23 – 29 August: Cricket in the Sun

The cricket ground at Cheriton Road, Folkestone was functional, with a concrete crescent of a terrace forming a stand about ten rows deep that spread out either side of the brick pavilion and around half the ground. Most of the other half  was occupied by the marquees that moved around Kent from cricket week to cricket week, temporary homes for men in suits and (fewer) ladies in hats. Put it in a city and it would be forgettable. Located as it was with a view of the North Downs, rolling down towards Dover where they became the White Cliffs, it was one of my favourite grounds.

Peter Marson’s scene setting of the second day of the match against Surrey in The Times tallies with my recollection of that week as something close to idyllic.

“Here was the perfect summer’s day, sunny with a light breeze to caress furrowed brows. Undulating Kentish Downs, etched against the palest blue skies, completed the picture”.

I got a lift from Canterbury to Folkestone in a Morris Traveller driven by a man called Frank in which a passenger was Harold Warner, something of a historian of Kent cricket. Even in this hot summer he was wearing his traditional waistcoat, jacket and mac, topped by a Homburg. As boys they watched Freeman, Woolley, Ames and Chapman, perhaps even Wilfred Rhodes who played in the nineteenth century. I have seen Brook, Bethall and others who may be active into the 2040s.

We went via the route that the Romans designed, arrow straight down Stone Street, then across the Kentish countryside to Rhodes Minnis and Lyminge and on to Folkestone. That was the way I used forever after and still do whenever I return to Kent.

Asif Iqbal, who always enjoyed Folkestone, got the week under way with a glittering hundred. Many a swordsman have not been as fleet of foot or flashed a blade as proficiently as Asif at Cheriton Road. Three years later, after he launched a similar onslaught against Gloucestershire, causing cover fielder Jim Foat to miss the following day’s Sunday League game with bruised hands.

The other contender for innings of the week was by Viv Richards, who made a rapid, fierce 122. Brian Luckhurst could not compete aesthetically with these two overseas players but scored more runs than anybody else that week with a hundred, a ninety and a sixty. It was good to see him getting past the trauma of the previous winter. Graham Johnson rediscovered the early season form that had him talked about as a possible test-match selection and made a hundred in the win against Somerset.

The decisive bowling that won that game was by Bernard Julien who had gone into the game as a batter only because of injury. In Underwood’s absence he reverted to slow bowling in the final stages of the game and took five for 55 to finish things off. As a slow bowler Julien could bowl in both orthodox and unorthodox mode. When he joined Kent he was, most unfairly, touted as the next Sobers, because of promise and his ability to bowl in different styles. Kent did not make the most of Julien’s ability, batting him low in the order even after a Lord’s test century and not providing the structure that would have enabled him to get the most from his ability. Bob Woolmer, this week batting at No 5 for England, was another who should have been higher up the order much earlier.

Here is Henry Blofeld’s report on the first day of the Somerset match.

 

I missed Julien’s decisive bowling on the final day of Folkestone week as I was at the Oval for the second day of the final test. As was (mercifully briefly) the custom for unresolved Ashes series at that time, a sixth day had been added. As we will see, this did no more than act as a sedative, a disincentive to moving things along.

As John Woodcock described “Yet again it was fiercely hot and beautifully sunny” as I took my seat in the open section of the Vauxhall Stand. I saw 271 runs for the loss of eight Australian wickets, pretty standard for for a day’s test cricket at the time, but possibly the most entertaining of the six days, which gives you a picture of the game as a whole. It began unusually with two centurions resuming. McCosker scored only one more before being caught by Roope in the slips off Old, but Ian Chappell added another fifty, finishing with 192. Doug Walters made a rare English half-century but never looked comfortable. He was stuck on 49 for so long that a wag near me shouted “I have a ticket for Tuesday if anyone wants to see Walters get his fifty”.

As was the case through much of the seventies, the Oval was geologically slow, making scoring runs and getting out equally challenging, the worst of all pitches. It took the genius of Mikey Holding the following year to produce a win in such conditions. In 1975, a draw was assumed to be the denouement from early on. John Arlott was moved to quote Andrew Marvell in his report on the second day:

“Yonder all before us lie / Deserts of vast eternity at least it must feel like that to more English batsmen than read him regularly”.

