Snooker: Pot Black to the Ginger Nugget

As a young boy, I doubt I ever considered traditional pub games like darts or snooker as genuine sports any more than dominoes or Junior Scrabble. Yet by my late teens, the first two could claim to be amongst the most popular sports on TV.

To me, Darts was no more than a temporary time-filler in January when Eric Bristow, Jocky Wilson, John Lowe et al would chuck their ‘arrers’ for the world championship. While I could appreciate the incredible precision and mental subtraction skills required, I would soon tire of the clearly limited entertainment value. The caller’s cry of “One hundred and eigh-ty!” and Sid Waddell’s turn of phrase would occasionally raise a smile, but that was as far as it went.

Snooker was a different kettle of fish. Like many of my generation my first experience of it came courtesy of BBC2’s Pot Black programme. Introduced to exploit the wonder of colour television in 1969, the half-hour, single-frame show brought a bunch of middle-aged blokes in waistcoats into my living room: hardly a reason for me to stay up until 9.30 on what was probably a Friday evening. To make matters worse, for its first five years we would have seen it in black and white!

I’m not sure when Pot Black became more of an appointment to view for Dad and me but I did come to enjoy watching the likes of Fred Davis, Rex Williams, John Spencer, Ray Reardon and Eddie Charlton amble creakingly around a table, despatching the different coloured balls into pockets. With Alan Weeks presenting and ‘whispering’ Ted Lowe on the microphone, it all had an air of wistful nostalgia for an era when snooker was just an uppity son of billiards appealing to men like my Grandad. Of course I’d never been near a snooker hall. Back then even the humble pub was a smoke-filled no-go zone for women or children, so even a pool table was an object beyond my ken.

It wasn’t until the late Seventies that the Beeb began extensive coverage of the world championship and the first I recall with any clarity was the 1979 triumph of outsider Terry Griffiths. It was probably because the calm, cautious son of Llanelli was such an outsider that this event stood out.

Pretty soon, the old fogeys were being supplanted by a bunch of young whippersnappers like Steve Davis, Tony Knowles and Canada’s Kirk Stevens. But the big favourite amongst the younger crowd was undoubtedly Alex ‘Hurricane’ Higgins. He’d already been a world champion, but in 1972 few of us knew about it. Then in 1980, I was amongst a throng of undergraduates cheering him on in a tense final against the notoriously slow Cliff Thorburn, a clash of chalk and cheese if ever there was one. It was a crushing disappointment when the Canadian edged the final 18-16 which had been so rudely interrupted by live coverage of the SAS storming the Iranian Embassy.

I warmed to Thorburn three years later when he became the first man to achieve a maximum break on live television. I particularly remember the warm fuzzy feeling of sporting friendship upon seeing his fellow Canadian Bill Werbeniuk peeping around the screen dividing Thorburn’s table and his purely to watch what he hoped would be the groundbreaking 147.

But Higgins’ greatest day came in 1982. Much to my grandad’s disgust, the chain-smoking Northern Irishman, who controversially had special dispensation not to wear the obligatory bow tie, overcame Ray Reardon 18-16. Tearfully calling for his young baby, he declared himself the ‘People’s Champion’ and much of the nation gorged itself on the emotion. Yet for all his undoubted charisma, Higgins often let his drug- and drink-fuelled demons get the better of him, both at and away from the snooker table. Even I tired of his frequent indiscretions and consequent bans and inevitably he smoked and drank himself to death, albeit somehow surviving to the age of 61.

For all the Hurricane’s headlines, the Eighties belonged to someone completely different. Londoner Steve Davis had been storming up the rankings before grabbing the 1981 world title.  He reached seven successive world finals, winning five, along with success in other televised tournaments like the UK Championship and Masters. The complete antithesis of Higgins, with his impassive expression and smart appearance he was more the ‘Granny’s Champion’. My Nanna was a huge fan. As her youngest son and only grandson (yours truly) were fellow redheads. I’d hazard a guess Steve’s appeal lay less in his potting ability than his neat ginger hair.

One final he didn’t win was, of course, the climax to the 1985 World Championship. From 8-0 up, Davis allowed the jovial Dennis Taylor - wearing his trademark 'upside-down' glasses - back into the contest and on the Sunday evening Dad and I were enthralled as the Northern Irishman fought back. At 15-17, with work the next morning, I finally threw in the towel and retired to bed. Taylor was made of sterner stuff. Way past midnight on BBC2, an astonishing 18.5 million people (a third of the population) witnessed the incredible black ball finale and Taylor’s triumph. 18.5 million! And I wasn’t amongst them! Even I had to feel sorry for Davis. Boosted by a two-day match with more drama than anything other sports could possibly offer, this marked the zenith of snooker’s popularity in this country. As for Taylor, Nanna never forgave him...

Cut, Drive and Pull: Favourite Batsmen

Bowlers, wicketkeepers, umpires and fielders are all very well but, just as football is a game of goals, cricket’s principal appeal is the scoring of runs. Bring on the batsmen! However I can’t actually remember the identity of my first genuine favourite.

