The CricInfo years: 1999-2000

In 1999 I turned 40. It seemed as venerable then as it does youthful now. I had lived in New Zealand for two years, a big jump that had paid off royally. It was time to take another. I resigned from my teaching job to have a go at making my living more creatively, particularly through writing.

I bought a computer, complete with TV-sized monitor, and connected it to the new wonder of the time, the internet. My email address was simply my initials, pph@... There are plenty of things in my past that show how much the world has changed in my lifetime. When I was a child I had measles. Learning to drive involved mastering the choke if you wanted the car to start on a cold morning. And, when I moved to New Zealand in 1997, if I wanted to know how Kent had got on overnight I had either to ring my mother and wait for her to find the right page on Ceefax or hold fast for 24 hours for the potted scores in the New Zealand Herald. The full scorecard was not available until the following Thursday when I would buy (and in itself this shows how a desperation for information can erode all standards of decency) the international edition of the Daily Express.

So the first website I looked at was CricInfo. I had heard about this. A place where you could access the latest scores of matches around the world, sometimes ball-by-ball as they were played and run by cricket enthusiasts much like myself. It was almost time travel. I noted that the daily global email newsletter contained little or no New Zealand content and saw an opportunity as I strove to conjure up a freelance existence.

Over the next few months I sent in articles on domestic cricket such as regular round-ups of domestic matches, relying heavily on the comprehensive radio coverage then (but no longer) provided by Radio Sport. Of the pieces that survive online, the earliest is this one, an untypical contribution putting the possibility of an Indian victory after a low first innings score in the test match being played at Chandigarh in historical context. It may be surmised that the bar for accepting contributions was set barely off the ground. There is also a piece reflecting the “outrage”, real or imagined, of the South Island at being denied international fixtures in the forthcoming season. 

The West Indians toured in December and January. I submitted a preview. They were to play New Zealand A at Owen Delany Park, Taupo, an hour south of Rotorua where I lived. My offer to provide a daily report (unpaid, as was all my work that summer) was accepted. So began my career as a cricket reporter. In the following years I joined the rest of the media in the press area at the back of the stand at Owen Delany Park, and was appreciative of the free lunch, perhaps the finest on the circuit. But in December ‘99 I was unaccredited and still apprehensive about masquerading as a journalist in the company of professionals, so I wrote from the anonymity of a garden chair on the grass bank that surrounded most of the field. The same diffidence inhibited me from approaching Viv Richards, briefly West Indies’ coach, when he paused close by as he prowled the boundary. I was yet to appreciate the credibility, deserved or otherwise, that a byline could bestow.

“Wrote” is a precise description too. Wifi was not in anybody’s vocabulary and laptops were as exotic and expensive as they were unreliable, so the reports were compiled with pen on paper, constructed in fragments during the day, and stitched together in the last hour, the aim being for the last full stop to coincide with the final delivery of the day. Then it was into the car for the drive against the clock back home, where I would key the piece into Word, click on the internet connection, hoping for the reassuring four notes followed by white noise, and off it would go at 56kb/s, if I was lucky. Several hours later the daily CricInfo newsletter would make the return journey with my name over the report. I found this unreasonably exciting. Each day’s report is still listed on CricInfo but all the links lead to that for the second day (which reads as if it is incomplete). They were also carried by the Barbados Nation, whose reply to my invoice I still await. 

The match was dominated by a double hundred by Shiv Chanderpaul. It was not so much the work of an artist as that of an efficient painter of walls and ceilings. Of batters since, only Steve Smith has equalled Chanderpaul in scoring massive amounts of runs in such an aesthetically unsatisfying manner. 

It was a pleasure to once again watch Courtney Walsh, having done so throughout his Gloucestershire years. With the possible exception of his predecessor Mike Procter, nobody has offered more value as an overseas player than Walsh. There is an excellent interview with him in the latest County Cricket Matters by the wonderful Annie Chave (subscribe if you haven’t already). He speaks of the value to West Indian cricket that the county game offered and of his enjoyment of the “family” of Gloucestershire. Another time. 

