Читать книгу Imran Khan: The Cricketer, The Celebrity, The Politician - Christopher Sandford - Страница 8
THREE The Swinger
ОглавлениеIn 1974 Imran was elected captain of Oxford. It was a somewhat surprising choice, considering his only mixed form with bat and ball, untried diplomatic skills and still limited command of English. According to those with whom he discussed the club’s offer, he hesitated a day or two before agreeing, apparently concerned that ‘the guys’ might not accept him. There was also the question of whether the added responsibility would affect his own game, as has been known with cricket captains. Trying to bat, bowl, lead from the front and learn the language, one friend said bluntly, was at least one job too many.
The offer was nonetheless a heady one for a 21-year-old Pakistani who had a somewhat romantic view of the British university tradition as a whole, based as it was on the exploits of men like Majid’s father Jahangir Khan, who had been up at Cambridge in the 1930s. Accepting it would give him a certain cachet, as well as the chance to bowl himself as he saw fit. After another winter of training and periodic trips to the indoor school at Edgbaston, Imran’s action was now close to the real thing. ‘I also knew I had the temperament for fast bowling,’ he remarks. With five years of first-class cricket and one Test appearance to his credit, ‘I was ready … confident the job would [make] me a better player’ — a judgement that events bore out to a quite astonishing extent.
Imran hit the ground running, taking five for 56 against a Warwickshire side including six current or former England Test players and the West Indies’ Alvin Kallicharran. He then began to do the thing in style. Innings of 117 not out and 106 against a full-strength Nottinghamshire. Another five-wicket haul against Derbyshire. A cameo of 20 (Oxford’s top score) against a Somerset who were giving a second match to a teenager named Botham. Imran seemed to be playing some of the counties by himself, fielding tigerishly to his own bowling and driving batsmen into errors and indecision where previously there had been only confidence. As one of his colleagues told me, ‘You frequently had the feeling that he could have made up a team with just himself, a couple of serviceable all-rounders and maybe a wicketkeeper.’
At the Parks on the bitterly cold morning of 15 May, Imran went out to toss with the captain of Yorkshire, Geoff Boycott. At ten o’clock the entire playing area was covered with a sleet that had frozen in the night, and both the pavilion and the rows of deckchairs rather optimistically displayed in front of it seemed to have been varnished with ice. This gave the two men the opportunity to agree that conditions for early-season English cricket could be a bit on the crisp side. After these pleasantries were concluded, Boycott told Imran (whom he addressed as ‘young man’) that he didn’t much care for the occasion as a whole. ‘It’s not worth getting out of bed for these fucking student games,’ he complained. Someone in the sparse crowd then made an audible and rather racist remark in which he drew comparison between the ethnic make-up of the two teams. You could literally see the steam coming off Imran as he bounded back up the pavilion steps. Anyone at all familiar with him would have known what to expect next. Bowling at maximum revs for the next two hours he took four Yorkshire wickets, including that of Boycott with a late inswinger. A young boy’s perhaps ill-timed request for the Yorkshireman’s autograph a few minutes later was met in the negative. Back in the middle Imran was the most restless captain, pacing around with a frown when not actually bowling, making pantomime signals to his fielders. He took himself off at last after 39 overs, mentally perhaps, if not physically, exhausted.*
There followed a short and unremarkable match with Worcestershire, then the visit of the touring Indians, against whom Imran made 160 and 49. He began his first innings quietly enough, with just a clipping four or two against Madan Lal. But with the arrival of the spinners came one of the most ferocious onslaughts on any type of bowling which can ever have been inflicted at the Parks. The students put on 189 for the third wicket, 120 of them by Imran who, playing on the offside at one end and on the on-side at the other, struck the ball relentlessly to the near boundary, at least once with such force that it rebounded off the heavy roller half-way to the pitch. For good measure, he also took four wickets in the Indians’ first innings. Imran’s century was his highest score to date in first-class cricket. Eight days later, he broke his record with 170 against Northamptonshire. He then proceeded to dispatch the Northants middle order with three wickets in the first innings and four in the second. Imran was still bowling when Oxford won by 97 runs, having given one of the really great all-round performances.
Imran’s well-developed sense of self-respect might go some way to explain why, time and again, he and his bowling seemed to step up a gear when he had something particular to prove. An associated element of revenge — the Pathan principle of badal — was also observable deep in the mix. Most sportsmen, of course, talk about ‘pride’, at least as an abstraction, and virtually no pre-match press conference at any level of the professional soccer world would be complete without repeated references to the concept. But Imran took it to an almost messianic degree, and an ill-advised remark such as Boycott’s was apt to have roughly the same effect as lighting the touch-paper on a particularly spectacular firework. ‘Ten of us were just students together, playing a game,’ one of the Oxford team told me. Imran, by contrast, ‘came up with an antagonistic attitude, which in his mind turned any little slight into a life-or-death struggle. I wouldn’t say he always thought everyone was ganging up on him. That sounds a touch paranoid, whereas in my experience he saw things from a very clear cultural-historical perspective. From what I heard and saw of Imran, and charming as he often was, he had a definite thing about certain aspects of the mother country. As far as he was concerned, we were all essentially colonialist swine who had been screwing his people for centuries.’
Such was the general backdrop to Imran’s first match as captain against Cambridge, the university which had seen fit to shun his services two years earlier. It scarcely needs adding that his bowling proved a shade brisk for the opposition. Imran took five for 44 off 20 overs in the Cambridge first innings and five for 69 off 38 overs in the second. As a rule he was very fast, variable both in length and direction, with a preference for the ballooning inswinger, and desperately hard to score from. When he was short and on line a number of the Cambridge batsmen elected to take the ball on the body anywhere between the top of the pads and the general area of the forehead, if more out of necessity than choice. Not that Imran’s robust approach to the game precluded the odd moment of light relief, as when he saw fit to amble in once or twice and lob up a gentle leg break. One Cambridge batsman thought this to have been a prime example of reverse psychology on Imran’s part. ‘It bloody nearly worked, too, because one of our guys promptly lost his head and dollied up a catch, which was dropped.’ This had been ‘poorly received’ by the bowler. Pantomime then stalked proceedings on the third day, when Oxford were chasing 205 to win. They eventually needed just 61 off the last 20 overs, with half their wickets in hand. Imran’s ‘crystal clear’ instruction to go for runs was somehow missed by the Oxford No. 5, Edward Thackeray, who proceded serenely to 42 not out in just over three hours. Towards the end the general noise from the Tavern stand dissolved into an exasperated chant of ‘Wake up, Oxford’ and ‘We want cricket’. The situation was apparently no less trying to Imran, who could be seen pacing restively from side to side on the players’ balcony, occasionally pausing long enough to scowl or shake his fist towards the middle. After what was described as a ‘strained’ tea interval, he had resorted to thumbing through a copy of the laws to see whether Thackeray’s innings could be involuntarily declared closed. It couldn’t, and the match was drawn.
The team party, or post-mortem — there was no formal dinner — that evening was an equally stiff affair. For the most part, Imran (who left early to catch a train to Hove, where he was appearing for Worcestershire against Sussex) engaged only in uncomfortable small talk with his men, and chose not to dwell on the match at any length. Many silences resulted. At one point, apparently in an effort to warm things up, one of the less experienced members of the side reached over to the bar and offered his captain some champagne.
‘Thank you,’ Imran said. ‘I drink milk.’
Since 1971 Pakistan had been gradually returning to cricketing health, if not without the occasional relapse or well-publicised temper tantrum. The national team had a new bowler in Sarfraz Nawaz and a well-remembered one in Mushtaq. Asif and Zaheer were batsmen fit to set before the world. In 1972–73, when Imran was bedding down at Oxford, his countrymen had toured Australia and acquitted themselves rather better, both on and off the field, than the 3–0 result suggests. No side including Saeed Ahmed could be entirely incident-free, even so, and the selectors had been forced to draft in the all-rounder Nasim-ul-Ghani for the Sydney Test after Saeed refused to open the batting against Dennis Lillee. Pakistan had gone on to win and draw series against New Zealand and England respectively. Along the way, Intikhab Alam had been replaced as captain by Imran’s cousin Majid, who was considered an only modest success in the job. After three consecutive draws against England, Majid stood down and Intikhab returned for his third time in charge. ‘[The captaincy] is out of control … it’s a circus,’ the PIA president was heard to complain at a press conference in his office, throwing his pen so hard it bounced off the carpet.
The labyrinthine world of Pakistan politics, meanwhile, continued to be mirrored by that of its cricket administration. Abdul Kardar, the former captain of the national team, now combined his position as chairman of the BCCP with a cabinet office in the Bhutto government. In 1974, Bhutto and Kardar moved the headquarters of Pakistan cricket from Karachi to Lahore. They took the opportunity to rename the Lahore stadium after the self-styled ‘Glorious Guide of the First of September Great Revolution of the Socialist Peoples Brotherly Libyan Army’ (and supporter of both the eventual South-East Asian nuclear powers, if not their cricket), Muammar al-Gaddafi, along with a gushing tribute from the Pakistani prime minister: ‘Today, to you, we say thank you … thank you, thank you, Glorious Guide.’
For what? some journalists wondered, no doubt in keeping with many residents of Karachi. Most of Bhutto’s government were involved in one way or another in the management of Pakistan cricket, although generally they restricted themselves to various pet schemes, such as their decision to honour the Libyan dictator, rather than the tedious business of day-to-day administration. Before and during Test series, therefore, when the BCCP should have been most active, its new office, a dim, green-carpeted room in the bowels of the Gaddafi stadium, was often utterly deserted — a condition which was only slightly improved even on the rare occasions when Kardar scheduled a meeting of the full ‘committee’, which consisted of a dozen or so Bhutto appointees based in Islamabad; more than once, the only people who bothered to show up were Kardar and a secretary.
