Cricket - LIVE!

Reflecting upon my four decades of watching cricket, it’s inevitable my thoughts wander and weave over the more memorable matches I’ve attended. It’s not as if I’ve been a particularly prolific circuit basher, averaging no more than one game a year. However, few have been total disasters. Of course, Somerset defeats are always disappointing but even the fixtures wrecked by the weather left me with some enduring emotions and lasting images.

Some of the outstanding memories are associated with ‘firsts’ and inevitably I must begin with that inaugural trip to the Essex County Ground with Dad on 4^th May 1975 for the visit of my Somerset team. Even huddled on the benches just gazing across the greensward towards the pavilion at the figures in white gave me an intoxicating buzz. Eventual victory in that Sunday League encounter for Somerset, achieved with a Viv Richards six, awarded me a natural high hitherto unsurpassed. I even leapt off my plank seat, mercifully without causing those on either end to be catapulted over the boundary rope. The feeling of euphoria ensured this wasn’t a one-off, even if I never saw Somerset play at Chelmsford again. Since enjoying another taste of success against Gloucestershire in Bath six years later, watching my county has been a tough gig. In limited-overs cricket, it has been a string of five defeats, whether in Southchurch Park, Taunton or Cardiff. The anticlimactic T20 Finals Day of 2012 was perhaps the hardest to take.

Three visits to Lord’s, the ancestral home of the sport, also stand out. My first came with a complimentary ticket courtesy of my then boss and local club captain, Peter Finucane. At first reading, Old Hill vs Reading might not seem an unmissable fixture. However, this was the 1985 final of the national club knockout tournament and so there was much at stake. For a neutral like me, there was the bonus of watching the ex-Pakistan and Northamptonshire all-rounder Mushtaq Mohammad bowling his looping leg-breaks for Old Hill. Sadly, rain set in by lunchtime and I abandoned my Tavern Stand seat to mosey around the grand old ground.

The famous red-brick pavilion was out of bounds for riff-raff like me but since then I have been lucky enough to strut around the Long Room three times without attracting the attention of security. The first occurred following a Radio 3 Awayday (the station’s genial Controller, Roger Wright was an avid Lancashire supporter), and I also sat in the great space to enjoy a special Radio Authority panel event to mark a Test Match Special anniversary. However, on 13^th June 2010 I was granted the opportunity to actually watch cricket from the Pavilion. Friend, former work colleague and Middlesex Member Dipesh secured us both tickets (surprisingly inexpensive) for a T20 clash with Essex. The only concession was to wear a jacket and tie and I had free rein to roam the hallowed halls. I took full advantage, initially viewing proceedings from the balcony adjacent to the Middlesex dressing room then later from the Long Room door. The cricket itself proved quite exciting. Home skipper Adam Gilchrist, then little-known David Warner and the likes of Morgan and Malan set Essex an awkward target. A fabulous 102 from Ryan Ten Doeschate took the visitors close but after the allotted twenty overs they were five runs short.

My first Test match had been on a sunny August Bank Holiday 1991, when Sri Lanka were still only grudgingly permitted one-off contests with England. I’d taken the train from Billericay and bought a ticket at the ground, finding an excellent vantage point in the Compton Stand. Just looking at the Pavilion was enough. The cricket wasn’t particularly scintillating but when I went with friend Andrew Blunt six years later, I was fortunate to witness one of the greatest bowling performances ever seen at Lord’s.

It was the Saturday of an Ashes Test, a highlight of the middle-class sporting calendar. However, the weather wasn’t playing ball and the occasion was ravaged by a stream of short, sharp showers. Nonetheless, in the sunny interludes, we observed from the old Grand Stand the masterful Australian pace bowler Glenn McGrath ripping through the home side, concluding with awesome figures of 8-38. Despite England’s obvious problems, the atmosphere remained upbeat, enhanced by the cheery banter with a line of dry-humour of Aussie fans behind us. While a lot of play had indeed been lost, it had been an afternoon to remember. Coincidentally my only other experience of an Ashes Test, at The Oval in 2013, was also abbreviated by London rain. On the plus side, when play was eventually possible, it effectively made Steve Smith’s Test career (he reached his maiden century with a straight six) and strangled Simon Kerrigan’s at birth.

