Tuffers’ Ashes Heroes, page 9
Michael took a more measured version of that hostility into the Test series, Harmy catching Justin Langer a nasty blow on the arm that first morning at Lord’s and cutting Ricky Ponting’s cheek with a nasty bouncer. While England had the Aussies on the ropes, bowling them out for 190, ultimately their own batting let them down and they lost the match. However, they’d seen that by playing positive and aggressive cricket it was possible to put the tourists on the back foot. They’d found a chink in the Aussies’ armour which they’d try their very best to exploit. In the past, such an idea would have been just so much hot air, but for once England knew they had the personnel to match words with action. And that’s exactly what happened at Edgbaston where, looking back now, it really does feel like we were offered an embryonic glimpse of Bazball. Batting first, England made a conscious decision to score quickly. They knew that to do so offered a chance to take the game to the Aussies. By the end of the first day they’d made 407 all out off 79 overs. In the context of Test cricket, against the best team in the world, that wasn’t so much fast as supersonic. It was the first occasion that England, as a unit, said, ‘Listen, we’re not going to leave it and block it, we’re going to go out there and absolutely smash it.’ Well, the coach Duncan Fletcher might have put it slightly differently, but you get what I’m saying. For those of us brought up on Boycott and Tavaré, it was a wonderful, wonderful thing. Don’t get me wrong, I admire the skill, technique and mental fortitude required to bat like that pair, I just don’t particularly want to sit in front of the TV all day watching it. Marcus Trescothick smacking it around, that’s a different matter entirely.
While the last day at Edgbaston is the one that will always be remembered, it’s the first that told the bigger story – of the evolution of the England team since the dawn of a new and far more professional age under central contracts. Three of the top six got fifties and the last four wickets added 114. No longer were England relying on a bits and pieces approach. Now they could make a concerted assault on the Ashes, with the added bonus of a skipper unscarred by previous mission impossibles. While Australia had comfortably won the previous Ashes series Down Under 4–1, Vaughany had notched up magnificent centuries at Adelaide, Melbourne and Sydney to confirm himself as a truly class act, for a while becoming the number one ranked batsman in the world. The biggest shame for Michael was that his knee gave up and so he never got to captain England in Australia for the return series in 2006–07. If ever you need a skipper who can eat up pressure, it’s down there.
While Michael’s England captaincy was slightly curtailed, he has of course gone on to forge a very successful career in the media, including as one half of The Vaughany and Tuffers Cricket Club podcast. Sometimes as I hear us deliver our incredibly pertinent and well-informed opinions on the sport, I can’t help but wonder just what England missed out on in not making us captain and vice-captain. Vaughany really would have been a great assistant.
10 Ashes Tests
Runs: 959
Highest Score: 183
Avg: 47.95
Hundreds: 4
Fifties: 1
14. Ricky Ponting
‘Punter’ was a streetfighter, yes, but a classy one. More like a well-groomed Tasmanian devil.
Ricky Ponting had always been in such a dominant side – and then the 2005 Ashes came along. It was almost as if, after all the years of English hurt, the gods had convened for a chat. ‘You know what? Let’s have Ricky suck it up for once.’
When he was run out by England’s substitute fielder, half-man-half-hare Gary Pratt, at Trent Bridge, and started mouthing off at England coach Duncan Fletcher as he walked back up the pavilion steps, I really did think he’d been pushed over the edge. I was expecting bats, pads, possibly even Duncan himself, to come flying over the balcony. I saw the same red mist descend at Cardiff in 2009 as the Aussies desperately tried to crack England’s barnacle-esque last-wicket pairing of Jimmy Anderson and Monty Panesar. The home side were again pushing the rules to the limit, an endless conveyor belt of gloves coming out from the dressing room, consuming valuable seconds as the clock ticked down. Every time the Aussie skipper looked up there was some little lad from Glamorgan stood with two pairs of batting gloves in hand. I could only imagine the conversation. ‘You again? What the f***? This is the fourth time I’ve seen your face in the last 15 minutes. You’d better f*** off right now mate.’