It’s not clear to what degree, if any, the BCCP officials balanced their misgivings about Imran’s one Test performance to date with their apparent new-found preference for Lahore over Karachi, a bias which was to be reflected in a number of hotly debated selections over the next decade. Perhaps they simply felt that after three years he was ready to return. In either event Imran joined his colleagues midway through their 1974 tour of England. His first appearance, against Warwickshire, following just four days after the varsity match, came as a rude lesson in the comparative merits of student and representative cricket. Imran went for 126 runs off his 22 overs in the Warwickshire first innings. At one stage the opener John Jameson carted him for 50 in four overs. Rain then spared him any further indignity. The unimpressed tour manager, Omar Kureishi, promptly called the team together and read them the Riot Act, which ‘in no way dented Imran’s high spirits or self-confidence’, according to Kureishi’s then teenaged son Javed, who accompanied the side. ‘I remember him as this supremely cocky, long-haired guy who was tremendous fun to be around. Imran thought nothing of marching up to a senior player and telling him, “Your grip’s all wrong, chum”, or advising everyone on their fitness and diet. I once watched, fascinated, as he dropped two raw eggs into a glass of milk in a London restaurant and drained it off in one gulp. Very specific about things like that, Imran. Always finished his day off with a carrot.’
The tour management took the view that Imran’s jaded performance against Warwickshire must be due to a hectic nightlife, and as a result imposed a 10 p.m. curfew on the entire team. ‘This brought some dirty looks in my direction,’ he recalls.
Duly rested, Pakistan turned in a bravura performance against Nottinghamshire, whom they dismissed for 51 in their first innings. Sarfraz moved the ball about ‘like a boomerang’ in Derek Randall’s phrase (the pitch having been ‘a bog’, he added), and finished with eight for 27. Imran took a single wicket. The following week he managed a modest one for 56 and two for 65 against the Minor Counties, and was sufficiently worried about his finances to write a ‘Dear Mike’ letter to the Worcestershire secretary, telling him that he had been ‘made to understand by the other professionals in the touring team that their clubs keep on paying their basic wages throughout the duration of the tour. I wonder if that applies to me as well … I hope it does’ — all part of a ‘miserable’ first month back in Pakistani colours. (Javed Kureishi, even so, remembers accompanying Imran to the cinema around that same time, where the 21-year-old ‘laughed like hell’ throughout a Snow White cartoon. ‘There really was a core enthusiasm and innocence to the guy.’) As slumps go, this wasn’t quite on the scale of, say, Denis Compton’s famous bad patch of 1946, but it contained some pretty spectacular flops which inevitably caught the critics’ attention. ‘The student looked out of his depth at this level,’ was the Daily Mail’s scathing assesment. Imran was distinctly lucky to play in the first Test, at Headingley, and even then he operated as a third seamer after Sarfraz and Asif Masood had taken the new ball. If anything, he shone more with the bat: appearing at No. 8, he lashed 23 and 31 in a low-scoring match which petered out in a draw. These weren’t tail-end runs, either; Imran hit Old high and handsomely for a first-bounce four into the crowd in front of the press box, and when Arnold tried him likewise with a bouncer he found himself flat-batted down to the West Stand bookstall with, in one account, a stroke ‘like a tracer bullet’.
Imran went back to the nets and worked on his action, sending down the daily equivalent of 10 overs to a batsman and another half-dozen with just himself and a stump. Another game he evolved was to bounce a cricket ball off the side of a bat, and then try to retrieve it again with either hand as it shot off at odd angles. Wasim Raja once watched Imran spend 20 or 30 minutes by himself throwing a ball against a small upended trampoline; he would then catch the rebound and, in the same action, try to return the ball to hit the target, and again field the rebound. The performance was ‘all very impressive, because the [other] players just focused on their batting or bowling, while Imran also wanted to improve as an athlete.’
It worked, not right away in every case, but eventually in a series of improved bowling performances on the tour. The second Test, another draw, was notable chiefly for the incessant rain and the Pakistanis’ subsequent complaint about the state of the Lord’s pitch.* Little did they or the spectators know that this was to be a feast of entertainment compared with what followed. The third and final Test at The Oval — drawn again — ‘tapered off into the type of meaningless sport which only cricket can produce’, to quote the journalist Omar Noman. Imran then bowled a tidy 10 overs for 36 in his first ever one-day international, which Pakistan won, and took two for 16 in his second, with the same result. He ended with an ‘immaculate exhibition’ (Wisden) of fast bowling in the admittedly more relaxed atmosphere of a 50-over thrash against a Yorkshire League XI at Harrogate. Imran’s figures for the tour — 249 runs at an average of 31.12, and 15 wickets at 41.66 — perhaps failed to do justice to what one critic described as an ‘efficient but rather lugubrious’ young all-rounder. Wisden was kinder: ‘He should be a powerful figure in Pakistan cricket for years to come.’
That ‘efficient but lugubrious’ might have given pause to anyone who knew Imran only as the priapic Oxford smoothie who charmed his way into a succession of beds. (‘About thirty’ over the three years, I was told — an impeccably moderate figure for the mid-1970s, although another well-placed source thought it had been more like one a week.) But spending any extended amount of time in close quarters with the Pakistan cricket team and its management would have tried the most equable of personalities. As Imran himself recalls, ‘My overall performance on the tour had been adequate, yet snide remarks were still being made about my connections, and statements to the effect that better men had been left behind.’ By all accounts there were one or two unflattering references behind his back to what one famous contemporary later dubbed his ‘Olympic ego’. (When you talk to people who knew the young Imran professionally, the word ‘humility’ comes up a lot. They say he was extremely sparing with it.) The 21-year-old’s self-confident manner occasionally chafed the other players, but in 1974 he encountered little overt hostility except from Asif Masood, who apparently disliked him almost on sight. Intikhab was fairly friendly, and Majid remained a firm ally. Mostly, though, Imran’s colleagues just ignored him, which was the usual practice with the younger players. None of them seems to have known or cared much about his life in England. ‘Imran was thought to have a superior attitude,’ Wasim Raja recalled. ‘People backed away and left him in his own castle.’
The demands of university and Test cricket, as well as of the Oxford examiners, left little time for Worcestershire, and as a result Imran made only a handful of one-day appearances for his county over the summer. He used most of the brief gap between the varsity game and the Pakistani tour to bowl in a Gillette Cup tie against Sussex that ran long, thanks to rain. That would have made his schedule over the course of one six-day period: Saturday, Monday and Tuesday, captaining Oxford at Lord’s; Wednesday and Thursday, playing the knockout game at Hove; early Friday, reporting for international duty with Pakistan at Birmingham. On most of those days, Imran also had to give interviews, attend functions and generally roam around the country by British Rail. It was a full workload, even by his standards. The people who knew him best also knew how utterly unsparing of himself he was apt to be — how ‘he gave 200 per cent, whatever the competition’, as Wasim Raja put it. ‘No matter what anyone said, we felt he had a chance, because we knew Imran would work harder than anyone else.’ But even they didn’t know how hard he would work.
Back in Oxford, Imran made a friend out of a fellow third-year student on his Politics and Economics course. Now a 55-year-old television pundit and author of various self-help books, he had heard that the ‘famous Khan’ could be a bit standoffish. He adds that when he met Imran for the first time he’d been expecting someone ‘as warm as a December night on an ice floe’, but in the event ‘he turned out to be almost absurdly polite, in that rather courtly way some Asians have. Between the accent and the blazer, he was almost like a Terry-Thomas stereotype. Better-looking, though.’ After banking his admittedly meagre appearance money from Pakistan and Worcestershire, Imran was able to rent a small flat close to Oxford town centre. There were framed hunting prints on the wall, a wolfskin rug and reportedly rather more in the way of furniture than the average student digs of the era. On several mornings in the autumn of 1974, a plump young woman with the word ‘IMRAN’ daubed on her forehead kept up a forlorn vigil outside the main gate at Keble (where, these days, her quarry rarely appeared), displaying a ‘Fatal Attraction’ form of obsession, erotomania, of which Imran would come to see more over the next 20 years. The trappings of fame were starting to come fast.
The future Somerset and England bowler Vic Marks went up to Oxford in that same term. Thirty-five years on, he remains one of the game’s more astute critics. I asked him if at that stage in his university career Imran had ever appeared the least bit shy around his English teammates. ‘No,’ Marks replied. ‘More aloof.’ He added that Imran had been ‘hard on those he didn’t know and didn’t rate, declining to bowl them or encourage them … He knew he was better than the rest, [but] if he rated you he would try to help and advise.’ Still, at least one other colleague in the Oxford side remained bemused by Imran’s insecurity. ‘The guy generally had bags of self-confidence, sure, but oddly enough not when it came to his bowling. I thought he was a natural. Thousands of fans thought he was a natural. Just about every batsman he ever played against thought he was a natural. Imran remained unconvinced.’