This wasn’t my last experience of a Test match. On 31^st August 2015 I nipped down to Sophia Gardens for a Twenty20 double-header of England-Australia cricket. The men’s contest was the main course (and a tasty one it was, too, thanks to a mix of Moeen Ali, Eoin Morgan and that man Smith again) but the women served up an appetising starter. I’d begun to take more of an interest in the newly-professionalised women’s international scene, and so the afternoon’s opener was to me on equal footing as the more publicised match later on. Indeed, it was the final fixture in the multi-format Women’s Ashes series and, although Meg Lanning’s side had already clinched their version of the urn, Charlotte Edwards’ team were desperate to snatch a compensatory victory. 

Predictably, it wasn’t a high-scoring affair but, after Anya Shrubsole ripped out the world-class Aussie top four, Natalie Sciver’s 4-15 and unbeaten 47 saw England home by five wickets. After receiving their series trophy, Lanning, Perry, Healy et al were joined by the English squad to cheerily sign autographs at the boundary. If my pen hadn’t given out, I’d surely have collected more scribbles on my scorecard. 

Two very different matches linger in my mind because the cricketing gods ripped up the script. In 1996, Essex Member Andrew bought tickets for their Nat West Trophy final appearance against Lancashire at Lord’s. It all started so well on that September Saturday. Tidy bowling restricted Mike Watkinson’s team to just 186 from their 60 overs. Victory would surely be a mere formality. Er, no. Glen Chapple’s 6-18 and Peter Martin’s 3-17 annihilated Paul Prichard’s men, bowling them out for 57.  Andrew was distraught and understandably refused to join me on the pitch to observe the prize-giving ceremony (below). It had been an embarrassment.

Fast forward to 13^th June 2017 in Cardiff, and England were favourites to win the Champions Trophy. I was there to witness their expected steamrollering of Pakistan in the semi-final. The green flag-waving fans were just there to enjoy themselves come what may. Nevertheless, everyone was surprised at the way Hasan Ali in particular choked Morgan, Stokes, Buttler and co before Azhar Ali and Fakhar Zaman laid the foundation for an eight-wicket demolition job. It was no flash in the pan either, because Pakistan went on to defeat India in the final, too.

Perhaps the most memorable of all matches I’ve attended so far was also a Champions Trophy encounter. Four years earlier I’d applied successfully for the opening fixture at Cardiff, to be contested by India and South Africa. What elevated that fifty-over match to the pinnacle was not just the cricket itself. 638 runs were scored, Shikhar Dhawan’s century was undoubtedly brilliant and Ravi Jadeja’s all-round performance also impressive but it was all about the incredible atmosphere fostered by the India supporters, who comprised maybe 90% of the crowd.

I’d no preconceived plan of favouritism but the heady mix of Indian fan fervour and watching all-time greats like Kohli, AB De Villiers and Dhoni in meaningful competition was contagious. It was such a happy vibe. Had it been raining serotonin in Cardiff or was it merely an injection of cricket causing such joy? We needed neither booze nor those blasted taped bugle blasts to get us going; this was what sport should be about. I’ll never forget it. 

Tourist Time

I’m not sure why my flirtation with live Sunday League matches fizzled out. Perhaps it was A-Level pressure, ill-health or the growing problem of finding a parking space close to the County Ground. No, it’s not a twenty-first century phenomenon! Once my university years had passed and I plunged into the world of work in the early Eighties, priorities changed. Nor do I recall Dad ever badgering me to accompany him to Chelmsford, not even if Hampshire were the visitors.