While Ricky would have provided the perfect cover illustration for the Ladybird Book of Exasperation, never did he actually completely lose it. There were times in the 2005 series especially when he really could have exploded. From the commentary box you could see he was like a pressure cooker, teetering on the edge of boiling over. And yet he never did. I have huge respect for Ricky for the way he handled himself during that encounter. He was dignified. Simmering, but dignified.
Ricky never knew when he was beaten, a fact which was best illustrated by the third Test at Old Trafford. Famously, the final day’s play – where England needed 10 wickets and Australia to bat ‘til the close – began with more than 10,000 people locked out of the ground. There were times when I was playing the Aussies that they’d have been pushing them in! England took wickets steadily throughout. All except one. Ricky didn’t just bat the best part of the day, but did so with such grit and skill that at one stage it looked like he might carry his team to the most unlikely of wins. It says everything of his character that when finally he was out for a near seven-hour 156 his only reaction was anger at himself for leaving Australia’s last-wicket pair with 24 balls to survive. Ricky didn’t deserve to be on the losing side, and, after a nail-biting climax, he wasn’t. Of the 287 innings he played for Australia, that innings at Manchester is the one he’s most proud of. Not only did he survive 275 balls, under extreme pressure, with an entire Ashes series at stake, but there were times when he actually took the attack to England. Truly remarkable.
But that was Ricky. Throughout his Ashes career, he was like a boxer who didn’t know how to give up. England would have him against the ropes but he’d always fight back, often delivering a knockout blow. He was an incredible competitor, so mentally tough. He took a lot of stick during that 2005 series, be it being cut on the face by Steve Harmison’s vicious bouncer at Lord’s, boisterous crowds constantly on his back, or the opprobrium heaped on him after putting England in to bat in the first Test at Edgbaston despite Glenn McGrath damaging his ankle in the warm-up. In defence of the pundit community, that was a little bit blasé. ‘Our premier fast bowler has gone down, but we’ll still knock you over.’ It was a touch of arrogance which came back to bite the Aussies, a decision based perhaps on the past rather than the now. Ricky had played in Ashes series where the entire team could have played on one leg and still won. But on this occasion it didn’t quite pan out like that. Instead, Australia were reduced to the team we’d once been. They were the ones chasing the ball 50 yards to the boundary only to lose the chase by six inches. They were the ones watching balls flash past grasping hands in the gully. They were the ones switching the bowlers around to no effect. And of course it had to happen at Edgbaston. The Hollies Stand on their feet, going absolutely nuts. Wave after wave of chanting and cheering. The ball seeming to gravitate to the boundary. Four. Six. Four. The Ashes on steroids. The cricketing version of the tornado that had hit the city just days before. And that’s what it took to beat Australia. Not only did you need top-drawer performances from everyone, but also that little bit of luck, which for the Aussies, first with Glenn standing on the ball at Edgbaston, and then the Gary Pratt run out at Trent Bridge, must have looked like it was never going to turn their way. The pressure Ricky was under was immense. He faced becoming the first Aussie skipper to lose an Ashes series in 18 years. He was also leading a team containing some big and very successful characters, not least Shane Warne, the greatest skipper the Aussies never had. And yet all the time he kept fighting, putting in the performances, never taking a step backwards.
Ricky’s immovability was no surprise to me. While I did actually get him out a couple of times in my career, he was so, so hard to bowl against. He was never going to slog one up in the air. You had to be on the absolute top of your game – as in the over Fred bowled at him at Edgbaston – to send him packing. It was always very difficult for England’s seamers to find the right length to bowl at Ricky. He was so switched-on, so technical. Send down some pretty little away swingers and he’d maul you. Drop the ball short and he’d pull you to death – that incredible signature shot of his that was almost impossible to counter. Our lads would be perplexed. Ricky didn’t seem to play by the same rules as other batsmen. He’d pull a ball that could never be defined as short. Pitch it up another inch and he’d drive through the offside. Hold it back half an inch and out came that pull shot again. You’d hear someone at lunch say ‘I’ve got a quarter of an inch to play with otherwise I’m f***ed.’ He had so much time to play that pull. Read the paper, light the cigar, Bang!