Perhaps Imran’s qualms had something to do with the distinctly mixed signals he was still getting from his two principal teams. At Worcester, he notes, ‘I [was] bullied into bowling medium pace line-and-length stuff which didn’t suit my temperament.’ The key message from Pakistan was very different. Imran was astonished and overjoyed when Intikhab had thrown him the ball early on in the Test series with England and told him to do what came naturally — but, whatever happened, ‘Make them jump around.’ (He did.) Indeed, Imran occasionally seemed to be in two minds about his bowling even when he was his own captain. He rarely appeared for Oxford in the 1975 season, thanks to a commendable and possibly justified concern about passing his finals. In one of the games he did play prior to the varsity match, against Derbyshire at Burton-on-Trent, Imran surprised both the Derby batsmen and his own team by persisting in his attempts to bowl a leg break, an effect that was uneasily like that of a champion shot-putter who’d strayed inadvertently on to a badminton court. It was a curious strategic decision, or so the Oxford men thought. As it turned out, it was a repeat experiment and nothing more. After Imran’s leg spin had gone for eight in two balls he turned around, muttered something to the non-striking batsman, and measured out his full international run. A few overs later, he had taken three of the first four Derbyshire wickets to fall.
If his cricket career was somewhat erratic in the summer of 1975, his love life was a constant. Imran generally brought a ‘special’ girl with him to his matches, or even to watch him practise in the Parks nets. One female undergraduate recalls having feigned an interest in the game, ‘which I actually thought coma-inducing’, just to be near him. Imran made it immediately clear to his companion that he was a man of no small ambition, displaying ‘brass’ which impressed her. She wasn’t the only college girl who noticed the emerging star; a 21-year-old fellow politics student named Benazir Bhutto, the daughter of the former Pakistan president and serving prime minister, was ‘much taken’ by Imran’s obvious talent. The elegantly shod Bhutto did not go unnoticed herself. Then in her second year of residence at Lady Margaret Hall, she was intensely outspoken both about Pakistan’s place in the world and the role of women in society. Several of Bhutto’s already quite vocal critics pointed to her Dior wardrobe and liberated lifestyle as a political symbol of conspicuous consumption, or worse, on her part. A mutual acquaintance who falls into this category told me that Bhutto had been ‘visibly impressed’ by, or ‘infatuated’ with, Imran, and that she may have been among the first to dub him affectionately the ‘Lion of Lahore’. In any event it seems fairly clear that, for at least a month or two, the couple were close. There was a lot of ‘giggling’ and ‘blushing’ whenever they appeared together in public. It also seems fair to say that their relationship was ‘sexual’ in the sense that it could only have existed between a man and a woman. The reason some allowed themselves to suppose it went further was because, to quote one Oxford friend, ‘Imran slept with everyone’ — a gross calumny, but one takes the point — rather than because of any hard evidence of an affair. On balance, I rather doubt that Pakistan’s future prime minister and future cricket captain were ever anything more than good friends, and only for a term or two at that. Even in the morally libertine days of the mid-1970s, Imran’s Oxford love life soon attained legendary status. It was the beginning of a personal myth of sexuality that led some to credit him with literally scores of spurious ‘conquests’ in addition to the real, still quite impressive, total.
Cricket’s first ever World Cup, staged in England, and in which Pakistan started among the favourites, probably wasn’t the best of times for Imran to be concentrating on his finals. Although not originally selected, he was called up to play for his country in their opening fixture against Australia at Headingley, on 7 June. In Imran’s account, he sat the first two of his five exams on the 6th, a Friday, took the evening train to Leeds and arrived at his team’s hotel at four o’clock the following morning, the day of the match.* Australia won by 73 runs, the Pakistanis, like so many others, having been done for pace by Lillee and Thomson. After an epic road-rail return journey some friends finally dropped Imran off in the centre of Oxford where, after going down with flu, he sat his final three papers just as his teammates were losing to the West Indies by one wicket, with two balls to spare, at Edgbaston. That concluded the Pakistanis’ World Cup. Under the circumstances, Imran did well to get a 2.1 for Politics, if only a Third in Economics. ‘I could have exceeded that,’ he remarks. Two days later he was back playing for his country in a meaningless victory over Sri Lanka. The West Indies went on to win the cup. In stark contrast to the protracted seven-week ordeal of the 2007 tournament, the entire competition was completed in 14 days, Pakistan’s campaign in just seven. Majid Khan, again back in charge of the team following an injury to Asif, had won himself a considerable reputation as a specialist in English conditions, as well as being something of a thinker. His own run-a-ball innings of 65 against Australia was a classic of its kind. But Majid’s tenure proved an only limited success, in part because up to half his men would be bickering with the other half at any given time. And even his fondest admirers have never maintained that he was a particularly charismatic or inspiring leader. Pakistan, then, returned home in June 1975 in some disarray. The board sacked Majid, and replaced him with Mushtaq.
Imran left Oxford with a flourish, driving up in his new World Cup blazer, accompanied by his latest blonde, to play in his third varsity match at Lord’s. Several other admirers, both male and female, were seen to be waiting at the gate for a glimpse of their idol, at least one of them sporting a T-shirt customised with slogans indicating how positively she would react to any romantic overtures he might care to make to her. Inasmuch as most of the other students just walked into the ground unnoticed, it was an impressive entrance. The match itself was another draw, but a rather more distinguished one than its two predecessors. The chief honours went to Peter Roebuck and Alastair Hignell, who respectively hit 158 and 60 for Cambridge. Those items apart, Imran’s bowling had all the virtues of a cool, calculated, well-executed assault. As Hignell says, it was a ‘physically terrifying’ and ‘sickening’ barrage; no small accolade from a man who had just come through several bruising encounters with the Australian rugby team.
Imran was to have a modestly successful fifth season at Worcestershire, finishing with 46 first-class wickets at 26, almost exactly the same figures as those for his up-and-coming rival Ian Botham. Still, it was an ‘only fair’ existence. A salary of £ 1,500, paid in six instalments of £250, with a munificent £10 for each county championship win, allowed for little lavish indulgence. But over and above the financial rewards, or lack of them, it had become clear even to Worcestershire that Imran had certain deep-seated misgivings about county cricket as a whole. ‘The English professional just isn’t hungry enough for success. There’s too much cricket … the players get stale,’ he wrote of his experiences some years later. Apart from the ‘essential tedium’ of a system in which too many buckled when they should, perhaps, have swashed, Imran had a more specific objection to his working environment. As he says, ‘I simply found it boring in Worcester’, where he had moved out of the Star Hotel first into digs and then into an ‘unsalubrious’ short-term flat above a fish-and-chip shop in the town centre.
Almost from the first, Imran had vocal reservations about his English club, where he had initially played a series of ‘grim’ and ‘dead-end’ Second XI matches before being ‘bullied’ into bowling ‘military medium’ for the seniors, allegedly at a reduced salary than the one ‘Harold’ Shakespeare (who died in 1976) had promised him in the pavilion at Lahore. As we’ve seen, the eventual terms were on the slim side: as well as his basic salary, the club undertook to ‘… arrange accommodation for away games on a bed-and-breakfast, early-morning tea and one newspaper basis … A meal allowance of £1 will be paid for an evening meal when away from home and for Sunday lunches when away from home’, before adding the rather bleak assurance that ‘a sum equivalent to the Second Class Rail Fare from Worcester to the venue of [an] away match will be paid to all players participating in the match’. Imran, though one of the least materially minded of professional sportsmen, was moved to send a two-page handwritten letter to Tony Greig, the captain of Sussex, in September 1975. ‘Dear Tony, I wondered if you and [your] committee would consider the possibility of taking me on staff next year?’ he enquired, citing ‘the availability of overseas registration and the young age group of the team’ as reasons for his interest. Four days later, Greig wrote back in more measured terms: ‘In reply to your correspondence of 12 September 1975 I would suggest that you telephone our Secretary as soon as your position becomes clear. You will appreciate the implications of any approach prior to your official release from Worcester … Yours sincerely, A.W. Greig, Captain of Sussex.’
I asked Mike Vockins, the long-serving Worcestershire secretary, about all this. Among other things, Vockins mentioned that he and his committee had fought a hitherto unreported running battle with the Test and County Cricket Board to retain Imran’s services. There were various sub-plots involved, but the basic problem concerned the TCCB’s rule, already the source of a skirmish with the club in 1973, restricting each affiliate side to a maximum of two overseas players. As Worcestershire already had New Zealand’s Glenn Turner and the West Indian bowler Vanburn Holder on their books, the club had mobilised on their somewhat unappreciative young all-rounder’s behalf.
‘At the end of Imran Khan’s time at Oxford, the TCCB decided, to my surprise, that his qualification for us lapsed,’ Vockins recalls. As far as the board were concerned, Imran had effectively become a Pakistani again after graduating. ‘It seemed totally illogical, and was also at odds with what both the club and more to the point Imran himself wanted. Not only did we appeal, but we were determined that we should present our case as well as we could and duly retained John Field-Evans QC, later to be a High Court judge, to fight our corner. It was quite an anxious time. I didn’t want Imran to be unduly worried, and so sought to give him confidence that the appeal would be successful and otherwise didn’t involve him directly.’ Another source then on the Worcestershire committee told me that it had cost ‘a lot of money, certainly in the several hundreds of pounds’ to appeal against the TCCB’s ruling, and that ‘that should answer any questions about whether or not we were fully committed to Mr Khan and his welfare’. (Even so, there remained Imran’s core point that ‘all my Oxford friends had moved to London, and I was stuck in Worcester … I was bored to tears there,’ he told me.) After several ‘trying’ months the club had prevailed and ‘both we and the player in question were happy to continue our association together’. Imran omits the episode of the TCCB registration from both his autobiographies, but it does seem to refute the idea that he’d been utterly miserable at Worcestershire from the start, or that the club had ever been less than wholehearted about keeping him on their books.