Instead, thoughts turned to satisfying my cricket craving by means of the touring side’s annual fixture with Essex. Even in the Eighties, a tour lasted most of the summer incorporating three-dayers against the majority of counties, and Essex always seemed to be on the itinerary. A decade earlier, in 1976, the West Indies played all seventeen counties, the MCC, Minor Counties and Combined Universities, interweaved with five Tests and three ODIs. And current national management teams have the temerity to whine about their arduous schedules, poor dears.

My first experience of a tour match occurred in 1984 when my favourites, the Windies, were over here. It was deep into June when I took annual leave to watch the final day’s play at Chelmsford, taking the train from Billericay and carrying my sandwiches, camera and diluted squash over the river, before shelling out £2.50 for my ticket (left). Well, I was earning £6K a year, so why not splash out?!

Essex’s successful period had generated enough income to fund ground improvements. Small sections of plastic seating had thankfully replaced the old planks, and I took my place in the non-members’ section at the River End. I was disappointed at the absence of the all-conquering Windies pace attack, with the exception of Joel Garner who, my diary records, bowled a three-over ‘”fiery spell” which did for Gooch and Hardie. Two unfamiliar fast bowlers were in action: Milton Small and a raw, gangly 21 year-old Courtney Walsh. Viv Richards had contributed a pleasing 60 but Fletcher and Pringle batted out for a draw.

In the ensuing seasons I beat the same path to see Australia (twice), New Zealand (twice), West Indies (twice more) and Pakistan. While inevitably many leading tourists were rested in between Test duties, I consider myself privileged to observe some of the world’s greatest cricketers just up the road in Chelmsford. There was an out-of-sorts Jeff Thomson struggling with no-balls, Imran Khan bowling Gooch for a duck, Wasim Akram in awesome all-rounder mode, Ian Bishop taking 5-49, Curtly Ambrose delivering a succession of wince-inducing rib-ticklers at Nasser Hussain, Matthew Hayden making a superb diving catch in front of me and Sir Richard Hadlee making a brief substitute appearance on the outfield the day after his knighthood was announced. He didn’t bowl but in other years I did observe side-on the legendary Malcolm Marshall and Waqar Younis (below).

In August 1991 Dad was with me when, at the end of a predictable draw, I joined others on the pitch to look up to the players’ balcony where, after bowling regulation, time-filling off-breaks, stood King Viv leaning on the railings, full spirit glass in one hand, surveying his realm. It was the last time he played in a West Indian tour match against a county and a matter of days before his emotional farewell to Test cricket.

Despite my policy of aiming to attend, weather permitting, the middle day, I usually seemed to be denied the best of the visiting batsmen. Twice Gordon Greenidge chose to flay the Essex bowlers on the days I missed, and I didn’t see a lot of Martin Crowe, David Boon or Desmond Haynes other than in a slip cordon. Funnily enough, the only centuries I witnessed were by home players like Brian Hardie, Graham Gooch and John Stephenson before, one warm sunny afternoon in 1996, Pakistani opener Saeed Anwar broke the duck with an exhilarating 102, full of crisp boundaries. My final trip to Chelmsford came two years later but I very nearly saw no cricket at all. The fire brigade was needed to help drain the flooded outfield before play was declared possible and I could see South Africa’s Shaun Pollock take three wickets and Jonty Rhodes demonstrate his fielding prowess in the covers.

The only leading nation missing from my list was India. Fortunately I was able to rectify this omission many years later in 2011. By now a resident of Bridgwater, I nipped down to Taunton to watch a full-strength Indian side, weary from the IPL, desperately seeking first-class match practice. The England skipper Andrew Strauss was similarly out of touch and, in extraordinary circumstances, given special dispensation by the ECB, his Middlesex club and Somerset to bat in this game. He actually went on to score a century but, like most of those in the County Ground, I was more interested in seeing the likes of Gambhir, MS Dhoni and Yuvraj Singh in the flesh. Above all, I grasped the opportunity of seeing Sachin Tendulkar and Rahul Dravid in partnership, albeit not for very long. An ambition realised (left).                           

