Читать книгу Botham: My Autobiography - Ian Botham, Ian Botham - Страница 10
ОглавлениеWhen Gerry and Jan Waller accepted the invitation from their friend Brian Close to attend Somerset’s Benson and Hedges semi-final match against Leicestershire at Grace Road, Leicester on 26 June 1974 and to bring along their daughters Kathryn and Lindsay, little did they know that by doing so they were setting in motion the chain of events that was to alter their lives, the lives of their children and that of Ian Botham irrevocably.
Gerry and Lindsay arrived at the ground first after travelling down from their home in Thorne, near Doncaster, but Jan had not been feeling very well so Kath had stayed behind until her Mum had finished her day’s teaching. The pair drove down together, finally turning up at around six o’clock. In fact, Kath apparently had not been too keen on coming at all as she had just returned from a business trip, was worn out and, in any case, was meeting up with her boyfriend over the weekend!
By the time she and Jan arrived, rain had brought proceedings to a soggy halt for the day and the players were sitting around in the bar. Kath already knew some of the Somerset lads through Brian, and I had noticed her presence in a pair of navy blue hot pants and long white boots at a match at Weston-Super-Mare with more than a passing interest. She had never set eyes on me before, however, so when I sat down with the group she first asked me what I did for a living, then enquired as to whether I had watched any of the match before the rain had fallen.
‘Actually,’ I said, ‘I was playing in it.’
After recovering from that slight embarrassment the evening turned out to be fun, and Dennis Breakwell and I duly invited Kath and Lindsay out for a Chinese meal. Kath decided to drive, but as we walked through the gates she suddenly realized she had forgotten where the car was parked. We ended up walking two-thirds of the way round the ground, then sprinting the final section as the rain started to bucket down again before finally diving into the vehicle, which was in fact parked right back where we had started, having been obscured by a large van.
I don’t remember much about that evening, but I do recall making every effort to persuade Kath to come to Derby, where we were playing the following Sunday. It was at this stage that I realized I had serious competition as she told me of her arrangements regarding her boyfriend. However, my constant telephone calls, backed up by some helpful encouragement from Jan, appeared to do the trick and a few weeks later Jan, Gerry and Kath all travelled down to Taunton for a match and a meal afterwards with Closey and myself. It was after this that Jan made one of the worst character assessments of all time. ‘What a nice, quiet young man’ she told her daughter. In any case, it was clear to both of us by now that there was a mutual attraction and the courtship began in earnest.
Kath was doing a business studies course at Lanchester polytechnic in Coventry and, in between times, working for her father helping to promote high-quality drums and drumsticks used by some of the big name rock stars. Incidentally, in view of the ‘Sex, drugs and rock ‘n’ roll’ allegations that were to dog our life together in future years, it was somewhat ironic that Kath was the first to rub shoulders with rock stars like Phil Collins of Genesis and Jon Bonham of Led Zeppelin in this capacity.
As our relationship blossomed, Kath managed to arrange as many business trips as possible to coincide with my county games, and in her trusty Austin 1100 she would appear at cricket grounds in Somerset, Devon, Cornwall or wherever we happened to be playing at the time. And in September 1974, just three months after we met, I proposed.
Kath recalls the moment far more vividly than I for the simple reason that I was drunk at the time. She had been down for the weekend and we ended up at Carnaby’s nightclub in Yeovil. Although I enjoy the atmosphere of such places, I am about as expert in soft-shoe shuffling as I am at singing, so while Kath spent most of the evening dancing with one of my oldest mates, John Saunders, I spent all of it emptying the contents of various glasses down my throat. It is just possible that as the evening wore on, the amount of attention Kath was being paid by John and the amount of drink I was consuming combined to create a tinge of jealousy on my part. In any case, shortly before leaving, I took hold of Kath and announced, very matter-of-fact, ‘I’ve decided. We’ll get married’. I was eighteen at the time, Kath nineteen.