Imran went back to Pakistan that autumn, for only his second visit home in four-and-a-half years. He marked the occasion by making a few low-key appearances in the BCCP Patron’s Trophy on behalf of Dawood Industries, a ‘manure and insurance combine’ based in Karachi, as it intriguingly described itself. The same tournament hosted sides from the federal Water and Power Development Agency and a heavily fancied Income Tax (Collections) Department. In the second half of the season Imran represented Pakistan International Airlines (PIA) in the Quaid-e-Azam Cup. He took six for 68 and five for 79 against Punjab, gave a bravura all-round performance in the tie against National Bank by taking three for 53 and six for 48 as well as scoring a second-innings century, and followed up with another six-wicket haul against Sind. Imran finished his short involvement in the domestic season with 446 runs at a touch under 30, and 52 wickets at 19 apiece. PIA paid him the equivalent of some £75 a month for his services. Back in Worcester, Mike Vockins was sitting down to write to Imran: ‘The committee has agreed that your basic salary for 1976 should be £2,000, on top of which you will receive appearance money, win money and team prize monies in the normal way … We shall also contribute £100 towards your air fare back to this country.’ On 19 November Imran wrote back to thank Vockins for his offer. The financial terms were ‘very satisfactory’, although he evidently still had doubts about the quality and cost of his local digs, for which ‘last summer I had to pay about £9.50 a week until John Inchmore moved in with me’. Imran’s eventual contract for 1976 bears the handwritten codicil: ‘I would like it to be noted that my accommodation should be subsidised if the rent is too high.’
Imran’s devotion to the grail of constant self-improvement was again kindled during his winter in Pakistan. When not playing competitively in the domestic competitions he found time to practise at the Lahore Gymkhana, next to his family home in Zaman Park. Imran had greatly disappointed the citizens of that cricket-mad enclave by not showing up during any of his Oxford vacations over the previous three years. Now crowds of them came to the Gymkhana to watch him work out (he had a young net bowler throw bouncers at him from 15 yards to improve his hook shot) and mill around the pavilion door for autographs. ‘Every young boy in Lahore wanted to shake Imran’s hand,’ one friend recalls, ‘and many of their elder sisters also worshipped him in their own way.’
Relatively few who have grown up in Lahore, as Imran did, have willingly returned for any extended time after tasting the seductions of the West. (It would be fair to say, too, that a stint in the likes of Birmingham or Dallas has, conversely, led some to appreciate Pakistani life all the more.) And, perhaps unsurprisingly, the 23-year-old native son who spent the winter of 1976 there was ‘virtually unrecognisable’ from the 18-year-old tyro who had flown off with the Pakistani team in 1971. Imran’s boyhood companion Yusuf Salahudin told me that his friend had led a ‘somewhat cloistered life’ growing up in Zaman Park, ‘surrounded by his extended family almost as if it was a colony’. When Salahudin met Imran again after some five years’ absence, ‘I thought he was more obviously mature and outgoing … A man of the world … There was a certain familiar confidence there, but also a new sense of calm. As you grow older, you begin to realise more and more what works for you and what doesn’t, and I think he’d settled into himself in his twenties more than as a fanatically ambitious teenager.’ But for all his cosmopolitanism, Imran clearly remained a Pakistani to his core. ‘London’s most famous socialite’, as Today called him in 1986, wasn’t born in England and apparently preferred not to live there either, once his playing days were over, even if it meant being separated from his two young sons. Years later Imran was to refer to the ‘sad spectacle’ of ‘timid and alienated Pakistanis losing their identity [in] Britain’, a fate he conspicuously avoided.*
There’s nothing quite like the gathering of players, officials and press on the first day of training before the beginning of a new English cricket season. The start-of-term atmosphere, with its ambient smell of embrocation and linseed oil, is often enlivened by tropical rain or even snow falling on the newly cut playing area. They still talk about having to swim for the pavilion in Worcester. By contrast, the spring and summer of 1976 were the hottest for 30 years, with outfields that were baked to a shade of burnt yellow and white. On the grass banks in front of the stands during Test matches, bare chests and floppy hats were in order. This was the series in which the England captain Tony Greig ill-advisedly spoke of making the West Indies ‘grovel’, only for the tourists to take the rubber 3–0, the beginning of some 15 years’ domination of world cricket. Back at Worcester, Imran seems to have rapidly appraised the situation and concluded that these were conditions ideally suited to out-and-out fast bowling. The pitches were rock hard, and with the hook shot now in his repertoire he was able to bowl bouncers with the confidence that he could handle any return bombardment that happened to come his way. About the only cloud on the horizon was again the knotty and apparently insoluble matter of Imran’s accommodation. There’s a note in his file suggesting that Worcestershire had ‘made arrangement for [Khan] to meet a local Estate Agent’, but that even this had not fully resolved the long-running problem. ‘On two occasions the player failed to take advantage of that arrangement,’ the note concludes.
Imran announced his intention right from the start, when the county hosted Warwickshire at the end of April. This was one of those matches that begin in a downpour and end in a heatwave. After a briefly delayed start, Worcestershire scored 322. The visitors, for whom Amiss made 167, were able to see off the somewhat benign Worcester new-ball attack of Inchmore and Pridgeon without undue difficulty. There was an opening stand of 146. Imran then appeared and proceeded to bowl a selection of inswingers and bouncers at speeds of around 90 miles an hour, hurling the ball down like a live coal. Wickets fell. At the other end, Paul Pridgeon continued to plug away on a line and length for most of the second afternoon session. After just a few overs of this contrasting attack, the senior Warwickshire batsman had called a midwicket conference with the junior one. ‘I’ve assessed the situation, son,’ he announced solemnly, ‘and if you take the Pakistani, I can look after Pridgey.’ A minute or two later, the junior batsman took the opportunity of the tea interval to slip off to hospital for a precautionary X-ray to his skull after Imran had dropped in another short one. (This was to be the last full English season before the introduction of helmets.) The Warwickshire bowlers, led by England’s Bob Willis and David Brown, duly returned the favour on the third day, by which time the wicket appeared ‘like concrete’, with the addition of ‘several deep cracks, off which the ball shot like a skipping rock’, to quote the local paper. Coming in at No. 4, Imran scored 143 at slightly less than a run a minute.
Even in the John Player (or ‘Sunday’) League, Imran evidently decided that this was to be his year. He turned in some impressively consistent figures: three for 23 off his allotted eight overs against Glamorgan; another three for 23 against Yorkshire; three for 34 against Gloucestershire; three for 39 against Middlesex; and so on. If the match warranted, he generally added a brisk 30 or 40 runs with the bat. The message seemed to be that he would take an average of three wickets in each one-day outing, and bowl that much faster than anyone else. It was the same story in the Benson and Hedges trophy, where Worcestershire went all the way to the final against Kent, which they lost. If Imran’s bowling was often, as one observer put it, ‘fast to the point of dementia’, it was also successful more times than not. He left everyone stunned in a Gillette Cup tie against Gloucestershire at Bristol when he began to bounce his friend Mike Procter, who was then widely regarded as not the best man to provoke. Sure enough, Procter retaliated when it was his turn to bowl. After a couple of hooked fours, Imran appeared to have won this particular duel, only for him to fall to the more innocuous seam of Tony Brown.
Imran’s combative temperament helped make him the supreme bowler he now became. ‘I’ve always hated taking a beating lying down — something essential to a medium-pacer,’ he says. ‘Sometimes [I] just saw blood in front of my eyes … It was during those moments that an increase of adrenalin would add an extra yard or two to my pace.’ People who played against him at the time generally agree that he was a difficult, extraordinarily driven opponent. Several of them described him as having been ‘intense’ or even ‘manic’ when he came ‘hurtling in’, his ‘fiery brown eyes’ with an ‘electric glaze’. With his fist clenched and his knees pumping up and down ‘he seem[ed] like a loose power line crackling around, and just as dangerous’. One Worcestershire colleague thought Imran’s intensity on the field ‘took a lot out of him as far as being a human being was concerned. You don’t turn that kind of competitive drive on and off. He was always away by himself somewhere, and we didn’t see him socially.’ Mike Vockins, a professional acquaintance for six years, ‘never got that close’ to Imran, and remembers that he would ‘disappear pretty frequently to London or Birmingham, presumably to visit Pakistani friends or family.’ You hear a lot about this sense of him having been a man apart from the rest of the team. Imran had a ‘persecution complex’, one former colleague believes. ‘One thing most cricketers have is a sense of humour — you need it — but he pretty well totally lacked the ability to laugh at himself.’ Set against this is the testimony of a well-known former Test player and academic, who remarked that Imran was ‘warmly accessible to all sorts of people on the periphery of the action like autograph collectors and dressing-room attendants and programme sellers, and a complete mystery to his team-mates. Without stretching it too far, you could see some of the elements of the classic cowboy type there in the way he did the business and then just silently walked off into the sunset. I always thought there was a touch of Clint Eastwood to the guy.’
So it seems fair to say that Imran wasn’t regarded as the life and soul of the party among his English county team-mates. But even those who had doubts about him as a person admired the often thrilling and always robust quality of his all-round cricket as seen in 1976. It remained a moot point whether Imran would ever thaw out as a human being, but clearly he’d already made the leap from journeyman county professional to world-class entertainer.
