Cricket World Cups; From maroon caps to green hair

Domestic competition and bilateral series are all very well, but everyone loves a World Cup, don’t they? In the past six years I’ve become rather attached to the alternative Champions Trophy, if only because the use of Cardiff as a venue has enabled me to tag along several times in person. However, with only the top eight  ranked nations eligible to participate,  it lacks the cache of a genuine World Cup. 

The growth of Twenty 20 has inevitably led to the format’s own global tournament every two years. To be honest, I have little interest in it. Probably the only action I can recall watching live was the astonishing last-over climax at Kolkata in 2016 when Ben Stokes served up four identical deliveries for Carlos Brathwaite to club for six and hand the West Indies an unlikely victory.

For me, the only cricket World Cup that matters is the one based on official one-day international rules. That now involves fifty overs a side but when the Prudential Cup launched in 1975 the poor things had to play sixty. Too long for twenty-first century viewers but great value for teenage fans like me.

The ODI as a concept was very much in its infancy; prior to this tournament the total number contested by the six Test-playing nations was fewer than twenty. With a straightforward format comprising two groups of four, semis and final, the World Cup was easily condensed into a fortnight in June. All the more reason to relish all fifteen matches. Given that all twelve group fixtures took place on just three days, the simultaneous scheduling and only two available BBC TV channels meant that few were televised live.

To be honest I have no recollection of watching England sail through Group A against India, East Africa and New Zealand. The other quartet was far more interesting and it was Pakistan who fell victim to the Group of Death, their fate determined by a thrilling finish at Edgbaston. Despite the efforts of Majid Khan, Sarfraz Nawaz et al, the West Indies scraped home by one wicket with just two balls to spare.

Infuriatingly, both semis were contested midweek, so pesky school commitments precluded a full day’s feast of TV cricket. I expected to get home to watch the England-Australia finale so was staggered to find it had already been wrapped up. Instead of Lillee and Thomson, it was the little-known left-arm swing bowler Gary Gilmour who dominated, taking a stunning 6-14.

And so it came to pass that the inaugural final involved the Aussies and Windies who were becoming bitter rivals. It turned out to be one of the most memorable matches I’ve ever watched. Annoyingly, we missed the middle section – including Clive Lloyd’s magnificent century – because Dad’s school fete took priority. However, from Roy Fredericks treading on his stumps in executing a hooked six off Lillee to some fabulous run-outs by Viv Richards and premature pitch invasions near the end, all the game lacked was a nail-biting last-ball climax. Just writing this 44 years later sets my skin all a-tingle.

The next two World Cups were also hosted by England who still couldn’t quite make home advantage count. In 1979, I glowed with pride and wonder as my idol Viv Richards flayed England’s finest to all corners of Lord’s. That audacious match-winning flicked six off Mike Hendrick will never leave me an image of an alien beamed down from a planet where cricket was played on an altogether higher plane.

Four years on and Viv was at it again, part of a Windies side that was if anything even firmer favourites. They cruised to the final where the fantasy fast bowling quartet of Roberts, Marshall, Garner and Holding dismissed India for under 200. And yet this time the script was ripped up. Once Kapil Dev had pulled off a terrific backpedalling over-the-shoulder catch to end Richards’ menacing innings, Amarnath and Madan Lal completed the job and we had new world champions.

England’s monopoly on hosting duty was over, and the Asian subcontinent assumed the role in the autumn of ’87 followed by Australia/New Zealand in ’92. The time difference and for us, out-of-season scheduling, meant I didn’t watch much of either tournament. The sport was becoming more open, with the Aussies and Pakistan respectively, holding the cup aloft. Imran Khan’s moment appeared destined, achieved at the age of 39 in his very last ODI. The crumbling of cricket’s barriers was further illustrated in 1996 when little Sri Lanka shocked the world by beating Australia with an innovative brand of limited-overs strategy, and the skill of Aravinda da Silva.

In the summer of ’99, cricket ‘came home’, sort of. In fact, England shared fixtures with Scotland, Wales and the Netherlands but at least the premier tournament was held in our summer and our time zone. That said, I don’t recall watching much of it on the box. One exception was the India v Sri Lanka group stage game at Taunton. I was working in London at the time but our office featured a little TV set high on the wall. Someone – not me - had the foresight to switch it on just as Sourav Ganguly and, more surprisingly, Rahul Dravid, piled on a terrific triple-century partnership. I doubt much work was done that afternoon. South Africa were looking likely winners only to lose their heads in a climactic frantic semi-final scramble against eventual champs Australia. Thus the competition introduced not only the Super Six and the white ‘Duke’ ball but also the unwanted ‘chokers’ label around the Proteas’ necks. Twenty years later, rightly or wrongly, it’s still there.

