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….

Sport and Me - an Introduction

Boys are supposed to love sport. It’s a given. Even if you hate it, some sort of pretence is essential. If pressed on the subject, you can always select the default option and claim to support Manchester United. Fortunately, I never had to resort to such subterfuge.

Wherever I lived or whichever family member’s house I visited, there were always balls of assorted sizes littering the garden. As a toddler, there would probably be a football half my size awaiting my tentative toe-poke. I have a million childhood memories of wielding a toy golf club, cricket bat or tennis racket, all of which happy ones. I wasn’t the sort of boy who played ball games purely to please a sports-nut father; I did it because I loved it.

Don’t get me wrong: Dad most certainly did enjoy his sport, whether playing or watching. I’m sure he loved his kickabouts in a park, batting and bowling practice in the back garden or putting rounds in holiday resorts around the English coast just as much as I did. Catherine and Mum would often join in, too, although the latter was reluctant to indulge in Swing Ball once she realised the damage our feet was doing to our lovely lawn.

It wasn’t restricted to the family home, of course. Up to the age of nine, I lived on a pleasant late-Fifties/1960 estate, at the heart of which sat a triangle of grass dotted with a few saplings. When the weather was amenable, this would become the sporting Mecca for the local lads, me included, the trees providing a single goalpost or wicket. The ‘Triangle’, as it was inevitably dubbed – our fertile imagination knew no bounds – would be transformed into our very own Wembley, Lord’s, Wimbledon or, very rarely, Twickenham. 

Residing only just beyond the periphery of London, we weren’t remote from some of the nation’s greatest stadia. However, nor were we exactly on their doorstep. As a result, I don’t recall any childhood ‘in the flesh’ sports experiences until my early teens. Our nearest major venue was the Essex county cricket ground in Chelmsford so it is no great surprise that it was this rather primitive stage which witnessed my introduction to genuine live sport in May 1975. For the first time, I could read the reports and scorecards in the Daily Express and think; “I was there!”

Of course I consumed the vast majority of sport on television. In the days when everyone was perfectly content to choose from a mere three channels, all the cornerstones of the sporting calendar were available to watch at no cost other than the BBC licence fee. It wasn’t only the events which remain protected for all viewers to this day, such as the Wimbledon finals, Grand National and Olympics. Even non-title UK boxing contests could command audiences in excess of ten million, while what we now label ‘minority’ sports like show jumping, touring car racing and wrestling were accessible to the majority.

In the Sixties and Seventies, households were basically divided between BBC an ITV families. I guess it was essentially a class-based split. We were most definitely in the BBC camp. I watched ‘Blue Peter’ not ‘Magpie’, ‘Morecambe and Wise’ not ‘The Beverly Hillbillies’, ‘Dad’s Army’ rather than ‘Love Thy Neighbour’. When it came to wet winter Saturday afternoons, the family allegiance was to BBC1’s smorgasbord of sport, ‘Grandstand’, as opposed to ITV’s ‘World of Sport’. 

Pardon my mixed culinary metaphors but I would lap up the meze meal prepared by ‘Grandstand’. Not all the dishes would appeal. Boxing and horse racing always left me cold especially. There was nothing more infuriating than the frequent interruptions to a cricket match to show some boring ABA lightweight encounter or the 2.10 from Haydock Park. 

In 1981, the ‘Grandstand’ brand was later applied to summer Sunday coverage. There was enough cricket, tennis, rowing and equestrian stuff to sustain it, and in the late Nineties, the Beeb risked extending it across the whole year. Dad and I also watched the midweek show ‘Sportsnight’, originally presented by the ubiquitous David Coleman, then replaced by Harry Carpenter. Poor Mum must have been exiled to a bath or her knitting when there was something of particular interest to us menfolk. Highlights of Cup replays and European football ties stand out for me, although speedway or greyhound racing offered occasional diversions. ‘Sportsnight’ also featured documentary features. Presumably these were mere fillers to be dropped in when action was thin on the ground. However, they could be just as entertaining, especially the occasions when Carpenter got to interview Muhammad Ali. Their conversational sparring sessions were brilliant!

Of course, such compendium programmes could not survive the innovation of satellite television in the Nineties. I would occasionally dip into BBC Radio’s ‘Sport on 5’ or ‘Test Match Special’ if away from a screen but, where TV is concerned, as Sky splashed the cash to hoover up the major sports events, with the likes of Eurosport providing some of the fringe competitions, the public service broadcasters simply couldn’t compete. Sports broadcasting had been transformed totally. In my opinion, ‘Final Score’ has never been the same since new technology replaced the chattering teleprinter – which reminded me of a demented hot water bottle. I would also relish the weird juxtaposition of results it spewed out: Rosslyn Park 10 Esher 24, Southport 2 Bradford Park Avenue 0 …. Ah, those were the days!

But I digress. With wealthy private broadcasters ploughing billions into sport, most of the sports have changed beyond recognition. Sponsorship, new formats, even traditional winter sports shunted to summer to avoid competition, have fragmented the landscape completely. Yet, as more sport is broadcast, talked and written about, accessible on the internet, I find my emotional, almost spiritual connection to sport becoming looser. Scattered across umpteen platforms and specialist channels, themselves almost buried amidst all the other dross which pollutes the schedules, it is harder to keep up, to separate the wheat from the chaff, identify what really interests me and what I can happily disregard – which is the vast majority.

