Читать книгу Hoggy: Welcome to My World - Matthew Hoggard - Страница 15

I had just got out of the shower and was brushing my teeth when the call came through from David Graveney. It was June 2000 and we were living in our first house together at the time, on Moorland Avenue in Baildon, and Sarah came rushing into our little en-suite bathroom from the bedroom. She had a look of shock on her face and her eyes were about to pop out of her head. She was holding the phone out to me with one hand, pointing to it with her other and mouthing the words:

‘OH…MY…GOD…IT’S… DAVID…GRAVENEY!’

This came completely out of the blue for me. I’d been bowling quite well for Yorkshire, but I really hadn’t thought yet about playing for England. I was 23 (and a half), not long back from my second season with Free State in Bloemfontein, but I still hadn’t really played a full season of county cricket. We had a load of talented bowlers at Yorkshire at the time and, to my mind, I had my hands full just hanging onto my place at the club.

But who was I to argue with David Graveney, the chairman of selectors? I took the phone from Sarah and Grav said: ‘You’re coming down to Lord’s for the second Test against West Indies. It’s not just one of those things where we’ve picked you for the experience, so be prepared to play.’

‘Erm, right, OK. Thanks very much. Thanks for letting me know. Much appreciated.’ I don’t think I’ve ever been so polite to anyone in my life. I went back into the bedroom, told Sarah and she started jumping around the room. Then we rang our parents and everyone else we could think of to tell them. Ringing my dad was particularly special. Playing at Lord’s for England was a long way from our games messing about at Post Hill with a big tree for wickets.

As far as I knew, the stumps in Test cricket would not be a sapling six feet high and three feet wide and you wouldn’t be given out for hitting Curtly Ambrose for a six over some trees (wishful thinking, I know).

I think the game that had probably put me into the selectors’ minds was a televised Benson & Hedges Cup one-day game a few weeks earlier against Surrey at Headingley. I had a shaved, bald bonce at the time, which probably helped to get me noticed, as it would have been the first time a lot of people had seen me in action. But I didn’t bowl too badly either. The ball was swinging round corners and I got out Mark Butcher, Graham Thorpe, Ali Brown and Adam Hollioake. Not a bad haul.

When it came to the morning of the game itself, we didn’t know until shortly before the toss whether I was playing or whether they’d go for Robert Croft, the spin option. I was hoping for clouds, Crofty was hoping for blue skies, and there was actually a bit of both. It was an agonising wait. Crofty kept coming up to me and saying: ‘Do you know who’s playing yet?’

‘No,’ I’d say. ‘Do you know.’

‘No bloody idea yet.’

‘How about we say that the first one to get their whites on gets to play?’

In those situations, as your stomach churns with nerves, there’s probably a tiny part of you that thinks: ‘God, maybe my life would be a lot easier if they went for Crofty. I might get smashed everywhere if I play and never get picked again.’ But it was only about one per cent of my brain that was thinking that. The rest was praying that I would get the nod. And about fifteen minutes before the toss, Alec Stewart, who was captain for that game, came up and told me that I was in.

I vividly remember turning up in the dressing-room for that game as the new boy, never an easy experience. I was quite lucky, because there was Craig White, Darren Gough and Michael Vaughan, all Yorkshire team-mates, but it was still quite a scary place to walk into. In one corner there would be Thorpey, Stewie and Mike Atherton, the older guys, in another there’d be the likes of Andrew Caddick and Graeme Hick. It was quite a cliquey setup at that time and I can imagine it being a fairly horrible place to walk into if you didn’t know anyone. But the Yorkshire lads made it easier for me, especially Goughie, who crossed the boundaries between the different groups.

That was the era before central contracts came in and selection was much less consistent in those days. As a result, I think that players in general were a bit more concerned with looking after themselves. Not in a way that was particularly unpleasant, but in my later years as an England player there was a much more welcoming feel to the dressing room and that came about through consistency of selection. It is much easier to play for the team if you know you’re going to be part of the team for the next game. That’s not intended as a criticism of particular individuals; insecurity is a perfectly natural reaction when you’re not sure of your place in the team. But the whole experience of playing for England was just a massive thrill, especially to be starting out at Lord’s, which is always that little bit more special, especially for a wide-eyed lad from Pudsey. I particularly remember opening my big box of prezzies, containing all my different pieces of England kit, and thinking: ‘Bloody hell, do I get to keep all this?’