 Spare a thought for Keith Fletcher, whose treatment by the selectors in 1975 would be regarded as cruel and unusual these days. Picked for the first test when he deserved a break after the travails of the Australian tour, he was then dropped despite scoring England’s only fifty. He was then recalled at Headingley, a venue at which he had never fared well after a disastrous debut when he was picked ahead of local hero Phil Sharpe. Then he was dropped again for the Oval, a ground on which he had made 122 in similar conditions the year before. Instead, he was leading Essex against Northamptonshire with Alan Gibson watching:

“They do not seem pleased with Fletcher in Essex at present, or perhaps it is that so many Yorkshiremen take their holidays at Southend”.

Yorkshiremen were more cheerful than at most times in the seventies as they led the Championship, but had only two games to play when all their pursuers had three, so would inevitably be overtaken unless a national deluge intervened.

Performance of the week was Robin Hobbs’ hundred for Essex against the Australians. It took him 40 minutes, the fastest since Percy Fender took 35 minues for Surrey against Nottinghamshire in 1920.

Curiosity of the week occurred at Lord’s where Middlesex suffered two bowlers taking eight wickets in an innings against them for different sides on successive days. What’s more, both were career bests for international players, first John Snow with eight for 87 for Sussex, then David Brown, eight for 60 for Warwickshire. Snow ridiculed reports that Middlesex had been blown away by his pace, claiming that he had mostly bowled off spin (Snow took six of his wickets on the second day, for the sake of accuracy).

Sunday found me among 10,000 spectators at Mote Park, Maidstone, a ground that could accommodate no more than a fifth of that number comfortably. If I was lucky, I got a seat in the pavilion or on the small area of concrete terracing. Otherwise, it was a piece of four-by-two perched improbably on ill-suited logs, if at all. Kent were beaten comfortably by five wickets, ending our chances in the Sunday League in 1975. The trophy was delivered to us by helicopter at the same venue a year later.

It was a wonderful week.

14-20 June 1975: Swing it like Happy Gilmour

 

Public interest in the World Cup was increasing as it moved towards its climax. Its success was clear. On Saturday New Zealand beat India to take what would become our traditional semi-final spot. India’s respectable 230 was passed with an over to spare thanks to Glenn Turner’s unbeaten 114, his second century of the tournament.

East Africa continued with their strategy of making the (sparse) crowd regret that they had paid good money to go to the cricket. They took 53 overs to make 92 in answer to England’s 290. John Snow took four for 11.

Sri Lanka weren’t much different: 138 in 51 overs chasing (or not) Pakistan’s 330.

Even though it meant nothing in terms of qualification, the game of the day was Australia v West Indies at the Oval, with immense interest in how the Caribbean batters would face up to the sensation that was Lillee and Thomson. The prospect was sufficiently intriguing to tempt Hugh McIlvanney into a rare visit to the cricket. His report in The Observer demonstrated an insight beyond that of most regular cricket correspondents and shows why he was widely regarded as the best sports writer of his era.

 

It was the West Indian quicks rather than the Australians who won the day. Kent’s Bernard Julien—I’d forgotten what an striking loping run he had—, Keith Boyce and Andy Roberts reduced Australia to 61 for five, with the help of a brilliant run out of Walters by Greenidge at mid-wicket. When an RAF flypast connected with the Trooping the Colour ceremony was seen at about this point Richie Benaud said that it was to mark the first Australian boundary.

Edwards and Marsh put on 99 before the second batch of five wickets fell for 32, leaving the West Indians with an obviously inadequate target of 193. After losing Greenidge early, Fredericks and Kallicharran put on 124 for the second wicket. The Warwickshire left-hander carried his fine county form into the World Cup and took it to Lillee in particular, with four fours in one over, leaving the great fast bowler with one for 66 off ten overs.

Anybody younger than 40 would not understand how difficult it was to keep up with this game. Because of the pageantry at Horseguards there was no live coverage for the first hour or so. Thereafter, the Oval game had to share space with the England match, racing from Bath and show jumping from Hickstead. There was sparse radio commentary, and it was pre-teletext, so basically a live-scores Stone Age.

Their defeat meant that Australia faced England at Headingley while the West Indies played New Zealand at the Oval.

