LITMIR.BIZ

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with or against and although, at one time or another, every single member of the side had their rows with him, he inspired us because he would never ask you to do anything he was not prepared to do himself and he would never, ever, give up. I’m sure that I had Closey’s example in the back of my mind when I was reacting to Roberts’ attempt at dental surgery in that Benson and Hedges quarter-final.

      Closey was also instrumental in helping introduce into the club the young talent that was required to build for the future. Somerset eventually offered me a one-year contract, and I joined on the same day as Vic Marks, Phil Slocombe and Peter Roebuck, with Viv Richards soon to follow.

      Although he was a hard drinker, Closey could also be a fearsome disciplinarian. Once, during a one-day game against Nottinghamshire at Trent Bridge he actually sent off one of his own players. Allan Jones was not bowling particularly well that day, but he was not the only one who was surprised when Closey called him across and made various rather undiplomatic observations about his performance and the size of his ticker. After a short row and amid much scratching of heads and suppressed laughter, Jones was dismissed, even though he had four overs still to bowl and there was no other recognized bowler to put on.

      His one and only disagreement with me on the field came in similarly bizarre circumstances, not because I had played a rash shot (though God knows I played enough of them) nor because I had bowled badly or dropped a sitter. My crime was to perform a brilliant run out without due care and attention to what might have happened if I had missed. Although I was innocent on all counts, I have to concede that he did have a point. A few weeks after the game against Hampshire in the B&H, we were drawn against Surrey in the quarter-final of the Gillette Cup. I was bowling to Geoff Howarth, later to captain New Zealand, who proceeded to hit the ball back past me. I turned to my left with my back to the play, fielded the ball and, as I noticed the batsmen attempting a quick single, swivelled and hurled down the stumps. What I didn’t know was that there had been a serious communication problem between the two batsmen and, as they were both stuck down the striker’s end, I could actually have walked up and quietly removed the bails. Closey berated me at length for, in his eyes, showing off. We were still at logger-heads when the next batsman arrived to take strike. I argued that no one had shouted to let me know what was happening so I had no idea where the batsmen were. His point was that I should have known. That incident taught me the lesson of thinking, even in pressure situations, that I never forgot though I have to admit I didn’t always follow it to the letter on the field.

      Occasionally I settled for simply trying to intimidate opponents with my presence, particularly when it came to my absolute conviction that I could always bounce batsmen out. Years later in 1984 against the West Indies at Lord’s, I overdid the delivery so much against Gordon Greenidge that I managed to concede 117 runs in just over 20 overs as they made 344 to win in less than a day. As far as I was concerned, the next one was bound to get him, but, of course, it never did.

      Our success in beating Surrey enabled me to put another of Closey’s laws into practice in the semi-final against Kent. Although we lost by three wickets, I won a personal battle with Colin Cowdrey, then one of the legends of the game. Closey always tried to instil in me a feeling that I should never be overawed by the reputation of whoever might be standing at the other end, whether batting or bowling. He saw things very much in black and white, and if his motto was not exactly kill or be killed it certainly was about imposing your will on your opponent, rather than allowing him to do it to you. People often asked me then how I felt about bowling to a man like Cowdrey. For me, it made little difference. Partly due to my own self-confidence and largely due to Closey’s advice, I made a point of treating all batsmen alike, and I’m certain that I took Cowdrey’s wicket that day simply because I believed I could.

      Tom Cartwright was the other major figure in my early development. Tom was an excellent all-rounder with Warwickshire, Somerset and England, and I think in many ways he saw me as a younger version of himself. It was Tom who was instrumental in helping me get my early chances with Somerset after he watched me in the nets at Millfield School, where he had been coaching. Against opposition from other influential figures within the county who saw me as just an average cricketer, Tom pushed my claims. He also saw how desperate I was to become an all-rounder, and my enthusiasm must have struck a chord. Without his help, my bowling might simply have been ignored, because the majority of judges had hardly considered it worthy of attention.

      For instance, I will never forget, and I’m certain my father Les won’t either, the occasion of my first opportunity to impress at a national level, the English Schools’ Under-15 festival of 1971, staged in Liverpool. I had been selected to represent the South West and, naturally, Dad came with me. In the trial game to decide who would play for England Schools against the Public Schools at Aigburth, I produced what I thought was a telling performance with the ball only to later discover it had been a waste of effort. When I came on to bowl, I set a precise field in accordance with a tactical plan, and I enjoyed my first reward when I did the batsman through the air and had him caught at mid-wicket. When similar hard work earned a further five wickets, I left the field satisfied with my bowling and feeling confident that I would succeed in making the final XI.

      Unbeknown to me, not for the first time and certainly not for the last, the selectors and I did not see eye-to-eye. In fact, their perception of what had taken place was entirely different. Les had been sitting close to them to see if he could pick up anything from their conversations, and when I took that first wicket he overheard one of these so-called experts comment: ‘Ignore that. It was a fluke’. Against such reasoning I had no chance of making the team and I was duly left out, primarily because they considered me a batsman rather than a bowler. I suppose they hadn’t ever heard of all-rounders. In the years that followed, whenever I managed to achieve anything on the cricket field, it gave me the greatest satisfaction to remember those blinkered observers and wonder what they were doing with their lives at that moment.

      Les was fuming, and when the selectors added insult to injury by offering me the exalted role of substitute’s substitute, 13th man, he and I said ‘Thanks, but no thanks’ and promptly headed for Lime Street station.

      Fortunately, Tom had seen enough to make a rather different judgement. He took me under his wing and taught me the art of swing bowling. He used to hang his head in despair sometimes when he saw me try to bounce people out, but in the end he believed in me enough to persevere. It was Tom who ensured that Somerset recommended me to Len Muncer, the chief coach of the Lord’s groundstaff boys, the nursery for young talent from all over the country. Tom also persuaded Somerset to give me a chance in a couple of Sunday league games at the end of the 1973 season. It was in the first of these, a televised match against Sussex at Hove, that I took a skyer in the deep to dismiss Tony Greig, a feat that played a large part in the club’s offer of a contract. It was just as well that Tom and Closey put in the effort they did, because, frankly, although it was an awful lot of fun, the education I received at Lord’s was mainly concerned with extending my repertoire of ways to skate on thin ice.

      I thought Yeovil was a big town, but coming to Lord’s and London in 1971 really opened my eyes to the big bad world. When I first arrived in the ‘smoke’ I was the original yokel, sixteen years of age and totally naive to the realities of big city life. In short, my name was Ian Bumpkin.

      The first thing that struck me about London was the fact that everything was still switched on at one or two in the morning. If you went to the West End at that time, there would be thousands of people milling around as if it were the middle of the afternoon. I just could not work it out. The first time I went into a strip club with the older groundstaff boys, I just stood there laughing in amazement at these women dancing about and taking their clothes off. I really had no idea this sort of thing went on. I had a lot to learn.

      My first visit to Lord’s took place at the end of August 1971 when I travelled up with Mum for a trial. Marie sat in the rose garden behind the pavilion while I went off to try and prove what I could do. I remember bowling and batting quite well, but I was competing with lads who were considerably older than me. So I was quite surprised when they told me that they wanted me to start on the following Saturday. Before that, there was not much of the season left, but, at the end of it, I was invited back for the summer of 1972. There was still the winter to deal with so I returned to Somerset

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