In the three-day match against Somerset in early June, Imran scored a full-bodied 54 in the first innings and 81 in the second. There was a raw fury to some of his strokes that made his partner D’Oliveira’s seem merely polite by comparison. Imran added an equally lusty 57 against Kent — and the pattern was set. He then beat Lancashire virtually single-handed, with bowling figures of seven for 53 and six for 46, as well as an unbeaten 111 in Worcestershire’s only innings. Another century followed against Leicestershire. And another against a Northants attack led by Sarfraz. Fast bowlers didn’t generally hope for glamorous figures against the Surrey of the mid-1970s, whose top order typically read: Edrich, Butcher, Howarth, Younis, Roope, Test players all. Imran took five for 80 against them. There were wickets or runs, and frequently both, right up to the game against Gloucestershire in the second week of September. Imran managed a single victim (ironically, his Test colleague Sadiq), having for once — exhausted, perhaps — forsaken pace for control. The local paper speaks of his ‘almost robot accuracy’ in the Gloucester first innings. Little did the reporter or anyone else know it at the time, but Imran had played his last match for Worcestershire.
In retrospect, his departure was logical enough. A fractious relationship with certain colleagues, occasional friction with the club authorities and that oft-quoted boredom with Worcester itself all added up to a strong case against Imran’s returning for a seventh season at New Road. The reason his decision came as a shock to so many there was that they saw it in the context of his recent performances for the county. Imran finished the 1976 season with 1,092 runs at an average of 40 and 65 wickets at 23 apiece, earning him the Wetherall Award for English cricket’s best all-rounder. Worcestershire had enjoyed record attendances and reached a cup final at Lord’s. Some of his colleagues could only puzzle at the fact that, as one of them puts it, ‘Imran chose to fix something that wasn’t broken’.
Nonetheless, living abroad turned out to be an only mixed blessing for the ‘fanatically patriotic’ young star. On the positive side, it was liberating for him, as it was for so many other Test colleagues, from Asif to Zaheer, and more personally fulfilling, perhaps, than the likely alternative of a career in the middle reaches of the Pakistani civil service and an arranged marriage. Exposure to English county cricket, for all its flaws, also had the advantage of allowing him to develop as a bowler under the sharp eye of men like the Worcestershire coach Henry Horton and the evergreen D’Oliveira. Imran was doubly fortunate to play so much of his cricket at New Road, not only a picturesque ground in its own right, but in those days also a pitch that more often than not rewarded an attacking bowler like himself. Of his 65 first-class wickets in the 1976 season, 42 came on his home turf. Imran was an immeasurably better all-round cricketer when he left Worcester than when he joined them.
On the debit side, it’s clear that in more than five years there he never really settled in his adopted home. ‘Exile’ may be too strong a word for it, but Imran’s sense of isolation — not only from his English team-mates but from those ‘timid and alienated’ fellow expats — was something he repeatedly spoke of at the time. Instead of ‘fawn[ing] over British institutions’ the way so many displaced Pakistanis of his generation did, he seems to have regarded the host culture, personally gratifying though it was, as all too often wallowing in a mire of frivolity and decadence. Since Imran wasn’t the sort of man to insert metal studs in his face or to stab someone after a bout of drinking, he was clearly always going to be out of step with a significant part of British society as it developed during his time there. Nor was he that impressed with the ‘right-wing Tory regime’ of Edward Heath or the equally feckless Labour government that succeeded it. One or two friends and colleagues in England saw the first stirrings of Imran’s demotic, broadly speaking anti-West politics 20 years before he launched his Tehreek-e-Insaf (‘Movement for Justice’) party.
It’s also easy to believe that Imran was simply homesick in Worcester in a way that he wasn’t in the more collegial atmosphere of Oxford. Although most people in the club went out of their way to make him feel welcome, not every member of the local community was as obliging. These were still early days for the multicultural society, and many Britons avoided the shackles of excessive deference to what became known as political correctness. As it happened, there was one distressingly widespread illustration of the UK’s still somewhat rudimentary concept of race relations as a whole: ‘Paki-bashing’, of which Worcester saw its fair share around pub closing time most Saturday nights. As far as is known, Imran was never directly targeted, but he attracted his quota of muttered asides both on and off the cricket field. For some reason, a disproportionately high number of these seem to have occurred while playing against Yorkshire. There was apparently one occasion when Imran went out to bat on an overcast evening at Leeds, to be greeted by the home team’s bowler ostentatiously peering down the pitch at him and enquiring, ‘Where are you, lad? Give us a clue. I can’t see nowt’ — all ‘standard, knockabout stuff, [but] not appreciated by Khan’, I was told by one of his team-mates, speaking of such antics in general. As we’ve seen, he tended not to fraternise with his own colleagues, though this seems to have been more out of choice than necessity. As Mike Vockins notes, ‘Worcester had a good group of very personable young cricketers around then. I’m confident that there would have been enough sensitivities among them for one or other to have dropped a word if they felt that Imran was unsettled, [and] for it to be noted.’ Seeming to refute the idea that Imran had complained about his life in Worcester virtually on a daily basis, Vockins adds, ‘We were wholly unaware that he disliked living here. I have no recollection of his ever having spoken about it over the course of five years, or having talked about being unhappy to me or any senior officer of the club.’
There were, it’s true, certain ongoing administrative difficulties when it came to the matter of Imran’s lodgings. In his 1983 memoirs, written relatively soon after the events in question, he insists that he had arrived in Worcester for the start of the 1976 season, his annus mirabilis, to find that he was effectively homeless. ‘I had to sleep on Glenn Turner’s floor for the first five days, then the county put me up in what I thought was the lousiest hotel I’ve ever seen … After six weeks, I managed to find a flat of my own and then the club made me pay half the hotel bill.’ In time Imran solved the problem of his Worcester accommodation by rarely turning up there. After taking possession of a ‘lively’ second-hand Mazda, he preferred to bomb up and down the A44 to London at every opportunity. There appears to have been a familiar theme to Imran’s restiveness. Speaking of monogamy, the Nobel Prize-winning author Saul Bellow would write in his novel Dangling Man, ‘The soft blondes and the dark, aphrodisical women of our imaginations are set aside. Shall we leave life not knowing them? Must we?’ For Imran, the answer was clearly no. Even when he was seeing one of his ‘special girls’, he made little pretence of fidelity. Imran’s taste in women ignored all considerations of age and appearance, and also spanned the class structure. In the course of the Worcestershire years there was a ‘succession of debs, dolly birds and shopgirls’, I was told by one of his still impressed colleagues. To be fair to Imran, he also showed notable self-restraint, given that he was as often the pursued as he was the pursuer. One of his relatively few male English friends recalled an occasion when they had been sitting together on a ‘perfectly decorous night out’ in a London club, only for ‘a siren’ to walk over, sit down in Imran’s lap and place his hand on her leg. ‘Help yourself, sexy,’ she’d announced, rather unnecessarily. Although Imran declined that particular offer, he can hardly have failed to reflect on the life he left behind in Pakistan, where the authorities had recently re-introduced public flogging for ‘those who drink, gamble or sexually philander’.
Perhaps it’s not surprising that Imran had reservations about Worcester, an undeniably lovely town but one which lacked any of the raw energy, vital nightlife and racy promise of neighbouring Birmingham, another of his frequent overnight haunts. His predominant sense of the place would remain its ‘soulless’ amenities, oddly enough with the sole exception of the public library, where he was a regular weekly patron. As well as the matter of his ‘lousy’ hotel and subsequent accommodations, Imran seems to have had two other particular issues with the Worcestershire club. They had waited until 1976 to award him his county cap, at which time his wages had risen from a basic £2,000 to a relatively munificient £2,500, with the prospect of various allowances and bonuses.
‘Provided I make up my mind to return to Worcester next year,’ Imran wrote to Mike Vockins in September 1976, ‘I would like the following terms: a) £4,000 basic salary; b) free accommodation; c) full return airfare.’ In time the club wrote back to offer £3,000. ‘After giving myself two months to make up my mind,’ Imran replied, ‘I have finally decided [not to return]. I have realised that even if you had agreed to everything I had demanded in that note, that still would not compensate me for the dreary existence that Worcester has to offer me … I honestly don’t think I can spend another six months of my life in such a stagnant place.’
This general dissatisfaction was compounded by Imran’s distaste for a specific ordeal he faced at Worcester, where, to a man, from the club chairman down to the lowliest programme vendor they addressed him as ‘Immy’. It was no more than the standard dressing-room lingo, which turned D’Oliveira into ‘Dolly’, Pridgeon into ‘Pridgey’, Inchmore into ‘Inchy’ (though Hemsley remained Hemsley), and so on. Although he never seems to have openly complained about it, Imran ‘absolutely loathed’ the practice, which apparently struck him as patronising. One of his local girlfriends remarked that by the time he left Worcestershire, it had become a ‘fixation’ for him and ‘definitely poisoned the atmosphere [with the club]’. He had pronounced the offending name as if he was ‘smelling a dead fish’. Early in their own relationship, she had noticed that Imran seldom gave up on that sort of grudge. ‘Once he took a dislike to someone or something, you could absolutely never get him back again.’
For their part, some at Worcestershire believed that Imran had effectively used the club as a sort of paid finishing school. According to this theory, he had joined the county as a promising but erratic young seamer and, thanks to men like Henry Horton, left again as a devastatingly hostile ‘quick’ of international class. This was perhaps to downplay the role the bowler himself played in the transformation. In the same vein, certain of the county membership remained stubbornly convinced that they had subsidised Imran’s education at Worcester Royal Grammar School, whereas in fact the fees were paid in full by his father. (The members might have been on firmer ground had they raised the matter of the help given him in areas such as his work permit and TCCB registration.) There were equally persistent and unfounded rumours that he had been poached by another team with the promise of higher wages. As the whole dispute became noticeably more bitter in the autumn of 1976, a senior member of the Worcester committee summoned Imran and put it to him that he was leaving ‘because there aren’t enough girls in this town for you to roger’. This same general thesis was aired in the local press, and was eventually widely reproduced in Pakistan.
