips his upper body ever so slightly forward, moves onto his toes and begins that deadly scudding approach. His head is perfectly still, his eyes cold-bloodedly narrow. Thirty metres, twenty, fifteen—the speed and balance are captivating—ten, five, he reaches the crease and sets up for the outswinger. But no, the ball curves in late and fast, striking at its target like a snake. The muscles twitch in Edmonds’ tall and strong body but the time is too short for further reaction and the damage is done. The ball crashes into his pads.

  ‘How was zaaaaat?’ implores the leaping Marshall. ‘How was heeeeee,’ we scream, in unison. Near certain of a kill, the crowd bay aggressively. It is a feeding frenzy.

  ‘That is OUT,’ says the umpire, raising his finger in this atmosphere of bedlam, a finger so unrelenting that might it as well have been Caesar’s decisive thumb in the Colosseum.

  Edmonds, stone-dead lbw Marshall, as planned.

  And people ask how I captained Malcolm Marshall.

  So well did he know the opponent and his own abilities that he frequently predicted a dismissal. He learnt his craft from the men before him, perfected it in county cricket, polished it for Barbados and hammered home the advantage at Test-match level. He listened to Roberts and Holding and talked for hours over rum or brandy with Garner. He admired Imran and watched Lillee with a craftsman’s interest. He never wasted cricket talk; rather, he channelled it. Either he benefited or someone benefited from him. He held nothing back, on the field or off it.

  He laughed generously with the Essex spinners Ray East and David Acfield, who offered to carry his bags from the car park to the dressing room such was their fear of him. Then, when the umpire called play, on came the game face. By eventide, he was available to laugh with them again. Cricket was serious business and not to be taken lightly. But the game was a game and the players of both sides were better for sharing common ground.

  Initially, he bowled whippy outswing at a lively pace but not express. West Indies spotted his special gifts before we did, frankly. Charlie Knott, the chairman of cricket at Hampshire, gets the credit for hiring this special talent before it was on the radar.

  Malcolm was in nappies when his policeman father died in a motorcycle accident. Much of his upbringing was then spent with his grandmother, who had him immaculately turned out for school, and his grandfather, Oscar, who bowled to an enthusiastic young batsman in the backyard and on the beach. Maco always preferred to bat and would get furious at himself for brainless strokes. In the school playground, you only got to bat if you knocked over the kid in possession of the crease, so he started to bowl, fast.

  Like other legends of the speed ball—Harold Larwood, Lindwall, Roy Gilchrist—he was only a little chap, small-boned and slim, but, as C.L.R. James wrote of George John some 80 years ago: ‘All power is in proportion . . . pace and body action, he hits many a poor batsman on the inside of the knee to collapse them like a felled ox.’ That brave man of Derbyshire, Alan ‘Bud’ Hill would relate to those words, for Bud once resisted Maco over the best part of a day to find later that the pain he suffered from mid-innings to its close was a shattered kneecap.

  Malcolm was attracted to Hampshire by the scores of his namesake Roy Marshall, whom he followed in the Barbados paper The Nation. When he read the name Andy Roberts on the Hampshire scorecard, the deal was pretty much sealed as far as Malcolm was concerned. On his debut for Hampshire, in late April 1979, it snowed but he still managed 7 wickets when not wrapped around the radiator.

  His greatest asset was an unconditional commitment to any of the teams for which he played. Hampshire became a second home and he felt he often bowled best for the county because of the overs under his belt. Early in each season he would insist on long spells, often refusing a break until he had found rhythm and consistency. This was also the way he developed strength and stamina because, under no circumstance, would he run or train in the gym. His only rule was 400 sit-ups a day—200 in the morning and 200 by night.

  Maco was fiercely loyal, hated seeing talent wasted and refused to suffer fools or shoddy manners. He had an ego but it was neither inflated, nor manifested in the way of self-regard. His achievements were the subject of pride not boasts. He intimidated simply by presence and performance. Sure, he was a fearsome bowler but he was a funny, friendly and kindly man. We truly loved him and it was not a love that went unrequited.