Things took a political turn in 2003 and the combination of eye-catching results (e.g against Sri Lanka) and fortuitous boycotts in Africa propelled lowly Kenya and Bangladesh into the semi-final stratosphere. For all the giant-killings, Australia were unbeatable and duly thumped India in the final by 125 runs. I caught a few late-evening highlights on BBC2 of the 2007 event, which featured an early exit for India (which prompted a change of format to prevent any repeat of such a financially damaging scandal), Ireland’s defeat of Pakistan, the latter’s coach Bob Woolmer suffering a fatal heart attack and a farcical final completed in near-darkness.

By Spring 2011, I was seeing Angie, who had Sky Sports at home, so in between her precious football, I sneaked a few glimpses of cricket at weekends. England’s embarrassment at the hands of the green-haired Irish was joyous to behold but it was also a pleasure to witness the concluding hour or so of the final in Mumbai. The decision to stage the World Cup across the entire Asian subcontinent, with Dhaka hosting the opener, proved a resounding success. For all the caring and sharing, it has to be said that from Sehwag’s brilliant 175 in Match 1 to MS Dhoni’s characteristically piece of perfect pacing six weeks later, the trophy had India’s name on it throughout.

The most recent edition saw another Aussie triumph although co-hosts New Zealand pushed them hard with their aggressive play. Ireland won more games than England, whose chances of progression were ended by Bangladesh, but I was disappointed that for 2019 the ICC decided to raise the drawbridge to stop the Associate nations getting ideas above their station.

On the plus side, the forthcoming tournament is now returning to these shores. Consequently, subject to politics, personal health and that perennial enemy of cricket, inclement weather, this summer will allow me to watch my first ever World Cup matches live in Cardiff. This time, top-ranked England will start hot favourites but above all I look forward to enjoying the multinational atmosphere and exciting performances. It may not match up to the nostalgic aura of 1975 – Viv, Clive, Lillee and all that – but here’s hoping for a summer to remember.

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…

My Most Memorable Rugby Matches

While the three rugby games I’ve seen in the flesh have not been classics, there have been many memorable matches over the years I’ve enjoyed on TV. With the help of a trawl through old diaries, and the further memory-jogging aid of YouTube, I’ve come up with a selection of the best I have watched.

They tend to fall into a small number of categories. Some stand out for being agonisingly close encounters, often with dramatic conclusions. Others are memorable for their significance, while my contemporaneous notes indicate the warm, fuzzy feeling engendered by superb attacking play. Then there are the pleasant surprise results or the frankly bizarre.

The first Five Nations fixture which has stayed in my mind without any recourse to research was the Scotland-Wales clash in 1971. Seen in black and white, of course, it now serves as a reminder of how bewitching the Welsh side were in their early-Seventies pomp, how small the players look compared with today’s giants and also how loose defensive tackling could be in those days. For all the thrilling tries by Barry John, Gareth Edwards and Gerald Davies, the definitive image I have in my head is that coolly-taken towering conversion decider by the flanker John Taylor.

That ended 19-18, but I also waxed lyrical 28 years later when France and Wales served up a 34-33 cliffhanger in Paris. The peroxide-haired Tomas Castaignede and triple try scorer Emile Ntmack starred for the home team but Neil Jenkins’ boot made the difference. I was with Kim at the time so didn’t watch many rugby matches but I was thankful for the opportunity to witness this one. Six weeks later, well into April, the final Five Nations championship was determined by another nail-biter, although sadly this one eluded me. In the very last game, Wales came from behind to defeat the English favourites by a single point and hand the trophy to the free-scoring Scots.

More recently, the Scots were on the receiving end of another emotional cliffhanger. In the 2015 World Cup, they were robbed of a semi-final place by a dodgy penalty decision as Australia pipped them by 35-34. Ouch! However, for sheer disbelief, nothing can ever compete with the astonishing finale to the France-Wales encounter in the 2017 RBS 6 Nations tournament. At eighty minutes, the Welsh were five points ahead thanks to Leigh Halfpenny’s six penalties. However, a controversial reverse substitution, relentless French attacks and desperate defence created an incredibly tense situation. France were awarded a sequence of penalties but needed a converted try to win. When Chuly finally bundled over the line, the clock on the screen registered 100 minutes. Record-breaking for the tournament and heartbreaking for Wales, while as a TV spectator I felt totally drained.