The opinions of most Pakistani news organisations are not noted for nuance, so the varying fortunes of their Test side tended to get the most graphic possible treatment. ‘WORLD BEATERS!’ the Karachi Star had insisted following a short, unofficial tour to Sri Lanka in January 1976 in which Imran participated. Taken as a whole, the media believed the appointment of Mushtaq Mohammad as national captain to be a major turning-point in the history of Pakistan cricket. ‘We have seen some heated exchange of words between the Board and several of the players,’ the main Lahore morning paper conceded. ‘But those days are over. We can go to the extent of predicting our men will remain successful, peaceful and united for many decades to come.’
It lasted about nine months. Once back in Pakistan, Imran promptly joined his fellow members of the Test squad in protesting their rates of pay, which currently stood at 1,000 rupees (or £50) a man for each five-day match — substantially better than their 1971 levels, but still leaving them firmly at the foot of international cricket’s financial league table. All hell again broke loose in the press. One imaginative and much-quoted report in Lahore insisted that the dispute was really about the players’ hotel and travel arrangements, and that the entire squad would take strike action were their ‘nine-point list of perks’ not met in full. Had a request for a chauffeur-driven limousine apiece made it a round 10, there could not have been more public outrage. The whole matter came to a head in the middle of the three-Test series against New Zealand in October 1976, when the Pakistan team wrote to the board to confirm that they would down tools unless their grievances were at least taken under consideration. The board responded in kind, with a telegram stating that anyone who didn’t immediately accept the existing terms would be banned from Test cricket for life. Five of the team promptly dropped their demands. The remaining six, including Imran, were in negotiation with the board until 90 minutes before the start of play in the second Test, which Pakistan won by 10 wickets.
Not untypically, there appears to have been some misunderstanding between the two sides about the exact terms of the deal that had been thrashed out to allow the match to go forward. Imran recalls that the board chairman Abdul Kardar had ‘admitted our demands were not that unreasonable’ and ‘agreed to a full dialogue’. A fortnight later, Kardar was quoted in the press calling the players ‘unpatriotic bandits’. The board’s subsequent threat to ban the so-called rebels from the winter tours of Australia and the West Indies made headlines even in England, where a ‘distraught’ Mushtaq Mohammad suggested that he would resign from the captaincy. At that stage the Pakistan head of state, Fazal Chaudhry, intervened. The board’s selection committee (though not Kardar himself) were sacked, eventually to be replaced by a government-appointed sports authority, and the players were each awarded 5,000 rupees (£250) a Test, sufficient to ensure that the winter’s itinerary went ahead as scheduled.
Meanwhile, Pakistan had overrun the New Zealanders, with Imran taking a respectable 14 wickets (including his best Test analysis to date, four for 59, at Hyderabad) over the three matches. It possibly says something for the Pathan revenge ethic that, years later, he was to speak of his particular satisfaction at dismissing Glenn Turner, ‘who had said that I didn’t have it in me to become a fast bowler’. Although onesided, the series wasn’t entirely free of incident. Early in the proceedings, Imran had occasion to speak to the umpire in Urdu to ask him to stand back from the stumps, whereupon the non-striking batsman had requested that he confine himself to English when addressing the match officials. Some choice Anglo-Saxon expletives had followed. In the third Test at Karachi, Imran was prohibited from completing his over against Richard Hadlee and temporarily removed from the bowling attack by another umpire, Shakoor Rana, who felt he had been over-generous in his use of the bouncer.
Six weeks later the Pakistanis arrived in Australia to find that the home press didn’t much fancy their chances there. ‘COBBLERS!’ was the initial assessment of the West Australian, while the Herald Sun restricted itself to the only marginally more charitable ‘PAK IT IN!’ Dennis Lillee took the opportunity of his own newspaper column to remark that, though Pakistan had a few talented batsmen, their bowling attack (with Imran himself dismissed as ‘a trundler’) was rubbish. The first Test at Adelaide seemed to confirm the generally low opinion of the tourists. Australia got the better of a high-scoring draw, even though they lost their nerve when chasing a relatively modest 285 to win on the last day. The Melbourne Test, played over the New Year, followed a broadly similar pattern, at least up to the half-way point. Australia’s Greg Chappell won the toss and batted. A day and a half later he was able to declare on 517 for eight, Imran having been ‘tonked around’, to again quote the Herald Sun, with figures of none for 115 off 22 overs. Pakistan, who had seemed to be cruising at 241 for one, were then dismissed for 333.
Under the circumstances, and now faced by a vocally derisive 60,000-strong crowd, certain other bowlers might have quietly given up the fight. But that was rarely to be an option that appealed to Imran. In the next two sessions he took five Australian wickets, including that of Dennis Lillee, whom he clean bowled. According to those who saw it (and Lillee himself, who didn’t) it was very possibly the fastest ball ever sent down at the Melbourne ground. Richie Benaud told me that, on the basis of this performance, which proved to be in a losing cause, ‘I promptly chalked Imran up as extremely interesting.’ In Benaud’s measured technical opinion, ‘he was [quite] determined, and had markedly increased his pace and improved his balance in delivery’. Cricket, of course, is played as much with the brain as it is with the body. Here, too, Imran was quite well fixed. That same week, he had happened to meet his old sparring partner Geoff Boycott, who was spending the winter playing for an Australian club side rather than with England in India and Sri Lanka. Boycott remembers that he took Imran aside and advised him to bowl ‘really quick’, preferably aiming ‘about four inches outside off stump’ in short, controlled bursts to make the most of the conditions. The Pakistan tour management seemed to concur. Seven days after leaving Melbourne, Imran went on to take six for 102 and six for 63 in the course of the third and final Test at Sydney, which the tourists won by eight wickets. It was their first such victory in Australia, and only their fifth anywhere overseas, and a major turning-point both for the team and for the ‘Orient Express’, as the Herald Sun now hurriedly renamed him. Some of the hyperbole might have been a touch overdone, but after this match there was no longer any question that Imran was a fast bowler to be reckoned with. Both the Australian and, more particularly, Pakistani press were highly complimentary. When the reader wasn’t swept along by the lively similes — ‘like a rampant stallion’, ‘like a blistering typhoon’, ‘like a runaway truck’ and so on — there was the statistical evidence to back the imagery up: in just three innings, Imran had taken 17 Australian wickets at slightly over 16 apiece. His departure from the field at Sydney, his shirt sleeve ripped off his arm from all the effort, had brought the house down; as he led his team into the pavilion, spectators of all ages pummelled the railings of the lower terraces, and jaded critics broke into wide grins up in the press box. The next minute saw a steady crescendo in the sort of rowdy whoops and high-pitched acclaim normally associated with a major rock star. Geoff Boycott was in the home dressing-room. ‘Even the Aussie players were standing up applauding,’ he recalls. ‘They thought it was bloody fantastic.’
Imran was 24, and he was famous.
Back in England, Imran’s representatives were engaged in an as yet quiet but ugly spat with the Worcestershire committee, his decision to quit the club seemingly only hardened by his triumphs of the past 12 months. Or perhaps it would be fairer to say that there were no obvious personal confrontations before that. But by late 1976 Imran was clearly impatient to move on. In retrospect, Mike Vockins believes that it was ‘inevitable … the real reason for his departure was to be somewhere nearer London, and the party life that went with that’. Seeming to confirm this thesis, Imran’s friend and occasional landlord, the journalist Qamar Ahmed, told me that it wasn’t about ‘cricket as such … he left to have a more exciting life and to enjoy the bright lights’. Worcester must have seemed even more dreary a prospect to Imran after his having tasted international fame, although the same problem never seems to have applied to Basil D’Oliveira, the best-known sportsman in the world for a time in 1968–69 following his controversial omission from an England tour of South Africa on allegedly racial grounds. ‘I love it here,’ D’Oliveira once told me as we enjoyed the hospitality of an after-hours club in central Worcester. ‘Wouldn’t live anywhere else in the world.’
In his own quiet way, Imran now measured himself against the modern giants: Lloyd, Richards, the Chappell brothers and Lillee. Though he didn’t bluster about ‘climbing in the ring’ with Larwood and Voce in the way Fred Trueman occasionally had, he aspired to belong in their company; as Asif Iqbal recalls, he was ‘always going to do more than the rest of us’. Some of the same self-assurance was evident in Imran’s handling of the protracted judicial wranglings with Worcestershire. By all accounts, the county appears to have initially accepted the inevitable with some good grace. Dropping the club a note on a souvenir postcard while on an overseas tour, Imran wrote, ‘I am sorry to inform you that I really do want to leave … I genuinely feel guilty I’m letting [people] down, but I am afraid I have also to think whether I am happy living in a place I don’t like. Moreover I was treated pretty poorly by the club as regards my accommodation.’ ‘I was distressed to read the contents of your note,’ Mike Vockins wrote back, urging him only to ‘keep an open mind’ and ‘achieve a truly objective decision’. On 1 January 1977, the day he was to tear out the heart of the Australian batting at Melbourne, Imran was formally released from his contract and thus able to negotiate with other counties. He chose Sussex, on account of his friendship with Tony Greig as well as the club’s relative proximity to London. To his evident displeasure, Worcestershire then objected to the move, claiming to have a ‘proprietary interest’, to quote the subsequent legalese, in a player they might reasonably have felt they had discovered in the first place. Their creative solution to ‘Mr Khan’s withdrawal of labour’, as the lawyers put it, was for him to serve a suspension for the entire 1977 season, after which he would be free to play for whomever he chose.* Later that winter the parties met before the TCCB registration committee at Lord’s, where Worcestershire’s barrister cross-examined Imran over the course of two ‘intense’ sessions about his ‘capricious’ motives for leaving the county. The judicial process as a whole had been ‘almost like [a] criminal trial,’ he later complained. At the end of the hearing, the TCCB formally found Imran’s case ‘not proven’ and agreed to suspend his registration until January 1978. The curt, one-paragraph ruling made reference to ‘the player hav[ing] put forward reasons … deriving solely [from] his own personal enjoyment and social convenience to reside away from Worcestershire’. To the men in the committee room, this was ‘not grounds for his [immediate] registration with Sussex’, nor was it ‘in the best interests of competitive County Cricket as a whole’.