For the Australians, it was a return to Headingley where they had been defeated in three days on a fusarium infested pitch perfect for DL Underwood to run through them, which is exactly what he did. To this day, mention Headingley ’72 to any Australian and they will slam their glass on the table and allege conspiracy and chicanery. It must be on the Australian schools curriculum in the Wrongs Done to Us section given roughly equal weight with the Japanese bombing of Darwin. What unfolded that Wednesday was seen as payback, as the Leeds gloom provided perfect conditions for Gary Gilmour’s left-arm swing.

Gilmour’s career consisted of dramatic entrances that created expectations that he did not come close to living up to. A century on debut for New South Wales; 52 and four for 75 on Test debut against New Zealand. Then the World Cup semi-final at Headingley. A late selection to replace Ashley Mallett when the Australians saw how grassy the pitch was, he took six for 14 as England were rolled for 93, then shared a partnership of 55 with Doug Walters to take Australia from 39 for six to a four-wicket victory. As we will see, Gilmour had another good day at Lord’s in the final, but there was hardly any more. Not quite a one-match wonder in the manner of Bob Massie, but not that far off. Unfulfilled promise for a player who the great left-armer Alan Davidson thought was a better player than he had been early in their careers. Gideon Haigh's profile of Gilmour for CricInfo suggests that a "light-hearted" approach to training did not help.

It could have been even worse for England on one of those Leeds days when the grey Yorkshire skies allowed the ball to go in any direction bar straight; they subsided to 37 for seven. Skipper Mike Denness top scored with 27, sporting a resemblance to the captain of the Titanic stoically on deck after iceberg Gilmour had holed his craft with irrevocable consequences. Only Arnold joined him in double figures. When Australia lost four wickets for seven runs the home side briefly became unlikely favourites, but Walters and Gilmour saw them home, helped by the first sight of the sun that day.

The other semi-final was much more prosaic. New Zealand’s 158 was about a hundred short of what was needed against the confident West Indian batting. Julien was agin in form with four for 27. A second-wicket partnership of 165 between Greenidge and Kallicharran settled it.

On the Sunday of that week I was at St Lawrence for the 40-over game against Worcestershire, one of the better examples of the genre. The visitors made what by the standards of the time was a massive 231 for four, Alan Ormrod batting through the innings for an unbeaten 110. How we missed the restraint that Derek Underwood imposed. Kent were 184 for one (Luckhurst 53, Johnson 88) but had fallen behind the clock. Four wickets fell quickly and things seemed hopeless when Colin Cowdrey, greeted as a hero after the announcement of his retirement, came in at No 6. Cowdrey was nobody’s choice for the improvised slogging that appeared to be Kent’s only hope, yet when John Inchmore dug one in Cowdrey swivelled inside the line and casually flicked the ball among the benches by the white scoreboard. A repeat and the game was Kent’s but Cowdrey was bowled by Inchmore and Worcestershire won by two runs.

The Sunday game interrupted a Championship match at Maidstone against Sussex, which Kent won on the third morning thanks to one of the greatest all-round performances by a Kent player. John Shepherd bowled unchanged through the first innings, finishing with eight for 93. He then made 52 in a sixth-wicket partnership of 122 with Dave Nicholls before taking seven for 54 to finish with 15 for 147. It seems that only a late change stopped him from becoming the first Kent bowler to bowl unchanged through both innings since the First World War. It was the first time since Dave Halfyard in 1959 that a Kent man had taken 15 in a match, Only Mohammad Sami and Martin McCague have done it since.

It was timely that Henry Blofeld interviewed Shepherd for The Guardian after this game.

 

One curiosity of that match was that it featured Norman Graham and Kevin Jarvis in the same Kent XI. Cricket scholars have long debated the question of which of these two was the worse batter. Their respective final career averages were 3.88 and 3.59. Graham’s seniority promoted him to the unexplored heights of No 10.

Gregory Armstrong, another young Caribbean fast bowler referred to in the Shepherd interview, was taking plenty of wickets, and creating a fair amount of mayhem, for Glamorgan. Surrey won the game at Cardiff but captain John Edrich (the “He” quoted in the following report) was not happy.