But what about joining a touring party myself? I’ve certainly never craved being a member of the Barmy Army. I couldn’t imagine anything worse! However, my bucket list dream of watching the West Indies play – against anybody, I’m not fussy – at the Sir Vivian Richards stadium on Antigua will almost certainly remain unfulfilled. Instead I retain my fond memories of hours spent under Essex skies watching the best in the world just eight miles from home, a privilege now rarely permitted in this age of concertina-ed schedules where money-spinning internationals inevitably take precedence.  Kids today don’t know what they’re missing…

Soul Limbo to Dancing Girls: The Changing face of Cricket

Growing up in the 1970s, the cricket season was pretty full-on. With very little international cricket taking place in the winter months, and usually none of it shown live on TV, apart from the occasional tuning into BBC Radio’s Test Match Special, my cricket exposure was concertina-ed into just over four months. As a result, I had to make the most of my short English sporting summer.

The same was true of the world’s professional players. With very little first-class cricket on offer in the English off-season, overseas stars flocked to these shores either to represent counties or play as a visiting pro in the club leagues in Lancashire and Yorkshire. I remember the County Championship comprising no fewer than 24 three-day matches interspersed with 40-over games every Sunday afternoon and the 60-over knockout Gillette Cup, which also allowed minor counties the opportunity to claim a major scalp. From 1972, the Championship was reduced to twenty fixtures apiece to make space for the new 55-over Benson and Hedges Cup. Either way, it was pretty congested stuff, especially when you included five or six Test matches and a series of county games against that summer’s international tourists. In peak periods, the calendar squeezed in games seven days a week.

The Championship was never to my knowledge broadcast on the Beeb, but the one-dayers were a staple of my summer viewing. The Wednesday B&H games were out of reach because of those pesky school commitments. However, at the weekends Dad and I were usually to be found ensconced in the living room in thrall to whatever cricket the BBC could shoehorn into its busy schedule of tennis, golf and – my major bugbear - horse racing.

If given its own slot, rather than being a mere patch in the quilt of Grandstand, the jaunty rhythms of Booker T’s ‘Soul Limbo’ provided the clarion call to cricket fans. The ruddy-faced, blazered Peter West or Tony Lewis would introduce proceedings from a balcony somewhere on the circuit and off we’d go. There’d be none of the endless padding of short, sharp interviews and rapid-fire VT highlights of previous games. The teams were still sporting crisp ‘whites’, the now-ubiquitous colourful ‘pyjama’ kits still many years away.

It wasn’t until the late ‘70s that Kerry Packer and World Series Cricket dragged cricket kicking and screaming into the twentieth century. Top players could finally earn a living wage which obviated the need to roam the globe all year round to supplement incomes. This was obviously fantastic news for the Chappells, Underwoods and Lloyds of this world, but it all had to be paid for. Inevitably, cricket sold its soul to commercial interests of TV and major sponsors, and the strains of Soul Limbo became gradually more infrequent.

As in any modern sport, the free market led to cricket’s most bankable stars getting richer and the less talented county pro becoming left behind. The pathway was established for the growth of international schedules (surely a good thing), the development of ever-shorter formats (less so) and the marginalisation of anything seen as non-standard, including the English County Championship.

The increasing focus on fast scoring has undoubtedly led to more entertainment, especially in the more traditional first-class game. With fewer deliveries faced, batsmen have to be more creative and innovative when it comes to finding the boundary. These days, any humdrum tailender has to fashion strokes that only Viv Richards would dare attempt forty years ago.

Individual and team totals are expanding constantly, rendering the records books of my youth as outdated as the Famous Five or wooden tennis rackets. It’s not all the result of superior batting. Where once the boundary fence was exactly that - a wooden fence - the outfield perimeter has encroached more and more onto the pitch. The resulting land has been grabbed by digital advertising boards, cables and cameramen.

