Mark Baldwin: My favourite cricketer, Graham Burgess

This is more than an appreciation of one of the unsung heroes – perhaps the most unsung hero – of Somerset’s romantic struggle towards cricket glory in the late 1970s; it is, too, a personal thank you note that could only be written now, not just four decades on from Graham Burgess’s retirement as a player but, of course, four decades down the road of my own life.

To have been able to spend the last forty years working as a sports journalist, in large part in cricket, has been a privilege and – hopefully – it is not over yet. Whatever the future, however, my gratitude for a career as a sportswriter in local, regional and national newspapers is immense and heartfelt. Indeed, being paid to report not just on the county game but Test series aplenty, let alone serving the media profession for five years as chairman of the Cricket Writers’ Club until last April, would have been quite beyond the imagination of the south Bristol boy enthralled in the late 1960s and early 1970s by the emergence of Somerset as a cricketing force. Quite simply, though, following that story fired my interest in cricket and the power of sport. It also led directly to a desire to work as a journalist.

Burgess was one of those who, collectively, transformed perennial also-rans into serious trophy contenders, and other early heroes who cemented my allegiance to Somerset included Fred Rumsey, Bill Alley, Roy Virgin and Mervyn Kitchen. Moreover, Greg Chappell’s two years as overseas player, in 1968 and 1969, gave its own impetus to a club not known for its superstar connections; Chappell, though still young and yet to play for Australia, was clearly destined for greater things. But then, wondrously, came the true alchemy.

Brian Close and Tom Cartwright, with help from Jim Parks, brought international experience, a harder edge and a belief that winning trophies was something Somerset could also do. And as the by now teenage boy watched on, captivated by the almost simultaneous, exhilarating arrivals of Viv Richards, Ian Botham, Brian Rose, Vic Marks, Peter Roebuck and Phil Slocombe – with Peter Denning, Derek Taylor and Hallam Moseley by the early 70s already recently-capped players – it was the influence of Close and Cartwright that provided exactly the right mixture of toughness and technical expertise to turn a surge of youthful talent into gold.

And Graham Burgess? Well, the man they called ‘Budgie’ was the constant link – and also my link, as I can now properly appreciate with the benefit of hindsight – to this genuine cricketing miracle, all being played out in front of my formative years.

Burgess was there when I first became hooked, and he was always there as Somerset built and built, under Close and then under Rose. He was part of the slow but steady rise, and the agonizing near-misses, starting with the 1967 Gillette Cup final defeat to Kent that my eight-year-old self felt so keenly – though those around me said it was just good that Somerset had actually done so well to reach Lord’s. From that cup final team of ’67, indeed, it was only Burgess, last out for 27 in a 32-run loss, and Kitchen who went on to play under both Close and Rose.

More raw still is the memory of witnessing, this time as a spectator, the even greater agonies of 1976, when Burgess’s defiant 48 not out took Close’s team to the brink of John Player League success in a dramatic finale on the competition’s last Sunday. Needing three from the final ball of the match, against Glamorgan at Cardiff, Burgess swung hard into the deep but Colin Dredge was run out trying for a third run that would have tied the match and clinched Somerset’s first title. The one-run defeat was hard to accept, yet even that setback paled alongside 1978, when chances to win the Gillette Cup and Sunday League on the same weekend ended in two such bitter defeats that Richards smashed up his favourite bat in raging, tearful frustration in Taunton’s dressing room.

Yet Burgess was still there, the sole link between 1967 and 1979, when on the weekend of September 8 and 9 the following year, at Lord’s and Trent Bridge, Somerset’s century-long wait for honours finally ended and the miracle was complete. After helping to lift the Gillette Cup and John Player League trophies on successive days, in front of a joyous ‘cider army’, Burgess retired from full-time county cricket, saying: “I leave behind many great friends and treasured memories, not least when, at last, Somerset became winners. No longer will critics write Somerset down as underdogs.”

Burgess, an archetypal county all-rounder usually described throughout his career as burly, bowled accurate medium pace off a rumbling approach to the crease, with regular and controlled swing, while also being a middle-order biffer often underrated for his ability with the bat. His many endearing ‘everyman’ qualities, to supporters of Somerset, included an uncomplicatedly rustic approach to any challenge, a reassuring solidity of character as well as build, and a happy knack of often being the right man for a crisis.

One such moment was on June 6, 1971, when Somerset hosted rivals Gloucestershire in the first of what in the ‘70s became a total of eight John Player Sunday League matches played at the Imperial Ground in Brislington. This was in a part of south Bristol – south of the River Avon, more pertinently, in both geographical and tribal parlance – that was almost as fiercely partisan when it came to Somerset against Gloucestershire as it was when the footballing red shirts of City took on the hated blue of Rovers at Ashton Gate a few miles to the west.

And, from the many hundreds of cricket matches I have now watched across the world, as man and boy, journalist and young supporter, it is this rather obscure contest that has stayed in my mind even as others of far more recent vintage have faded from memory. Is it because it was the first time I had seen Somerset play at a ground so close to my home? Perhaps too it was because, aged 12, I was old enough for my sporting loyalties by then to be deep-rooted, yet young enough still to be touched by the tingling excitement of seeing sporting heroes in the flesh.

What I do know is that I can still recall the thrill and tension of Somerset’s two-wicket victory, completed from the first ball of the final over when for so long that afternoon a win had seemed improbable. On a sluggish, seaming surface (Somerset’s Australian leg spinner Kerry O’Keeffe was never called upon to bowl) a Gloucestershire total of 166 for nine looked comfortably enough when Burgess walked in at 49 for four – a spluttering reply soon to become 54 for five.

Burgess finished on 66 not out that day, and by beefily dominating successive partnerships with Cartwright, Taylor and O’Keeffe he edged Somerset ever-closer to their target. O’Keeffe was run out with seven runs still required, but Burgess was not to be denied. And that, I am sure, is why that day almost fifty years ago still strikes such a chord with me; ‘Budgie’ is the homegrown cricketer from that era, from a lengthy and celebrated list, who best symbolized Somerset’s journey of transformation. More than anyone, in a team mixing superstars with local heroes, he proved that anything is possible.

Glastonbury-born, Burgess was as much an obvious son of Somerset soil as ‘Dasher’ Denning or ‘Herbie’ Dredge, but he alone spanned those years that swept the county from also-rans to champions. Burgess played his first senior Somerset match in July 1966, the month which ended with England winning football’s World Cup, and at 36 was still a good enough player in 1979 to score a vital 50 not out in the Gillette Cup quarter-final win against Kent and take three for 25 from his 12 overs in semi-final victory against Middlesex.

After his playing retirement, Burgess became cricket professional at Monmouth School for a time before qualifying as an umpire and standing in more than 500 county matches between 1990 and 2008. Yet, oddly, having watched him play so many times and subsequently covered as a cricket writer dozens of games in which he officiated, I have never met or spoken with him. Here, then, is my chance to say thanks, Budgie, for all you did for Somerset, and for me.

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