David Gower (Text Only)

It was round about half past four when one of the officials, Mervyn Kitchen, popped his head around the tent flap, and I confidently expected him to deliver a message like: ‘Don’t bother turning up tomorrow either.’ However, what he actually said was: ‘We think we can start a ten-over slog at ten past five, at which point I said: ‘Nice one, Merv. What are you having?’ His reply was: ‘Captain, I’m afraid we’re serious,’ at which point I spilled most of the contents of my glass and led a concerted weave from tent to pavilion. David Graveney, canny captain that he is, and armed with a certain local knowledge, had remained reasonably sober, but the captain of Leicestershire – and most of his troops – were in no condition to make contact with a medicine ball. I attempted a knock-up on the outfield without much success, declared myself unfit to toss, or in any event to be able to recognize a head from a tail, and entrusted the operation to Nigel Briers. We decided to bat first, largely on the grounds that nine of us at least could get down to some serious coffee drinking, but we were forced to make a late team change when Ian Butcher popped his head around the home dressing room door. His timing was bad, in that Paul Romaines had been busy practising his golf swing with a three-pound cricket bat and Ian’s nose had taken the full brunt. Paul, whose exertions and embarrassment had sent the Pimms rushing to his head, also retired from the contest.

I went in No 4, gave Graveney the charge first ball, and although I never saw it I somehow hit it over long on. I then played several air shots, before deciding to unveil the reverse sweep, and actually made contact with one of them. By some miracle we managed to get 70 or 80, which turned out to be ample. They were something like 20 for no wicket after 6 overs, and every time one of their openers took a swish, a large divot flew out of the ground. It was slightly ironic, I thought, when I brought Gordon Parsons on to bowl – one of the few who had not touched a drop – because his first ball ended up on top of the press tent. I would like to think that our successful defence owed something to my inspirational leadership, but in point of fact they only got as many as they did because I kept diving the wrong way at cover. Mind you, Bill Athey picked up the fielding award for circling underneath an interminable skier to eventually hear it plop to earth about ten yards away. Anyway we won, and in honour of our triumph, I duly led the troops straight back into the tent. There were many questions asked in the Gloucestershire committee room, but the near-total absence of spectators, and the generosity of the press in putting it down as on off-day all round, somehow allowed both sides to get away with it.

There was another, less shameful, incident involving a tent at Grace Road. The visitors were Essex, whose ground at Chelmsford is festooned with hospitality boxes. Their end-of-day drink when they came to Leicester consisted of one crate of bottled lager (warm) bunged underneath the dressing room table. They once protested by taking all the tops off and leaving them there, and on one occasion John Lever had wound me up so much about the lack of conviviality at close of play that I rummaged around in the attic for a miniature one-man tent that I used to play with as a child. I erected it just over the boundary rope at fine leg in a pathetic attempt to imitate the throng of sponsors’ tents Essex would have expected to find at home, took half a dozen bottles of the aforementioned lager down into the tent, and at the end of the day we had a fairly silly ten-minute party in this particular sponsor’s tent.

I suppose it all added to the general image, although ‘laid back’ was largely an invention of the press. The words press and invention have not been entirely separable throughout much of my career, even though I have had some highly complimentary things said about me as well, and the TCCB’s concern about the altered concept of modern cricket reporting led them to appoint a media relations manager in 1988. They were also considering at one stage organizing some sort of press awareness course for England players – pitfalls for the unwary, so to speak. In point of fact, there are also pitfalls for the wary these days. Your first exposure to the press is normally a pleasant one, in which the callow youth picks up his weekly copy of the Loughborough Echo and finds his score faithfully reported somewhere near the back page. As time goes on you save the clippings: as time goes further on, you screw them up and hurl them towards the wastepaper basket. When I first started playing, the dunce’s cap superimposed on a player’s head – so beloved of the tabloids when we were getting hammered by Australia in 1989 – was not even an idea. I can recall in my early England days being asked to pose topless and sit on top of a circus horse, although I can’t imagine Hobbs or Hammond ever having accepted this sort of request.