I was glad when we were bowling first because that meant no more waiting around to get on with the damn thing. Caddy and Goughie didn’t bowl too well to start with and the Windies were none down when I came on from the Pavilion End in the eleventh over. My first ball was to Sherwin Campbell, who absolutely slapped it, but it went straight to cover. PHEWEE! I then managed to make him play and miss a couple of times and my first over in Test cricket was a maiden, which helped me to breathe a big sigh of relief.

I bowled okay in that initial spell, but didn’t get any wickets and got a bit of a tap in my last couple of overs. As a first bowl in Test cricket, though, it could have gone worse.

I also took a catch when Campbell top-edged a hook off Dominic Cork to fine leg. I made a right old meal of it, rolling over backwards after I’d caught it. It was swirling in the air† for ages and I could feel my heart thumping in my chest like a drum. But I clung on, heard the crowd cheer and thought, ‘Yep, I could get used to this.’

In the second innings, the West Indies were bowled out for 54, which wouldn’t even have been a good score down at Post Hill with a big tree for stumps. I didn’t bowl in the second innings, but I can’t say I was too disappointed, because wickets were falling all the time. Piece of cake, Test cricket.

Then, of course, we had a run chase in the fourth innings that didn’t quite go according to plan. Chasing 188 to win, we still needed 39 when Nick Knight was the seventh man out and, as number eleven, I had to put my pads on. At that stage, I’m not ashamed to say, I was ABSOLUTELY POOING MYSELF.

The situation only got worse when Caddy was lbw to Ambrose, leaving us 160 for eight. For anyone on their Test debut, that would be a fairly nerve-wracking situation. For a number eleven batsman potentially going out to face Curtly Ambrose and Courtney Walsh with a Test match in the balance, it just didn’t seem fair. I didn’t get picked for England to score runs, but that, I thought, was how I was going to be judged. And this was the second match in a five-Test series, with England already 1-0 down, so if we lost at Lord’s, the series was as good as gone.

I just sat there in the dressing-room, rigid in my seat with all my body armour on: helmet, chest guard, arm guard, thigh pad, bat between my legs, resting my chin on the top of the handle. I’d actually batted quite well in the first innings, when I got 12 not out, slogged Curtly and survived a few balls that whistled past my lugholes. But that wasn’t giving me any more confidence in this situation.

One second I’d be thinking: ‘Please, please, please don’t let me have to go in.’ Then, a couple of moments later, another thought would flash through my mind: ‘What happens if we only need four to win and I go out and bash one through the covers to do it?!’ No. Calm down, Hoggy, calm down. How about: ‘What happens if it’s four to win and I miss a straight one?’ Far more likely.

For every run that was scored by Corky or Goughie, everybody was on their feet. For every ball that was stopped by a fielder, there was a groan of disappointment. I just stayed silent. Then Corky nudged Walsh through the off-side for four, we had won and everybody was jumping around, screaming and celebrating like mad. So I did the same.

The next Test was at Old Trafford, on a more spin-friendly surface, so Crofty came back into the side and I wasn’t required for the rest of the series, but I was picked for the winter tours to Pakistan and Sri Lanka. Much to my surprise, I found Pakistan a most hospitable place to a seam bowler, at least as far as the wickets for practice matches were concerned. On pitches that seemed to have been tailor-made for me, I managed the ridonculous stat of taking 17 wickets in two first-class matches. Mind you, I seem to remember Marcus Trescothick turning his arm over and conning a few people out with his wobbly seamers, so taking wickets can’t have been that difficult.

Despite picking up all those wickets, I didn’t get a sniff at the Test side because Caddy and Goughie were well established as the first-choice quick bowlers. They were a good opening pair who complemented each other well: one was a lanky git, the other a short arse; one a bit short of self-belief, the other with enough confidence for both of them and the rest of the team put together. They worked well together, but I don’t think I’ve ever seen such a keen rivalry between two players in the same team.