I watched most of the first test, played in Hamilton just before Christmas, though I wasn’t reporting. It was a good match, mostly remembered for the statistical anomoly of the highest first-wicket partnership for a losing team: 276 by Adrian Griffiths and Sherwin Campbell in the first innings. That this was so was largely down to Chris Cairns. He top-scored with 72 in the first innings, coming in at No 8 with New Zealand 107 behind, out when the lead had been achieved. This was followed by one of the finest bowling performances in test cricket for this country: seven for 27 to rout West Indies for 97 to set up a comfortable nine-wicket victory. Cairns is the forgotten man of New Zealand’s cricket history, but is our greatest all-rounder, capable of seizing any match of whatever format and transforming it with bat or ball, or, in this case, both.

The only other match that wrote a report on that summer was the second of five ODIs against the visiting England women in Hamilton, once again composed from a garden chair on the bank followed by a foot-down drive back to Rotorua and more frantic typing. 

The best thing that has happened to cricket in the intervening quarter-century is the revolution in the funding and status of women’s cricket. There was no TV coverage of this series and radio coverage, at a time when there was extensive commentary on men’s domestic matches in New Zealand, was limited to brief reports. There was no English media presence (apart from me, I suppose). Women’s cricket was making its first tentative steps into the professional era. England had Paul Farbrace and Graham Dilley as coaches. I had come across New Zealand’s bowler of the day, Rachel Pullar, a year or so before when she and Chris Harris visited the school I was teaching at, both employed to run a series of coaching sessions, one of the first opportunities that women players had to earn a living within the game (and showing that the men were not rolling in it either). Pullar and Harris were both superb, by the way. None of those playing in Hamilton that day would get rich from playing cricket at that time. 

Both teams had suffered a clean sweep in ODIs in Australia before this series. England’s response was to change captains mid-tour, reportedly in response to a threatened mutiny against Karen Smithies, who quit, handing over to Clare Connor. My most prominent memory of that game in Hamilton is not of the play, but Smithies walking a lonely, forlorn circuit of the ground having been dropped from the playing XI. New Zealand’s resounding win was the fourth in a five-match sweep, led by Emily Drumm, one of those leaders who you could tell was in charge from her demeanour even if you were looking down from space. Drumm, together with her predecessor as skipper Debbie Hockley, were among the initial inductees to the New Zealand Cricket Hall of Fame recently. She led New Zealand to victory in the World Cup later in 2000, a team that contained eight of the players in the XI at Hamilton. 

The other international visitors that season were the Australians, who played three tests, six ODIs and two other first-class games. I did not report on any of these contests, but did provide a preview or two, which have not survived on CricInfo’s database. Chris Rosie, a very nice guy who had recently retired from the New Zealand Herald, but who had not been a sportswriter, covered the test series and the game against Northern Districts, but there are no reports on the ODIs. Apparently, it did not occur to me to offer to write reports while watching the TV coverage. Not the done thing at all. Now (and starting only two or three years after that) most CricInfo content is written by people watching the telly.

I was there for most of the test match and provincial game at Seddon Park, Hamilton (though it was then masquerading as WestPac Park). By the turn of the century warm-up games for tourists had lost their allure in most parts of the world. When we lament their disappearance from the schedule it should be remembered that the failure of home teams to provide the best available opposition was a factor in their decline. Not so in New Zealand at that time. Northern Districts put out their strongest team, one that contained nine past,  present or future internationals. Justin Langer and Damien Martyn put on 197 to set up a comfortable five-wicket win. 

Two memories from that game. Brett Lee, presumably at the receiving end of an untypically churlish remark from one of the batters, went “through the crease” and unleashed one of his thunderbolts from about three yards short of the traditional 22. Colin “Funky” Miller, he of the electric blue hair, bowled off spin to the left-handers and seam up to the right-handers, swapping as many times as was necessary in the course of an over. Maybe this was not unprecedented; but it would have taken a Sobers or Barnes to do it, and it was the first time I had seen it. 

Australia returned to Hamilton a few weeks later with the series already in the bag after two wins. Though culturally disinclined to remove the foot from the Kiwi  throat, they teetered at 29 for five in reply to New Zealand’s first innings 232. Adam Gilchrist was next in and ignored completely the constraints that the situation would conventionally impose. His 75—64 of them in boundaries—took just 80 balls, secured a first-innings lead and provided the basis of Australia’s for a six-wicket win. Bazball is really Gillyball recycled. McGrath and Lee took 14 of New Zealand’s wickets between them and Langer made another Hamilton century. 