In the early Seventies none of the home side were the type to set the pulse racing. I mean, Dennis Amiss? John Edrich? Brian Luckhurst? Really?! I’d been aware of Northants’ man mountain Colin Milburn whose swashbuckling career was cut short by a car accident in 1969 but I must admit his cricketing antithesis, Geoff Boycott, was a bit of a guilty pleasure of mine. He scored loads of runs, slowly, but lots of ‘em, and yet I didn’t understand why so many people hated him. I even cheered along with the rest of Headingley when he so memorably completed his hundredth first-class century against the Aussies in 1977.

As with bowlers, it was some of the overseas batsmen which first caught my young eye. I think I was impressed by Greg Chappell’s calm approach to innings building against England and I vividly recall sitting at Nanna and Grandad’s bungalow in 1974 watching Pakistan’s Majid Khan strike a glorious ODI century, something of a rarity in the format’s infancy. He seemed to play in such a carefree manner, an artist enjoying his work.

Another inspirational cricketer was Clive Lloyd. Whether was winning domestic finals for Lancashire or Test matches for the West Indies, he did so with such a unique flourish. He was nicknamed ‘The Cat’ and with good reason. Whether fielding or at the crease, he would first resemble a bespectacled long-limbed lazybones then suddenly – bam! - pounce with lightning speed, picking up and throwing in one thrilling movement or pulling a stunning six over mid-wicket. Later, as captain of the most successful international side of my lifetime, ‘Clivey’ became broader in build, swapping cap for white sun-hat and the covers for first slip, but he always remained for me one of the most watchable players in history. The inaugural World Cup Final in ’75 was his supreme stage but imagine what a limited overs legend he would have been had he arrived twenty years later.

Sunil Gavaskar was a completely different kettle of Mumbai fish. His World Cup debut was marked by an ignominious bat-carrying 36 not out in 60 overs in a laughable so-called run chase against England. And yet in Test cricket he was a marvel. I naturally warmed to anyone short of stature and, while completely different from the likes of Lloyd, Sobers or Richards, I loved the calm composure with which he accumulated runs. For many it was his unique ability to blunt the hostile Windies pace attack which was his outstanding legacy. Statisticians will point out his achievement as the first man to score 10,000 Test runs. What I will treasure most of all was his ultimately doomed attempt to steer India to what would have been an astonishing fourth innings triumph at The Oval in 1979. Needing 438 to win, ‘Sunny’ marshalled the innings brilliantly, and I was on the edge of my chair willing him and India to succeed. When he eventually fell on 221, 49 short of the target, my heart sank. Viswanath and the tail reduced the deficit bit by bit but in the end they ran out of time, a tantalising ten runs adrift.

Since his retirement, India have boasted a formidable array of batting talent, from Azharuddin to Kohli and, of course, Sachin Tendulkar. However, it is the original Little Master who made the deeper impression on me. I also had a soft spot for another hard-nosed and gritty Test star, Allan Border. Before he became a notoriously tough captain of a rejuvenated band of Aussies, ‘AB’ made his presence felt during the 1981 series in England. It may have been ‘Botham’s Ashes’ but I was very much aware that by a country mile Border scored more runs than anyone else. His short-arm pull was hardly a thing of beauty but he was the man at number six you’d want to shore up any disintegrating innings.

I saw ‘Captain Grumpy’ a few times playing for Essex in the late Eighties and it was at Chelmsford in 1996 where the strokeplay of Pakistani opener Saeed Anwar first struck me between the eyes. Not literally, but his 102 for the tourists was fabulous. The stylish left-hander also did the business during that summer’s Test series, particularly in the decider at The Oval.

Earlier that year, Sri Lanka consigned to history their reputation as immature fall-guys by winning the World Cup. Their star batsman was Aravinda de Silva who, while already well-known to me, reached the pinnacle at Lahore with a glorious hundred in the final against the formidable Aussies. I loved the way he went for his shots, generally under the radar because of the relatively unfashionable country of his birth.

Domestically I have tended to be drawn towards my fellow members of the ‘shorties’ club. In the Seventies there was Lancashire’s Harry Pilling who, at 5 feet 3, was even more vertically challenged than I am. Then there was Tony Cottey, a sturdy pillar of Glamorgan’s middle-order in their title-winning Nineties side. Fast forward to the early Noughties and my perusal of the online scorecards alerted me to a young Leicestershire lad called James Taylor. Albeit in the Second Division, he was clearly a class above his peers although it was only after Nottinghamshire swooped that the England selectors also took notice. He didn’t get a decent run in the Test XI but was becoming a top-notch one-day batsman when, out of the blue at the age of 26, he announced his immediate retirement because of a heart condition. Life is cruel.