On one tour to the subcontinent, Caddy developed a habit of occasionally coming off the field during the warm-up games. Nothing unusual there; bowlers often do that in the build-up to a Test series to rest a niggle or strain. But during one warm-up match, he came off the field when we hadn’t taken too many wickets and the opposition were scoring plenty of runs. Goughie was not amused, and at the end of the day’s play he had a go at Caddy. ‘I’ve been sweating my bollocks off out there, busting a f***ing gut while you sit on your arse in the dressing-room. You’re not f***ing injured, but if you do that again, I’m going to break your f***ing legs.’

That was not an untypical exchange between them. They were mates, up to a point, and keen for the other one to take a few wickets, as long as they were taking more wickets themselves. I reckon that each of them always kept a precise tally of how many Test wickets the other had taken. How petty can you get? Both of them are good pals of mine, but I would never dream of slipping into a conversation with either of them the fact that Goughie took 229, Caddy got 234 and I got 248. The thought would simply never enter my head.

Anyway, back to my early days with England. After failing to make much headway on the tours to Pakistan and Sri Lanka, I had to wait until the following season for my first Test wicket. I was called up for my second cap against Pakistan at Old Trafford, where I managed to pick up three wickets in each innings. There had been plenty of times in the preceding eleven months, since my debut against West Indies, when I had wondered whether I would ever take a Test wicket, but the all-important first one came when Younis Khan shouldered arms to one of my devilish outswingers that fails to swing. And I’m not absolutely sure that the ball was going on to hit the wickets.

BUT WHO CARES? I’D WAITED ALMOST A YEAR FOR THIS!!!

A few overs later, I had Inzamam-ul-Haq caught, slicing a drive to Ian Ward in the gully. Now that one was definitely out and I was beginning to feel a bit more like a proper Test cricketer.

Unfortunately, I injured my knee shortly afterwards and missed the whole of the 2001 Ashes series. Maybe my body sensed that there was a very good team coming up and decided to give me a break. That ailment also meant that I only played seven matches in the season that Yorkshire won the County Championship for the first time in thirty-three years. I was still working my way back to full fitness with a few one-day games when the title was wrapped up against Glamorgan at Scarborough, but I was fit enough to join in the celebrations. It was a particular triumph for David Byas, our long-suffering captain, and Darren Lehmann, our incomparable overseas player who was such an influence on my generation at Yorkshire.

The first time I encountered Darren, or ‘Boof’, as he is universally known, I was a second-teamer turning up to practice at the start of a new season. On days like that, you have a look around to check out for the usual suspects and for any unfamiliar faces. I remember saying to Chris Silverwood: ‘Spoons, who’s that short, fat bastard over there?’

‘That’s the new overseas player,’ Spoons said.

‘It can’t be,’ I said. ‘He’s fat.’

But one look at Darren Lehmann with a bat in his hand and we knew immediately what a class act we had on our hands. This is someone who makes the game look ridonculously easy. He could have walked into other any Test team in our era and he should have played much more for Australia. His confidence, his personality and his competitive steeliness worked wonders in the Yorkshire dressing-room.

As captain we had David Byas, who was strict, straightforward and basically had the attitude: ‘I’m the captain, you’re not and I don’t really care if you like me, you’ll do as I say.’

Boof, as senior pro and vice captain, was a good foil. He was one of the lads, but if a bollocking needed to be given he wouldn’t hesitate to hand it out. He’s a laid-back guy, but knows exactly when to flick the switch to go into his match mode. That is a difficult balance for a player to strike; few people can do it successfully, but then few people have been as good as Darren Lehmann.

Yes, he liked a beer or three after a game and he was a bit old-fashioned in that way, but you would never find him giving less than his all in a match. I’ll never forget playing in the game after the championship had been clinched at Scarborough in 2001. Two days afterwards, we had a Sunday League game against Nottinghamshire and, in the celebrations of the previous two nights, Boof had certainly not taken a back seat. This was evident from the fact that, before he went out to bat on the Sunday, there was still a pool of champagne left in his upturned helmet from the post-match party we had held in the dressing-room.