I have tried not to get too carried away by some of the things that have been written about me, or indeed too upset, but there are times when you just cannot believe what a complete stranger has just written about you. One of my regular tormentors has been a reporter for The Sun, who has poured out some amazing vitriol about me. We sat in the same press box in Jamaica when I was hired by The Times for the 1989-90 West Indies tour, and I thought about introducing myself, but really could not think of what to say to the guy. In most respects, though, it hurts more if you are lambasted by comments in the ‘serious’ papers, such as when I was advised after the first Test against Australia at Headingley in 1989 to book in for a lobotomy at the same time as my shoulder operation. I shan’t mention his name, but suffice to say that, in terms of this book, he is a ghost writer of his former self.

Pure human instinct dictates that if you are criticized by the media, you don’t really like it. Cricketers do not care much for criticism from former players, and players are incredibly defensive nowadays. Most of the bad language in a Test match dressing room comes from players reading the morning papers, or listening to some former player giving you stick on TV. Having said that, I still believe that players and the press have to work together, and for my own part, I would like to maintain my own interest in the game through the pen or the microphone. Reading rubbish about yourself in a newspaper is not the most difficult part for a player, unpleasant though it might be; it is the thought that someone might pick it up and believe it. Interpretation is another problem, in that you can sometimes say something perfectly innocuous and see it blown up, taken out of context, or both. If you go through a press conference with an unsmiling face you run the risk of being called angry, and if you crack the odd joke you become flippant. Sometimes you can see the question that comes attached to a limpet mine, and sometimes you can’t, but you certainly have to be on your toes.

There are other times when you find yourself abroad, and being ripped to shreds by people who have not even left the country. It happened on the 1985-86 tour to the West Indies, where there were also many unfamiliar reporters – tennis correspondents, you name it – specifically sent to dredge up the dirt, that it was a sheer relief to talk to a cricket reporter. I remember seeing a copy of the Daily Mirror in Barbados that devoted an entire centre spread to rip into our off-the-field activities, including one piece from a woman fashion correspondent who was there on holiday and had spotted someone daring to have a bottle of wine with his evening meal. None of them had a clue about cricket, and even the bloke who covered the tour for the Mirror was a stand-in seconded from some other sport. Years ago, a cricketer’s private life used to be respected by newspapers, but that ethos has long since passed away.

With regard to the genuine cricket press, England players these days regard it almost as an obligation to fume and rant, but it frequently becomes counterproductive. It is too easy to moan about what is being said or written. In some ways it is cathartic – it allows you to let off steam – but it is not necessarily useful in terms of producing the right mood and spirit that you need to play the game. If you can talk yourself into ignoring the media most of the time, take the view that they are getting on with their job and we are getting on with ours, then that is the ideal approach. We have to coexist, however uneasily. It is very hard at times, but each time a player gets involved, he is wasting his energy on a conflict that is always fruitless.

Although there have been one or two disasters along the way, and my Test career ended in a way that left a slightly sour taste in the mouth, it is nice to be able to reflect that the good times far outweighed the bad. I cannot, in all honesty, claim a memory of elephantine proportions, but certain moments stay with you quite vividly. My first Test century against New Zealand at the Oval in 1978, my first century overseas against Australia at Perth later that year, my double century against India, and involvement – either as captain or player – in a good many Test series triumphs.

I had the experience of playing with or against any number of famous players, and if I had a mentor in the professional game, it would have to be Ray Illingworth. As someone who had done little more than give it a swish at King’s School, Canterbury, it was a good education to learn the serious aspect of the game from a man with one of the harder noses in professional cricket. There was a good atmosphere at Grace Road under lily’s captaincy, and it was also a benefit for me to launch my career in one of the better county sides around at that time. He had his foibles, and the amount of mickey-taking he took from the other players without it in any way undermining his authority reflected a happy dressing room. In some ways, the club never recovered from his return to Yorkshire in 1978, and the way things turned out, I wonder whether Illy regretted leaving. However, he was never one for power sharing, and as Mike Turner was very much in charge at Grace Road, the chance to become player-manager at Yorkshire rather than remain answerable to Mike at Leicester was the more attractive option.