 

 

Wilf Wooller could always be relied upon for a pointed or splenetic quote. There are many stories associated with him. One of my favourites was his response to Jim Swanton’s letter requesting information about a young Glamorgan player. Swanton, often accused of focusing too much on the south-eastern counties, enclosed a stamped-addressed envelope for the reply. When it was returned a few days later it was found to contain only a copy of the London to Cardiff train timetable.

At the end of the week Hampshire remained on top of the County Championship while Clive Lloyd and Derek Underwood led the first-class averages.

 

There was a century by David Steele of Northamptonshire, an innings that was of much greater significance that anybody could have imagined.

The Second XI scores record nineties by T Chappell of Lancashire and Gower of Leicestershire.

 

At the end of the week your writer is preparing to go to Lord’s for the World Cup final. It was to be the biggest week of his cricket-watching life, and remains that to this day.

Daily updates on Twitter/X at @kentccc1975 and Bluesky at @kentkiwi.bsky.social

A Sunday League catastrophe

Kent v Middlesex, 11 June 1972, Folkestone, 40 overs

The 2022 season has been a wretched one for Kent. In each of the county’s first five Championship games, the opposition made more than 500. The Sri Lankan Development XI did the same in an additional first-class fixture. The sequence may be a record. The dismissal of Northamptonshire for a mere 430 in the sixth Championship match was, no doubt, greeted by dancing in the streets of Tunbridge Wells.

If we expected Kent’s status as champions to give us solace in the T20, we were to be disappointed. Despite the recent win at Taunton, they remain ninth of nine in the southern group. Being able to watch the live streams of county cricket here in New Zealand is a wonderful thing, but breakfast watching has been a Groundhog Day of Kentish defeats.

My Blean Correspondent and I have been wondering whether 2022 displaces 1980 as the annus horribilis of our times. In that wet summer, Kent were kept off the bottom of the Championship only by a win over Warwickshire off the penultimate possible ball of Canterbury Week. There were exits at the earliest possible opportunity in both knockout competitions, and Sundays were spent adrift in the bottom half of the league.

Allen Hunt and George Murrell always maintained that the fifties were universally grim. One day, I mentioned that in 1951 Kent had a run of 20 Championship games without a win. George just said “Ah yes” as if remembering a summer spent in a foxhole and preferring not to talk about it.

So it is tempting to take refuge in the past, to return to the seventies when the sun shone every day on a never-ending series of Kentish victories, except when it didn’t.

Exactly half-a-century ago today as I write, Kent played Middlesex in the Sunday League at Folkestone. I loved the Sunday League, but it is in the nature of the shorter forms that many of its matches have not stuck in the mind. I look at scorecards knowing that I must have been there, but struggle to excavate corroboration from the memory.

Not this one. Kent v Middlesex at Folkestone in 1972 is a contest that I have thought about more than any other that I have watched. It was again in my mind just last week as I willed New Zealand to take some wickets even as England were within a couple of shots away from victory at Lord’s. Remember Folkestone ‘72, I thought as I invariably do as cricket matches reach their conclusion with one team well ahead, either from caution or hope, depending on whether it is my team that is winning or losing.

For this was a game in which Kent snatched defeat not just from the jaws of victory, but from its lower intestine, almost fully digested.

It was a top-of-the-table fixture. Kent had won four from five thus far in 1972, Middlesex were unbeaten. The first Ashes test was taking place at Old Trafford so Kent were without Luckhurst and Knott. Middlesex had no international absentees, through Price and Parfitt were both to feature later in the series. The Times sent Peter Marson along. His report supplements my memories and is reproduced below.

Kent won the toss and put Middlesex in. We can’t deduce anything about the pitch from this; it was what usually happened on Sundays in 1972. The visitors struggled from the start. It is unusual to write about a Middlesex one-day match in the seventies and eighties without mentioning a match-winning innings of nudging and nurdling from Clive Radley, but here he was run out for three. With MJ Smith and Parfitt also going for single-figures, Middlesex were 15 for three.

Norman “Smokey” Featherstone and Mike Brearley started a cautious rebuild, but both were out with the total at 40. Brearley was in the second of twelve seasons as Middlesex captain, and had not yet attained the mythical status with which he was later to be invested, but his apprenticeship with the Jedi was well under way and may have been behind the mysterious turn that events were to take.

That Middlesex reached 127 was down to a partnership of 54 in nine overs between former England keeper JT Murray, and Keith Jones, who was from Central Casting’s plentiful stock of bits-and-pieces seaming all-rounders.