In May 2000, Dave Crowe, father of Martin and Jeff, passed away. He was the New Zealand correspondent of The Cricketer at the time, so, with my freelancer’s instinct to sniff out possible work overcoming natural reticence, I emailed the magazine to offer my services. They replied thanking me for my message, saying that they were wondering why they hadn’t received Crowe’s copy for the next edition. Bryan Waddle was appointed as his successor. However, the dotcom boom was on and CricInfo was taking a greater interest in New Zealand…

An ambulance and a God at the Basin

New Zealand v Bangladesh, 1^st Test, fourth and fifth days, Basin Reserve

The need to call in at work for the first time since Christmas to make sure that they remember who I am has delayed the appearance of this account of the final two days of a surprisingly good test match.

First, an apology to the pitch and its caregivers. In accounts of the first three days I wrote it off, making the mistake of assuming that it would behave as test pitches at the Basin have done over the decade or so that I have been watching there. It didn’t give any help to the spinners as a test pitch should ideally do on the fourth and fifth days, but it did not curl up and die either. It was wrong to say that the pitch was heading into extinction, the opposite if anything; it had found the secret of eternal life, retaining its pace (or at least bounce) right through the game. A test pitch on which the game is resolved within the last scheduled hour is almost by definition a good one.

I cannot recall seeing more players hit on the head than I saw in these two days, including Santner twice, Wagner three times and, most chillingly, Mushfiqur, who was taken straight from the pitch to hospital by an ambulance that was driven onto the field to collect him, another spectating first for me. Courtney Walsh, here as Bangladesh’s bowling coach, looked a little misty-eyed at the sight of all those batsmen going down like felled trees.

On day four Tom Latham and Henry Nicholls took their resumed fourth-wicket partnership to 142 before Nicholls turned a delivery from Shakib into the hands of Mehidi at leg slip. Usually a half-century would enhance a young player’s reputation, but I’m not sure that this was so here. Nicholls can dispatch the bad ball, but finds it difficult to rotate the strike against accurate bowling, especially early in the innings. He survived a DRS review for lbw only on an umpire’s call, and was dropped. Sometimes batsmen score runs against a lesser attack which means that the selectors are obliged to keep them in the team against stronger opposition that they may not be up to. I don’t know if Nicholls falls into this category, but the question remains open.

Nobody else is suggesting this, but I would give Martin Guptill a run in the middle order as long as his form is reasonable. As an opener has played 47 tests with three centuries at an average a snip under 30. He has Ramprakash syndrome, the symptoms of which are to look unbearably good in other forms and at other levels of the game, but not to be able to turn the quality into test-match runs. Take Guptill away from the new ball and those runs might flow.

If the jury is still out on Nicholls, it is close to a verdict on de Grandhomme, to the sound of gallows being hammered together. Bang! On four after 13 balls, he scythed a four to third man. Crash! The next ball cleared the seats at deep square leg. Woe! A mow at a wide ball outside off and he was caught behind next ball. This is not the work of a No 6 test batsman.

Meanwhile, Tom Latham cruised on, if anything more relaxed than on day three. A casual lift over long on off Shakib for the first six of the innings showed how well he was seeing the ball, though he was dropped on 138, a hard diving chance at second slip.

Just when he looked set for a double hundred Latham swept Shakib, but missed and was plumb lbw, barely waiting for the umpire’s decision. Since both Dempster and Mills scored centuries in the first Basin test in 1930 (both dismissed by Kent’s Frank Woolley, who took seven for 76 at the age of 42), only John Wright among New Zealand openers had scored a century before Latham, which shows what trouble the position has been for us in these parts over the years.

BJ Watling had reached 49 in his usual unobtrusive way when occasional off spinner Mahmudullah was thrown the ball, which he immediately propelled some way down the legside. Watling, seeing an easy path to fifty, hurled the bat at the ball, which was collected by Imrul Kayes, standing in with the gloves for Mushfiqur Rahman. Imrul became very excited, which everybody thought was because he had made a decent legside take (for once). However, the DRS revealed that Watling had got a pretty solid touch and that Imrul had taken a catch that would have been remarkable even if he had been looking at the ball, which he wasn’t.