When the second wicket fell against Nottinghamshire and his turn had come to bat, he picked up his helmet, swigged the champagne from it, popped it on his head and announced: ‘Right, watch this, boys. This could be special.’

He was as good as his word. He proceeded to score 191 off 103 balls, which was one of the most amazing innings I’ve ever seen. He was playing some incredible shots, down on one knee, hitting it over the keeper’s head, swatting it between fielders with one hand, pretty much doing as he chose. Nobody else could have played an innings like it. It was extraordinary.

A few years later, I shared a bit of a stand with Boof against Sussex at Arundel when the ball was reverse-swinging all over the shop. James Kirtley was curving it wickedly away from me one ball, then back into me next ball, I didn’t have a clue which way it was going to go from one ball to the next. So at the non-striker’s end, Boof said: ‘I think you need a bit of help here, Hog. I’ll have a look at how the bowler’s holding the ball in his run-up. If I hold the bat in my right hand, it’s coming in to you. If I hold my bat in my left hand, it’ll go away. If my bat’s in between, I haven’t got a clue.’ And every time he went right or left, he was absolutely spot on. I had a marvellous time, suddenly started looking like a competent batsman, and there were some looks of genuine surprise on the faces of the Sussex fielders.

In that same innings, Mushtaq Ahmed was bowling at the other end from Kirtley. Boof had reached his 100 by this time and he was ready for a bit of fun, so he said: ‘Right, Hoggy, where do you want me to put Mushy’s next ball?’

I had a look around the ground and said: ‘Oh, just plonk it on top of that marquee, will you, Boof?’

The next ball was fullish in length. Boof bent down to sweep, put his bottom hand into it and duly deposited the ball on top of the marquee at mid-wicket, as requested.

‘OK, Hog, where shall I put the next one?’ he said. ‘I think I’ll go over mid-on this time.’ Sure enough, Mushy’s next ball disappeared over mid-on, and I started creasing myself as I wandered down the wicket.

‘OK, Boof, what’s next?’ I asked.

‘We’re gonna run two into the covers, OK?’

And you can guess what happened next ball. He called it perfectly. If I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes, I’m not sure I’d have believed it.

And this was against Mushtaq Ahmed, not some second-rate bowler just called up from the second team. I’ve seen plenty of other people try a stunt like this and come a cropper, predicting that the next ball would be a bouncer only to have their middle stump ripped out by a yorker. I might even have been guilty of trying it myself on the odd occasion.

But Boof was different. It was a privilege to play alongside him. And a hell of a giggle.

The winter after we won the championship with Yorkshire, I underwent something of a dramatic transformation as an international bowler. Without so much as playing another game for England, I went from being a novice who had only played two Tests to become the leader of England’s attack. Compared with Jimmy Ormond (one cap), Richard Johnson and Richard Dawson (both uncapped), I was a grizzled, gnarled veteran with the grand total of six Test wickets. We were supported by a couple of all-rounders in Andrew Flintoff and Craig White, but this was hardly an attack to make Sachin Tendulkar toss and turn at night.

This was the tour that came shortly after the 9/11 terrorist atrocities in the US and Andrew Caddick and Robert Croft had opted not to tour. Alec Stewart and Darren Gough had already decided to take the winter off and Mike Atherton had just retired. As a result, we were huge underdogs, there was very little expected of us, but we scrapped and scrapped for everything, and did fairly well to restrict India to a 1-0 win in the three-Test series. Myself and Freddie both did our bit with the ball, and pride was certainly maintained.

This was also the Test series when Phil Carrick’s prediction that VVS Laxman and I, both former team-mates at Pudsey Congs all those years ago, would play each other in a Test match came true. Seven years after he had made it, I was walking onto the outfield at Mohali to warm up for the first Test and I saw Lax having a net with the rest of the Indian lads at the other side of the ground. I looked up to the sky and said: ‘Who’d have thought it, Ferg? You were right.’