With shorter boundaries, improved bat technology and rules on fielding restrictions, everything is geared to simplifying the task of batsmen hitting sixes. The IPL, that odious moneyfest of dollars and dancing dolly birds, keeps a rolling counter of ‘maximums’ which seems to be of greater importance than which franchise actually wins the tournament itself. I feel sorry for the bowlers. The rise in Twenty20 cricket has also forced them to innovate: varying pace, disguising slow bouncers, the doosra, even reinventing the lost art of leg-spin, a phoenix from the flames of cricket as played in the twentieth century.

But where does all this breathless evolution leave an old-fashioned fan like me? When in the Nineties Rupert Murdoch’s Sky started hoovering up all the sport’s broadcasting contracts, its endless reserves of cash far outstripping those of the BBC, I found myself becoming increasingly isolated from the sport I loved. I had no desire to splash out on a satellite dish; that would have legitimised the destruction of cricket broadcasting as I knew it. The sport was awash with money, and yet it set out deliberately to reduce the number of people able to watch it. Twenty years later, cricket is no longer a national sport. Only an England Test victory is big enough news to make a national bulletin.

Are there any positives?  Well, now I’m in a digital household. there is obviously a lot more cricket around to follow That is, if I can be arsed to scroll down to find what turn out to be  a ‘vital’ Bangladesh v Pakistan One-Day International, the Cobras playing Scorpions or Royals versus the Super Kings. I seem to have lost the ability to concentrate on TV cricket but, on the fiip side, I am more motivated to get off my backside and see matches in the flesh, as it were.

The ‘live’ experience is so much better than it used to be. My first ever visit to a match with Dad, on a cold May Sunday afternoon in 1975, was to a Chelmsford County Ground boasting just one permanent building (the clubhouse) and seating comprising, with no exaggeration, planks of wood! Tournament success for Essex financed proper plastic seats and actual stands, and more generous funding from the ECB has paid for similar spectator comforts across the county circuit. Cardiff’s Test-quality Sophia Gardens even has decent toilets!

Of course I occasionally come over all nostalgic for Jim Laker and Tom Graveney discussing a Geoff Boycott on-drive, tree-fringed boundaries or a post-match pitch invasion by delirious autograph book-wielding teenagers at Hove. Such paltry pleasures were part of my childhood. However, as long as the game splutters on, I shall support the enduring benefits of first-class cricket and the county system. I’m not totally antipathetic to Twenty20 but shall fervently man the barricades (online at least) to keep the massing forces of T20 and – heaven forbid! – ‘the 100’ and the dreaded T10 at bay, and keep the fires of my cricket enthusiasm burning for the rest of my life. It’s survived the introduction to the vocabulary of Duckworth-Lewis, the ‘Manhattan’, economy rates, Power Plays, DRS and ‘Snicko’, so not all is lost. Cue Booker T….

Voices of Rugby: Bill to Butler

Many of the clips I’ve included in this rugby memoir have focussed on great players doing great things. However, when watching them – as I did – via the medium of television, they were all accompanied by someone’s voice. As in any live TV sport broadcast, the commentator is crucial. Some are functional, forgotten as soon as they hand back to the studio. However, the best of them enhance the enjoyment, the sense of occasion with a witty turn of phrase or description of the action which complements the pictures perfectly.

For many years, rugby was synonymous with the brilliant Bill McLaren. All the iconic Five Nations matches had Bill at the microphone. With his immaculate Borders accent he was erudite, articulate and often playful. Remember, in the early days there were no pundits with who he could share the workload but even after eighty minutes I’d never tire of hearing his voice.

By the time he finally hung up his mic in 2002 aged 78, that wonderful diction was unsurprisingly just starting to fracture a fraction but the 2003 Six Nations seemed a tad empty without him. I’d taken him for granted. I loved those references, in response to a try, to the scorer’s home town with the joyful  “There’ll be dancing in the streets of (Ballymena/, Galashiels/insert place here)…” or, the more mundane lineout sequence such as “Murdoch throws, Martin palms, Wheel gathers” There was something warm and cosy on a cold winter’s afternoon about those commentaries and that still applies when listening to him on clips like this, from 1978.

