Thanks, Johnners: An Affectionate Tribute to a Broadcasting Legend. Jonathan Agnew
approachable, too. I remember Hadlee, the calculating and robotically accurate New Zealand fast bowler, wandering up to me as I marked out my run-up before a champion -ship match at Grace Road. He asked how the season was going, and I said it was OK, but that I had started to have a problem over-stepping the crease, and bowling no-balls. I explained how I kept lengthening my run by an inch or two to compensate, but the problem just would not go away.
‘That’s exactly what you’re doing wrong,’ Hadlee replied. ‘It sounds illogical, but you must always shorten your run-up by a foot. Your stride will be smaller, you won’t stretch and you’ll stop bowling no-balls. Works for me every time. Good luck.’ And with that Hadlee – a member of the opposing team – walked off, having volunteered an absolutely priceless tip.
There were others who were not so kind. Most of the West Indian fast bowlers fell into this category, despite my shameless attempts to befriend them. These efforts included attending a Benefit event one evening for Wayne Daniel, who was a particular bully when charging in for Middlesex. I even made sure he saw me buying a raffle ticket, but he still tried to kill me next day. And then there was a very special category reserved for those overseas players who commanded such respect for their achievements and their sheer presence that one felt like doffing one’s cap whenever they walked past.
In fact, there was only one man in this group: Vivian Richards, a batsman like no other in the way he ruthlessly dismembered bowling attacks, hitting the ball miles with apparent effortlessness. Others have come close to matching him in that department, but I have never seen such an intimidating figure as Richards at the crease. Mechanically chewing a piece of gum, he would swagger about, never the least bit hurriedly. He is massively built, more like a heavyweight boxer than a cricketer, with an enormous neck. Never helmeted, he always sweated profusely, and when focused on the serious business of batting, he smiled only very rarely.
My first conversation with Viv was brief, and rather hostile. As a young fast bowler and thus, in Viv’s eyes, an upstart to be dismissively swatted away, I made a delivery rear from just short of a length which struck the great man’s glove in front of his not inconsiderable nose. Disappointingly, the ball looped over the wicketkeeper’s head and landed safely, but it was a moral victory, and I felt fully justified in releasing a loud cry of exasperation after an extended follow-through.
‘You know what you are, man?’ Viv shouted from only a couple of yards away, stabbing a finger at me, his eyes blazing with rage. ‘You’re a turkey. A f—ing turkey!’
This was remarkably perceptive, since Dad had been a poultry farmer, but I suspect Viv was not aware of that. Instead it is an example of how Viv loved a fight, and how an incident like that would get him going after, quite possibly, a sluggish start, the legacy of a night out in the bars of Taunton with his great friend Ian Botham. We got off lightly this time – he scored only 75.
Very few batsmen are good enough to take on fast bowlers verbally like that. The most common form of sledging is the other way round, with a fast bowler abusing or mocking a batsman with the aim of unsettling his concentration in the hope that he will make an error and get himself out. Sometimes it can get nasty and personal, in which case the umpire intervenes to calm tempers, but a lot of sledging is nothing more than humorous banter which can be very entertaining.
Viv was involved in my favourite example of sledging, which was both funny and harmless, but shows him at his intimidating best. It occurred in 1981, when a law was introduced limiting bowlers to just one bouncer an over. This was designed to put a brake on the dangerous fast bowling perfected so ruthlessly by the West Indians rather than to emasculate young English quicks. But my Leicestershire colleague Gordon Parsons was very aggressive, and since he routinely bowled at least four bouncers every over, the new regulation had a serious impact on his repertoire.
Tearing in down the hill against Somerset, Parsons struck early on this occasion when Phil Slocombe edged to slip. Typically, Gordon celebrated wildly, but the rest of us, and the bowlers in particular, were not quite so thrilled, because this breakthrough merely brought in the visitors’ number 3.
We already knew that Viv was in a foul mood. He had been warming up that morning by hitting balls repeatedly against the fence, when Leicestershire’s chief executive, Mike Turner, made a public announcement over the Tannoy.
‘Will players please refrain from hitting balls into the advertising boards. And that includes you, Mr Richards.’
This was not a sensible tactic. Viv’s upper lip curled, and he stomped back to the dressing room. When he came out to bat, it was the first we had seen of him since then; and what an entrance it was. He was at his arrogant, strutting best, thumping the top of his bat handle menacingly with the palm of his gloved hand with every step he took, and staring the bowler straight in the eye before taking guard.
I was standing at mid-off, and could savour every moment from close range. I knew exactly what Gordon would bowl to Richards first ball. In fact, everyone knew – even dear old Dot, one of our most loyal supporters, who was knitting away as usual in the deckchair by the little gate through which Viv had just marched. Viv looked very deliberately towards the deep-square-leg boundary, where a man was standing hopeful of a catch from the hook shot.
When the great man was ready, and not a moment before, he settled slowly over his bat. Gordon came charging in like a wild thing. Barely a second after he released the ball, the ground reverberated to what sounded like both barrels of a shotgun being simultaneously discharged. In fact it was Viv’s bat making contact with the ball, which was now sailing high out of the ground. The next thing we heard was the shattering of the glass roof of a factory some distance along the adjoining street. It was a magnificent shot, and Dickie Bird relished the theatre of it all as he paused before turning and signalling the obvious to the scorebox. Then Dickie addressed Gordon, sufficiently loudly for Viv to hear.
‘That’s it, Gordy lad. That’s your one bouncer for t’over.’ At which point Viv rushed up the pitch, left arm raised, shouting, ‘No, no, Dickie man. Tell him he can bowl as many as he wants!’
I note that Richards was eventually bowled by Agnew for 196. It was the last ball before lunch, and it struck him on his pad, then his thigh, and then his ankle before somehow trickling into his stumps just hard enough to knock one bail to the ground. They all count, I suppose, but Viv could barely drag himself away from the crease.
For a professional cricketer the summers were wonderful; the winters less so, unless one was on tour with England. The problem was that the players were employed only for six months, from April until September. Then your P45 would arrive in the post with the scheduled reporting date for the following year, and sometimes a note wishing everyone a happy Christmas. And that was that.
An average cricketing salary paid pretty well over a six-month period – about £12,000 – but not well enough to stretch over the whole year, so it was crucial to find work in the winters. But who would employ a cricketer who possessed no other skills or experience, and who would be leaving at the end of March anyway? It was an issue that must have dissuaded many talented players, particularly those with university degrees or other qualifications, from taking up the game professionally. I remember interviewing the former England captain, Tony Greig, about this subject, and he strongly advocated the return of the amateur cricketer. By insisting that all of its first-class cricketers are professional, England cannot be selecting from all of the best players in the country.
I drove a lorry for a couple of winters, delivering asbestos amongst other things around the country. The vehicle was so decrepit that I needed to stand up, pressing the accelerator pedal flat to the floor, to get up to speed. Rather like Johnners rebuilding his tank engine, it often seemed that there was more in the back of the lorry when I returned to the depot at the end of a day than when I had set off that morning. One of Leicestershire’s benefactors kindly gave me a job in his window factory, and at least I managed to progress from the shop floor, where I was disastrous with a mallet, to the office. But none of this was really for me, and when I found myself with a young family, it started to become a worry.
Then, right on cue, came one of those life-changing moments. John Rawling, an old friend who was the sports producer at BBC Radio Leicester at