Nevertheless, my passion for certain sports has remained undimmed. I’m not sure I ever genuinely wanted to be a Best, Snow or Laver, nor even a Cruyff, Richards or McEnroe. This was just as well, because my actual talent never quite matched my enthusiasm. I’m not being big-headed in saying I did possess a modicum of skill in most sports. I could spot a decent pass, bowl a leg-break and maintain a lengthy rally but was never good enough to make the school team in anything.

While a member of Billericay Rotaract between 1985 and 1994, I indulged in all sorts of random activities as part of social or inter-club competition. I even found I had an aptitude for badminton, indoor hockey and even bowls. Who knew?! Again, nothing to warrant pursuing at a club; I’d be kidding myself if I claimed my ability was more than a C+ or B- but as long as I could do my best and play with a smile, I was happy.

I like to win, of course, and I do have a moderately competitive streak. Nevertheless, success has never been the be-all-and-end-all. Provided I can neither disgrace myself nor let down team-mates, participation at that C+/B- portion of the ability spectrum has usually been good enough for me. It also serves to make memories of those sporadic B+ moments even more indelible.

I have a similar outlook to life as a fan. Of course, the word is an abbreviation of ‘fanatic’ which nowadays has connotations with excess. A fanatic is probably an obsessive, taking things to extremes and socially isolated from the rest of us. I know one or two, but I’ve never identified with such traits. Yes, I consider myself a supporter of Queens Park Rangers FC and Somerset CCC, but I won’t travel to the ends of the earth and the bottom of my bank balance to scream my allegiance. As with my own modest skill levels, that’s fortuitous, because otherwise I would have endured a lifetime of bitter sporting disappointments.

Patriotism has never been a prominent part of my mental make-up, either. I know that when, say, the Ashes, a World Cup or Grand Prix come around, the media exert pressure on everyone in the country to get behind ‘our boys’ (it’s usually boys). Cheer on Andy Murray, Jo Konta and Lewis Hamilton! Get with cricket’s Barmy Army! Whoop and holler for Team GB! Well, nobody tells me who I can and can’t support. For some reason, I’ve always considered myself to be British, rather than English. That has been particularly handy since I moved to Wales, but it has also influenced my relationship with sports teams and individuals. I don’t support Murray, Konta or Hamilton, partly because of the onus I feel to do so, but also because I find them incredibly boring or irritating as personalities. I don’t wave the flag of St George for the England rugby, football or cricket either. When it comes to most team sports – and at risk of sounding holier than thou - I’m in it for the love of the game. 

I have made an exception when it comes to athletics or Olympics. I would always get extremely emotional watching the drama of, for instance, Sally Gunnell, Chris Hoy or the Coxless Four grabbing golds. However, the incessant jingoism surrounding Team GB at London 2012 ripped a ghastly gash in my traditional pro-UK stance. I felt badly let down by the biased, almost xenophobic BBC coverage. Whenever Clare Balding or Gary Lineker gushed effusively over yet another interminable with a plucky fourth-placed Brit runner instead of showing an exciting live handball match not involving Team GB, I felt somewhat pissed off. 

I can still lose myself in the moment, screaming at the telly or those on the pitch before me with joy, fury or simply passion for the occasion. I am often that infuriating bloke who is far too vocal in expressing opinions, adding his own commentary to an event when it should be left to the experts. I don’t do it deliberately; I can’t help it!

Yet, when the race is run, final whistle blown, winning putt sunk and stumps are drawn, I am able to take a deep breath, allow my heart rate to return to normal levels and discuss what we’ve just witnessed in a more objective, measured way. Sometimes it takes longer than others, but it’s back to real life once more.

I do feel passion for sport, albeit selectively, but hopefully I can also be dispassionate, temper my emotions and place sport into context. With apologies to the late Bill Shankly, neither football nor any other pastime is more important than life or death. When England face Germany at football or Scotland at rugby, we are not reliving some ancient wartime rivalry. Nothing pleases me more than when, even in the steaming, heavy-breathing heat following a hard-fought sporting battle, I see opponents swap not only shirts but handshakes, laughs, genuinely heartfelt congratulations or commiserations. It restores my faith in humanity.

Amidst all the hype and ballyhoo, multi-million contracts and bonuses, phenomenal mental stresses and physical strains, it’s heart-warming to witness true sportsmanship. The word ‘sporting’ is often applied to, and universally understood in, situations beyond those of a sport setting. You never hear the terms ‘solicitorship’ or ‘politicianship’, do you?! And that’s why when competitors are caught cheating, whether diving to win penalties, taking performance-enhancing drugs or ball-tampering in cricket, our hackles rise and international incidents can occur. A US billionaire can boast of “grabbing pussy” and be elected president but if a cricketer uses sandpaper on a ball, he is publicly vilified and cast into the wilderness. And rightly so.

Maybe my specs are rose-tinted, my memories biased towards the positive aspects of sport as in life. That may well explain why I have never ascended the pinnacles in either. I know I was never born to be a global sporting superstar, nor even a local one. And that’s fine. I can live with it. Honest.

What follows are personal recollections and ramblings through my back catalogue of sporting endeavour and observations. Who are my heroes, the villains? What have been the greatest occasions, tournaments, the sporting moments which have illuminated my life in some dazzling spark? I often hear that top performers require extraordinary determination to succeed, and that all-important killer instinct. The latter may be a tad over-dramatic but the former is undoubtedly true, albeit allied to a special talent in their field. I have no killer instinct, just enthusiasm for most matters sporting. That’s why I’ve not called this the blog of a sports warrior; it’s the musings of a sporting pacifist. And a proud one, too.

I'll begin, appropriately in this World Cup summer, with football, a sport which has a special place in my psyche for as long as I can remember.....