  Of course, Malcolm Marshall was not perfect. There were bad days and silly days, but not many. He was too smart to make the same mistake twice. Occasionally there was controversy, along with a purist’s view that he was a sadistic cricketer who used intimidatory tactics for the sake of it. He, and I—who captained him in more games than any other—completely refute this. He exposed weaknesses with ruthless efficiency but he played within the laws. Umpires were empowered to intervene if they felt he was pushing the limits and those who did were almost apologetic, so much did they respect him.

  When he viciously bounced the ill-equipped Pat Pocock in the Oval Test of 1984, his explanation was simple. ‘Yes, he is batting at number eleven, but he is blocking every straight ball with the middle of his bat and taking up valuable time in the match. What am I to do, keep watching him block me? Or bounce him a few times and see if he then blocks me so easily? I love cricket, but I am born a fast bowler. My job is to take wickets so that my team can win games. I will do the best for myself and my team every time I go to work.’

  He was fortunate to have grown up with the increasingly professional age of the game and specifically the period in which Clive Lloyd led West Indies. He admired Lloyd’s ability to manage a collection of strong characters and learnt from him, taking common sense as his first point of reference. Malcolm missed Clive when he left, which is not to say that he thought Viv Richards an inferior captain, just that we all miss the father figure who first brings us into the world.

  He loved Viv’s passion and responded to the beat of his drum. Viv got lucky too, because by the mid-1980s Maco was the complete fast bowler. The inswinger he had worked on behind closed doors was up and running. It was a lethal weapon in the nets—the most claustrophobic place for us guinea pigs—snaking back at the inner thigh to send waves of electricity from that softest flesh to the brain and back again. These sharp intakes of pain were thrillingly bittersweet, for every one that brought misery to a Hampshire player in practice would bring greater misery to an opponent on the battlefield.

  In fact, he seemed to have more fun after mastering the inswinger than at any time in his career. It was as if Pandora’s box had opened before his eyes and its evil secrets were to be shown to the world. Given he bowled outswing with an open-chested action anyway, the inswinger was already disguised. The pleasure he, and we, derived from Maco’s kingdom of days is with us still now. The only shame is that we could not convert one man’s skill and sense of duty into a County Championship winner’s medal.

  As I write, I think of many examples of his genius. Here are two short stories. One of mind, the othe
r of matter. Or are they both of both?

  He didn’t want to play at Leicester in 1986, complained of a heavy cold. We were contenders for the championship, so I had to talk him round. If we batted first, fine, he could rest up for the day. If we were bowling first, we agreed he would not bowl that day, just field for a while and be substituted. There was method in this apparent madness: if the others bowled rubbish, I figured he would get the bit between his teeth and ask for the ball. Worst case, he should be okay to bowl in the second innings when, with a bit of luck, we would be pushing for victory. Anyway, Leicestershire won the toss and batted. He wasn’t happy but said he’d get bored fielding so he might as well bloody well bowl for a while. The sum of which was a surprising fifteen overs of tidy medium pace without a wicket. Leicester got plenty and declared. We did much the same and left them about 40 minutes on the second evening. Maco was in the most terrible strop, coughing and spluttering, and didn’t want to come out on the field. I told him he had to, simple as that. We got to the middle and he said, ‘I bowl, skip, off five paces.’ Okay, I hadn’t expected that. The second ball flew from a fraction short of a length and brushed Laurie Potter’s glove: a wicket immediately, perfect. Surprised by such bounce, our man-flu victim lightened up a bit. Peter Willey had made a hundred in the first innings but not so this time. Maco hit him on the pads with an inswinger in front of all three. Jonathan Agnew came in as nightwatchman. No contest.

