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.

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.

Zummerset la-la-la!

Life as a fan of any club, in any sport, is inevitably a rollercoaster ride. Winning matches is great, and doing so in entertaining fashion is a bonus, but the old cliché of ‘It’s all about winning trophies’ is hard to avoid. And that’s where supporting Somerset has been a particularly tough test. So why couldn’t I have simply plumped for a proven champion county like Surrey, Middlesex, Lancashire or Yorkshire? The answer is, of course, because Somerset picked me.

I can’t recall exactly when and where it happened but it must have been inspired by my delightful family holiday spent in and around Minehead in the summer of '71. As it happened, that was one of Somerset’s best cricket seasons for a while but it had long been considered one of the sport’s sleepy backwaters. There were no international stars, just a few ageing ex-England players in Brian Close and Tom Cartwright plus a motley collection of journeymen and young recruits from that longstanding cricket academy in Millfield School. It was probably the random combo of attractive scenery and sympathy that brought me and SCCC together.

Somerset’s Taunton HQ must be one of the county circuit’s most recognisable grounds. Like The Oval’s gasholders, the trio of sandstone church towers provided a familiar backdrop to the arena for TV cameras set high on the River End pavilion. From the opposite side, the Quantock Hills fill the space between what is now the Sir Ian Botham Stand and the sky. Whilst living and working nearby, I attended several matches there, in addition to a few sneaky peaks through the Garner Gates in lunch breaks, but my introduction to live cricket was Somerset’s trip to Essex at Chelmsford on a cool May afternoon in 1975. It was to be a winning start thanks largely to a then little-known West Indian called IVA Richards. More of him later…..

The following season we came agonisingly close to clinching a first ever trophy. While it wasn’t the featured live game, Dad and I were following the fortunes of Somerset at Glamorgan, watching BBC2’s cricket coverage of the final round of Sunday League fixtures. We lost a thrilling encounter by just one run and the title on away games won, and this teenager was in despair. In ’78 we were again runners-up, not only in the Sunday League but also the premier knockout competition, the Gillette Cup. This has been a recurring theme for the past four decades.

Luckily, the lengthy search for silverware ended the following year. Neither Essex nor Somerset had ever won anything. Then, in one glorious season, the two clubs shared all four titles on offer. For us it was the John Player (Sunday) and Gillette Cup. Under Brian Rose’s captaincy, with Ian Botham an established international all-rounder Viv Richards’ extraordinary batting and Joel ‘Big Bird’ Garner leading the attack, Somerset’s golden era had begun.

The forty-over league proved to be our speciality and yet we could finish only second in three of the subsequent four years. It was in June 1981, following my end-of year exams at Exeter University, that I enjoyed my only live experience of watching our three legends playing together.

It was at the Bath Festival clash with neighbours Gloucestershire but, instead of the current bristling rivalry, the atmosphere was light and friendly and before the game we could stand on the outfield while the players warmed up amongst us. Standing alongside Joel Garner I could appreciate just how tall he was (barely fitting into my lens, below), and he played his part in our 20-run triumph, taking 4-21 as Gloucestershire suffered a catastrophic collapse.

That memorable summer we clinched the Benson & Hedges Cup (55 overs a side), repeated the feat in ’82 and took Kent apart in the Nat West Trophy final (successor to the Gillette Cup) in ’83. After that, it all went horribly quiet. In 1985 the county tore itself in two, not over Brexit but on the thornier issue of whether to replace Richards with the younger and frankly more conscientious Kiwi, Martyn Crowe. Somerset hadn’t experienced such division since the Monmouth Rebellion three centuries earlier, and that hadn’t ended well! Despite my hero-worship of King Viv, I actually sided with the more forward-thinking members at SCCC. Richards departed, followed by his friends Garner and Botham and suddenly captain Peter Roebuck and Vic Marks were left with some mighty boots to fill.

The victory champagne dried up. For years, we couldn’t even finish second. It wasn’t until 2001 when Jamie Cox’s side ended the barren run with success over Leicestershire in the new 50-over C&G Trophy. It has since gone down in folklore because of Leicester seamer Scott Boswell’s nightmare second over, in which he bowled eight wides. Eight!

It wasn't as if we had no decent players. Quite the reverse. Talented locals like Vic Marks, Colin Dredge, Richard Harden and Marcus Trescothick were supplemented by imports such as Andy Caddick, Mushtaq Ahmed, Steve Waugh, Graeme Smith and Jimmy Cook. The latter spent only three years at Somerset, yet racked up 28 centuries and almost 7,000 first-class runs. And still we struggled.

Then in 2007, following the arrival of Justin Langer, a new golden age beckoned. We returned to Division One, tightened up on discipline and discovered that the exciting new Twenty20 format played towards our strengths. Somerset were great to watch, competing in every competition. And yet, for some reason, the fates conspired against us. Apart from the solitary T20 success in 2005, we crumbled under the weight of destiny and expectation. Between 2009 and 2012, we were beaten finalists five times in the Blast and 40-over CB40 trophy, and runners-up twice in the Championship. Surely we would win something? No.

For years, the Taunton pitch was notoriously batting-friendly, ideal for high scores but useless for taking the twenty wickets needed to win matches. But it did make for some incredible run chases. In 2009, I was invited to join some old BBC friends to watch day one of Somerset’s home fixture against Yorkshire. Jacques Rudolph piled on the runs and the draw seemed inevitable right until the final day. As I followed proceedings online, Arul Suppiah and Peter Trego crashed centuries in the last two sessions to pull off a remarkable victory. Heartwarming stuff. After that, no chase was impossible and opposing captains would henceforth be extremely wary of offering declarations.

Marcus Trescothick’s age and fitness have restricted his appearances but he resolutely refuses to retire until the elusive Championship pennant flutters proudly above Taunton. I fear he’ll have to be batting in a wheelchair. For all the talents of the much-loved Trego, James Hildreth, Lewis Gregory, Tom Abell, Jack Leach and the Overton twins, another county always seems to do just that little bit better. In 2018 it was Surrey, while an excellent T20 season ended in the semis. 

                                  

Could 2019 see us get over the line at last? Old hands like me fear the worst but if the planets of batting and bowling align, anything’s possible. Please let it happen, even if it’s just to see the smile on Marcus Trescothick’s face.