That match didn’t affect the destination of the overall trophy but there have been many dramatic title-clinchers watched by me from one settee or other over the years. An early example came forty years ago, when Wales claimed a Grand Slam by beating France 16-7 at the old Arms Park. Much as I loved the French at the time, there was something awe-inspiring observing Edwards and Bennett in tandem. And three drop-goals was almost unheard of in the Seventies.

Two years later, it was England’s turn to win all four matches, including an “exciting, free-flowing” 30-18 defeat of the Scots at Murrayfield. It must have been a brilliant performance for me to praise England! Fast forward ten years and the Five Nations went to a last-game shootout between the same countries. On this occasion I cheered Scotland to a 13-7 triumph and their second Grand Slam in six years.

In the new millennium, since the arrival of Italy, it has been harder to achieve a 100% success rate and yet there have been several Grand Slams. 2009 produced another winner-takes-all finish, although Wales needed to beat Ireland by more than 13 points to take the Triple Crown and overall title.  It proved an attritional contest with the men in red 6-0 up at half-time. However, with skipper Brian O’Driscoll crossing the try line yet again and Ronan O’Gara kicking the goals, the Irish won 17-15 to achieve their first Grand Slam for 61 years.

In 2012, I was in the process of becoming an honorary Welsh citizen. With perfect timing I was able to absorb the very special Grand Slam fever which permeated the entire principality. It wasn’t a new experience for my fellow Cardiffians; Wales had won in both 2005 and 2008 with a new adventurous style. Whilst the dashing Shane Williams had retired, by 2012 Sam Warburton was leading an array of talent and, despite having scrambled wins against Ireland and England, went into the last day determined to beat France. They didn’t disappoint. Alex Cuthbert scored the only try, Dan Lydiate tackled like a trojan and even football fans went wild with delight.

Low-scoring attritional forward battles can make for absorbing television but for me, creative running is what rugby is all about. In this respect, two matches in particular have stood out. Both involved Wales, but in different ways. In 1991, after watching France romp home 36-3, my diary reported: “Brilliant back play in massacring Wales was so heartwarming to watch. Magic”. Twenty-two years later my loyalty was directed towards the men in red as they put the preening primadonnas of England to the sword by 30-3.

In 1993, too, Wales got the better of England but it was a much tighter affair. Will Carling’s side were the favourites but Ieuan Evans’ pace and resilient second half defence ensured a surprise 10-9 result. “One in the eye for the jingo boys”, I wrote breathlessly. In 2015, England were again hotly fancied, this time in their own World Cup. They were drawn in the group of death with Australia, and Wales were expected to miss out. The home team played all their fixtures at Fortress Twickenham so it was especially extraordinary to watch the Welsh upset the applecart with a vibrant 28-25 victory, having once been ten points adrift. That tournament also featured a match I missed but so wish I hadn’t: Japan’s nailbiting injury-time finale against South Africa. An astonishing upset.

A couple of summers previously, no fewer than ten Welshmen were in the British Lions XV in Australia. I’d never shown much interest in Lions tours. They take place in the cricket season, the games often kicking off at inconvenient times on the other side of the globe, and I struggle to understand what the Lions represent. 2013 saw a significant shift in my opinion.

It felt like we were watching a powerful Wales outfit (plus a handful of guests) take on the Welsh bêtes noires, the Wallabies. The first two Tests had been decided by extremely narrow margins and the whole series came down to the Sydney decider on the morning of Saturday 6^th July. We had been renting a cottage in the Carmarthenshire village of Llansteffan, and had to be out after breakfast. Luckily we were granted permission to keep our car outside in order to hang around for a few extra hours so we could sit in the Castle Inn and join the locals watching the rugby. The atmosphere was wonderfully convivial, boosted by the pleasure of experiencing a resounding 41-16 thrashing, So what if we faced lengthy jams on the M4 in a heatwave; we were on a rugby-induced high!

The background story can be the crucial ingredient in what makes a match memorable. My final choice is a perfect and unique example. It was Italy’s Six Nations fixture against Wales on 26^th February 2011. With exquisite symmetry, I saw the first half in an Italian restaurant, the second half in a Welsh pub. The score was irrelevant. What made it unforgettable was that it was my first date with Angie. For the record, Wales won the game but I won The Match!