The next morning Kath sought confirmation.
‘Do you remember what you said last night?’ she asked.
‘Of course I do,’ I said.
So our future was set. The proposal was not exactly by the book, I grant you, but we were convinced it was the right thing to do, and as far as we were concerned our age didn’t matter.
Not surprisingly, however, the news brought a rather different if wholly understandable reaction from those close to us. My father Les burst out laughing, wondering how on earth I could contemplate such a move on £500 a year. Kath’s father, Gerry, humoured us initially; I don’t think he thought we were serious. But when it became clear that we were, he helped us enormously by offering me a winter job working as a one of his sales representatives.
When the summer of 1975 arrived news of our plans had to be broken to Closey, who was also Kath’s godfather. Showing remarkable courage we left that deed to Jan and Gerry, with predictable results. Closey exploded and gave them both a severe ticking off for allowing us to go ahead. He argued that we were far too young to be making such a commitment and told them that he was very concerned about Kath being married to a man who was going to be away from home so often. He was also worried that marriage might hold back my career. Later he took me to one side and warned me that if I ever did anything to upset Kath, he would be at my throat before I knew it. Then he also gave Kath a talking to along the lines of my having a lot of potential and that she would have to understand that cricket came first.
Undeterred, Kath and I kept to our plan. We had originally intended to wait for three or four years before actually taking the plunge but while attending the wedding of a friend a few weeks later, my impatience and impetuosity got the better of me. ‘Let’s get married as soon as possible,’ I suggested. So we promptly set the date for the coming January!
Having decided to live in the north, Kath found us a tiny two-bedroomed cottage in Mowbray Street, Epworth, opposite the birthplace of the methodist John Wesley, and Jan and Gerry gave us the deposit as a wedding present. Furniture was begged and borrowed and, with the help of another friend, I even managed to install a central heating system.
My only concern about the whole affair was what Kath was going to wear. I am very much a traditionalist when it comes to this kind of occasion, so you can imagine my reaction when I heard the rumour that my bride-to-be was contemplating walking down the aisle in a white trouser-suit. Suitably unimpressed, I took Jan to one side and pleaded with her to make sure that when they went to choose the wedding dress, she should do all in her power to dissuade Kath from picking anything too unusual. She did try. On one occasion, according to Jan, Kath fell in love with something pretty horrible which she had set her heart on. ‘Of course you can have it,’ said Jan, ‘but you’ll have to pay for it yourself’, and their journey home was endured in stony silence.
In the event, the only real casualty of our wedding day was ‘Jerusalem’ – the organist murdered it. So there I was, on 31 January 1976, married, housed and established in the Somerset first XI by the age of twenty.
I realized, however, that the real work now had to begin in earnest. This was the make-or-break point for me, the moment when my career could have gone one of two ways: I would either make real progress, or there was a real chance I would end up looking at an uncertain future. I was determined to succeed and, as Closey had indicated when he warned Kath of the consequences of getting married to me at such a young age, that inevitably was going to lead to difficulties in our relationship.
To put it simply, my attitude was that if the Ian Botham story was going to go anywhere, my cricket had to come first no matter what the cost. In fact, the Ian Botham story was lucky to last beyond late May, when Brian Close nearly killed me.
Closey was an appalling driver. I recall one time when he took his car into a garage for crash repairs, collected it on the same day, then returned it for more of the same less than a few minutes later. He had got a lift from Gerry to the garage, signed the papers, said ‘Thanks very much’ and drove away from the forecourt to a roundabout where, only 50 yards away and in full view of the mechanics who had just finished patching it up, he ploughed straight into the back of a lorry. Within minutes he was recircling the roundabout and limping back to the garage to ask them to mend it again.