I always thought Ricky looked like he should be in a black and white photo from the 1930s, baggy cap, unloading a cargo ship at the docks. That kind of tough, tough character, someone you’d want on your side 100 per cent. Of course, having met him a few times now as a commentator, I’ve been astonished to find that the hard-faced and smileless bloke who I used to encounter from 22 yards is actually a friendly cove who loves a laugh – although, admittedly, there was one occasion when he wasn’t hugely impressed with my own sense of humour. In the wake of England’s Ashes victory of 2005 I was asked to make a video reflecting playfully on some of the key moments of the summer. Naturally I majored on Ricky’s decision to insert England at Edgbaston, with a couple of other bits and pieces thrown in for good measure. I thought no more about it until a few weeks later when, lying in bed early one morning, my phone lit up like Blackpool Illuminations. While I’d thought the video was a little bit of fun to be shown at a corporate dinner or something, it had actually been screened at one of the most prestigious nights in the Australian cricket calendar, the dinner marking the award of the Allan Border Medal, recognising the most outstanding Aussie cricketer of the past season as voted by peers, media and umpires. Ricky had sat stony-faced through the whole recording, naturally not hugely impressed at the spectacle of an impish me taking the mick out of his team’s performance. My phone was going nuts as various media outlets sought my reaction to this rather unexpected turn of events. That reaction was to hide under the duvet and vow never to find myself alone in a lift with the Tasmanian. Thankfully, all was forgiven when, at the following year’s ceremony, another video was shown, this time of me making light of something entirely different – England’s very recent 5–0 thrashing.
Subsequently, there are no hard feelings between me and Punter. Although, just to be on the safe side, I still don’t mention substitute fielders.
35 Ashes Tests
Runs: 2,476
Highest Score: 196
Avg: 44.21
Hundreds: 8
Fifties: 9
Wickets: 1
Best Bowling: 1–9
Avg: 27.00
15. Alan Mullally
A big bloke and an even bigger character, Alan Mullally played one of the shortest, yet most significant, Ashes innings ever.
It’s not often an innings of 16 would gain you entry to an Ashes hall of fame, but when it comes to big Alan Mullally (tall not wide) I can’t help feeling it’s entirely deserved.
Let me explain. This is a bloke who, by his own admission, could not bat. Once, believing there must be some reason for his grotesque inability with the willow, he went for an eye test, only to be told he had perfect vision. ‘Have you ever thought,’ the expert pondered, ‘that you might just be s*** at batting?’ So for me, Alan Mullally getting 16, and a 16 that meant the difference between winning and losing, is akin to a real batsman getting 150.
The great event came to pass during the Boxing Day Test of 1998. In their second innings, as was often the case, England were scrabbling to set the Aussies an at least slightly challenging target. When ‘Big Al Mullall’ strode to the wicket – I’m assuming in the right direction – England were 221–9, a lead of a mere 151.
By memory, whenever Al left the dressing room with a bat in his hand, pretty much everyone else used the 60 seconds before he reappeared to either change into their bowling gear or pack their bags. Only once, two years earlier against Pakistan at The Oval, had he shone in the lower order. Before he set off down the steps, then England coach David Lloyd had offered to buy him 30 pints of Guinness if he reached the same number of runs. When Al got to 20, he turned to the dressing room and mimed pulling a pint. By the time he got to 24, Bumble was dusting off the old wallet. And then Waqar Younis did him with a slower ball and that was the end of that. Those 30 pints of Irish stout stayed firmly in the barrel. Nothing since had suggested Al was going to recapture that brief glory. In fact, prior to the second innings in Melbourne he’d recorded seven ducks in his last nine outings. The chances of him hitting a game-changing knock were slightly less likely than Eddie the Eagle winning that year’s Winter Olympics.