Derek Underwood, incomprehensibly omitted from the test team for Norman Gifford, took two for 28, but it was John Shepherd who was the meanest of the Kent attack that day with just 12 runs from his eight overs.

Norman Graham took two for 29, getting Smith and Murray both caught behind, no doubt from balls that did just enough, and bounced a little more than expected off the most inconvenient line and length. As I have written before, Graham probably wouldn’t pass the two-skills athlete test to be a cricketer these days, and the game is poorer for it.

Bernard Julien took three wickets, Parfitt early and Titmus and Price to finish the innings. On the basis that he was West Indian, a left-arm bowler who mixed a little wrist-spin in with the quicker stuff, and had unquestioned talent, Julien was lumbered with the worst of all labels: the new Sobers. Ridiculous as that was, he was potentially a high-quality player who never quite achieved what he promised. It didn’t help that for Kent he, the maker of two test hundreds, was a perennial No 9.

As ever, we should remember that 127 was, in 1972, not quite the cinch that it would be now. But it wasn’t far off. For the greatest part of the chase, Kent made it look easy. Dave Nicholls opened the batting at the ground where, nine years before, he had made 211 against Derbyshire, one of only two double hundreds in the County Championship that year. He was bracketed with Luckhurst and Denness as the future of Kent’s batting in the annual report. But it was eight years until he made his only other first-class hundred. He might have drifted out of the game had it not been for Kent’s lack of a deputy for Alan Knott when the great keeper began his England career in 1967. It was a role that Nicholls filled most capably for a decade. In 1972 he made regular appearances as a batter even when Knott was available. In this game he opened, put on 51 for the first wicket with Graham Johnson and was sixth out, for 54, going for the run that would have levelled the scores. No doubt he returned to the pavilion thinking that a good job had been done.

Denness and Cowdrey were both out for five, and Asif Iqbal was unable to bat at his usual place as he was ill. As so often, it was Alan Ealham who moved things along, with 24 of a fourth-wicket partnership of 33 with Nicholls. Only 19 were needed when Ealham was out, only ten when Shepherd’s was the fifth wicket to fall.

Neither Woolmer’s duck two runs later, nor Nicholls’ departure caused us any worries. People round the ground were packing up their picnic baskets, folding their chairs and making for car park or railway station. Some of them may have gone to their graves ignorant of the catastrophe that unfolded as they left the ground.

Only when Julien edged Selvey behind for the second of five noughts on the scorecard did it sudden occur to us that the victory that had seemed captive since the opening overs was tunnelling beneath our feet and had almost reached the perimeter fence. But still it was only two runs to win, one for the tie.

The next sight offered no reassurance. Peter Marson reported that Asif, who now walked down the pavilion steps, was unwell and running a high temperature. The story that went round at the time was that he had malaria, and had gone into quick decline shortly after the toss. He had left the field not long into the Middlesex innings. Now, this most swift footed of cricketers appeared to be using his bat as a walking stick as he made his way to the middle.

The simple act of scoring a run now seemed akin to splitting the atom or running a four-minute mile. Asif appeared incapable of lifting the bat with sufficient purpose to play a shot, nor of getting down the other end if he had, when normally he would have been there and back in an instant. Twice he watched the ball go by before the desperate attempted slog against Mike Selvey that resulted in the loss of a stump.

It was telling that, so ill as he obviously was, Asif was still considered a better bet to win the game than a perfectly well Norman Graham, in whose hand a bat was as effective as a bow and arrow when charging machine guns. I am not sure if Norman received a ball when he replaced Asif. Marson makes it clear that Underwood was faced the last over, bowled by Sam Black. The “dire alarms” sounded by the first two balls of the over were wild swipes as the collective hysteria that overtook the Kent lower order spread to the usually phlegmatic Underwood.

Frankly, the leg before decision given to the third ball was a relief as much as anything, so unbearable was the tension, so improbable the scoring of even a single run. There was an awful silence as the ground emptied, as spectators tried to work out what they had just seen.

Four wickets fell for no runs when only two were needed for a win. If ever you need to cling onto hope a little longer as your side nears defeat, or if you want to guard against complacency when victory seems certain, say to yourself as I do, “Folkestone ’72”.