Hampshire's captain calls time

On Hampshire second XI and Malcolm Marshall
They [...] are led, from the sidelines I add lest you think the little master is still sprinting in, by my favourite cricketer, the incomparable Malcolm Marshall. They are lucky to have him for his enthusiasm and his wit. He is lucky to have them for their ambition and their dreams.

On Barry Richards and Viv Richards
That afternoon he [Barry Richards] batted in the nets again to prove he was free from injury and on a wet pitch turned his bat sideways on and played the Hampshire second string from the middle of his edge without a false stroke. By virtue of his sublime mixtures of technique and timing, power and grace, the South African Richards was unarguably the greatest batsman I saw and I worshipped him.

It was, however, his namesake, the master blaster Vivian Richards, who played the most remarkable county innings that I saw when Hampshire set Glamorgan a hefty last-day target. Viv just blocked for hours, uninterested we thought in the spoils. He conned us, of course, and as we relaxed our grip flogged us to all parts. He got it down to 14 needed from the mighty Marshall`s final over, he was 170 not out. We spread to allow him the single, for No 10 was a minnow, but he drilled the first ball through extra cover with such frightening force that Robin Smith, craftily positioned on the boundary, did not twitch a muscle; he hooked the second ball out of Southampton and thumped the third past midwicket with absolute, near vengeful, disdain before removing his gloves, shaking a hand or two and swaggering back to the dressing room for a cold can with his Welsh mates. Awesome.

Hutton, Bradman, Warne and Botham
Sir Leonard Hutton sat with us once, in the spring of `86, on the hard lockers that hide rotting but favourite gear and Gordon Greenidge asked this colossus of English cricket how he thought he would have coped, when playing at his best, with the fourpronged West Indian attack which had decimated Gower`s England in the Caribbean just months before. There was the familiar long pause as us mortals, captivated by the legend on our patch, waited wide-eyed. Eventually Sir Leonard lent forward to Greenidge and in that delicious stage whisper of his said: "Not... I suspect... very well."

Oh to have met such men. Last winter in Australia I sat with Sir Donald Bradman as he chatted with a mind as fresh as daffodils. The winter before in Cornwall I had sat with Bob Wyatt, deep in his nineties but still lucid as a boy, as Mollie his divine lady made tea and presented chocolate cake. He spoke of Bradman as if the drama, bodyline and the rest, was yesterday. Then he rushed to his desk saying he had kept all his letters from the Don and out, glory be, they poured, airmail after airmail, treasure upon treasure.

"Dear Bob...this Warne`s a good one y` know. Grimmett had more flight, O`Reilly more pace and more bounce but spin, this boy spins it plenty...I reckon I haven`t seen better...by the way Denis [Compton] came over for my 85th birthday recently...nice boy Denis, nice bat too."

How sharp of Bradman to have recognised Shane Warne as the infectious maverick who would ignite the game in Australia in the way that Ian Botham managed to do in England throughout his glorious decade from `77 to `87 when he won cricket matches with his personality. And then some. Botham is not everyone`s cup of tea, such an inflexible fellow, but if you know him you know a generous friend with an eye for fun and a heart of gold.

On Brearley, Reeve, Gooch and Atherton
I thought Brearley would be the finest captain of my time. Indeed, he might have been for the way in which he won battles by preying on conscience and concentration with the accuracy of the psychologist he became. Brearley had humour, too, which was a relief and which unlocked his aura. When Jeff Thomson, the fastest bowler that I faced, tore down the hill at Basingstoke and felled me you know where, I lay puce and purple, yelling through the torture, tears welling. They came with water to sympathise, the captain of Middlesex came with satire to comment: "It`s perfectly apparent that your mother was an actress."

But of all the captains it is Dermot Reeve, another who is not everone`s cuppa, who has most enthralled me. My admiration for Warwickshire`s cricket, their marvellous uncomplicated method of making something of themselves and their willingness to go where they have not been before make them irresistible in the chart of achievers.

And last of leaders, of Gooch and of Atherton, the most resilient men I have known, the most important cricketers of their time [from an English perspective, presumably]. Theirs has been the hardest task, to invigorate a team that is broken, to stand alone at the summit and be colunted, to be eyed with suspicion and still be all things to all men.

And they have performed so unshakably, Gooch like a colt and Atherton like an old stager. Gooch was flawed of course, got the Gower thing about face, could not appreciate that the blond boy was beloved by a nation who thought him irreplaceable in their heart. Yet Gooch dominated Test matches with the same stubborness and, equally admirably, has played each day for Essex as if it was his last.

Atherton has yet to come to terms with such utter devotion - probably never will for his graduate mind embraces alternatives - but his leadership of England grows by the hour and his tenacity is the motivation behind a fresh unit of English cricketers who would follow him through brick walls and handfuls of dust alike.

On the modern game
It is an intense game now which flirts with dishonesty but it will not do to blame the Australians for hard-nosed attitudes since all of us, cricketers from London to Lahore, have made the bed on which we must lie. It does not help either to bang on about our [English] game recovering its zest and quality by mirroring the cricket played in Australia, whatever the harsh lessons of the recent Ashes journey. We must retain our own style and our own values and remember the toughness and performance need not suffer for politeness.

Two Australian who have played this summer of county cricket, Tom Moody and Carl Rackemann, kind men with a word and a smile for all and sundry, should be our example from Australia and not the gruff indifference of so many of the Young Australian team who toured England during July and August.

On captaincy
John Barclay, that deceptively durable Etonian cove - a man rated by Garth Le Roux and Imran Khan as the smartest captain they played for - assured me a dozen years ago that any man who could successfully lead a county cricket team could return in his second life as a managing director of any corporation on the planet. The job can be a rum one - "If y`win you`re s`posed to, if y`lose it`s your fault" squeaked Gooch after his first crack at it - but if you get it half-right the dollars will out-weigh the dimes and, just occasionally, you will sleep at night.

Envoi And what a time to have lived in! I have sat on committees at Lord`s with Freddie Brown and Sir George Allen; listened to Peter May and Ted Dexter; I have nattered with Keith Miller and laughed with Ray Lindwall; drank tea with Brian Statham, beer with Fred Trueman and anything that went with the Chappells and Lillee.

I sat with Ali Bacher and Joe Pamensky at the Wanderers in Johannesburg as the rebel tours of the 80s unfolded, and sat on the old Hill at Sydney when Kerry Packer first brought bright clothes and brighter lights to the ancient game.

Since that first day at Southampton more than 18 years ago cricket has changed enormously, irrevocably, is neither worse nor better for it and then again has barely changed at all.

So what shall I miss? The competition I suppose, the glint in the opposing eye which fires the heart and of course the banter and the fellowship on which the game so thrives. I shall miss that month in April when the game blooms again and when the Hampshire staff mix as one and share the anecdotes of another day at the office. Quite simply - and I don`t plan to go far - I shall miss being in touch.

Some things are a part of your whole life and cricket has been that part of mine. They always said: "You will know. You will wake up one morning and realise that you have had enough." But I would not have done, not ever. Yes, I am addicted to this wonderful, funniest game, its style and its people, and will play it and watch it and love it till I drop. It owes me nothing, I owe it plenty. I am a lucky man.