  Now, here’s the rub. James Whitaker took guard. Immediately, Maco hit him on the left wrist, just beneath the armguard. It looked painful but Whitaker waved us away and negotiated the rest of the over, just. The first two balls of Maco’s next over flew from a length and were somehow beaten down by this hurting batsman. Our boy was off just five paces but we were miles back in the slips. I well remember Jimmy looking back to me as if to say, ‘Blimey, I’ll have whatever he’s had!’ The next ball reared from shortish and squared him up, arms and hands reacting in self-defence like a boxer guarding his throat and head. The ball hit him flush on the right forearm. The sound told us all we needed to know and, as Jimmy buckled at the knees, we rushed to his side. The physio came out but there was nothing to be done. He was taken from the field and on to hospital.

  Next morning he appeared at the ground with both arms in plaster. He said: ‘After they X-rayed the right arm and told me it was bust, I said they’d better have a look at the left wrist while I was there. So they did, and here I am, fucked twice.’

  Next day, the flu really set in and it was all for nothing. From 16 for 3 overnight, Leicester saved the game comfortably enough. Whitaker’s bones healed well and a burst of late season form saw him picked for the England tour of Australia. He got a test match, replacing the injured Ian Botham at Adelaide. One is better than none. Bravo, Jimmy. Who’d have thought it? All plastered up with nowhere to go one minute and three lions on his chest the next. ‘C’est la vie,’ say the old folks. It goes to show you never can tell.

  In a Benson & Hedges Cup group match at Southampton against Essex in 1992, we didn’t get many—170-odd. I said, ‘Guys, it’s a flat pitch. If we’re to win this against their batting line-up, we have to win it now. The first ten overs decide the game; get on it and stay on it.’ And Maco just said, ‘Don’t worry, skip,’ like he knew something. He tore in, rhythm perfect from the first epically fast and bouncy outswinger that was his trademark. By the end of that over, he had done Graham Gooch lbw with a beauty that held its line and immediately matched it with an inswinger to John Stephenson. For nineteen balls of magnificent cricket, Mark Waugh defended as best he knew how until Maco slipped him the old three-card trick—two outswingers that Waugh left alone and the inswinger that Waugh expected to go by before watching in horror as it veered into his pads like a guided missile. Essex were 5 for 3. Banish those three from proceedings in five overs and it’s a long way back into the game for the rest of them. We won it comfortably and went on the win the cup. It was the first and only time in his county career that Malcolm lifted a trophy at Lord’s. When West Indies lost to India in 1983, he wasn’t playing; when Hampshire beat Derbyshire in 1988 and Surrey in 1991 he was on tour with West Indies. He desperately wanted that Lord’s trophy and was thrilled beyond measure. The photograph of us together with the cup is my favourite.

  Sharing summer days with this fabulous man was a good enough reason to play the game in the first place. He was my mate and my unflinching supporter. At his happiest, throwing his head back with that infectious laugh, he was an inspiration to us all. I miss him to this day and shall do so always.

  WASIM AKRAM AND OTHERS

  I rate Marshall number one but I’m not blind. My guess is that he was the most effective fast bowler in all conditions. Certainly, he gets Viv Richards’ vote, as much for the wickets he took on the subcontinent—71 at 23 each—as for any of his other skills. Lillee only visited the subcontinent once as a player and took just 4 wickets. That sways it for Viv. The challenger to Marshall in the man-for-all-seasons bracket must be Wasim Akram, who could make a cricket ball talk while it travelled 20 yards in the air. A dead pitch was irrelevant to Was, who transcended most of the surfaces on which he played.

  A surprisingly tall and immensely strong man, he sort of shuffled to the wicket, gathering himself alongside the umpire before taking a short delivery stride and releasing the ball with the fastest arm I’ve ever seen. He swung the new ball and boomeranged the old, amid flurries of bouncers and yorkers that made him impossible to predict. He used his wrist to remarkable effect, altering its position and the angle of the seam within it, and changed his pace almost every ball.