Another former Leicestershire star, David Gower, also earned my admiration before he was quickly welcomed into the international fold at 21 in 1978. Tall, undoubtedly posh and with unfashionably curly blonde hair, he was nonetheless one of the most graceful cricketers I’ve ever seen. At his peak, that apparent insouciance was often criticised by a media more in tune with the upright, granite-jawed approach of contemporaries Graham Gooch or Mike Gatting. That just made me like him even more!

It pains me to think that Gatting, statistically the most unsuccessful England captain of all time is best known for winning the Ashes once whereas Gower is forever associated with losing two series against the incredible Windies team 5-0. His admission being haunted by the four words “caught Dujon bowled Marshall” is typical of his self-deprecating humour, also a feature of the old BBC comedy sports quiz They Think It’s All Over, and now he brings that same effortless leisurely style to his career as cricket broadcaster. Everyone should be reminded what a gorgeous player David Gower was to watch with bat, rather than microphone, in hand.

Whatever the quality of Gower and Clive Lloyd, my favourite left-hander of all must be Marcus Trescothick. Of course it is heavily influenced by his long career with Somerset. In our initial immersion into the world of Fantasy Cricket back in the early Nineties, Dad and I quickly caught on to the value of an eighteen year-old Tres, and he is still there. Slower, burlier and bespectacled perhaps, but his drives are as crisp as ever. The overpowering anxiety which destroyed his hugely successful stint as powerhouse opener with England has worked to his county’s advantage for the past decade. Like the ravens at the Tower, he has become part of SCCC’s DNA. When he eventually retires, the sky will surely fall in. A thirty-metre gold statue in Taunton would be the very least he deserves.

Rave as I might about Marcus, probably the most prolific Somerset batsman of the past decade has been James Hildreth. Frequently near the top of the Division One averages and a regular 1000 runs-a season man in the Championship, the Millfield School graduate has been a reliable number four for yonks. Yet, for all his tidy run accumulation – he has 44 first-class centuries to his name – the closest he has come to England recognition was as a successful Lions captain in 2011. Like Trescothick, we Somerset fans aren’t complaining; Lord’s’ loss is County Ground’s gain.

However, when it comes to Somerset legends, few are more legendary than Isaac Vivien Alexander Richards. Where calypso cricket is concerned, Brian Lara may have collected more records (his mid-Nineties patch was purpler than Prince’s entire back-catalogue) and with greater panache, while Chris Gayle has been the undoubted king of T20 cricket, but my all-time hero in this or indeed any sport is Sir Viv.

I’ve waxed lyrical about him before but, from the day I witnessed his match-winning six at Chelmsford in 1975 to his emotional farewell sixty at the Oval in 1991, he bestrode the game like a gum-chewing, cap-wearing colossus. Like Lloyd, he was a phenomenal fielder – witness his three World Cup Final run-outs in ’75 – but when it came to the big occasion it was invariably a Richards innings wot won it. The summer of ’76 is fondly remembered by those old enough as one of endless hot, sunny days. For me, it’s at least as memorable for Viv’s domination of the Windies’ Test series against England. It began with a peerless 232 at Trent Bridge and ended with 291 at The Oval but there was so much more to the man than mere numbers.

He wasn’t tall but he possessed a swagger that defied any bowler to get him out. Current TV practice is to start a new batsman’s innings only when he faces his first delivery. Anything prior to that is dead air to be filled by another bloody gambling ad. To do that when IVA Richards was en route from the dressing room would necessitate missing the crucial first act in the King Viv show. His walk to the wicket was deliberately measured, windmilling arms, touching his cap (never a helmet), milking the drama, ratcheting the anticipation to fever pitch. He owned that stage.

For all the attitude, like Lloyd he was often vulnerable at the start but once he escaped the teens, he was virtually unstoppable, be it in Tests or one-dayers. He invented shots that may seem run-of-the-mill to those brought up on Buttler, Warner or De Villiers but were mind-boggling four decades ago. Somerset’s trophy cabinet between 1979 and 1984 was filled thanks largely to his brave, brutal, beautiful innings but perhaps his most memorable performance on these shores was for the West Indies at Old Trafford in May ’84. His murderous unbeaten 189 was all the more astounding given that the second highest score on the WI card that afternoon was Baptiste’s 26! I may not have approved of all his decisions but, when it comes to charisma and breathtaking strokeplay, there will never be another Viv Richards.

Umpires: The Men in White

Much of my meanderings down memory lane have explored the evolution of playing styles, formats and the spectator experience. However, I have also found myself going all misty eyed about a smaller band of men who are just as important to cricket as the batsman and bowler. I’m referring to the humble umpires.

I’m not aware of people flocking to a fixture, or tuning to Sky, just to watch Aleem Dar or Richard Kettleborough raise an index finger. When Nigel Llong takes his position at square leg, you rarely hear spectators shout a joyful “Nigel, Nigel, give us a wave!” And yet in my schooldays my anticipation of enjoyment would ratchet up a notch if I spotted the name of, say, HD Bird or W Alley on a scorecard.