Stay to the end and you’ll also be rewarded by a brief sign-off by Cliff Morgan, another mellifluous voice I associate with Seventies rugby. He’d been a Welsh playing legend, too, but his beautifully crafted reports were also broadcasting gold, especially on radio. He rarely carried a whole match and it was fortuitous that he was commentating in January 1973 for the thrilling Barbarians try against the All Blacks, culminating in the breathless “What a score!”

The line of rugby-related Welsh wordsmiths has continued with the wry Jonathan Davies, who cut his commentary teeth alongside McLaren, and the slightly older Eddie Butler, whose international appearances in the early Eighties predated Jonathan’s. The giant former back-row forward is a highly-respected journalist but his voice, whilst a tad harsher than Morgan’s, has in recent years also become part and parcel of TV sport. His measured delivery is also ideal for documentary voiceovers and promo sequences, even Pembroke Castle's welcome video! Whether the theme is medieval knights and Tudor kings or next week's Calcutta Cup battle, you can’t help but listen, spellbound.   

The Bard of Newport is also one half of the Beeb’s most entertaining double-act since The Two Ronnies. His deep lyrical timbre and hearty chuckle contrast so dramatically with Brian Moore that their on-air relationship is a key ingredient of the match. Butler portrays the kindly, erudite uncle while ‘Pitbull’ Moore is the naughty schoolboy railing against injustice. The ex-England hooker was wont to throw many punches during his career but now it’s his excitable verbal haymakers, often aimed at errant referees or daft players, which can irritate or resonate in equal measure. On occasions he has ‘lost it’ completely, especially when exasperated at England or a continually reset scrum. I used to hate hearing him moaning but now more often I found myself nodding in agreement. I’m just a Grumpy Old Man, too!

Ulsterman Jim Neilly and the BBC’s current Mr Versatile, Andrew Cotter provide complementary accents, but I’ve never had the need to tune into Five Live and hear the veteran Ian Robertson in full flow. I confess the ITV broadcasting team leave me completely underwhelmed, while the Anglo-centric pundit patrol, notably Wilkinson and Woodward, bore me to tears. It’s not that I dislike hearing English voices. Back in my dim-and-distant Rugby Special-viewing days, Nigel Starmer-Smith was the front man as well as ‘calling’ the live games McLaren couldn’t attend. Jeremy Guscott’s West Country burr makes a welcome change, while Gabby Logan is a very engaging presenter. I used to love John Inverdale’s laidback style on Five Live but he now seems a bit too associated with Twickers and the corporate RFU, even veering towards Alan Partridge territory. He does sport a nice line in natty scarves, though.

I always prefer my commentators neutral, which particularly seems to suit rugby, a sport where rival fans can mingle without trouble, anthems are respected and even a live cockerel on the Parc des Princes greensward was never ridiculed. The laissez-faire attitude towards on-pitch acts of grievous bodily harm doesn’t sit well with me, but international rugby will surely remain part of my winter weekend living room life.

Scrum-Halves - At the Heart of the Action

If the forwards comprise a side’s engine room, and the backs provide the navigation and ammunition, then the scrum half is the man who fires the ship’s guns. As a vertically-challenged weed, I was mostly petrified at the prospect of having to play rugby at school. And yet, through years of watching the game, I had an advantage of recognising the rules and strategies involved.

There was only one possible position I could have filled with any hope of getting out alive, and that was scrum half. He tended to be the smallest player on the pitch, whose responsibility was to feed the ball into the scrum, retrieve it and pass to the backs before being hammered by his opposite number or, worse, trampled under the hooves of the herd of wildebeest that was the opposing pack. There was also the responsibility of attending every breakdown, every tackle, every ruck, reaching into the bundle, extracting the oval nugget and launching another phase. In other words, the number nine was always in the thick of it and needed to be fit, agile and quick with the pass,

Thankfully I never needed to test my ability in practice but I developed admiration for those who performed the role for their nations. One of the first who grabbed my attention was New Zealand’s Sid Going. His bald head and sumptuous sideburns made him stand out physically amidst the All Blacks’ formidable forwards during much of the Seventies and it was during the 1972-73 tour of Britain that I watched him devastate most of the teams they faced. He had a fair few tussles with Gareth Edwards, notably in the barnstorming Barbarians clash. Indeed it was Going’s early positive breaks which indirectly led to The Greatest Try Ever scored against the All Blacks and finished, of course, by Edwards.