Mahmudullah wasn’t done. Three balls later Southee missed a straight one to be lbw. It is to be hoped that the young off spinner Mehedi (35 wicketless overs for 111 at this point) is the contemplative sort who can find it within to rue the fickleness of cricket and move on.

Mitch Santner made a career-best 73, but, as with Nicholls, it was not convincing. Against tired bowlers he struggled against the short ball, something that will have been noted by Kagiso Rabada among others.

An innings from Wagner that was a mixture of percussion and concussion, and that was that. New Zealand reached 539, a deficit of 56. The radio commentators took the view that Williamson should have declared at least 50 runs earlier as the best way of achieving a result. Of course, events vindicated Williamson’s approach completely, but I thought at the time that Bryan Waddle & co were mistaken, as they seemed to believe that Bangladesh would want to push for a victory. But the fact that they went defensive quite early on in the New Zealand innings showed both that they were aware of their own limitations and that after two years without overseas tests, a draw would be as good as a win for them.

Bangladesh’s sterling performance with the bat, and perseverance with the ball had made people forget how inexperienced they are; I haven’t checked, but some of the team may not have played on the fifth day before, and any attack that bowls 148 overs in the first innings will be tired in the second. These factors, along with a couple of hefty side servings of misfortune, meant that New Zealand had the keys to the safe when the Bangladeshis began their second innings with 90 minutes to go on the fourth afternoon.

For the second time in the game, Southee’s attempt to throw down the stumps in the follow through hit the batsman, despite the fact that he was located some distance from the target. Imrul Kayes responded perfectly by depositing Southee in the cheap seats later in the over.

After an hour all was fine, Imrul and Tamim were going well and thought drifted to which book to bring on the last day. Suddenly, Tamim pushed one to point and called Imrul for a single, a tough ask for someone who had just finished 148 overs of unexpected wicketkeeping. Imrul hurled himself at the crease, making the run, but hurt his leg in the process. He left the field on a stretcher, the first time I can recall seeing this (the second occurred the next day). Basin stalwarts recall Syd Lawrence exiting in this manner when he split his kneecap in 1992.

The incident disturbed Bangladesh’s equilibrium: Tamim was bowled by Santner and Mahmudullah was caught behind off Wagner. Then in the last over of the day some comedy running combined with a direct hit by Santner to remove nightwatchman Mehedi.

With three (possibly effectively four) down and the lead 122 a New Zealand win was on the cards, not that you could have discerned this from the local cricketing public, who years of shredded hopes has left with a demeanour compared to which Eeyore is a cock-eyed optimist.

Shakib strode to the crease like a concert pianist who, having knocked out some Beethoven to critical acclaim one night feels able to deal to Tchaikovsky next evening without rehearsal or practice in the interim. He tried to get off the mark by belting Santner over mid on, only to be  caught there by Williamson.

Mominul Haque was caught in the gully, but then Mushfiqur (still suffering from the hand injury that had prevented him keeping wicket) and Sabbir steadied things. In doing so they focused on time rather than runs. They batted together for 15 overs (both were dropped once), but scored only 18 runs. If the scoreboard doesn’t move much that can cancel out the time side of the match-saving equation.

The ball that caused the entry of the ambulance was not that short; Mushfiqur ducked into it and it hit him on the back of the helmet. It was a worrying few moments with the Phil Hughes tragedy so fresh in our minds, but the medical reaction was precautionary as much as anything and Mishfiqur returned to the ground by the end of the day. It was, however, the breakthrough that New Zealand were starting to get a little restless for.

Taskin was dropped at short leg by Latham—New Zealand’s catching has been poor—but bowled next ball by Boult. At lunch Bangladesh were 193 ahead with three to come, including the hobbling Imrul.

After lunch we had one of those periods that I find more irritating than anything else about modern cricket, and which makes me channel my inner Fred Trueman. For Sabbir—a No 7 batsman in the 40s playing his first overseas test—the field was set right back to give away a single so that the attack could bowl at Kamrul. I can’t understand why, when you want just three wickets to effectively win the match, you give up trying to get one of the batsmen out.