Taking on the might of India with a group of spotty youths, we needed a strong and stern headmaster to guide us in the right direction. We had just the man in Mr Nasser Hussain, who did a great job in keeping order in the class. Not that I always saw eye-to-eye with him, and there were a few occasions when I thought I might end up getting the cane. At the end of that first Test in Mohali, we had a massive barney. Or rather, he had a massive barney at me.

We’d been pretty much outplayed throughout that game and our batting had collapsed fairly meekly to 235 all out in the second innings, just avoiding an innings defeat. India then needed only five runs to win, so they opened the batting with Iqbal Siddiqui, a tail-end slogger who had batted at number ten in the first innings.

Nasser didn’t like them doing this. I think he was fairly insulted. As I was opening the bowling, he told me to bounce Siddiqui and make them think twice about doing this sort of thing again. Even though they only wanted five to win, he wanted to show that we were still scrapping.

So Muggins here thought: ‘Bollocks to that, I’m going to try to get him out.’ So I pitched the ball up outside off stump. It was quite a good ball, Siddiqui had a go at it and snicked it through the slips for four. Next ball he clipped one through the leg-side and it was game over.

Back in the dressing-room, I got the biggest bollocking of my life. ‘If I tell you to bowl a f***ing bouncer, I want you to run in and bowl a f***ing bouncer!’ Nasser yelled in my face. ‘You don’t see f***ing McGrath and f***ing Ambrose coming in and bowling piddly half-volleys on leg stump.’ And so it went on. ‘F-this, F-that and F-the F***ing other.’ All of which basically amounted to me getting an almighty bollocking for failing to defend a TARGET OF FIVE.

This happened in front of everybody else in the dressing-room and it made me really upset. When we had to go back out onto the field for the presentation ceremony, I was standing on my own with tears in my eyes. It was my third Test match and I’d just been given the rollicking of my life by the captain when I barely felt that I deserved it. I had people coming up to me and putting their arm round me telling me not to worry about it. But it was a bit late for that.

A couple of hours later, back at the hotel, I was still seething in my room when there was a knock on the door. It was Duncan Fletcher, the coach. I hadn’t had much to do with Fletch up to this point, because he tended to keep himself to himself in the dressing-room and only intervene when he felt it necessary. He clearly felt it necessary this time and said: ‘Don’t take it personally. Nass was just really het up. You didn’t deserve it.’ Half an hour later there was another knock on the door. Nass walked in and gave me a cuddle, told me that he was sorry and walked out again.

Fair enough. That was Nass. He was a very intense, very fiery character, but deep down he can be a really lovely, compassionate guy. When his emotions got the better of him, he could be a complete and utter twat, but I don’t think he ever meant badly. Nass was Nass.

The first time I had encountered his temper had been on that first tour to Pakistan the previous winter. At one of the Test matches, I was one of three or four twelfth men who would take it in turns, session by session, to run errands out onto the field, while the other twelfth men stayed to look after the dressing-room.

On one of the sessions that I was on duty, Nasser had just been dismissed. At the fall of the wicket, I’d done my duty by running down to look after the batsman out in the middle, Mike Atherton, taking him a spare pair of gloves, a drink and some ice. I then went back up to the dressing-room, sat down in my seat and started sending a text message to my missus. (Those were the days when we were still allowed mobile phones in the dressing-room.)

All of a sudden, across the other side of the room, Nasser erupted: ‘I’ll get my own f***ing drink then, shall I?’ he shouted at me. At this time, he was sitting right next to the fridge and could have reached over to open the door himself to get a drink. I was sitting miles† away from the fridge, presuming that I’d done my duties by attending to Athers. But poor old Nass was a bit upset at getting out and I was in the firing line. I heard a couple of the lads sniggering behind me but didn’t think it wise to join in. I don’t think Nass was in the mood to see the funny side at the time.

