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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…