It’s ironic to think back now that Mike actually gave me £5 a week more than I was asking for when I signed my first contract in 1975, because in all my time at Leicester, the prime topic of conversation was how little we were paid in contrast to other counties. Mike, who more or less ran the club, was impossible to crack on wages – on almost anything come to that – and he was the sort of man who commanded either love or hate in his business dealings. He was known as the Ayatollah, because he had to have a finger in every pie that came out of the oven at Grace Road. Whether it was picking the side, or some piffling request from a gateman, Mike had a say in it, and he took such a work load on himself that he only really slowed down (and then only minimally) when he had a heart attack. As an administrator he was second to none, knew his cricket, and as far as I was concerned he was very supportive. If you were on the wrong side of Mike he was a hard opponent, but if you were on the right side he was a good friend and ally. Much of the good work he did for the players, myself included, was done quietly behind the scenes and with no great drama.

The player I was closest to at Leicester, both in cricketing outlook and as a kindred spirit, was Brian Davison. Davo was a larger than life character, and no-one could possibly have guessed from his early wild man days at Grace Road that he would end up as a member of parliament in Hobart, Tasmania, which is where he and his family emigrated after a long career at Leicestershire. I assume his canvassing methods are slightly different to those he employed in the Rhodesian army, when the members of the opposition were dangled from helicopters to help them in conversation. He was a destroyer of a cricket ball, and a phenomenally strong man – nor would you aim to get on the wrong side of him. When his nostrils flared, it was time to make yourself scarce. He liked a drink, smoked like a chimney, but there was a highly cultured side to him as well, and he became, among other things, quite an expert in antiques. He was appointed captain of the club in 1980, a short engagement that ended with too many adverse umpires’ reports, but I loved batting with him for the confidence he exuded at the crease. I loved driving with him rather less, as he tended to solve traffic problems with 90 m.p.h. excursions on the wrong side of the road. On his day, he would murder any bowler, and although he now lives in Tasmania, we still keep in touch.

I also learned a lot from Roger Tolchard, not least in refusing to play him at golf for money. His will to win at everything manifested itself in a self-appointed handicap of about 18 when he was closer to scratch. Tolly, who was my landlord in those early days at Leicester, was a fabulous one-day batsman, who was perhaps never quite the same player after having his cheekbone caved at Newcastle on the 1978-79 tour to Australia. He was not the most popular player on the circuit, as he consistently got up people’s noses, and as a teetotaller never gave himself the chance to undo the damage in the bar afterwards. However, he was a marvellous influence in our own dressing room, and was always at you about your cricket. I took over from him as captain in 1983 when the club fired him, a decision that he certainly did not expect at the time, and which closed the door on his career with an emphatic thud.

My closest mate in the England team has been Allan Lamb who made his debut about four years after mine. He is the only man I know who has been collared by a policeman on the beat for using a mobile hand-held telephone: he was in a traffic jam on the King’s Road in London and doing about 1 m.p.h. Lamby is a remarkably straight-up-and-down guy, with as large a capacity for having a good time as anyone I’ve met, is an extraordinary good host – dangerously so – and has this huge energy and vitality that rubs off on any dressing room he is in. He has, down the years, been the wheeler-dealer of the England team, having as good an eye for business as he has for a cricket ball. On his day, he is as ruthless a destroyer of good bowling as anyone. Like most South Africans he is fond of the outdoors, and has now become something of the English country squire, always out hunting, fishing and shooting, and it was Lamby who was with me when I first went down the Cresta Run, another little part-time diversion that we will come back to later.