In those days, of course, the umpires still wore the traditional long white coat, giving them an air of superannuated research chemists or bowls participants straying from the nearest rink. Even those in their thirties looked old, especially if donning a flat white cap a la ‘Dickie’ Bird. However, as long as their eyesight was good, their rapport with players affable and knowledge of the LBW laws of the day impeccable, it didn’t matter.

The umpire’s role was surely simpler in the Seventies. They often resembled clothes horses, collecting fielders’ discarded sun hats or sweaters, their pockets containing perhaps a tissue, light meter and six counters to help keep physical track of the over’s progress. Nowadays, an umpire resembles an officer in the NYPD or London parking attendant, bristling with gadgets. I don’t think they’re actually armed although, with some of the vicious ‘sledging’ taking place, perhaps waving an Uzi might make even Shannon Gabriel or David Warner keep their gobs tightly shut.

The book of signals has also expanded significantly with the advent of different formats and tinkerings. Powerplays, DRS and results thereof and run-out referrals have become commonplace. In my cricket watching infancy, the umpire’s word was final. Even slow-motion replays were sparingly deployed by the broadcasters, and even then without the intention of challenging a decision by the man in white. Not that they seemed to get many wrong, even those for which a request for TV assistance is nowadays considered a first, not last, resort.

So who have been my most memorable officials over the years? Investigating YouTube has thrown up a whole host of references to perceived biases by individuals towards different countries, but I suppose such discerned slights are inevitable given the array of camera angles and technological gizmos and the plethora of internationals in the modern cricketing calendar. I can’t comment on the relative quality, or consistency of the many officials I’ve watched; it’s more about the characters, their ideosyncrasies, aura even.

In the Seventies and Eighties international fixtures were far fewer, and English umpires dominated the landscape. I was brought up on ageing ex-players like Bill Alley and Tom Spencer, as well as the boater-wearing Ken Palmer and unflappable Barrie Meyer. Above all, on-pitch officialdom in England was dominated by one of those partnerships so beloved of cricket fans. Forget Hobbs and Sutcliffe, Lillee and Thomson or Hall and Griffiths: I’m talking about Bird and Constant. The ever-smart David Constant was elevated to the Test panel at the remarkably tender age of 29 and, when HD ‘Dickie’ Bird joined him in 1973, we had a new enduring pair in place.

Bird was eccentric, a professional Yorkshireman alongside his contemporaries Geoff Boycott and Michael Parkinson and one of the most wonderful cricket characters of my lifetime. He would stand for no nonsense, be it intimidatory fast bowling or truculent behaviour by MCC Members, yet he was beloved of players and spectators alike. I recall being at Lord’s in 1991 watching Dickie during a break in play borrowing a player’s bat and practising a few shadow strokes to the delight of the crowd. Would anyone else have done that?

In the Eighties and Nineties even Bird was eclipsed in popularity by the avuncular David Shepherd. I remember watching him on TV as a burly lower-order batsman for Gloucestershire but it was as an umpire that he became revered around the world. Whilst without the emotion and eccentricity of his Yorkie colleague, ‘Shep’ was famous for his little hop and jig whenever the scoreboard displayed 111 or any multiple thereof. I felt cheated if I inadvertently turned away or the cameras failed to capture the moment. It was the same if on, say, 221-4, the batsmen ran two instead of a safe one, thus depriving everyone of the Shepherd dance.

Another Westcountryman, Mervyn Kitchen, had played in the very first match I ever went to see in ‘75, so I was quite fond of him as a leading umpire in the Nineties. By then, the age of neutral umpires had begun, hastened by a range of controversies, many involving Pakistan. Constant had been criticised in the early Eighties, probably unjustly, but it was the infamous finger-wagging spat between England captain Mike Gatting and local umpire Shakoor Rana in 1987 which stirred the pot more vigorously. Rana was pilloried over here as a buffoon but in fact he had been perfectly correct to alert the batsman to surreptitious changes to field placings.

Nor was I a fan of Darryl Hair’s attitude either towards Muralitharan or Pakistan in the notorious ball-tampering affair at the Oval in 2006. Calling Murali’s action ‘diabolical’ did him no favours but, once the dust had settled, his decision to award the Pakistan match to England was adjudged to have been completely justified. In the past few decades, as my cricket viewing has turned more sporadic, I haven’t become so attached to the newer breed of ICC umpire. No offence to the likes of Aleem Dar, Nigel Llong or Rudi Koertzen but I just haven’t been sufficiently exposed to them to form the attachments I had with Bird, Constant or Shepherd.

Of the overseas contingent I do harbour fond memories of Steve Bucknor. Like so many West Indian players, he somehow simply exuded ‘cool’, and that white stripe of sunblock did lend an air of absurdity. In a good way. And then there was Billy Bowden’s crooked ‘finger of doom’ and the ideosyncratic way he signalled a six by instalments.

