Can Anyone Hear Me?

by Peter Baxter

  So we went on the air like that, with cables at full stretch down corridors and across gangways, protected by an abundance of the outside broadcast producer’s friend – gaffer tape. There was one other niggling worry with this arrangement, though, because the box on the satellite dish had only an hour and a half’s worth of battery.

  It took far too long to establish that the problem with our booked broadcast lines was not a fault but a deliberate block put on by the Punjab Cricket Association, who wanted some cash up front. Fifteen thousand rupees was suggested by an elusive official – and it had to be cash. That was the equivalent of about two hundred pounds and a great deal more than I had in my back pocket. I persuaded him to take a promissory note and said I would sort some cash out for him for the next morning.

  Thursday 9 March 2006

  He took my letter on BBC headed paper to be counter-signed by five other officials, before reluctantly agreeing that the lines would be opened ‘after some time’. In fact it only took a quarter of an hour.

  The London studio suggested waiting until lunchtime to make the switch of commentary positions, but I was not sure we had that much battery time left. When we did change onto the regular ISDN broadcast line, I packed up the dish and found it saying there was one minute left on it!

  Before the third Test in Bombay, I got on to the head office of the television company, Nimbus, from whom we had bought the series rights, to ensure that this sort of thing did not happen again. Two days before the Test I was at the Wankhede Stadium.

  Thursday 16 March 2006

  I got a call from Salil, the man from Nimbus, who said he would be at the ground at 2.30 to discuss the accreditation and the ISDNs. I went down for the second time in the day to meet him. He turned up at 5.30 and knew nothing about ISDNs.

  Friday 17 March 2006

  I had been assured that the telecom men would be at the ground by 10 a.m. and Salil had promised to be there ‘first thing’. He came at 4.30 p.m. The telecom engineers started work at 6.30 p.m. and at 7.45 decided that it was not going to work tonight.

  Saturday 18 March 2006

  The first day of the Test.

  Last night the telecom engineers had said they would be at the ground at 8 a.m., ‘without fail’.

  They weren’t, of course, but I was there early to get the satellite dish fixed up. I found a narrow ledge on which I could lash it with copious quantities of gaffer tape.

  The telecom men arrived at 9.40, ten minutes before we were due on the air. By lunchtime they had Radio 5 and the Asian network positions working and had sorted out TMS just before tea.

  While all this was going on, we had a rare – indeed unique in my experience – visit from a member of the BBC Sport management, who was appalled at the filth and conditions we were working in, particularly as he was the man who had negotiated the far from cheap rights.

  England won that Test match and in the celebration that they had, after all, squared the series, we were joined at the hotel by Stephen Fry, a previous frequent visitor to the commentary box at home.

  He came out with us for what was, for some of our party, an end-of-tour dinner at a nearby restaurant. Amazingly, as we were tucking in, the restaurant door opened and Griff Rhys-Jones walked in. The two comedy legends were amazed to see each other and Griff joined the table.

  The evening was not so happy for Christopher Martin-Jenkins, who was the man on whose recommendation we had come to the restaurant. He was, as is his wont, not ready to accompany us when we set off, but said he would join us soon. The evening was then punctuated by a series of text messages of increasing desperation. He had been taken by taxi to another restaurant of the same name and even shown in to a private room where some British businessmen were dining. They were naturally very surprised to see him. Now his driver was lost and confused and from the agitated nature of the texts, so was Christopher. He arrived as we were paying the bill, but a couple of kind-hearted souls agreed to stay with him as he bolted a meal.

  Unfortunately, there was almost literally a sting in the tail for CMJ, as that hasty meal laid him low.

  This was my eighth trip to India and my last, for the BBC at least. Every time I got on the plane home after one of these trips there would be an inevitable feeling of relief. But there would also be a strong feeling that I would be very disappointed if I never saw this amazing place again.

  The Cricket Highlights (vi)

  Bombay 2006

  On Saturday 25 February 2006, Marcus Trescothick left the England team playing its warm-up match in Baroda and flew home. At the time the reasons for this sudden departure were not disclosed. Michael Vaughan was suffering a recurrence of his knee problems and he, too, would shortly be told that his tour was over. Simon Jones followed hard on his heels with a similar complaint.

  England moved to Nagpur for the first Test in apparent disarray. With captain and vice captain both out, Andrew Flintoff would lead the side. As already mentioned, they sent for a replacement opening batsman from the ‘A’ tour in the Caribbean – hardly a quick journey to Nagpur. This was the 21-year-old Alastair Cook. The day after arriving in India and getting himself to Nagpur, he was opening the batting for England. His 60 in the first innings and unbeaten century in the second played a large part in England having much the better of a draw.

  He had less fortune in the second Test in Chandigarh, where a second innings batting collapse cost England the match.

  And so to Bombay, with India leading the three match series one-nil. The start of the match was ill-starred. Steve Harmison was out with an injured shin and Cook had picked up a stomach bug. Ian Bell would have to open the batting with Andrew Strauss.

  Maybe these problems in the opposition camp were what inspired the Indian captain, Rahul Dravid, to put England in when he won the toss. It was a big mistake.