And yet it happened. And it wasn’t just that it happened, it was the way that it happened. Al actually had the temerity, on three occasions, to smash Glenn McGrath to the boundary, a scenario not particularly well-received by an Aussie legend who saw England’s tailenders as little more than toast-topping. The Aussies always gave Al a bit of extra gyp because, while he was born in Southend, he’d grown up Down Under and actually played for the Australians at Under-19 level, although he was always desperate to play for England. Glenn dished out the verbals but it was water off a duck’s back to Al. What did he care? He was having the time of his life. He gave Glenn a nice little smile, made the universal hand signal for ‘You talk too much pal!’ and carried on doing what he was doing. Glenn did eventually snaffle his prey caught and bowled, but potentially at a price, later fined 30 per cent of his match fee, suspended depending on his future conduct. According to Al, the match referee felt it took two to tango and so he was in line for a fine too. Only coach David Lloyd rescued him, with a Sarah Lancashire-esque performance, claiming that Big Al was a much-misunderstood character who in fact was virtually in tears about the whole thing.
For once, Al walked back into the England dressing room to a barrage of backslapping, like they do with a horse when it’s won the Grand National. I think they might have chucked a bucket of water over him and everything. Morale had been lifted tremendously by his cameo. England now had a lead of 174. Not much, but potentially enough against a side whose Achilles heel was a habit of tripping up in the pursuit of low scores.
Despite Al doing some damage, removing Mark Taylor and Justin Langer cheaply, Australia looked to be cruising at 140–4. But Dean Headley and Darren Gough then ripped through the lower order to leave the home side 12 runs short. Those three boundaries Al smote off Glenn McGrath were, in the end, the difference. To Glenn’s credit, he was the first to buy his tormentor a pint afterwards. Meanwhile, England built on the momentum generated by Al’s heroics by dropping him for the next match at Sydney.
I was delighted that Al had his time in the sun. He was a terrific cricketer and always great fun to be around. I once found myself on a fishing boat with him in New Zealand. I’m not a man of rod and line, but Al mentioned the excursion to me, and it sounded fun. After all, I could pass a bit of time lounging around with a beer while everyone else pulled strange-looking creatures from the ocean. I had of course forgotten about the motion of the boat, and was just about to be sick over the side when, blow me, if Al didn’t heave a shark on to the deck. I was astonished. It wasn’t quite that one off Jaws but it must have been six foot. Naturally, it wasn’t too happy to find itself plonked in the midst of a party of England cricketers, making its feelings known by thrashing around the boards. Eventually, the bloke who’d taken us out brought it under control, and it was during this short period of wrestling that Al came up with a plan, the core details of which involved the fish and Athers’ bed. I mean, all you can do in a situation like that is bow to the man’s sheer inventiveness. A shark? In the captain’s bed? Has there ever been a better idea?
We told the old seadog at the wheel to put his foot down and sped back to shore. Once there, the beast from the briny was wrapped in tarpaulin and ferried to the rear of the hotel. While one of us came up with a story to get Athers’ room key from reception, the rest took the laundry lift to his corridor (we did consider dressing the shark in an umpire’s coat and walking it through the lobby but after some debate concluded that the majority of umpires don’t leave a trail). Once in Athers’ room, giggling like the schoolboys we essentially were, we removed Athers’ duvet, heaved the shark on to his mattress, made the bed back up, and headed to the bar.
There he was! ‘All right boys, did you catch anything?’ Athers was an angler of no small repute. There was nothing he’d not had on the end of his line – trout, salmon, old iron bedsteads, the lot.
‘Nah mate. Nothing doing. Must be the only bit of sea with nothing in it.’
We were desperate for the skipper to go up to his room, and eventually we saw him head for the lift. Trying desperately to stifle our sniggers we sped up the stairs. Peeping round a corner we saw him turn the key in the lock and open the door.
Nothing.
‘S***! What if it’s got out?’
‘Don’t be stupid.’
More quiet – and then – ‘WHAT THE …?’
We ran to the door. ‘Oh my God, Athers. What on Earth’s the matter?’
He pointed to the bed. ‘A shark! In my bed! A shark!’
‘Come off it, Athers, you’re seeing things. It’s probably just an old towel, or an earwig.’