Domestic cricket features many more umpires, of course.  The games I’ve attended have tended to feature less well-known officials such as Tim Robinson or David Millns, and the only one with whom I’ve shared a conversation, during a depressingly dismal rain break at Taunton, is the affable son of Romford, Neil Bainton. Needless to say, he didn’t agree to my suggestion that the clouds were looking lighter – and he was proven right. That’s the thing about cricket umpires; for all their human foibles they don’t often make howlers.

Two for the Price of One: Fave All-rounders

Unearthing a genuine all-rounder is akin to finding the holy grail. I’m not talking about someone who can merely bat and bowl a bit, smash a quick thirty and strangle the middle-overs scoring rate in an ODI. Nor am I concerned with Twenty20 where anyone who can slog to ‘cow corner’ and deliver a ‘dot ball’ is hailed as an all-rounder. No, I’m referring to those rare treasures capable of holding down a place in a first-class cricket Eleven as both a batsman and bowler.

That is a mighty tough criterion to satisfy. In England, Ian Botham is often held up as a world-class all-rounder. Statistically that may be true but, in the second half of his career, he was little more than a medium-pacer living off the glories of the 1978-81 era. Although he played several years for Somerset, ‘Beefy’ was never a favourite of mine. To be honest, neither were any of those subsequently touted, however briefly and with fingers firmly crossed, as ‘The New Botham’. David Capel, Chris Lewis, Dominic Cork, Ronnie Irani, Adam Hollioake, Craig White, Mark Alleyne and now the Curran brothers were, or are, fine county players. Some, like Paul Collingwood, enjoyed lengthy international careers but I’d hardly describe him as a Test cricket all-rounder.

In the modern game of short boundaries and long hitting, Ben Stokes is the nearest we have come to that elusive target. The problem is that not only can he strike a double-century, bowl at 90mph and pull off miraculous catches but also packs a mean punch on a boozy night out. His face seems frozen into a perma-sneer. It doesn’t endear him to me one jot. So who have been the all-rounders to win me over?

Thirty years before Jacques Kallis blew previous Test all-rounder records out of the water, I was transfixed by Garry Sobers. I only really saw him play in his late thirties, whether in the Sunday League for Nottinghamshire or for the West Indies on tour here in 1973, but he was always worth watching. His left-arm pace bowling action was surprisingly ugly and yet he wielded the blade with languid ease. His 8,032 Test run aggregate lasted throughout my teenage years before Geoff Boycott surpassed it, and I wish I could have seen him in his prime.

I’ve already raved about Mike Procter who, while prevented by South Africa’s isolation, graced the county game with Gloucestershire. During the Seventies he produced some superb innings and could bowl both at high speed – off the wrong foot - and off-spin. At the start of that decade an Oxford undergraduate began to make a name in the English game and went on to become the finest all-rounder of his generation. Imran Khan wasn’t your typical cricketer, and his playboy proclivities didn’t chime with my idea of a sporting idol. Nevertheless, he scored thirty first-class centuries and was a superb swing and seam bowler whose near 1,800 career wickets were achieved at under 23 apiece. His action was a dream and so was the way he capped a 22-year spell with Pakistan by winning the 1992 World Cup.

Imran’s protégé Wasim Akram’s bowling action was very different. It seemed innocuous at the point of release but then the batsman often didn’t know what hit him, either metaphorically or physically.  I also enjoyed watching him bat but it was as a limited-overs bowler that he excelled. No other paceman has more than his 502 ODI victims.

However, I actually preferred another Pakistan stalwart from the Seventies, Asif Iqbal. He neither ripped up the record books, bowled at fearsome pace nor blazed brutally with the bat, but it was the calm elegance he exuded which appealed to me. I saw little of him representing Pakistan but he achieved a lot of success with Kent in their heyday and was one of the most recognisable players on the circuit.

There have been many other high-quality all-rounders, of course. Kapil Dev was one of the very best in the Eighties, while in more recent times there have been Shane Watson, Shahid Afridi, Ravi Jadeja and Bangladesh’s one-man band Shakib al-Hasan, the latter three being members of the slow bowling fraternity. I used to like Moeen Ali. when he was just a stylish left-hander, but his forced conversion into frontline spinner has sadly somewhat diminished his batting and consequently his all-round credentials.

Other multi-talented home cricketers have caught my eye over the years. The big-bellied boozers Ians Blackwell and Austin copied the ‘beefy’ physique of Botham but without quite emulating his feats on the pitch. I also recall hearing the Chelmsford chants of “Ronnie Irani’s Barmy Army” greeting the popular Essex man in the Nineties. Personally I wasn’t a fan of his, but have to admit his charisma earned him considerable rapport with spectators, even the good-humoured Aussies.

Two decades earlier, Stuart Turner was another Essex stalwart but his near-14,000 runs and 1,300 wickets were not considered sufficient to warrant international recognition. Trevor Jesty was even more unfortunate not to win an England Test cap given his superior batsmanship. I mainly remember him representing his native Hampshire but continued to score runs for Surrey and Lancashire into his forties.