Possibly the tiniest rugby international I ever saw was Jacques Fouroux, ‘le Petit General’ who was an instrumental figure in the French Grand Slam of 1977 as  captain and, a decade later, twice more as manager. He was apparently a feisty fellow on and off the pitch, and his all-action style belied his lack of height behind such huge team-mates as Dauga and Bastiat. I also have fond memories of Roy Laidlaw (uncle of current Scottish incumbent Greig) and Ireland’s Peter Stringer who, despite his skinny physique, wasn’t afraid to make a brave tackle. What amused me most was when, during the singing of the Irish national anthem, the close-up camera tracking the faces of the Fifteen would have to dip suddenly so as not to miss Stringer altogether. Shoulder to shoulder? Shoulder to Donncha O’Callaghan’s belly, more like!

Scrum halves haven’t all been undersized. Terry Holmes struck me as being unusually tall back in the late Seventies, South African World Cup-winning stalwart Joost van der Westhuizen was six foot two and the current game encourages big scrum-halves as standard. The excellent Conor Murray and veteran Welshman Mike Phillips spring readily to mind.

Like those two, George Gregan wasn’t a goal kicker but he was a phenomenon both in attack and defence during 139 appearances for Australia. The Wallaby’s exact contemporary, Alessandro Troncon, was another cap centenarian and one I loved watching in the Six Nations. Dubbed ‘Trunky’ by us at home, the Treviso scrum half was the stockier and balder part of Italy’s vastly experienced half-back partnership with Diego Dominguez. I can’t believe it’s eleven years since he stepped down; my winter rugby watching has not been the same since.

In his final Six Nations season, Troncon contributed to Italy’s victories over both Wales and Scotland but they didn’t overcome the French until 2011. During much of the twenty-first century, France have fielded either Dmitri Yashvili or Morgan Parra at nine, and both have been heavy scorers with the boot. The left-footed Parra was just 21 when he steered les Bleus to the 2010 Grand Slam and he’s still going strong.

However, possibly the greatest of them all quit the game forty years ago. They didn’t play as many Tests in those days so he left with only 53 national and Lions caps to his name. On the other hand, he left those of us around at the time with so many amazing memories, fortified by the YouTube archive. I’m referring to Gareth Edwards. It helps that so many of his tries were exhilarating works of art, notably ‘That Try’ for the Barbarians at the Arms Park, and that for Wales he played alongside such a gifted bunch of backs. As a scrum half he was a leading exponent of the long reverse pass, something I don’t recall seeing for yonks, and was also an outstanding kicker and all-round athlete. Sir Gareth – he was belatedly knighted in 2015 – is also impossible to forget here in Cardiff as any shopping trip to the St David’s Centre inevitably takes me past a bronze sculpture of him in pre-pass pose.

From Edwards and Going to Murray and Laidlaw, scrum halves have been the pivotal performers of great teams. Individually they represent the best of rugby: creativity, pace and strength and the occasional spine-tingling, rip-roaring score.

The Rugby Playmakers

I now focus my attention on the glamour position of Rugby Union: the Number Ten. The stand-off, outside-half, fly-half - call it what you will – is the fulcrum of any side, the one who calls the shots. Along with the scrum-half, he has to decide whether to kick for touch or territory, feed the forwards, pass to the backs or have a gallop himself. Get the balance right in a winning cause and the Man of the Match award is almost a certainty.

