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.

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!

World Cup memories: 1990 and 1994

Italia ’90 is widely considered to be one of the poorest World Cups, largely because of the dearth of goals. It’s true that many teams seemed happier to adopt an ultra-negative approach and ‘play for penalties’ rather than attempt to win in normal play. Sadly it’s a strategy that, despite their abysmal record in shootouts, England have also used and many teams still maintain to this day.

However, for me it was one of the more entertaining tournaments. Perhaps it was because I had an additional perspective. My job at the time was in the BBC’s Broadcasting Research department so I would analyse both official and ‘overnight’ viewing figures, pick out newsworthy stats and compile a report at the end. Like Luis Suarez, the World Cup gave me plenty to sink my teeth into and I paid particular attention to the live games shown by the Beeb, which would generate some of the highest ratings of the year. Some things don’t change.1990 was the first time I became aware of the seriously competitive nature of broadcasters with regard to their estimated audiences for sport. Don’t let anyone tell you that ratings only matter to the commercial companies; we wanted to win as much as England did.

What helped this time around was the progress to the semi-finals of England and the surprise advance of Jack Charlton’s Republic of Ireland – half of whom seemed to be English players with Irish grandmothers, or just a penchant for Guinness - to the quarters. The UEFA ban on English clubs because of incessant hooliganism had been served but the violent minority amongst England supporters was still a huge concern. Fortunately most of the headlines were made by the players on the pitch, especially when Paul Gascoigne was on the scene. And then we had the twin soundtrack of Pavarotti’s ‘Nessun Dorma’ and the unofficial anthem ‘World in Motion’ by Englandneworder, including that John Barnes rap. The feelgood factor was high.

The tournament got off to a sensational start when holders Argentina were beaten by lowly Cameroon who also had two players sent off. It’s true they couldn’t defend, and too often their tackling consisted of crude bodychecking, but their unsophisticated, devil-may-care approach was strangely endearing. So were the corner-flag dance routines of Roger Milla, the 38 year-old striker who managed to perform his hip-swivels four times during that summer. They also saw off Romania and Colombia and had been 2-1 up in their quarter-final against England before two well-taken Lineker penalties knocked them out. I felt they were extremely unfortunate to lose this rollercoaster of a match.

In their first ever World Cup, Ireland surprised everyone by making the last eight and yet, in their five matches, they scored only two goals. Having said that, Argentina reached the final and collectively managed only five (including this magical Maradona-Caniggia combo to knock out Brazil), one fewer than Toto Schillaci, who was an unexpected revelation up front for Italy. Dad and I watched Italy at their best against the Czechs in their Group B encounter, including a brilliant goal by the mercurial Roberto Baggio. “Oh, yes!” He was also one of the stars in 1994, of which more later.

Elsewhere the competition witnessed x-rated tackles and an insidious prevalence of cynical dives, with West Germany’s Jurgen Klinsmann one of the worst offenders. However, probably the most disgusting incident involved his strike partner Rudi Voller and Dutch defender Frank Rijkaard. Holland were highly fancied having won the 1988 Euros at a canter. Their world-class trio of Rijkaard, Ruud Gullit and Marc van Basten played for AC Milan, while Germany’s Andreas Brehme, Klinsmann and captain Lothar Matthaus represented city rivals Internazionale. Voller was also in Serie A with Roma. When the two countries met in Round 2, all the historic rivalries surfaced and reached an awful apex when Rijkaard spat at an angry Voller not once but twice as their altercation resulted in red cards. My diary records that ITV’s coverage of the match was, appropriately enough, followed by the hit satirical show, Spitting Image. Say no more!

The final was a miserable affair won by West Germany, the disgraceful behaviour on the pitch matched only by John Motson’s pious commentary. The 3^rd-4^th place ‘final’ between England and Italy was far more entertaining, open, fair and good-natured But for me and most Britons the highlight of the World Cup was the semi-final between the Germans and England. We had sneaked through by the odd goal here and there but suddenly there was a genuine chance of reaching a first final since ’66. Bobby Robson had moulded a very good side around the talented Gazza, Lineker, centre-back Terry Butcher, veteran ‘keeper Shilton and skipper Bryan Robson although the latter suffered his customary serious injury in the group encounter with Holland.

Frustratingly I missed the first half but was very much caught up in the tense drama of the second half, extra time and those blasted penalties. Brehme’s deflected free kick over Shilton’s head looked to have won it before the lethal Lineker equalised. After that, it was all about Gazza’s yellow card and babyish blubbing, Chris Waddle blazing over and manager Bobby Robson’s rueful smile in defeat. It had been so close.

It was also a case of ‘so far’ as indeed was the 1994 tournament. With Graham ‘Turnip’ Taylor in charge and a largely new-look side, England failed to emerge from a group including Holland and Norway, whose total dominance against us in Oslo was the decisive result. As in 1981, our boys “took one hell of a beating”.

The next World Cup was one of my least favourites. With none of the home nations competing, Ireland became honorary Brits for three heady weeks in June. It also offered up the most turgid two hours of football ever seen in a final: a nil-nil more cagey than a night at the zoo. Thus the defining image of a tournament held in the USA, a country with no idea of what football was about, was of the ponytailed one slumped in despair on the Pasadena pitch after firing his penalty miles over the bar.

That was a shame because there were more positive elements to remember. The stadia were full, the spectators enthusiastic and Mexican ‘keeper Campo’s jersey was such a kaleidoscope of colour that it hurt your eyes (“I wouldn’t wear a shirt like that”, said ex-goalie Dad, predictably).

There were also a few surprises. The USA pushed Brazil close and South Korea scored two against Germany. Ray Houghton’s speculative lob beat Italy but Ireland were as goal-shy as they had been in Italy. It was fun watching highlights of Russia’s demolition of Cameroon; Oleg Salenko scored a World Cup record five goals!

I didn’t see many live matches; Rotaract and the small matter of moving house frequently intervened. However, I was able to catch a few gems. I was ecstatic when Stoichkov and Letchkov helped Bulgaria beat the Germans in the quarter-finals but the most thrilling attacking encounter was the second round clash between Argentina and Romania, for whom Hagi and Dumitrescu were outstanding. A drug-fuelled Maradona had already been sent home in disgrace so it was left to Brazil’s twin strike-force of Romario and Bebeto to bring some Latino flair to the closing stages. Roll on, France 98….