At that stage Imran and Sussex appealed to the 25-man Cricket Council, the sport’s ultimate governing authority in the British Isles, and a body hardly less august than the medieval Star Chamber. In due course there was another all-day hearing at Lord’s before the Council’s independent tribunal, accompanied by an epistolary scrap between the various lawyers over who exactly would pay the estimated £7,000 bill for the two proceedings. The event was umpired by Oliver Popplewell, QC, aged 50, a distinguished Cambridge University and Free Foresters wicketkeeper in his day and more recently Recorder of the Crown Court. Each side arrived for the encounter with a full complement of barristers, solicitors and expert witnesses. Among those appearing for the appelate was the former Sussex and England captain Ted Dexter, who told me:
I didn’t know Imran. But I got a call from Tony Greig seeking my help in securing a ‘free’ transfer to Sussex. Next thing I found myself speaking in a panelled room at Lord’s along these lines: ‘Imran is a very unhappy young man. He has been unable to make friends. His natural habitat is the London area and though he would prefer to move to Middlesex, Sussex is willing to ensure his access to old haunts and a reconnection with old acquaintances, male or female …’ It’s the only time in my life that I have knowingly committed perjury. I still get a cold shiver when I think back to the quizzical looks that came my way that day at Lord’s. Just as well it was not a court of law or I might have spent time inside at Her Majesty’s pleasure.
After only ten minutes’ deliberation, the tribunal found for Imran, whose ‘special registration’ for Sussex would be completed on 30 July 1977. In his ruling Mr Justice Popplewell noted: ‘We are impressed by the argument that Khan’s unhappiness was a genuine one, and that there was no evidence of financial motivation in his movement … The strict application of the requirement of 12 months prior residence [in Sussex] can be mitigated.’
It was not a universally popular decision. On 26 May, Worcestershire formally wrote to the TCCB secretary, Donald Carr (of Idrees Beg fame), to express their ‘very considerable misgivings over the procedural arrangements adopted for the Appeal’. Carr volleyed back on 29 May that the matter was ‘closed’. There was talk of some county pros refusing to play against the ‘disloyal’ Pakistani, who further earned the censure of the Cricketers Association for ‘hasten[ing] the onset of a football-style transfer system’. Reading the correspondence now, one is struck by the quaint sense of outrage at the notion that a professional athlete should feel free to take his services wherever he chose. ‘Cricket and its relationship between authority and players has suffered a grievous blow,’ the Association’s Jack Bannister thundered on 25 May. Bannister subsequently revealed that acting in his professional capacity he had ‘contacted the 17 county sides with the question, “In your dressing-room, is there a totally unanimous view either for or against the decision allowing Imran Khan to play in August?”’ The results showed nine sides ‘totally opposed’ and four sides ‘largely opposed’ to Imran, with only two in favour and one neutral. Curiously enough, according to Bannister ‘No reply [had] yet been received from Sussex, for whom John Spencer says that the players want more time to consider the matter.’
In the end, the boycott never materialised. Bannister and the other parties dropped their protest. Imran was, however, subjected to some choice abuse on his later visits to play Worcestershire. Of this Mike Vockins says, ‘I was so incensed with the crowd on more than one occasion that I felt minded to get on the PA and insist that spectators show the normal sporting courtesies, before swiftly recognising that this would just have goaded further those who behaved in that unacceptable way.’ In time Vockins himself inherited Imran’s locker in the Worcester dressing-room ‘along with some abandoned cricket gear which was in pretty dire straits. “Festering” would just about sum it up. The boys believed that on occasion, rather than getting kit laundered he rang the sponsors for a new lot and threw the old stuff in the locker.’ Despite this rather dubious personal legacy, Vockins, an eminently fair-minded man who went on to take holy orders, has ‘delightful’ memories of Imran, a view broadly shared by the current Worcestershire regime 30 years after the acrimonious events at Lord’s.
In between dressing up in a dark suit and tie to go into the witness box, Imran had continued his scintillating run of form on Pakistan’s tour of the West Indies. The first Test at Bridgetown featured some notably robust bowling from the home team’s Roberts, Garner and Croft. But even they appeared sluggish in comparison with the ‘Orient Express’, who announced himself with three consecutive bouncers to the opener Gordon Greenidge. The former England wicketkeeper Godfrey Evans told me that he had watched this blitz while standing immediately in front of the pavilion with a ‘strangely silent’ Sir Garry Sobers. While Godders himself had characteristically cheered and whistled in appreciation, his illustrious companion had merely followed proceedings with narrowed eyes. When the third ball in rapid succession ‘nearly decapitated’ the batsman, Sobers finally spoke: ‘Bit brisk, this chap.’ The words were uttered with a thin smile and seemed to Evans to be a sort of ‘royal warrant’ coming from the man who was arguably cricket’s greatest ever all-rounder. That Test was drawn, and the West Indies won the second, at Trinidad, by six wickets. Imran reports that he had lost his temper and ‘bowled appallingly’ after being attacked (something of a role reversal) by Greenidge and Roy Fredericks in the latter match. There was then another draw at Georgetown.
Following this, Imran’s tour, hitherto only intermittently dazzling, took much the same upward trajectory as it had at a comparable stage in Australia. Reviewing his performance in the series as a whole, one Jamaican paper wrote, in an only slight case of overstatement, that ‘his fame soared like a rocket and hung high over Caribbean skies for weeks’. In more prosaic terms, in the fourth Test at Trinidad Imran took four for 64 off 21 of the most hostile overs imaginable in the West Indies’ first innings. There was a moment in mid-afternoon when, with the ball flying round the batsmen’s heads and some in the crowd calling their disapproval, the atmosphere threatened to grow ‘iffy’, to again quote Evans. But Imran and Pakistan had stuck to it, eventually winning by 266 runs. The West Indies then generally did Pakistan for pace at Kingston, to take the series 2–1. Imran took six for 90 in the first innings and two for 78 in the second, as well as contributing much-needed runs in the lower middle order. Short of staying behind to sweep up the pavilion, it was hard to see what more he could have done. Unfortunately, Pakistan’s specialist batsmen failed to similarly rise to the occasion. Set 442 to win, they were soon 51 for four. At that stage, in a show of less than total confidence in the outcome, the tour management saw fit to change the date of the team’s return flight to Pakistan from Wednesday, the last scheduled day of play, to Tuesday; an admission of ‘a general lack of resolve’, Imran notes ruefully.
In the five Tests Imran took 25 wickets at 31.60 apiece. He’d clearly taken his time to find his form early in the tour, as great players frequently do in unfamiliar conditions; only mediocrity being always at its best. Generally speaking, the series confirmed that Pakistan for all their occasional frailties deserved their place at cricket’s top table. It also did no harm at all to Imran’s reputation. ‘I want to be known as a good bowler … My ambition is to dominate … What I’m always after is penetration,’ he’d once remarked. Within a few short months his textbook technique, iron will and unshakable self-confidence had convinced even the most sceptical that his targets were well within his scope.
His fame was already secure in Pakistan, where satellite technology had allowed huge numbers to watch their team’s two winter tours. As a result, cricket soon reached the plateau occupied only by soccer or rock music in Britain. This was the era in which the journalist Fareshteh Aslam refers to Imran as a combined Superman and Spiderman, ‘this exotic-looking guy doing battle on our behalf’. Mobs now followed him about, and Imran, who a year earlier had been known to stop and chat with fans at his local Lahore milk bar, learnt to hurry out of the players’ entrances of cricket grounds around the world and make his way to safety through side streets and roped-off alleyways.
As it happened, there was something of a precedent for this level of intense adulation of a Pakistani cricketer. A hard-hitting batsman named ‘Merry Max’ Maqsood had played for his country 16 times in the 1950s, while enjoying a particularly active social life. Equally famous for his strokeplay on and off the cricket field, he had soon acquired a substantial cult following. At the end of the 1954 tour of England, Merry Max had stayed behind to take a local bride. Since he was allegedly already married the news initially caused something of a splash in Pakistan, though even the Star eventually held this to be a ‘largely private matter’ between him and the lawful Mrs Maqsood. No such restraint greeted the news of Imran’s various affairs 30 years later, for which the press deployed their full, 24-point size headlines. He was the first tabloid superstar of Asian sport.