Lamby and Ian Botham are similar characters in many respects, and there is a common denominator in my relationship with them in that I can’t keep up with either after dark. He has never shirked a challenge, and the fact that this applies off the field as well as on it has dropped him into the fertilizer once or twice. ‘Both’ is quite a vulnerable character, who tends to overreact if people set out to rub him up the wrong way in a bar, as many have, but he can also be as good as gold. He’s much brighter than people give him credit for, and because he has done so many things, there is a lot of depth to him. Again, contrary to public opinion, he does not down the nearest bottle of Beaujolais nouveau in one gulp (although I dare say he could) but is actually quite a discerning wine buff. He’s exceptionally loyal to his friends, and can be equally hard on people he has no time for. It is perfectly possible, also, for people to change categories with him, and one example was Leicestershire’s Les Taylor. Botham had no time for him at all until the 1985-86 West Indies tour, but when he found out what a character Les was, they became bosom buddies. It was said that I had problems captaining him, but rarely ever did, and I always enjoyed playing with him.

I enjoyed playing with Graham Gooch until that last tour to Australia in 1990-91, but we have been good mates down the years, and I have nothing but admiration for what he has achieved for himself. He is, as most people are aware, an intensely private man, extremely shy with people he doesn’t know, and has become more and more dedicated over the years. He was a good bit wilder in his younger days, which might surprise some people, but as time has gone on he has become immersed in the game, and in making money out of it. He is still a social animal, with a dry sense of humour, but can be horribly intransigent at times. He always resented the punishment that was dished out to him for going to South Africa in 1981, and it is either an irony or a triumph for his character, depending on your point of view, that a cricketer who was banned for three years by his country has now become a national figurehead. Whether, when we drifted apart in Australia, he thought I had become a subversive influence I don’t know, but it cooled our relationship and this has left me a little sad.

Whenever I have come in for criticism during my career, I have invariably been compared, unfavourably, with Geoff Boycott. Why could I not have been as single minded as he was? The answer is I don’t really know, but as I said before, I might possibly have entertained a few more people than he did. He always liked being the centre of attention (when he’s on TV he always speaks louder than anyone else) and would like to be loved more than perhaps he is. He has always been an enigma. He can be very rational, he has an immense knowledge of the game, he’s a very fine analyst of techniques and of situations within a game, and he is, potentially, one of the world’s great commentators. He certainly has the knowledge and understanding, but unfortunately you have to temper that with a very one-eyed view of the rest of the world, which largely centres around himself. I’ve never managed to finish one of his books (although in fairness this applies to most books I pick up) but the gist always seems to be: ‘I’d have done this, I’d have done that,’ and all the rest of it. Everything is based on G. Boycott. There are the archetypal Boycott stories, such as the time he reckoned he had cracked John Gleeson’s googly but refused to tell anyone else in the dressing room how he had done it.

The only time I ever heard him admit to feeling vulnerable was in India, at a cocktail party in the grounds of the Maharajah of Baroda’s palace, when he sought me out for a heart-to-heart and said that he didn’t think people understood him properly. Well, following a conversation in his hotel room during a previous trip to India, I certainly knew someone who did not understand him. Me. We had arrived in Bombay for the Jubilee Test after the 1979-80 tour of Australia, a match I remember for three distinct reasons. Firstly, Both did his ‘Wilson of the Wizard’ bit and more or less won the game single-handed, then there were two strange incidents on the field. John Lever turned a ball off his legs for two, dislodging a bail as he did so. When he got back to the striker’s end he realized that no-one had noticed, surreptitiously put the bail back on, and got away with it. The other, even odder event, concerned Boycs, who had got a thin tickle down the legside to the wicketkeeper and was given out. However, at no stage did he look up at the umpire, and simply carried on marking out his guard and doing a spot of gardening. Eventually, the umpire put his finger down, the Indians appealed again and this time Boycs was given not out. It was extraordinary. I did not get any runs in that game, and had also had a poor tour to Australia. (I did get 98 not out in Sydney, having enjoyed a lot of luck in getting to 40, then ran out of partners when Willis lost his wicket. It was a barren period for me.) During the Bombay Test, I had some autograph sheets that needed signing, and I popped in to Boycs’ room at the hotel to get a few signatures. He looked up at me and said: ‘I can tell thee what tha doing wrong, tha knows.’ Pause. ‘But I’m not going to.’ I thought to myself: ‘Thanks very much’ and walked out.