Kamrul was out (without getting on strike with a gifted single), then Sabbir defeated the strategy with a plan of Baldrickian cunningness: with no slips he contrived to be caught at the wicket by flailing at a short one.

Imrul Kayes returned, and unbelievably the single-gifting strategy continued, even though Imrul was clearly incapable of running a single; the desired outcome of the plan would be achieved only if two fielders had picked Imrul up and carried him to the other end. Runners are not allowed. I miss runners for the anarchy they so often introduced to proceedings.

Some boundaries from Imrul and the innings was over, leaving a target of 217 from 51 overs.

Mehedi located fresh reserves of pessimism among the locals by removing both openers, the young spinner’s first overseas wickets and well-deserved. This brought Taylor and Williamson together, which had the soothing effect of a deep massage on the spectators. Entry was free so Wellingtonians converged on the Basin from all over the CBD. The ground was fuller at the end of the game than at any other time.

Taylor was at his quick-handed best, swiftly onto anything fractionally short and unsettling all the faster bowlers, playing on their inexperience. His 60 came in just 75 balls. The third-wicket partnership was worth 163 and took just 25 overs.

Williamson batted like a God. Time after time, what seemed like a push into a gap for a single sped to the boundary, so perfect was the timing. Three fours in three balls off Taskin just before tea were sublime. His fifty came up in 43 balls, his hundred in 89, one of the fastest ever seen in the fourth innings of a test.

Had New Zealand won by an innings in three days (as we expected) this game would have swiftly disappeared from the memory. Because New Zealand were outplayed by Bangladesh in the first innings, a narrower victory was more of an achievement, Williamson’s magnificence on the last afternoon finishing it off perfectly.

Bangladesh made us forget how inexperienced they are, or that this was their first away test in more than two years, which is a scandal. There has to be a plan for Bangladesh to have at least five home and five away tests a year. India, England and Australia all need to step up here. There is obvious talent and potential here and world cricket must not let it go to waste. What is the point of (I hate this term) growing the game when an existing test country is given so little support? All talk of Ireland (or anybody else) being given test status is hopeless unless a coherent programme of guaranteed fixtures for ten years can be worked out first.

It was a pleasure to be at the Basin for this test match. The pohutukawas were out, there were surprises, records, ambulances and some brilliant, spirited cricket played with modesty and good humour. A great start to the year.

Cricket grounds in winter: the County Ground, Bristol

Not even its best friends would call the County Ground attractive. On one side there is the grey stone and narrow windows of what used to be the orphanage. Jack Fingleton noted the sad faces of the orphans peering over the fence when the Australians visited in 1948. Opposite is a back view of the terraced houses of Kennington Avenue. The pavilion is an asymetrical arrangement, again in trademark grey, that still looks a bit of a hotchpotch despite the redevelopment of the mid-nineties. There are no views of note. The fathers of Gloucestershire cricket might have had more foresight and located their headquarters in Clifton, or on the Downs, rather than in artisan Horfield.

Yet, if I had to to nominate the place from which I would watch cricket for the rest of eternity the roof of the Hammond Room at the County Ground would be in serious contention.

I lived in Bristol for 19 years, from 1978, when I went to Bristol University, to 1997, when I left for New Zealand. I must have watched more cricket at the County Ground than anywhere else, apart of course from the St Lawrence Ground, Canterbury.

Though I have been back to Bristol several times over the past 15 years, I had not returned to the County Ground until last November. I found it largely unchanged, apart from the pleasing addition of the Jessop Stand on the site of the old Jessop Tavern. This might be thought surprising, given that the ground is now a regular international venue, with an ODI or a T20 international most summers, but on those occasions the majority of spectators are accommodated in temporary stands.

Watching international games on television being played before a full house, it has sometimes occurred to me that there were more spectators present than there had been in whole seasons, possibly several added together, in my time at the ground.

Alone of the county headquarters, Bristol has always been something of a poor relation. The season would begin there (it was a dank, drizzly day when I visited, but up on the Hammond Room roof it was warmer than was usually the case in April or early May) but when summer got into its stride the county would decamp north, first to Gloucester and then to Cheltenham for the festival. It was common for there to be little of no cricket for six weeks or more at the height of the season. Then, with autumn's chill in the air, it was back to Bristol (this pattern has been reinforced by the modern obsession with T20: in 2011 there was no Championship cricket at Bristol between 2 June and 30 August).