  Legend has it that Sarfraz Nawaz taught Imran Khan the art of reverse swing and that Imran passed it on to Wasim and to Waqar Younis. For what it is worth, Waqar passed it on to me and Cardigan Connor one morning in the nets at Southampton, though you will not be surprised to hear that we made rather less of it than he did. Roberts says he always reversed the ball but that, back then, they didn’t call it reverse swing. He says that on days when he couldn’t make the thing move in the air, he simply turned it around in his grip and if it went, all well and good, if not, he switched it back. There is no doubt that reverse swing is most effective when bowled fast.

  The basic method is to rough up one side of the ball while keeping it dry. The other side can be clean and shiny or damp and heavy. This creates resistance and moves the ball in the opposite direction to normal swing. Thus, to bowl reverse outswing to a right-handed batsman, you position the rough side on the right, which is the opposite of where you would position it if you were looking for orthodox swing. Essentially, the ball creates a slipstream in the air, which becomes a low pressure area or a boundary layer. If this is the same on both sides of the ball, the effect will balance out and there will be no swing. The bowler’s job is to make it uneven.

  There are natural ways that the ball may become rough, such as use on dry and abrasive surfaces or consistent landing in the bowler’s footmarks and other rough areas on or around the pitch and square. Unnatural—and illegal—ways to roughen the ball are to use fingernails to scratch it, or outside agents such as bottle tops or sharp-edged implements. In my view, there is a debate to be had on the continued importance of reverse swing in the game and the methods by which it can be achieved.

  Wasim won the 1992 World Cup Final with a breathtaking display of fast reverse swing: the deliveries to Allan Lamb and Chris Lewis are among the most memorable in history. Waqar won many a match with reverse swing because the ball travelled in a straight line so far down the pitch, and so fast, that by the time the swing began to change its direction, the batsman was long committed to the original line. I would say that Waqar reverse-swinging the ball at top pace was the closest to unplayable there has been. His Test match strike rate of 43.4 supports this.

  It is a fantastic skill to bowl at full speed and swing the ball. Lindwall could do it, Trueman and Procter too. Lindwall had a low, slinging arm that made his bouncers skid and his out
swinger really curve. He had a fine brain for bowling that gave him the edge over most of his opponents. He could read them and then outwit them. Not for nothing did they call him ‘Killer’.

  Davidson was happy cutting his pace to ensure swing and reckons it was a rare day when the ball refused to respond. Benaud rated Davidson alongside Akram, which gives us some idea of his ability to move the ball both ways and of his physical strength. To this day, Davo’s shoulders appear to have been cut from oak, and Benaud used to say that Davo could whizz it past anyone’s nose when a hurry-up was in order. He took 186 wickets at 20.53—no fast bowler who has played in 30 Test matches or more has claimed them cheaper than that.

  Years back, Malcolm and I were in the bar at the Callers-Pegasus Cricket Festival. Trueman came in, saw him and scurried over. ‘Not many as good as us around, Malcolm lad,’ he said, before suggesting Maco should get more side-on for the outswinger. No flies on Fred. John Hampshire told me Fred could bowl bloody quick, even Marshall-pace from time to time. Boycott confirms exactly that, highlighting Trueman’s smooth action, classical technique and ‘gorgeous’ outswinger. Of course, he was a tremendous character. Richard Hutton once interrupted one of his tales to ask if he ever bowled a plain old straight ball. ‘Aye,’ replied Fred, ‘it were a full bunger and knocked out Garry Sobers’ middle stump.’

  Procter swung the ball but only in to the right-handed batsmen. He was another who used the bouncer to devastating effect, forcing even the very best players back into the crease and then pinning them in front of the stumps. His variety was a natural leg cutter, and he was able to run his fingers down and across the seam, creating various drag effects that later became better known when television took us in close to bowlers like Wasim, who mastered such arts. These powerfully built men had immense stamina and were as likely to impose themselves towards the end of a day’s play, when the batting side had flicked the button to cruise control, as first up in the morning.