Despite his incompetence behind the wheel I normally travelled everywhere with Brian, though one time that I didn’t will forever be etched in my memory. The occasion of my narrow escape took place after the close of play in Somerset’s match against Surrey at Guildford. After stumps had been drawn, I was sitting in the bar having a pint with my team-mate Pete ‘Dasher’ Denning. Brian said he was going back to the team hotel and I told him I would get a lift from one of the other players and would see him later, a fortunate decision on my part as it turned out. On his journey Brian went over some oil on a bend in the road and lost control of the car before smashing into a lamp post. When I saw the wreckage later I realized how lucky I had been, as the area around the passenger seat had totally caved in. Naturally, Closey didn’t have a mark on him!
At least he was doing his best for me in other respects. Called up to face the West Indies in the 1976 summer Test series, I’m sure he put in a good word for me with the England captain Tony Greig. After I scored my maiden first-class century, 167 not out, to help Somerset beat Nottinghamshire at Trent Bridge at the beginning of August, the calls for my elevation to the international side began gathering momentum.
My delight at being picked for England for the first one-day match against the West Indies at Scarborough on 26 August was understandable. But what I did not appreciate at the time, in fact until years later when it was too late to fully make amends, was the effect my single-mindedness was having on Kath.
She had been warned in advance, of course, that the life of a cricketer’s wife is seldom easy. Apart from the long separations, during which so much has to be taken on trust, when a player is attempting to establish himself in a highly competitive environment it is all too easy for him to forget, ignore, neglect or simply be blind to the needs of his partner, and that can lead to big problems. This, regrettably, was certainly the case with our relationship during those early years.
I was so focused on what I was trying to do and so self-centred in that respect that Kath, regretably, often came second on my list of priorities and that affected her deeply. During our initial courtship, I would make a point of looking out for her arrival at the ground and was the first out of the dressing room to see her at the close of play. As I began to establish myself in the Somerset team over the next couple of years, the need to be so attentive seemed to become less and less important. As I mentioned before, Kath often said to me that I was putting the team and the cricket before her. Of course, I reacted as you would expect me to at that stage of my life, by telling her not to be so silly and to cheer up and get on with it.
I know now how hurtful it was to her, for instance, when the following season she was the last to know that I had been called up for my Test debut against Australia at Trent Bridge. She had in fact been informed by my mother Marie.
‘Isn’t it wonderful news about Ian?’ Marie had said.
‘What news?’ asked Kath.
Marie told her that after their celebratory drink at the ground she had been home for some while and had been certain that I would have rung home by now to tell Kath.
Kath was fuming when I did eventually get round to calling her, particularly as I excused the oversight in typically clumsy fashion.
‘Oh, sorry, love. The lads brought me a drink and I got carried away. You know how it is.’
‘Perhaps next time you have some good news,’ she said, ‘you might consider letting me in on it. Although I do realize I am only your wife.’
Looking back on those times, this was not the only example of my thoughtlessness. Kath also got somewhat irritated when I went out with the players and dismissed her by saying, ‘Why don’t you go and have a chat with so-and-so’s wife?’ I was not deliberately trying to exclude her, although later on when it came to dealing with the latest tabloid scandal I certainly was also guilty of that. It was just that the merry-go-round was travelling at full pelt – and I didn’t want to get off.
I was living for today and letting tomorrow look after itself. I was approaching life like a single man, blissfully unconcerned about marital responsibilities – the original one-eyed jerk. The immediate result was that quite soon after we were married, Kath became very depressed, so much so that she sought medical advice. She went to see our local doctor and told him that she kept bursting into tears. He did not seem to be very helpful, but I was worse. I just couldn’t understand what all the fuss was about and so we rowed … and rowed. We were both strong-willed characters, and Kath gave as good as she got. The situation was not helped, of course, by the fact that I had insisted that we continue to live in Yorkshire while during the summer I would be based in Taunton. During the season, when the opportunity arose of spending some time at home, I then managed to make things considerably worse by disappearing for games of golf. The problem grew and the tension between us rose to such an extent that on occasions when driving the 28 miles from my parents’ house in Yeovil (where Kath would occasionally spend time) to a match at Taunton, the extent of my input into the conversation would be the occasional grunted ‘yes’ or ‘no’.
