Today we have an elegant piece of nostalgia from guest writer Phil Ryan. Can you work out who his hero is? I really enjoyed this. Over to you Phil ….
I was born in Yorkshire in the late Summer of 1966. Like all Tykes I was brought up to enjoy cricket. But I was different to my peers …
Boyhood heroes are all well and good, but when you’re from Leeds and your hero is a Tunbridge Wells born, left handed bat who didn’t play for Yorkshire, then secrecy and denial are paramount in the playground. Boycott, Sharp, Love Old Cope are all fine verbs, nouns or adjectives to throw round an English lesson, but trouble beckoned if I wasn’t ‘Sir’ Geoffrey, or Bluey Bairstow when it was my turn to bat.
My hush hush hero, who we will refer to as DIG (for bowlers dug themselves a hole when confronted with his genius) was virtually a northerner anyway. He chose to play for a county north of Kent, under a Yorkshireman captain, Ray Illingworth, within a team full of Yorkies: Birkinshaw, Booth, Mrs. Illingworth, The Mayor of Micklethwaite, Rosencrantz and Balderstone, Compo, Foggy and Clegg. However, it was his exploits in the white of England that transfixed me.
In May 1978 I was off school with a broken arm when I witnessed his debut for England in a one day game versus Pakistan. He stroked a beautiful 33 and two days later sketched an unbeaten century that even made Fiery Fred lose his pipe in open-mouthed awe.
Test cricket beckoned and, thanks to complications with my radius bone, I witnessed his first ball first hand. It flew to the square leg boundary – a gorgeous hook off Liaquat ‘Imran’s twin’ Ali. A hundred versus Hadlee’s New Zealanders followed, another ton at Perth on the Winter tour came next, and then an unbeaten double against India the subsequent summer.
DIG’s fielding provided regular run outs too, and such was his elegance and assassin like excellence that The Daily Screech (the leading the national paper) campaigned for him to replace Roger Moore as Bond. My hero’s burgeoning talent, with his golden hair and golden eye, then singlehandedly vanquished the Windies at Kingston with unbeaten 150, and took out Qadir and co with 170 and 150 in Pakistan. And despite George Orwell’s doom laden prediction that 1985 might be a difficult year, DIG dominated the Aussies and England regained the Ashes.
I once watched DIG take the Yorkshire bowling apart at Headingley and was moved to tears by the knowledge and impartiality of my fellow county men. As Arnie Sidebottom was flayed for another glorious boundary a tolerant supporter in a flat cap called out, ‘Tha’s a Kent, lad.’ This was followed by many judicious nod and cries of ‘Aye’ and ”Appen so’ all round the impartial terraces. Wonderful days.
Many an hour was passed, during my youth, playing Subbuteo cricket (a table top game for children so realistic that I didn’t know where real life ended and my carpet began). England always won and DIG led the way. If a batsman’s innings is a blank page upon which he dabs his paints or jots his jingles, then DIG was a Rembrandt or a Mozart – or indeed a mixture of the two. Every innings produced the colour and sound to satisfy the blindest eye or deafest ear.
Sadly however, not all are so gifted. Some are no more than a delinquent child painfully scratching a violin string, or a chimpanzee flicking snot at a wall. Throughout DIG’s ascent to the pinnacle of life, these men grew jealous and plotted his downfall. I refuse to give these hoodwinkers the time of day but they do take a limited part in my essay …
I recall a cricketer, let us refer to him as GAG (for his outrageous attitude made me retch), who was the antithesis of DIG. I hold no grudge with GAG, and wish neither to humiliate nor identify him, but suffice to say he was the archetypal southern man (specifically the south east). And he liked a rebel tour.
GAG was known for selfishly running himself out at the MCG, and playing exclusively with his pads rather than his bat during the famous ‘Thatcher Out, lbw Alderman’ series. By default, and stealth, he ultimately rose to the top of English cricket and, one fateful day, became captain of the team. The rotter.
Learning his trade from Keith ‘the garden ornament’ Flincher, GAG implemented a soulless regime that ostracised poor DIG. He wanted a squad of fit, SAS types who could storm the barricades and leave a mountain of rotting corpses laying around the outfield*. His vision also involved losing within five sessions.
Because GAG would rather pick a limited cricketer with good ‘bleep test’ scores than an elegant artist at the crease, the future looked bleak for the heroic DIG. Matters finally came to a head during the 90/91 Ashes duel at Adelaide …
With GAG already looking forward to his sausage and mash, DIG did the decent thing and got out in the over before lunch – thus unselfishly bringing the interval forward by a few seconds. I knew it was deliberate act because the long leg fielder had just been placed on the boundary in the exact location where DIG caressed the ball. It was the ultimate sporting gesture – up there alongside Flintoff hugging Brett Lee.
The fuss, back stabbing and recriminations that resulted were completely over the top. Due to a break down in trust, DIG’s wings were clipped. He entertained the paying public for only four more tests before he was left to see out the remainder of his days plying his easel at Southampton. A cruel end.
Some speculated that GAG had banished DIG so he himself could become the country’s highest ever lbw victim. But DIG’s figures don’t suggest such a lurid claim. Indeed, only one thing is certain: lessons were learned the hard way and never again would such a calamity, born of personal frictions, befall English cricket. Ever.
Although decades later a GAG disciple did have a prolonged poor patch of form, but fought hard to keep his pace while jettisoning a colleague with a better test average, this is all water under the bridge now. The fact that Gary Ballance is now back in the squad is a testament to English cricket’s enlightened and progressive thinking. Ahem.
Phil Ryan
* I may be getting confused with the time when my table top pitch was invaded by my brother’s air fix soldiers and a bloodbath ensued. One of the Surrey bowlers of the 70’s came close to decapitation. But that’s a story for a different day.
Brilliant. If I may be permitted to append, in retirement GAG was given a new England batting line up, to pass on all he knows, while DIG, whom many remember wistfully for his grace and elegant skills, was given a microphone.
Just realised that Orwell’s book was 1984! My bad. Not Phil’s fault. Something must have got misread in the editing process. Sorry!
My boyhood hero too, though don’t think I ever saw him bat in the flesh. But then of course you could see him 20-odd days each summer on the telly in those days. Just sublime.
Saw DIG bat a few times. Class act, his record against the Windies as pointed out speaks for itself. Like other batsmen he was shafted when he had more to give. Interestingly enough Sky Sports had a documentary on the other day and it was talking about the end of Gower’s career at the end.
When Boycott was at the other end to Gower he used to wax lyrical about Gower’s stroke play. He had the best seat in the house in my book.
My friend had amid week touring side called The Diggers in tribute to DIG. He even managed to get him to speak at the club dinner one year.
Would love to meet him one day just to say thank you.
Ah but did you play Subbuteo Cricket under floodlights?
Following the Packer Supertests I got up early morning switched the floodlights on and played test matches. It took the ICC 35 years to catch up with me.