Someone who is still producing eye-catching performances in his fifth decade is Darren Stevens. I’ve only really admired him in the past half a dozen years when he has defied the ageing process by consistently clubbing runs in all formats for Kent, allied to nagging medium-paced seam and swing which in 2017 netted 62 Championship wickets at 18 apiece. I bumped into him at Membury Services a few summers ago,. At first I didn’t recognise the unremarkable figure in natty leather cap, tweed jacket and greying stubble, resembling a trusty gamekeeper rather than a brilliant county cricketer. He’d never fit in with the England set-up but what a player!

Chris Woakes has at least more than a hundred international appearances to his name but his batting and bowling record for Warwickshire indicates that he should have many, many more. His Test averages are on a par with Andrew Flintoff’s, yet he remains woefully under-rated. He’s nudging thirty but continues to look a lanky twelve so with luck and lack of injury he may yet regain a regular spot. I hope so.

I couldn’t review my list of fave all-rounders without revisiting Somerset and selecting Peter Trego. Since returning to the West Country, this son of Weston-Super-Mare has become a cult hero. His whizz-bang batting has won many a match in all three formats while even in his mid-thirties was carrying an injury-plagued attack in the Championship. He even blazed a trail by sporting an ugly ‘sleeve’ tattoo before it became fashionable. At 37, he still earns a crust around the world but, even with white ball only, hopefully there’ll be further prolific summers at Taunton, too.

Stumpers and Thumpers: Favourite Wicketkeepers

I don’t envy wicketkeepers their job. Wearing gloves and pads they have to be alert for every ball, sprinting to the stumps or flinging themselves to catch an edge or prevent byes. They must need knees of steel, or rather tungsten. And these days they are also expected to be top-class batsmen and expert sledgers. True all-rounders!

When I first followed cricket, probably the most recognisable ‘keepers were Alan Knott of Kent and England and Aussie Rod Marsh. Knott’s glovework was exemplary and his doughty rearguard batting at seven rescued many an innings. However, exciting he was not. In contrast, Marsh was an archetypal in-yer-face character who would fit in well with the modern fashions. Like Dennis Lillee, whose bowling provided a record 95 of his catches, his moustache was as legendary as his appetite for beer and colourful language. He could bat a bit, too and, given his many run-ins with English batsmen over the years, it was ironic that it was under his directorship of the ECB academy that a resurgent England side seized the Ashes in 2005.

There have been several excellent wicketkeepers in the ‘baggy green’ in my lifetime. Ian Healy was no mug but when he finally bowed out, his successor became one of the most celebrated of all time. Adam Gilchrist didn’t win his first Test cap until the age of 27 but it was his astounding hitting which quickly endeared him to cricket fans around the world. His arrival happily coincided with the launch of Twenty20, a perfect format for his batting. I saw him once in the pink kit of Middlesex, striking three boundaries in a short but sweet eight-ball innings against Essex. However, on the big occasions he was imperious, and they don’t come any bigger than the 2007 World Cup Final when in the green and gold Gilchrist plundered a remarkable 149 from a mere 104 deliveries.

The Aussie won three World Cups, scoring at least 50 in each. However, another of my faves, Kumar Sangakkara (left), never finished on the winning side. For all his impressive records as a batsman and wicketkeeper across all formats, what I loved about the Sri Lankan was the way he played. In particular, Sanga’s cover drives were things of beauty but he was a stylishly unfussy gloveman, too.

AB De Villiers has been a magician, able to conjure shots out of thin air but, when it comes to brilliant ‘keepers, there have been few superior to MS Dhoni. From mullet-head to silver fox, the maestro has been a dominant force in Indian cricket seemingly forever. In addition to his captaincy and smart work behind the stumps, Dhoni’s clever ‘finishing’ of an innings is legendary. I vividly recall watching Sky’s coverage of the 2011 World Cup climax when MS steered his side to victory with a typically stirring 91 not out. More memorable still was the raucous reception he received on his way to the crease from the India fans during their T20 encounter with England in Cardiff last July. Oh, and did I mention his economical spell of bowling at the same venue in the 2013 Champions Trophy semi? Is there anything that man can’t do?

The new global idol of limited-overs wicket-keeper/batsmen is Jos Buttler, about whom I have mixed feelings. I concede that his inventive strokeplay in ODIs and T20 is second to none but his place in my affections dropped through the floorboards in 2013 when he abandoned Somerset for Lancashire, ostensibly to boost his Test cricket credentials. As a supporter I felt betrayed. Jos had come through the county ranks for years and at Taunton I’d marvelled at his level-headed ‘keeping and extraordinary lofted extra-cover drives. As the future of Somerset he was my new favourite, and when he left, he forfeited that status.

I suppose his treachery could be in part excused by the fact that he wasn’t even the best wicket-keeper in Somerset. In the Championship, that position belonged to Craig Kieswetter. Another product of Millfield School, the South African had already established an international one-dayer career with his adopted England and a fervent following from the Taunton faithful and the ECB pushed Buttler into the transfer to a so-called ‘bigger’ county. Tragically, halfway through the following season, Kiesy’s helmet grille failed to do its job against a David Willey bouncer. The horrendous damage to his nose and eye socket brought his cricket career to a premature conclusion. Terribly sad for him, of course, but it also meant that Somerset had lost not one but two top-class ‘keeper/batsmen in under a year, a gaping hole they have yet to adequately fill.