So I had plenty of run-ins with Nass because he was a strict disciplinarian as captain and, in those days, I was one of the class clowns. There was one practice day during a one-day series in Zimbabwe when I had taken to making chicken noises all day. I can’t remember why, but I’m sure there was a very sensible, grown-up reason for doing so. For some reason, Nass was getting a bit fed-up of the chicken noises, so he bought Chris Silverwood into the dressing-room and said: ‘Spoons, your job is to keep that twat over there quiet. If I hear any more bird noises out of him. I’m sending the pair of you back to England.’ Spoons and I looked at each other and both started clucking at the top of our voices. Nasser just burst out laughing, shouted, ‘Piss off,’ and legged it out of the dressing-room. Just as well he saw the funny side, really. I wouldn’t have wanted my international career to end for making a few bird noises.

His stricter side was more evident out in the middle. Whenever I bowled a bad ball, I’d turn round to walk back to my mark and see him kicking the dirt at mid-off, which I’m not sure was the most constructive of responses. But Nass did a hell of a lot of good for English cricket while he was captain. He is an immensely passionate person and that rubbed off on a lot of people. His relationship with Fletch was the catalyst for our recovery. They started the consistency of selection that helped to create such a healthy dressing-room environment. Once the older brigade had gone, you wouldn’t just go out with your mates in the same groups for a meal in the evening. Anybody could go out with anybody else.

I think that tour to India, with such a young team, gave Nass and Fletch the opportunity to really stamp their mark on the England team and its culture. And in the longer term we were much better for it.

For the tour that followed to New Zealand in early 2002, we had a couple of older heads back on board and drew the Test series 1-1. The first Test in Christchurch was one of the most bizarre in history, played on a drop-in pitch that seamed about all over the place to start with and then became flatter as the game went on. Nass made a magnificent hundred out of 228, then I got seven for 63 as we skittled them for 147. Nice to have a slightly friendlier pitch to bowl on after slogging away on those dead tracks in India.

We then set New Zealand 550 to win after Thorpey had made a double-century and Fred hit his first hundred, so our victory was just a matter of time. Or so you would have thought.

By now, the pitch was as flat as a fart and Nathan Astle started to chance his arm. The result was that he scored the fastest double-hundred in Test history, hitting sixes left, right and centre. It was a freakish innings. The ball kept going just over someone’s head, or landing just out of somebody else’s reach, but he certainly made the most of his luck.

Chris Cairns had been injured and came in at number eleven—he only came in because they had an outside chance of victory—and when they whittled the target down to fewer than 100 to win, we were feeling seriously jittery. I don’t think we’d have been allowed back to England if we had conceded 550 to lose a Test. Come to think of it, I’m not sure we would have wanted to return. So just when I was wondering whether I would be spending the rest of my life shearing sheep in New Zealand, I managed to get Astle out, caught behind by James Foster off a slower ball. There was a photo in the papers the next day of me celebrating and all the veins looked like they were going to pop out of my neck. We were that relieved.

We may have only drawn the series but I took seventeen wickets in the three Tests and was starting to feel like this Test cricket lark might not be quite so bad after all. As ever with this game, though, you can never make yourself too comfortable. The saying that you are only as good as your last game is one of sport’s biggest clichés, but as an international cricketer it’s something you’re of aware of all the time. You could play like a king one game, but then as soon as you mess up in the next match the first game may as well have never happened. Get ahead of yourself and the game will catch you up and bite you on the bum.

In the first Test of the 2002 English season, against Sri Lanka at Lord’s a couple of months later, I really struggled. I took a couple of wickets, but I went for more than four an over and I was some way short of my best. To make matters worse, before the second Test at Edgbaston I played a Benson & Hedges Cup game for Yorkshire against Essex and got knocked around by Nasser Hussain, of all people, who hit a hundred. Great timing to come up against the England skipper when I was scraping the barrel for anything resembling form.

When I turned up at Edgbaston, my confidence levels were fairly low and Duncan Fletcher knew it. Whether Nass had had a word in his ear or not, I don’t know. In the old changing-rooms at Edgbaston there was a small coach’s office off to one side, and Fletch called me in. ‘Uh-oh,’ I thought. ‘This could be bad news.’

‘Sit down, Hoggy,’ said Fletch. So I did, and held my breath. ‘I just wanted to ask you whether you want to play in this Test match,’ he said.

