My last memories of my granddad are from the 1985 Ashes. The cricket itself is vague. Instead I remember the breeze from the French windows of his old people’s flat which cooled us on those hot summer afternoons, Jim Laker’s dry-as-a-parched-lawn commentary and playing a forward defensive with a cricket-bat-shaped door-stop as granddad bowled medium pace with a ping pong ball.
After he died my grandma decided to fly down under to visit the Australian grandchildren she had never met. Her trip coincided with the 1986/7 Ashes and a season of cricket that changed the focus of my sporting life forever.
It was an amazing winter, inspired by England’s brilliance (and Australia’s ineptitude). In the school playground cricket replaced football. We used Proctor’s briefcase as a bat until I upgraded to a short plank of wood. Later Taras had the bright idea of using a small bat. We raced to the wicket, pretending to be Gladstone Small (hunched shoulders), Graham Dilley (long delivery stride) or Philip DeFreitas (head tilted, as if running into a force ten gale blowing from the direction of third man).
The tennis balls we used began to matter. My friend Joe Powell had a bald one with astonishing bounce that was never bettered. We were also ahead of the reverse swing curve, breaking all sort of ball-tampering rules by scraping the ball down the brickwork outside Sister Mary‘s Home Economics classroom.
It was the winter I discovered the thrill of listening to Test Match Special through the night, the winter I started taking my small radio into school. I’d catch up on the day-night commentaries between (and in) lessons, in line and at playtime. Teachers who liked cricket would make excuses to raise an eyebrow in my direction and I’d let them know the latest score. Years later I bumped into a girl from school in a pub. She asked me where my radio was. That’s how attached we were. (Me and the radio; not me and the girl.)
I also felt guilty because dad told me that my granddad hadn’t liked pyjama cricket and he especially hadn’t liked a bad man called Kerry Packer who I hadn’t heard of, but who was apparently responsible. I was less guilty when I pretended to be sick so I could stay at home and watch the Benson & Hedges World Series.
The following May dad bought tickets for us to see England play Pakistan in the Texaco Trophy at Edgbaston. It would be my first game of live cricket, the series was tied one each, this was the decider …
Greg Thomas opened the bowling. “Never heard of him,” said the man next to me, reading his name in the programme. “He’s Welsh,” I whispered before I could stop myself. “He’ll be no good then,” said the man. Three balls later Thomas had Pakistan 0 for 2. As we jumped to our feet to celebrate the second wicket my dad said, “I hope they get some runs or it might be a short day.” They did. Ramiz Raja, Javed Miandad and Salim Malik crafted two partnerships that hauled Pakistan to the respectability of 168-3 from 45 overs (run rates in 1987 were a different country, they did things differently there).
Suddenly it all went berserk. As I was tucking into a slightly sweaty cheese sandwich they lost six wickets for 10 runs. “Be good if they could manage 200 and make a match of it,” I heard my dad say to the elderly Pakistani man he was becoming friends with.
In between the innings (a short break because in those days lunch and tea still interrupted the flow of the day) we made a second circuit of the ground. The Eric Hollies Stand was now a throbbing den. England fans snarled at the Pakistanis, the Pakistanis responded with wild-eyed jibes. It was like walking between vicious dogs and alley cats. The air was thick with the smell of Banks beer. I didn’t know if I was scared or excited. I stuck close to my dad in the crush as we returned to our seats.
England lost regular wickets and batted like it was a test match. Allan Lamb had famously smashed 18 off five balls to win a match in the winter, now he took 48 balls to make 14. My dad and his new friend chatted about the cricket, but they talked more about the Eric Hollies Stand, which was becoming dangerous. I had my dad’s binoculars and was spending more time watching the fighting than Jack Richards’ inability to hit it off the square.
England needed 47 from 40 balls, with just two wickets in hand, when Philip DeFreitas joined Neil Foster at the crease. People started to make their way to the exits. It was getting dark and cold. I was holding, and reluctantly drinking, tea from my Superman flask. It tasted slightly, and unpleasantly, of hot orange squash (I’d only tried it once, a mistake the flask never recovered from).
“DeFreitas can do it,” said my dad, knowing he was one of my favourite players. I smiled and watched Imran sprint to the wicket. A whirl of arms from Imran, a swing of the bat from DeFreitas, a big roar and then I realised that the ball was flying in our direction. It sailed into the seats to the left of us, destroying a plastic glass of beer on landing. We all stood to cheer the runs and the accident. DeFreitas added another four boundaries, had scored 33 from 22 deliveries, and England were on the brink of victory when the game had its final twist: Imran bowled him.
As DeFreitas departed Greg Thomas ambled to the wicket with a wide grin on his face. “He’s smiling dad!” I gasped. “It’s nerves,” said dad.
Five chaotic, nerve-shredding minutes later Wasim Akram stood at the end of his run. Collected himself. Dipped his princely head. Sprinted in with short steps. Contorted his body. Unleashed the ball with a mesmeric twirl of the left arm. Foster poked at the ball. The slips jumped. A millisecond pause. Then a wall of noise and everyone jumped to their feet. Foster and Thomas were racing for the pavilion, arms raised. The Pakistanis followed less enthusiastically. The crowd spilled on to the field and hurtled towards the players. The groundsmen ran to protect the square. “What happened dad?!” “I don’t know.” “He edged it,” said the Pakistani man, “He edged it through the slips. England win!” He patted me on the back with a big smile.
Then he and dad shook hands, tut-tutted about the fighting and said goodbye. We clambered over the advertising hoardings and joined the crowd in front of the pavilion. I couldn’t believe I was actually standing on the ground. Or that I was clapping Philip DeFreitas who was waving his Man of the Match award at us. Mike Gatting lifted the Texaco Trophy and English cricket was cock-a-hoop.
I had fallen in love with cricket but this was also close to the end of innocence. A few weeks later Gatting was caught having it off with a waitress, England immediately started losing again and it was nearly 20 years before we regained the Ashes.
Matt Cooper
Follow @MattCooperGolf
Memory added on March 28, 2014
4 Comments
Brilliant memories...
– Fred Boycott, March 28 2014 at 19:43
Summer holidays filled with cricket in the driveway using tennis balls. Six & out if it went into a neighbours garden. Replaying epic test matches as Lillee & Thompson. Every catch taken like Derek Randall Brought back some great memories, thanks Matt
– Tony, March 28 2014 at 19:58
Love the pretending to be bowlers memory. Personal favourites were Malcolm Marshall and Merv Hughes. I bowled well as Marshall, but terrible as Merv, haha
– Simon, March 29 2014 at 11:15
Bob Willis. Everyone did Bob Willis. Even Graham Gooch.
– Martin, March 29 2014 at 13:56