During the Eighties and Nineties, I quite liked a number of less-renowned English glovemen, from Geoff Humpage and Keith Piper (both Warwickshire) to Richard Blakey (Yorkshire) and Trevor Gard (Somerset). I detested the mouthy England duo of Matt Prior and Paul Nixon but I still retain a modicum of affection for ‘Jack’ Russell. I’m not sure I ever saw his eyes. In my memory, his head consisted only of white floppy hat, shades and ‘tache! The idiosyncratic man of Stroud was far too often overlooked in favour of Alec Stewart but he never let England – or Gloucestershire – down.

As for my all-time favourite, well, my choice may seem surprising, decidedly left-field. One encouraging advance in recent years has been the professionalization of and consequent enhanced media attention towards women’s cricket. The days of Rachel Hayhoe-Flint in a crisply-laundered white skirt are long gone but mercifully the ladies’ game has yet to sink to the dubious moral depths of men’s cricket. A few years ago I was delighted by the spirit in which the T20 Ashes encounter at Cardiff was conducted. Through the medium of TV I was already more likely to recognise the likes of Charlotte Edwards, Meg Lanning and Anya Shrubsole than male internationals such as Jake Ball or Matt Wood. But one other female cricketer had appealed more than any other.

Like many of her colleagues, Sarah Taylor (left) announced herself on the global scene as a teenager and is now recognised as probably the best wicketkeeper/batter in the world. She looks the part, as tidy with the gloves as Knott or Russell ever were, and possesses an admirable array of strokes. However, for me, it’s her obvious love of playing that is outstanding. When, in 2016 and at her peak, she took a break from the sport because of overpowering anxiety issues, I was as stunned as anyone. I guess that demonstrates the dark devilry of mental illness; it can strike anyone, even a sportswoman with an outward disposition as sunny as Sarah’s.

Observing from the stands that afternoon in 2015, one cameo illustrates what I love about the England ‘keeper. At one point, Katherine Brunt threw a tad over-vigorously from deep square leg forcing Taylor into an acrobatic leap up to catch the ball. Upon landing, Taylor gesticulated and glared theatrically at her team-mate – before smiling broadly and getting on with the game. That’s how cricket should be played. That’s Sarah Taylor.

Favourite Bowlers

As with music, football clubs or TV programmes, favouritism makes no claim to equate with sheer quality, no matter how passionately the advocate makes his or her case. My personal favourite cricketers cover a wide range from undisputed giants of the game to aficionados of specific counties and/or those with lengthy memories. The list of bowlers is a case in point.

As a child, I loved to watch bowlers’ actions face-on, a standard perspective in the days when the Beeb could only afford cameras at one end. Many of my most memorable pacemen in particular date from that period when I’d channel my studies of the people I’d watched on TV into personations in the back garden. England’s John Snow had a distinctive delivery action but my first fave was someone whose notable quirk was the way during his run-up he held both arms low.

Sarfraz Nawaz was a staple of Northamptonshire’s attack in the Seventies, winning many caps for Pakistan along the way. Although taller than most, it was his moustache which also made him stand out. More recently he has been credited with inventing reverse swing, which has become an essential part of a fast bowler’s armoury.

Talking of cricketing moustaches, as much part of the mid-Seventies as flares and ‘O’ level revision, Dennis Lillee’s facial fuzz was even more recognisable, and remains his trademark to this day. His bristling, bustling demeanour and devastating pace combined to hammer thorns in the side of England on many occasions, from 1972 to the early Eighties, when his moustache was complemented by a coloured headband. He was no shrinking violet, often controversial for the sake of it, but always watchable. Even in his slower dotage, his skill and accuracy knew no bounds. Had it not been for a few brilliant Botham performances, the 1981 Ashes could well have been named after Lillee and Terry Alderman who between them garnered 81 wickets!

In mid-decade, Dennis and Jeff Thomson wreaked so much havoc against the West Indies that Clive Lloyd fathomed that his side needed to meet fire with fire. Thus the strategy of four-man Caribbean seam attacks was born. At first, this looked thrilling. The brutal bouncers, run-ups so long that they began almost from the laps of front row spectators, the prospect of athletic evasive action or humungous hooks for six  all added to the atmosphere of open hostility. The snorting Andy Roberts, smooth-as-silk Michael Holding, Colin Croft and Wayne Daniel got away with almost anything but after a year or two the novelty began to wear off rapidly. The average over rate dropped from around eighteen an hour to eleven, batsmen suffered more nasty injuries and, much as I adored Caribbean cricket, the bowling philosophy was making Test matches increasingly tedious to watch. Eventually the authorities had to introduce restrictions on the short-pitched stuff and minimum over rules to restore the balance between bat and ball before boredom and broken bones took control.