On a bitingly cold morning in late May 1977, a shaggy-haired, tanned young man wearing a silk shirt splayed open to display a gold medallion walked through the gate of the municipal cricket ground on Pavilion Lane in Rotherham, South Yorkshire. His arrival was noted by a solitary reporter, who saw the man nod to one or two friends, then sit down in one of a sea of empty seats, essentially unrecognised by those few duffle-coated spectators in attendance. The reporter was intrigued to learn the man’s identity. It was an ‘almost comically mild-mannered’ Imran, already one of the world’s most famous sportsmen, who would spend the early part of the season playing a variety of modest Yorkshire league and club matches while waiting to qualify for Sussex. He seems to have enjoyed the substantially less formal atmosphere of rural northern grounds and all the familiar icons associated with the lower reaches of English cricket: deckchairs, long grass, tiny plastic cups of volcanic tea and a sparse but surprisingly loyal fan base. Imran took the opportunity to put in place some final refinements to his bowling action, running in closer to the stumps and occasionally going round the wicket in order to stand up straighter at the moment of delivery. By the end of his first season in Sussex, he reports, he felt ‘more confident of putting the ball where I wanted it’.
That year Imran saw rather more of London than had been the case before, often staying at the Shepherd’s Bush flat of the journalist Qamar Ahmed. Also there while passing through town was another young rising Pakistani star, Javed Miandad, a ‘feisty little bugger’ of a cricketer, to quote one good friend. Javed, too, was beginning a four-year playing association with Sussex. According to Qamar Ahmed, ‘Imran was shy and not an extrovert, and remained so even after becoming an overnight star in that Sydney Test. He stayed with me off and on whenever he visited London. He was a lot younger person than me, basically quiet, and never any bother.’ Ahmed insists that Imran’s good nature extended toward his fellow house guest. ‘Javed was also very young, and competitive, when he joined Sussex. But he and Imran never spoke against each other. Even on tour overseas they were quite good mates and Imran would listen to him agreeably — in some ways Javed possessed a sharper brain cricketwise.’ For all that, the relationship would face a number of well-publicised snags in the years ahead. Imran would later be one of 10 players to issue a statement deploring Javed’s leadership of the Test side, and subsequently to refuse to play under him. Although the crisis was defused and they were to remain international colleagues for another decade, Imran appears to have harboured certain long-term reservations about the younger man’s character. ‘Javed’s man management was poor [and] he lacked the strength of will to drag the team along under his wing,’ he notes. I was told that Imran gave particularly short shrift to Javed’s ‘highly vocal’ complaints following the declaration that had left the batsman stranded on 280 in that 1983 Hyderabad Test against India. Coming across the 25-year-old Javed later that night in the Pakistan hotel, Imran reportedly remarked (in Urdu), ‘This is a team game, son. I don’t believe in playing for personal records.’
Wasim Raja considered Imran ‘deeply sensuous’ and ‘somewhat cavalier’ as a cricketer, whereas ‘there wasn’t much sensuousness’ about the practical-minded Javed. ‘In most cases, [Miandad] would have one eye on the scoreboard, while Imran didn’t give a damn about averages — nor was he ever frightened to lose, if it came to that.’ Imran was interior, self-referring; Javed was more up front and superficial, concerned with material rewards and acclaim. Another well-placed source told me that where Javed was ‘obvious’, meticulous and ambitious, Imran was laid back, affable and self-contained. ‘You could buy most of what Javed had, if not his talent. You couldn’t buy what Imran had. He had something that’s inside.’ The result, as Wasim Raja observed, was ‘much detachment, some respect and a little distrust’, all part of an occasionally dysfunctional but long-running working relationship that was to be the making of modern Pakistani cricket.
In his memoirs, Javed recalls a somewhat curious incident when he had acted as a peacekeeper between Imran and their mutual landlord Qamar Ahmed. Evidently miffed at something the journalist had written, Imran let loose one night with a whole series of complaints, including the observation that the Shepherd’s Bush flat was ‘a pigsty’. At that Ahmed rose to his and his home’s defence. ‘All of a sudden,’ Javed writes, ‘the two men were screaming four-letter words at each other and Qamar was sticking out his chest urging Imran to take a swing. I stepped in and put an end to it.’ If so, the scene would seem to reveal hitherto under-reported diplomatic skills on the part of Javed. (Wasim Raja, when I once ran the story past him, glowered in a pained way and eventually said, ‘Bit of a turnaround, isn’t it?’)
When Imran began to play for Sussex, the club found him a small ground-floor flat next to the gates of the county ground in Hove. As a result he could commute to work in a minute or two, while London was only an hour away by train. Imran initially spent much of his free time with Javed, but soon reactivated his old social life. By early in his second season at Hove, he had ‘plugged himself in like an “Open” sign’, to quote one of his county colleagues. Accounts of Imran’s dating habits differ. According to his amused team-mate, ‘Immy was on the pull in London or Brighton on average four or five nights a week.’ He was allegedly vain of his appearance. The team-mate remembers Imran standing in front of the mirror grooming himself, smoothing down his thick hair, ‘adjusting the chain round his neck so it hung just so’, then happily padding off with his ‘feline lope’. According to others, Imran was actually ‘quite relaxed’ or ‘passive’ with the opposite sex, and more inclined to the role of the hunted than the hunter. The Sussex and England bowler Tony Pigott told me he had once been in a nightclub in Brighton with Imran and the county’s South African star Garth le Roux. ‘It was a mirrorball and Bee Gees sort of place; that whole thing … After a bit Le Roux and I chugged back from the dance-floor to the table where Imran was sitting alone with his glass of milk. “Come on and meet some girls,” Garth said, only to hear Imran’s superb reply, “No, thanks. If they want to meet me, they can bloody well come over here”.’
On 9 May 1977, just as Imran was settling in to life in the Yorkshire leagues, the news broke that Kerry Packer and his Australian television network had signed some two dozen of the world’s top players to appear in an exhibition round under the name of World Series Cricket. It would be hard to exaggerate the ensuing shock in certain quarters. Among several perceived villains of the piece, the press heaped special scorn on the Sussex and England captain Tony Greig, who had acted as Packer’s recruiting agent. Greig appears to have convinced most of the players involved that a compromise would be swiftly reached whereby they would still be available for Test cricket. Imran was one of 14 non-Australians initially contracted to represent a WSC World XI in Packer’s circus, as much of the cricket establishment and media came to know it. There would be particular repercussions for Pakistan, which lost five leading players, including their captain Mushtaq, to the enterprise. For his services, Imran was paid Aus $25,000, or roughly the equivalent of £10,500, for some ten weeks’ cricket. At the time he was making a hard-earned £250 per Test, £3,000 a season for Sussex and a further £70–80 a month from PIA on the rare occasions he played in Pakistan — a total income of around £4,600 from all sources.
Although Abdul Kardar had eventually resigned as chairman of the Pakistan board after the feud about match fees, his successor Mohammad Hussain took a similarly hard line when confronted with the latest demonstration of player power. The dispute that broke out in May 1977 soon threatened to make that earlier row look like a ‘little local difficulty’ by comparison. In short order, Hussain announced that the five Pakistanis who had signed for Packer would be ‘ostracised’ from Test cricket, adding that they were ‘unpatriotic … mercenaries [of] the worst stripe’. The board went on to assure the Pakistani public that there were ‘ample quality reserves’ available to cover for the defectors — a self-confidence not entirely borne out by events, in particular the 1978 Pakistan tour of England, which was a rout.
At 9.30 in the morning of 30 July 1977, Donald Carr of the TCCB sent a telex to the secretary of Sussex confirming that ‘Imran Khan, the subject of our recent discussions’ was now free to play for the county. Two hours later, the subject in question was in action in a championship match against Gloucestershire at the College Ground in Cheltenham. He took two for 52 in the first Gloucester innings and one for 15 in the second; a respectable if not electrifying debut. Opponents, press and public were soon struck by the raw pace of the now visibly stronger, broad-chested bowler — he again took the opportunity to pepper Mike Procter with bouncers — but also by his versatility. His elegance, power and stamina (he could, and often did bowl unchanged all morning) were noted. Nevertheless, some reservations were expressed. Imran was lucky, it was agreed, to play much of his English cricket on the seamer’s paradise at Hove. Would the ‘languid-looking playboy’, as The Times called him, ‘succeed on slower wickets [or] when a really top-class batsman — Barry Richards, for example — [got] after him?’ One expert who didn’t hedge his bets was Geoff Boycott, who told me that ‘Sussex was the making of Imran. He’d had the talent but now he also had the brain and the spirit. A great competitor. Like me, he’s a dragon in Chinese astrology.’
In the event, Imran, or ‘Immy’ as, much to his distaste, he continued to be almost universally known, mocked the doubters. He took four for 66 and hit a rapid 59 (a third of his side’s total) against Glamorgan at Eastbourne. There were a further seven wickets in the win over Yorkshire at Hove, and commendably thrifty figures of 16–5–26–0 against a run-chasing Nottingham side, including Clive Rice, at Trent Bridge. Imran’s batting and bowling averages were good enough, but they failed to tell the full story: the way his best attacking shots appeared to be both fast yet totally unhurried, for instance, or how, in that curious way it has when struck by a great timer, the ball always seemed to gather pace on its way to the rope. And until statistics can indicate such factors as pride and the love of a fight they won’t adequately convey the mettle of such bowling performances as the one Imran gave in the county match against Hampshire at Hove. As mentioned, the Hove wicket often inclined to extravagant morning life, but it takes more than a helpful pitch to account for first-innings figures of five for 51 against arguably the county championship’s strongest batting line-up. Among Imran’s victims: Barry Richards.