On the tour of India in 1981-82 Boycott had the world record for Test runs in his sights, and he passed it with a century at Delhi. Our next game was in Calcutta, and although he got a couple of rough decisions, it was as if the whole mental effort of getting past the target had drained him of motivation. After the second dismissal he went straight to bed, stayed in his room through the rest day and reports came back through his lady friend that he was very ill. The doctors were called in, and we didn’t see him again until round about lunchtime on the final day. With the game heading for a draw, we were still in the field, and as we went out again after lunch, Boycs turned to the boys left in the dressing room and said: ‘Anyone fancy a game of golf? I need some fresh air.’ It was widely believed that if he really required fresh air (always assuming you can find any in Calcutta) then perhaps he should have been inhaling it out on the field. Anyway, he took himself off to the Tollygunge Club for nine holes, and the overwhelming feeling that Boycs’ personal ambitions were coming a long way before the team’s general well-being, and the suspicion that his continued presence would be divisive on a tour already proving difficult in terms of morale, earned him an early ticket home. He left us a farewell note, pinned with a corkscrew to the side of a very pleasant redwood cabinet in the team room of the Oberoi Grand Hotel. Some of his unscheduled time off, of course, was spent organizing the Breweries tour to South Africa.

He’s certainly different. He takes his ginseng tea with him everywhere, and he even had it written into his contract with Sky TV in England that he had to have a ‘proper’ cup or mug – no plastic. There are times when you can get on with him, and he has a lot to offer – although he got up Lamby’s nose during coaching before the last tour to the West Indies when he did everything except sing My Way to us. Technically and mentally he was a very strong player, although his first philosophy was always not to get out. We dropped him from the one-day side in Australia once, and when we brought him back he suddenly discovered a few shots. He had a lot of guts, and the number of runs he scored points to him being a more than useful player.

Boycs always made me concentrate harder when I was batting with him, although this was largely to avoid getting run out. He did me once in Jamaica, and during a Test at Edgbaston I erred on the side of safety when he glided one down behind square, declining his call for a single. Not long after, he returned the compliment after I’d knocked one into a space, and at the end of the over he said: ‘If you’re not going to run mine, I’m not going to run yours.’ He has the ability to be extremely charming, and an equal ability to be a complete sod. He has said many times that a combination of my ability and his brain would make quite a player, and I would admit that had I had more of his application and dedication to the game I might have scored a lot more Test runs than he did. I might not, however, have had quite so many chums.

I would count Mike Gatting among them, and we go back a long way. I have always admired his fighting qualities, and I thought it was typical of him to have scored so many runs in the summer of 1991 when he came back from South Africa. People who thought he would not have sufficient motivation without the incentive of a Test place, did not know the man. He murders bad bowling, and his eyes come out like organ stops when a spinner comes on. His eating habits are legendary, and the biggest shock I had all last summer was reading a report of a Middlesex game in the morning paper in which the captains, Gatt being one, had agreed to waive the tea interval. He has acquired a little dangerous knowledge about wine and crosswords, and although he invariably finishes the Daily Telegraph puzzle, he is not averse to putting a word in that fits the space rather than the clue. I like Gatt, although we are not that similar, and we don’t often seek out each other’s company after hours. I have never spoken to him on the subject, but it is rumoured that Micky Stewart told Gatt that he was about to be reappointed England captain ahead of me in 1989 when Ossie Wheatley applied his veto. What with getting sacked in 1988, his mother-in-law dying soon after, getting fined by the TCCB for an unauthorized chapter on the Shakoor Rana business in his book, and then getting knocked back by Wheatley, it was perhaps not surprising that he took the South Africans’ money later that summer.