  By tea on the first day, India had removed only Bell, after which Strauss and Owais Shah had added 106 together. Shah, who had just reached 50, had to retire hurt at the interval, with cramp in the hands, but the runs just came faster in the last session – 114 of them, for the loss of Strauss for 128 and Pietersen for 39. It was 272 for three at the end of the first day.

  Shah returned to the wicket next morning when Paul Collingwood was caught behind off Sreesanth for 39. Flintoff, whose presence at the head of the team in Nagpur had seemed to stiffen their resolve, was caught on the boundary for 50 and they also lost Geraint Jones before lunch, which was taken at 345 for six. Ninth out, caught at slip off Harbhajan for 88, Shah helped three members of the tail-enders club add 52, of which he made 34.

  England were all out half an hour before tea for exactly 400 and soon after the interval, Hoggard had removed both openers. Anderson got Tendulkar caught behind for one and India were 28 for three. By the end of the second day, Dravid and Yuvraj Singh had steadied things a little, but they were still 311 behind at 89 for three.

  In the second over the next day, Geraint Jones took a diving catch to dismiss Yuvraj off Flintoff for 37, but England approached lunch with little more encouragement and Anderson had both Dravid and Dhoni dropped off his bowling. Then, in the last half hour of the morning, one stuck, with Dravid at last nicking a ball to Jones for 55. With half the side out, India were still 258 behind.

  Now it was up to Dhoni. He lost Irfan Pathan soon after lunch for 26 and then was himself run out by a direct throw from Anderson for 64. It was 212 for seven. That India eventually got up to 279 was thanks to a lively ninth wicket partnership between Anil Kumble, who made 30, and Sree Sreesanth, who was 29 not out at the end.

  But India’s deficit as England started their second innings late on the third day was 121. With both openers out and only 21 on the board, it didn’t look so bad for the home side. They would need a further breakthrough in the morning, though.

  But the fourth morning only gave them two England scalps, one of them the
nightwatchman, Udal. Still, losing Shah run out in the first over after lunch, meant that half the side were out with the lead only just past 200. So the sixth wicket stand that took them into the final session of the day was invaluable. Collingwood and Flintoff put on a watchful 66 together.

  Harbhajan had Collingwood caught and bowled for 32 and Geraint Jones followed, holing out at backward square leg for three. But Flintoff rode his luck in the face of the spinners, shepherded the tail and got to his 50 before he was ninth out, stumped off Kumble.

  England’s demise for 191, with Kumble taking four for 49, left India a possible 313 to win and still eight overs of the fourth day to go. But it was Anderson who took advantage of those few overs to bowl the makeshift opener, Irfan Pathan. India were 18 for one at the close of play. While a rate of three and a quarter runs an over was faster than the match had been seeing, it was not an obviously impossible task to make 295 on the last day.

  It looked harder at 35 for three after 50 minutes, with Wasim Jaffer and the nightwatchman, Kumble, both out. But Tendulkar and Dravid were still there at lunch and, even with the great Sachin in a lean patch, that represented the potential, at least, to save the match.

  The inspiration that England called on in their dressing room during the lunch interval came from an unexpected source. For the men in white, it was the man in black – Johnny Cash. They raucously joined in with ‘Ring of Fire’, to ignite themselves for the next session of play.

  It worked. Flintoff had Dravid caught behind in the first over after the interval. Tendulkar followed in the next, caught at short leg by Bell off Udal. Sehwag had had to bat down the order after being off the field injured. He only lasted five overs before Anderson had him lbw. In seven overs since lunch, India had lost three wickets for two runs.

  Now Yuvraj Singh and M.S. Dhoni were the last realistic line of defence. Defence, though, did not seem on Dhoni’s mind when he went for a huge hit down the ground off Udal. The fielder under the skier was Monty Panesar. He did not get a hand on it. We could be sure that Dhoni would not have another such rush of blood.

  Or could we? Two balls later, he did it again to the same wretched long-off fielder. We held our breath. Shaun Udal had plenty of time to contemplate the chances.

  When Panesar held onto the catch there was an explosion of relief in every Englishman. For all the Dravids, Tendulkars and Sehwags who had gone before, it seemed the most significant moment of the day. India were 92 for seven.

  They lasted only another quarter of an hour. Flintoff, the captain, took his third wicket, when he dismissed Yuvraj for 12 – the second top score in the innings – and Udal, whose 35th birthday had been the first day of the match, wrapped up the rest, for figures of four for 14.

  Since lunch India had lost seven wickets for 25 in the space of fifteen overs and two balls. Flintoff was man of the match and man of the series. England had won by 212 runs and squared the series.

  7. The Commentaries

  ‘Time spent in reconnaissance is never wasted’ is an old military adage much beloved of my father. On returning from a few of these overseas tours, I was able to tell him that it is sometimes totally wasted.

  On the sub-continent in particular, whole stadia, let alone commentary boxes can be altered overnight to the point that what you inspected the previous day is no longer recognisable. My first TMS production in India was a case in point. On the day before the first one-day international in 1981–82, I had seen the barren concrete cave at the back of the stand at the Sardar Patel Stadium in Ahmedabad. The next morning it was totally transformed by heavy, dusty hangings and an expanse of scratched perspex that not only obscured the view but had the additional effect of making the box completely airless.