I’m happy to say that, against all the odds and most people’s expectations, Kath and I have managed to stick together through thick and thin, but I have no hesitation in saying that she deserves the lion’s share of the credit for that. How she put up with me in those early days, I’ll never know. Although this is hardly a valid excuse, I understand now that my behaviour was a symptom of being totally absorbed in my own career. My whole world revolved around cricket, the team and my mates. So by the time I got into that England side for the one-day match in 1976, I must have been pretty unbearable.
I did not exactly cover myself in glory on the field either, but I got the distinct impression from Greigy that I had done enough to be selected for the upcoming winter tour to India and Sri Lanka and to Australia for the Centenary Test in Melbourne. When I was not, to put it mildly, I sulked. Kath tells me I was hell to live with during the early part of that winter: really awful, a bear with two sore heads. Again, all I could think about was myself. Then, by the time I had settled down again and our life at home had stabilized, a telephone call from Donald Carr, the secretary of the Test and County Cricket Board, threw our lives back into turmoil.
Donald informed me that I had been selected for the Whitbread young player scholarship to Australia. I was thrilled, of course, but it had been by no means certain that I could afford to take up the offer in the first place. The scholarship, clearly intended for young single players, merely covered air fares and living expenses. I had a young wife and mortgage to look after, and although my county salary had been doubled to £1000 it looked as if the trip would be financially impossible. Fortunately for me, when I explained this to Donald, Whitbread came up with a suitable package. Then, five days after I arrived down under with Mike Gatting, Bill Athey and Graham Stevenson to begin the three-month trip, I discovered that Kath was pregnant with Liam.
Before the news broke, my first major cricketing trip abroad had been more or less purely a social one. One game, against an army side in Melbourne, was typical. After an 11 am start we stopped at lunch for what we thought would be the normal forty-minute break. In the end, after a barbecue had left us fed and watered like Royals, we staggered back on the field fully two hours later. The batting side then declared, we batted for twenty minutes, then stopped for tea. An hour later the game restarted, ran for another ten minutes then we all decided to call it a draw and pack up. I learned far more about surfing than cricket on that bizarre trip.
So while I was busy enjoying myself, Kath found herself pregnant, alone and fed up. She had no idea how to contact me so she telephoned Colin Cowdrey, who had been responsible for selecting those to go on the scholarship, and told him to pass on a message that she urgently needed to get in touch with me. Trying not to appear like the neurotic wife, she explained her reasons to Colin and he made several calls before finally tracking me down. When Kath eventually managed to get through to me on the phone, all she heard on the other end of the line was total silence.
‘Ian,’ said Kath, ‘I’m pregnant.’
No response.
‘Ian,’ she tried again. ‘I’m pregnant.’
Still no response.
‘Ian? Are you still there?’
I was, quite literally, struck dumb. Delighted with the news, of course, but I just didn’t know what to say.
If the prospect of imminent fatherhood was supposed to subdue my hell-for-leather lifestyle, nobody told me because by the time I returned to England after the Centenary Test, I had managed to get involved in a punch-up, this time with none other than the former Australian captain, Ian Chappell. One evening during the match, I was drinking in a bar with players from both sides when I overheard Chappell giving it the typical Aussie verbals and rubbishing England. In fact, he was getting so full of himself that it would have been impossible for me not to overhear him. I didn’t like what he was saying and I told him in so many words, warning him that if he carried on there would be trouble. Once again, it was a case of my simply being unable to turn the other cheek. Furthermore, if there is one thing designed to make me see red it is a loudmouth Aussie, no matter who he is. I don’t know if Chappell was aware of my reputation for thinking with my fists or whether he was intentionally goading me, but in any case he went on and on. Three times I warned him and three times he ignored me. Finally, I could take no more so I threw a punch at him. The impact sent him flying over a table into a group of Aussie Rules footballers, whose drinks were scattered to all parts. On recovering his composure, Chappell realized he had better make himself scarce, but before he did he stopped at the doorway, then turned and yelled some insult in my direction.