‘Hell, yes, of course I do, Fletch.’

‘Do you think you are confident enough to play?’

Difficult question to answer. I wasn’t feeling on top of my game and there had been a bit of debate about whether I should hang onto my place. But if you tried to pick and choose your games at international level, waiting until you felt on top form, you’d be no use to anyone.

‘I know I haven’t been at my best in the last couple of weeks, Fletch, but I’m desperate to make it up in this game and, yes, I’ll back myself to do so. I definitely want to play.’

I was lucky at this point that I’d had a good winter in India and New Zealand and this was the time that Fletch was really trying to impose some consistency in the selection. He showed faith in me, gave me another chance and I was extremely chuffed to be able to repay that faith. I took a couple of top-order wickets in the first innings, got 17 not out with the bat, helping Thorpey to add 91 for the last wicket, and then picked up a five-fer in the second innings. We won by an innings and I was named Man of the Match.

I was ecstatically happy after that game, pleased that I’d justified Fletch’s confidence in me and proud that I’d shown the balls to stand up and fight my corner. We had a team meal after the game and then went out to the Living Room in Birmingham. As David Brent would say, ‘El Vino did flow.’

That evening, I was due at my friend Tony Finch’s house on the outskirts of Birmingham for a barbecue. Sarah had gone there to wait for me and Allan Donald was there with Tina, his wife, and their kids. By the time I rocked up in a taxi rather late in the evening, I could barely speak. To get myself to Finchy’s house, I had to ring him up and pass the phone to the taxi driver because I was in no state to pass on directions.

We finally got there and I continued to have a thoroughly marvellous time until it was time to for Sarah and me to go home in a taxi with AD and family. The only memory I have of that journey home is of Hannah, AD’s oldest, saying: ‘Daddy, why has Matthew got his head out of the window?’

AD said, ‘I don’t think he’s feeling too well, Hannah.’

So I was back on track and I then had a decent enough series against India, with the exception of Headingley, where the ball swung all over the place, they got 600-plus and, try as I might, I just couldn’t make Rahul Dravid play. It swung and he left it, time and again.

I had a chat with Fletch about what was going wrong and he suggested that I go wider on the crease, but I wasn’t sure that he was right on this one. At very least, I wanted to try it out for myself, so between Tests I did a bit of work on my bowling with Steve Oldham, the Yorkshire bowling coach whom I respect. I practised quite a bit and, when I got to the Oval for the next Test, I told Fletch that I thought I’d solved my problems. When he watched me bowling, he said: ‘You’re just going wider on the crease. That’s exactly what I told you to do a week ago. Why didn’t you listen to me then?’

That was absolutely fair enough, but I had just wanted to try it out for myself and, before I made a major change in a Test match, to be comfortable and happy in myself that I was doing the right thing. I suppose what it really came down to is that I can be a stubborn sod at times, and Fletch is very stubborn as well, so there were a few occasions when immovable object met immovable object and friction was created as a result.

I played in all seven Tests that summer and I was the leading wicket-taker against both Sri Lanka and India, so I must have done a few things right along the way. And at the end of the season, before we set off for my first Ashes series in Australia, I was awarded a central contract by the ECB. This meant better pay and a workload managed by the England coach. For the first time in my career, my job description was primarily to be an England player, rather than a Yorkshire player who might occasionally play for England. I won’t say that this meant I felt like part of the furniture or settled in the side, but it was at least a bit of evidence that the management had some confidence in my ability. Either that or they just wanted to make sure they could keep a closer eye on me. Whatever the reason, my main bosses were now at Lord’s rather than Headingley, and I didn’t even have to move to London. But it was beginning to look as though I might be a proper England player after all.

†HOGFACT: A cough or sneeze makes the AIR in the human respiratory system move faster than the speed of sound. So if someone sneezes right in front of your face, you’ve got to be pretty sharp to get out of the way.

†HOGFACT: The average housewife walks ten MILES a day around the house. I wonder how much of that is walking to the telephone and back to natter to her mother or her friends?