Holding in full flight was a wonder to behold, and his predecessor Keith Boyce always lively but my favoured West Indian quick was Joel Garner. Apart from the fact he played for Somerset, he didn’t rely on a relentless sprint to the wicket to breed fear in the facing batsman. Off a mere dozen loping languid strides, ‘Big Bird’ could deliver a snorting lifter, in-swinger, off-cutter or devastating yorker at will, using his six feet eight frame to the max. He was equally brilliant in one-dayers as first-class matches; nobody has got close to his career ODI economy rate of 3,09 and his 146 wickets were achieved at under 19 runs apiece. Imagine how effective he would have been in Twenty20!

By the mid-Eighties he was playing second-fiddle to Malcolm Marshall, another extraordinarily efficient and economical multi-format speed merchant. He was a Hampshire stalwart for many years but it was wearing the palm tree badge that he was at his most dangerous. In the 1988 series over here, he grabbed 35 wickets at 12.65, virtually unplayable and utterly beguiling: an all-time great. Best of all, in a team of towering giants, he was a wiry whippet of only five feet eleven.

I was lucky to follow cricket in an era chock full of fabulous fast bowlers. Kapil Dev, Imran Khan, Richard Hadlee, Waqar Younis, Wasim Akram, Allan Donald, Courtney Walsh and Curtly Ambrose were the cream of an abundant crop. In more recent times I have admired Glenn McGrath’s metronomic line and length, Dale Steyn’s rhythmic action and Shoaib Akhtar’s thunderous pace, but where are the English in my list?

Yes, I am impressed by Jimmy Anderson’s ability to swing it both ways but I can’t say I like him that much. A generation earlier, I was a big fan of John Lever’s left-arm swing bowling. Indeed, I saw quite a lot of him playing for Essex. In the Nineties, I was a fan of another left-arm fast-medium-pacer reliant on movement through the air for his success. This Yorkshire-born Gloucestershire pro became a one-Test wonder in 1997 but he secured my loyalty by dint of his name: Mike Smith, of course!

Top-class namesakes are rare, nor are there a plethora of fellow redheads in the sport. An exception is Glen Chapple, who bowled his fast-medium seam for Lancashire across more than two decades. I was at Lord’s for his almost singlehanded demolition of Essex in the Nat West Final of 1996, the year of his one and only England ODI appearance. Nineteen years later, I again felt deeply sorry for him when, in his forties and his hair less ginger than salt and pepper, form and fitness conspired to end his cricket career with a first-class wicket tally an agonising fifteen short of the thousand milestone.

Another long-standing stalwart of the Red Rose was David Hughes. Although primarily a left-arm spinner, he first attracted my attention with the bat. I was watching live coverage of the 1971 Gillette Cup semi-final against Gloucestershire when, in deep gloom and time running out, he proceeded to flay 24 off John Mortimore’s final over to win the match.

Of those who did manage a longer run in the England side, I quite liked Norman Cowans. His run-up was almost Holding-esque but without his fellow Jamaican’s end product. However, my favourite has to be Gladstone Small. Barbados-born, his hunched physique created an illusion of having no neck, exaggerated by the extravagant shirt collars worn at the time. His comical appearance nonetheless disguised a very useful quick bowler and, as well as a Warwickshire favourite, he was Man of the Match in England’s 1986 Boxing Day Test success in Melbourne.

Spinners have barely featured in this chapter. As with many cricket fans, it’s the pacemen who take my eye, all speed, strength and sizzle. There’s something almost primeval about a middle-stump sent cartwheeling by a 90mph nip-backer, which a gentle bat-pad catch simply cannot match. The slow bowler’s art is very different yet just as vital to an attack. Even in England teams featuring the likes of Snow, Willis or Ward, it was left-armer Derek Underwood who earned the nickname ‘Deadly’. If the Seventies and Eighties had been dominated by sneering, snarling fast bowlers, the subsequent decades were marked by the emergence of world-class spinners.

In any other era, India’s Anil Kumble would have been a global icon. And yet it was the record-breaking rivalry between Muttiah Muralitharan and Shane Warne which stole the show. Murali went on to set the amazing mark of 800 Test wickets and he was a magician of such sleight of hand that I could watch him for hours and never work out how he bowled at all, let alone pick his doosra. In contrast, Warne was a straightforward ‘leggie’ who burst onto the Test scene when leg-spinners were as rare as British Wimbledon singles champions. I was to have a love-hate relationship with the Aussie. I couldn’t embrace his bleach-blonde, beer-guzzling surfer-dude personality but there was something endearing about that three-pace amble and roll of the wrists. Whilst an astute captain at Hampshire, Shane Warne never got to lead Australia in their absolute pomp but he was undoubtedly one of the best bowlers of my lifetime. In particular, anyone who can make Mike Gatting so hilariously bamboozled as he so memorably did in 1993 has to be an all-time favourite.