Rugby may have evolved in my lifetime, but the role of the fly-half seems to have changed very little. The first I recall with any clarity were in the red of Wales, of which more later, and then came France’s Jean-Pierre Romeu. Perhaps it’s his distinctive ‘tache which fixed him in my memory banks but he was a class act in a skilful Seventies side. His many successors, from Camberabero to Lacroix, Lescarboura to Trinh-Duc, don’t seem to have achieved the same consistency or respect.

Scotland have produced some fine fly-halves, including John Rutherford and Craig Chalmers, but my favourite must be the current national coach, Gregor Townsend. Playing 36 consecutive Tests from 1994, he contributed to many of the Scots’ best performances in the Five or Six Nations and World Cups. In 1999, he scored in all four matches as Scotland clinched the championship.

Ireland’s record with number tens is also impressive. Unfortunately for the players, but a nice problem to have for the selectors, the best have tended to be exact contemporaries, competing for the same position. In the Eighties and Nineties, Ollie Campbell and Tony Ward vied for the green shirt and in more recent times, the mighty Jonny Sexton burst onto the scene before the longstanding occupant of the slot was ready to retire. It is the latter, Ronan O’Gara, who is definitely a fave of mine. All told, he mustered 128 international caps, scoring well over 1,000 points, including the three for the drop-goal which clinched Ireland’s 2009 Grand Slam.

Italy will surely never win a Grand Slam. These days, they’ll be lucky to win anything in the Six Nations. When they first joined the old guard in 2000, that they won matches at all owed a lot to their excellent half-back combination. Alongside Troncon, the Argentina-born Diego Dominguez was already a veteran, but his experience as kicker and playmaker convinced people like me that Italy were worthy members of the Six Nations family. He was so valuable to the team that he was persuaded to reverse his retirement decision in 2000, and continued for another three seasons by which time he was a venerable 36.

English stand-offs have been mostly forgettable. Rob Andrew was a reliable kicker but drearily defensive in the successful Carling era but no discussion of number tens is complete without mentioning Jonny Wilkinson. So metronomic was his goal-kicking that I found him skull-numbingly boring. And that hand-clasping, bum-pointing pose, steadying his nerves before plonking another penalty between the posts, made me want to punch his moon-shaped face. My ex idolised him and cherished a framed photo of Wilko gazing up at the posts. Ugh! At least he wasn’t a cocky git like Owen Farrell, just one of the finest kickers in the game, a solid tackler and the man whose extra-time drop-goal sealed England’s 2003 World Cup triumph.

The southern hemisphere has been a source of great fly-halves, too, from Grant Fox to Beauden Barrett and Matt Giteau. However, of those I’ve seen on telly, Michael Lynagh was near the top of the tree. Tactically astute, an effective runner and fine kicker, the Aussie World Cup winner held the world international points record when he retired in 1995. However, when it comes to records, the All Black Dan Carter has virtually blitzed the lot. I only really watched him perform during World Cups but he looked the most complete Number Ten of them all. When you score 19 points in your farewell NZ appearance to win the 2015 World Cup, you must be a pretty decent player.

Which brings me back to Wales. Be selected for the Welsh 10 jersey and you’re pretty much made for life. Right now it’s basically a battle between Biggar and Anscombe but any group of fans north of the Bristol Channel will at some point debate the perennial question: who is the greatest Welsh fly-half of them all?

The 104-cap Stephen Jones will have his supporters, and Jonathan Davies may have attained rugby immortality had he not switched codes at his peak. However, the leading contenders were contemporaries two decades earlier. I can just about remember seeing Barry John in not-so-glorious monochrome in the early Seventies and marvelling at the ease with which he glided through defences or kicked conversions. Had he not quit the game at his zenith aged 27, Phil Bennett might never have risen to the top, which would have been a calamity. I was amazed to discover that he accumulated only 29 caps and yet his phenomenal fleet-footedness and staggering feint and sidestep made him the man I always wanted to see running with the ball. On its own, his insane creativity for the Barbarians in launching what became the greatest try ever in 1973 makes him a true rugby legend.