In a flash, I was off and running, straight across the bar and out the door, chasing him into the street. As he fled I pursued him, hurdling the bonnet of a car in the chase. I was about to catch him when I noticed a police car cruising towards us. I have done some pretty daft things in my life but even I realized that the time had come for a tactical withdrawal.
Over the years this fracas has naturally grown out of all proportion, but one rumour I would like to put right once and for all is that I went after Chappell with a bottle. The day I have to resort to that kind of cowardice is the day I know there is something seriously wrong with me. As far as I’m concerned, Ian Chappell as a human being is a nonentity. Obviously he was a great cricketer and a fine captain, but he is one person I was destined never to get on with. I know others who feel the same way about him.
Meanwhile, Tony Greig was in the process of bringing about a complete revolution in world cricket. The South African-born England captain was a showman and a terrifically aggressive cricketer, but he was also a shrewd man and he knew that for years Test cricket had undersold itself with the result that cricketers were among the paupers of international sport. He came across Kerry Packer, the Australian television magnate, a man who shared his view that something should be done to make cricket into a high-profile big business entertainment industry. Together they came up with the idea of World Series Cricket to be set up in direct competition to Test cricket, and employing the best cricketers from every country. Once the news got out during the following summer’s Ashes series in England, all hell broke loose.
Long-standing friendships foundered as a result of the split in world cricket caused by Greig and Packer. Tim Rice, writing in the Daily Telegraph, summed up the mood of the establishment when he commented: ‘Is Greig so short of a few bob that he has to go to these clandestine lengths to make a buck? If our handsome ex-captain is prepared to hawk his talents in any market place, would he like a role in Jesus Christ Superstar? I may well be able to fix it if he would let me know which part would best suit him’.
There is no doubt that many saw Tony Greig as a traitor. As far as I was concerned, he was doing cricket a great service. The International Cricket Council, the governing body of world cricket, decided that the England players involved, Greig, Alan Knott, John Snow and Derek Underwood, should not be barred from playing in the Tests coming up against Australia, but told the England selectors that Greig should not be considered for the captaincy.
Then, two weeks later, after the ICC had announced a total Test ban on all 35 players recruited to World Series Cricket, Packer and Greig took them to the High Court which then upheld their complaint over restraint of trade.
Pakistan tried to break ranks by picking their Packer players in their team against us the following winter (1978/79), but they were forced to back down once we issued an ultimatum that we would not take the field against them. Those who joined Packer were left out in the cold until he reached a compromise with the ICC and the Australian Board of Control in April 1979. This granted Packer’s Channel 9 station exclusive rights to televise Test cricket down under and, superficially at least, the issue was instantly resolved.
The wounds took a long time to heal completely, but one undeniable good thing that did come out of it was that the life of the professional cricketer would never be as financially unrewarding again. In order to discourage another breakaway movement, the TCCB realized they simply had to raise more cash and did so mainly through deals like the Cornhill sponsorship of home Test series. And subsequent innovations that turned the traditionalists purple with rage, like coloured clothing, are now considered commonplace in one-day cricket.
As far as my career was concerned the Packer affair did me more good than harm. I was never likely to be invited to join, but once the England side had been stripped of Greig I was the obvious choice to replace him as all-rounder in the long term. Furthermore, as David Gower will agree, our early days in Test cricket were made somewhat easier by the fact that opposing sides had been deprived of some of their best players.
For the moment however, it was back to England and to Kath. The 1977 season was only a few weeks away. I had enjoyed my first taste of international cricket and experienced the atmosphere in the England dressing room during a Test match. I was now even more determined to become an England regular. It was going to be a hugely important summer for me.