  One place where reconnaissance might have been unnecessary was the Wankhede Stadium in Bombay. Nothing ever seemed to change at the ground that was built by the Indian cricket board to cock a snook at the Cricket Club of India, custodians of the Brabourne Stadium just round the corner. (An English equivalent would have been the ECB having a row with MCC and building a big ground in Hampstead out of spite.) It may be in the financial capital of India, but the Wankhede was scruffy when I first went there in 1981. When I returned for my eighth visit in 2006 it appeared to have had no maintenance or even cleaning since my first visit.

  Saturday 18 March 2006

  Aggers opened his commentary with remarks with which we all agreed. ‘There are grounds whose names reflect their grandeur, like Lord’s, or their beauty, like the Rose Bowl. The name of the Wankhede Stadium is just as appropriate.’

  I am told by my former colleagues, who covered the World Cup final there in 2011, that the rebuilt version is much improved. I hope the authorities will maintain it in that condition and not allow it to become a national disgrace again.

  There are commentary boxes in India that I remember with some affection. On my first tour those in Madras and Bangalore were both slung high under the roof of the stadium. At the time I reckoned the Madras one to be the highest I had worked in, but I had not then been to the Wanderers in Johannesburg, which must claim that honour – though with stiff competition from the new media centre at Lord’s.

  When I was last in Madras – or Chennai, as it is now known – the commentary box was not much bigger than a phone box, but happily then we were only covering a one-day international so the sardine-like confinement was not too prolonged.

  The old Madras box’s main drawback was the distance to the telegraph office in the bowels of the stand for my regular updates on Radio 2. I would have to edge along rows of seats, which had been packed so tightly that there was scarcely room for the occupants’ knees, let alone someone trying to find a gangway. The trick was to vary the route, in order to annoy different people each time. All this to arrive in a caged area near the dressing room. England players passing by would push nuts at me through the bars.

  On my first two visits to Calcutta, we operated from a box very high up at the back of the stand. With many rows of seats stretching down in front of us, we were a long way from the playing area. I did my first TMS commentary in Calcutta, starting on the last day of 1984. Being at the back of the stand, there were a couple of large pillars one had to try to see round. With a fairly wide-fronted commentary box, our method was to separate commentator and expert summariser by a great enough distance that between them they had the outfield covered.

  Early on while I was commentating, the ball was played into the dead area behind one of the pillars, which could hide as many as three fielders. As it did not emerge, I suggested that it must have been fielded. Jack Bannister, who was with me said, ‘Actually, it was a dropped catch.’ Not a good start.

  That stand had been rebuilt by the time I next went to Eden Gardens and the boxes were at a much better height for commentary, and open-fronted, which I prefer for radio. Unfortunately they were also a great deal smaller. Changing commentators was an exercise in contortion beneath a large wall-mounted television. Thus, when Mike Gatting was out to the first ball of an over in the 1987 World Cup final, the commentary on the actual ball was done by the summariser, Peter Roebuck, because the business of getting CMJ out and Blowers in had not been completed in time.

  In the recce of a commentary box, you have to look at all the practical logistics, such as where it would be best to put the scorer, for instance, so that commentators, who change every twenty minutes, do not fall over him or her. You have to check the view of the scoreboard, though on some grounds the fact that you can see it does not mean that it will be reliable.

  In Nagpur in 2006 I found when I first inspected our quite spacious greenhouse of a box, that the commentary desk of black polished granite became hot enough to fry an egg on when the sun shone on it. Thin bits of sheet that I found at the back of the box provided little protection and were best deployed as sunshades, hung from the top of the windows. I advised each member of the commenta
ry team to bring a towel from the hotel, to avoid scorched elbows.

  Thursday 2 March 2006

  The first clouds we’d seen appeared and the BBC World Service forecast even suggested there might be some rain.

  ‘If it rains in Nagpur,’ scoffed Geoff Boycott, ‘I’ll buy that weather girl dinner.’

  And, as we were packing up at the end of the day, the first spots of rain came.

  Friday 3 March 2006

  After some pretty heavy overnight rain, the commentary box had been filled with all the chairs from outside. Rain had trickled down the terracing on which our greenhouse was perched and soaked the red hessian matting on the floor, which now smelt terrible. I started the day trying to dry out anything and everything that had been left on the floor.

  Aggers persuaded Geoffrey to admit on the air that he had been wrong about the weather. The moment was recorded and dropped in later – ‘I were wrong.’ It’s doubtful, though, if the weather girl will ever get her dinner.

  As I feared, the rain triggered power cuts, so we had to spend most of the day operating on batteries.

  On the first day of the Test there, we were intrigued that a crowded All India Radio box next door seemed to be inactive. I discovered that they had not acquired the broadcasting rights. I remembered a conversation with the AIR head of sport some years before, when he was amazed that we had had to pay any rights fee to cover a series in India. The Indian government had instructed the cricket board that AIR should be given the rights for nothing. It was a state of affairs he was sure would continue in perpetuity.