So why, when the evidence presented so far would suggest otherwise, do I nominate the Hammond Room roof as a likely location for eternal spectating?

Good humour and conviviality have much to do with it. The Bristol faithful went to the cricket to enjoy themselves, whereas too many in Kent seemed to prefer any opportunity to disapprove of something. The roof was an open-necked sort of place, whereas ties – many attached to stuffed shirts – predominated on the top of the pavilion at Canterbury.

In part, the different attitudes were the result of recent history. The seventies was Kent's great era: nine trophies in as many years. Success was expected and there was disgruntlement when it did not arrive. Gloucestershire had won the Gillette Cup in 1973 and the B&H Cup in 1977 (beating Kent in the final), but winning was neither habit nor addiction. During my period in Bristol, Kent won only one trophy – the Sunday League in 1995 – and Gloucestershire nothing (though a golden period followed my departure, with seven one-day trophies in six seasons from 1999). In Kent the apoplexy increased with each year, but in Bristol it was accepted as the natural state of things, and we roof dwellers continued to enjoy the cricket whatever the result.

A look at a Gloucestershire line-up in the mid-eighties suggests that expectations might have been a bit higher. For a start, there was Courtney Walsh, with 869 wickets at an average of 20 over as distinguished and dedicated a career as any overseas player has had in county cricket. Gloucestershire chose their overseas players wisely; Walsh followed the equally committed Mike Procter, and Zaheer Abbas and Sadiq Mohammad are remembered fondly too. The classy Bill Athey, who might have won many more England caps, led the batting, supported by some good county players, such as Andy Stovold, Phil Bainbridge, Jeremy Lloyds and Paul “Human” Romaines. The peerless Jack Russell chattered away behind the stumps, while David “Syd” Lawrence joined Walsh in county cricket's most fearsome attack. David Graveney led intelligently, bowled good left-arm spin and rolled over in the gully just too late to stop the ball several hundred times a season (this was not a great fielding side). There was a third place in 1985, and a second the following year (but well behind Essex, the champions) and that was as close as the team came to winning something in my time.

Incidentally, Syd Lawrence's career was cut short in 1992 at the Basin Reserve of all places, when his kneecap split. He made a forlorn comeback five years later, by which time his second career as a bar/restaurant owner had contributed to his growing to the size of a small bus. In his first game back, against Hampshire at the County Ground, he set out off to the boundary in pursuit of the ball but was slow to get steam up and was overtaken by one of the young guns, who collected the ball and turned ready to throw it to the keeper, only to find Syd, whose stopping distance now crossed postcodes, bearing down on him. Player and ball were wiped out as Syd passed through, and all parties ended in a heap over the boundary. It was several minutes before play resumed, not because anybody was hurt, but because it took that long for everybody on the ground to stop laughing.

There was also the day when the sightscreen blew over, sending the bike that was tethered to it flying through the air. This sort of thing was always happening at Bristol, which was why it was fun to watch cricket there.

It was also the scene of the zenith of my own playing career, one Sunday afternoon in August 1988. I got a call-up from a friend inviting me to play for a team representing whichever insurance company owned the ground at that time. It was the holiday season and they were clearly desperate. I did not enquire how many people they had been turned down by, but suspect that a figure in the low eighties would be adjacent. The team was of a standard well above my usual village-green level, and was playing a Welsh side at least a couple of grades above them. I batted at ten, making three with a couple of late cuts so subtle that they were mistaken by the undiscriminating for edges.

It was in the field that the difference between recreation or school field cricket and that on a first-class ground became clear. Several times I turned from mid on to chase a ball on its way to the boundary. I found that the bumps and hollows that would slow the ball down more than I slowed down were absent, so I stayed two or three yards behind it all the way to the rope.

Towards the end of the game my moment of glory came. The ball was top edged and it soon became clear that it was coming down straight at me, I did not have to move. What disappointed me was not that I failed to catch it, but that I failed to touch it. I was never asked again.