Botham’s Century: My 100 great cricketing characters. Ian Botham
was that we shouldn’t play the next day’s cricket, but after a team meeting to discuss what we should do, it soon became clear that the only thing to do was to carry on, for Ken.
I have often wondered how my career and my life might have been different if Kenny had been around to guide me. Regrets, I’ve had a few, etc. But there were times, particularly following the amazing triumphs of 1981, that I allowed success to go to my head and in what came to be known as the ‘sex, drugs and rock’n’roll’ days of the mid-80s. Would Kenny have been a sobering influence when I needed one? Many friends of mine believe Kenny was taken at the very time I needed someone like him to make me see sense. All I know is that I missed him terribly.
I regard Bill Beaumont as the best ambassador for British sport there has ever been. After his distinguished rugby career as captain of England and the British Lions, Bill has continued to give of his time and considerable experience to rugby as it struggled with professionalism.
The name of Beaumont is linked with mine because we spent eight years in opposition as the team captains in A Question of Sport with David Coleman in the chair trying to keep order, but our first memorable evening was years earlier, on the night that Bill led England to their first Grand Slam for 23 years at Murrayfield.
I was in the company of my father-in-law, Gerry a big rugby nut, and Tony Bond, the England centre who had broken his leg at the start of the Five Nations against Ireland. He was still on crutches. In the lobby of the team hotel, the North British, Bill saw us and invited us into the official reception for a drink. Standing around with some of the England players, chatting and enjoying a glass, we were pounced upon by some Scottish MacJobsworth and told that I had to leave. I explained I was not a gatecrasher; Bondie had been a member of the England squad until his injury, and we had been asked in by the victorious England captain and coach, Mike Davis, so I thought that would be the end of the matter. Not with this Rob Roy.
‘We are paying for this function, and we’ll decide who comes in. You are not wanted, out you go.’
‘Well, if you paid for this gin and tonic, you’d better have it back,’ I replied and I promptly tipped it over his head.
The trio of us were frog-marched out, closely followed by most of the England squad, who decided to join us. That’s why the England captain spent most of the evening sitting on the stairs outside the Scottish Rugby Union reception. Every so often, one of the players would come out with a tray of drinks to keep us going. It was the start of a very memorable evening.
Bill was forced to retire from the game a couple of years later after being told that another kick on the head could have serious consequences. His England career finished at Murrayfield, but his last appearance at Twickenham saw that famous half-time streak from the well-endowed Erica Roe. Bill had his back to the action and couldn’t understand why his emotional team-talk was not being received with the same intense concentration as usual, until his scrum-half, Steve Smith, explained: ‘Sorry Bill, but some bird has just run on wearing your bum on her chest!’
Bill and I enjoyed a tremendous rivalry during our time on A Question of Sport. Bill is as competitive as me, and his sporting knowledge is extensive. His three specialist subjects were cricket, rugby and motor racing – he loved showing up my weakness on the cricket questions. But on golf, or soccer, he didn’t have a weakness. He was hard to beat. I’m glad that we both decided to call it a day together after eight years. I couldn’t have imagined doing the show without him.
Despite his good nature, Bill was not beyond some skullduggery. I remember the night when Gazza (Paul Gascoigne) was on the show. He wasn’t supposed to be drinking, but was getting fed up with the taste of bitter lemon and tonic water. As Gazza was going to be a member of Bill’s team, when he asked if there was anything else non-alcoholic he could try, I suggested advocaat. I knew the taste would disguise the alcohol and its effects were slow-acting. Gazza promptly drank a bottle and half in about an hour and half before the show. Imagine my horror when I discovered that Bill had worked out what was going on and I found myself with Gazza on my team. We lost, and the show took twice as long as normal to record.
One of the funniest holidays Kath and I ever had was with Bill and his wife, Hilary, when we went to Courcheval in the Alps to learn to ski. Because of the insurance, I was never allowed to ski when I was playing. Can you imagine Beaumont and Botham on the nursery slopes? Even trying to get our skis on took half a morning and nearly caused an avalanche. We had these all-in-one ski suits and as we came down the nursery slopes rather sedately, all these little kids, some aged about three, were shooting past, weaving in and out, and cutting across us, regularly causing us to fall apex over tit. After a couple of days of this, Bill had had enough and was looking for an opportunity to spear someone with his ski stick. The trouble was that every time he made that sort of move, over he went. I’ve never spent so much time on my backside.
Lunch on the third day was the turning point. After a couple of bottles of Dutch courage, Bill and I decided to leave the nursery slopes and graduate to something a little more testing. We felt reasonably confident as we’d just about learnt to keep upright in a straight line. It hadn’t occurred to us that stopping was another crucial skill that didn’t come naturally. We both realized our predicament at about the same time … I can tell you that Beaumont and Botham out of control on the pistes is not a pretty sight.
Just one of the true giants of football to whom I was compared during my all-too-brief reign as the leading centre-half in the English game. Norman ‘bites yer legs’ Hunter, Ron ‘Chopper’ Harris, and Vlad ‘on me ’ead son’ the Impaler, were among the others. The debate rages on.
Actually, I might have been good enough to have made a professional career in soccer. When I was 15, Bert Head, the Crystal Palace manager and, clearly, one of the shrewdest judges around, thought enough of my potential to offer me a trial at Selhurst Park.
I’d been playing for Somerset Schools and training with Yeovil Town for a couple of years. At the time, the manager there was Ron Saunders, who went on to become one of the best in the league, and he recommended me to Bert.
In the end I chose cricket, and the decision to do so came about as a result of me listening to my father, Les, for once. He was a top all-round sportsman himself, who’d represented the navy at soccer – good enough for Bolton Wanderers to try and prise him away from a life on the ocean waves – and he was the one I turned to when the time came for me to pick which horse to ride.
‘It comes down to this,’ he said. ‘You’re a good footballer, but I think you’re a much better cricketer.’
Although I never regretted the decision I made, because I had a marvellous life in cricket, met some wonderful people, enjoyed some amazing experiences, and am grateful for everything the game enabled me to do, the enormous difference in earning potential between the two sports these days means that if I had to make the same choice now my decision would be different.
When I put on my boots again ten years later I did so as an amateur with Scunthorpe United, and I enjoyed every kick. We were living about 15 miles from Scunthorpe at the time, in the village of Epworth; a mate of mine there called Steve Earle who was playing for the club invited me to do my off-season training with them, and within a year I’d progressed from the reserves to the first team. I very nearly had one of the greatest debuts in soccer history, by the way. Trailing 3–1 at Bournemouth when I came on as sub on 25 March 1980, we ended up drawing 3–3 with me having a shot blocked on the line in the dying seconds. If only. Sadly, I never got as close to the opposing goal again. We celebrated in an unusual fashion on the way home that evening, my great mate Joe Neenan and I sitting on the central reservation of the A1 scoffing daffodils for a bet. As you do.
My first manager, Ron Ashman, had a unique way