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Botham: My Autobiography
Just before Ted resigned at the end of the 1993 season, and after his comments about England’s poor showing having something to do with the juxtaposition of Venus in relation to the other planets, he complained that every time he opened his mouth he was ‘harpooned and lampooned’ by the press. It was probably one of the simplest tasks of their journalistic careers.
I am still at a loss to explain exactly what his role in the England set-up was. All I know is that he frequently caused huge embarrassment to himself and others. It is hard to take seriously a chairman of selectors who calls his premier fast bowler Malcolm Devon and then gets all excited about the prospect of picking a batsman called Jimmy Cook, who just happens to be South African.
I recall the time that John Morris and Jonathan Agnew realised they had no chance of going on the winter tour to the West Indies in 1989/90. They had arrived at the Porter Tun Room in the City of London for the Cricket Writers’ Club annual dinner on the eve of the NatWest Final to which several past and present cricketers are invited as guests of the members. This is the time when, traditionally, most of the talk is concerned with who will be in the squads for upcoming winter tours. When Morris and Agnew set off for the evening they must have thought they might have been in with a squeak. After their conversation with Ted they knew they had another think coming. ‘Excuse me, chaps’, Ted called out as he was walking down Chiswell Street in search of the venue. ‘You two look like cricketers. Do you know where this dinner is taking place?’
These stories may be amusing in hindsight, but as a professional I find that kind of amateurish behaviour hard to tolerate. Ted might have been a fine player and a lovely guy socially, but as far as I was concerned he was taking money under false pretences, money that could have been diverted to many other projects that would have served the game better.
But my opinion of him is not just based on the obvious gaffes he committed at regular intervals. For it was during that disastrous series of 1989 that I found not only was Dexter a man I could not respect, he was also a man I simply could not rely on at all.
Our performances throughout that series were undistinguished to say the least. Looking back, we had started off on the wrong foot even before a ball had been bowled. After the 1988 winter tour to India had been called off due to the Indian Board of Control’s objection to the inclusion of players who had been on the first ‘rebel tour’ to South Africa in 1982, England were looking for a new captain. The original choice of Dexter and the manager Micky Stewart had been Mike Gatting, but when that was vetoed by the chairman of the TCCB, Ossie Wheatley, who for some reason felt that Gatt had still not served sufficient time for his supposed misdemeanours, they turned reluctantly to David Gower. That meant that England were going into a vital series with a captain who the selectors had not wanted in the first place. This caused problems right from the start.
When Gower won the toss prior to the first Test at Headingley, Ted stuck his oar in straight away by persuading him that the inclement weather forecast (which incidentally turned out to be wildly inaccurate) meant England should ask Australia to bat first. And they did, all day and all the next day, scoring 601 for seven declared before going on to win the match by 210 runs. When I returned to the side after injury for the third Test at Edgbaston, we were already two-down and no one was really sure who was running things – Gower, Stewart or Dexter, least of all the captain himself!
At the same time, one of the worst-kept secrets in modern cricket history was starting to seriously undermine team spirit. The South African cricket authorities, led by Dr Ali Bacher, were in England recruiting players for another ‘rebel tour’ to be played that winter while the Test side were due to take on the West Indies in the Caribbean. The dressing room, and everywhere else it seemed, was awash with rumours of just how much money was on offer, who was going and who was not. It had reached the stage where the England committee asked players to sign a declaration of availability for the winter tour.
I had been targeted by the South Africans in a big way and was interested in what they had to say. Of course I was intrigued by the possibility; I would be lying if I said otherwise. So when Bacher rang me after the Edgbaston Test, I was definitely listening. The cash on the table for signing up for two winter tours was staggering. Even when I called their bluff by asking for half a million pounds, the organizers did not seem unduly perturbed. Everyone understood that those who did go could more or less kiss goodbye to the thought of playing Test cricket again for a long time and, in my case, probably for ever. Financially, however, it would have made a lot of sense. Although I was also under no illusions as to what would have happened to existing and future commercial contracts, I knew that most of my Test playing career was behind rather than ahead of me and that, had I accepted the South African money the financial benefit to myself and my family would have been enormous.
By this time, Micky Stewart, on behalf of the England management, was doing his best to persuade me not to go. They wanted me in the West Indies, he said, and he pleaded with me to make myself available. They made it quite clear that if I did so, I was more or less guaranteed a place on the plane.
It took a lot of soul-searching to come to a decision. I discussed the situation fully with Kath and my solicitor and long-time friend Alan Herd and once again, as I had done in 1982, I came to the conclusion that I had more to lose than gain.
The bottom line was pride: professional and patriotic. The West Indies were the one side against whom I felt I still had something to prove, both to myself and to the public. I had never fulfilled my potential against them as I should have done, and I wanted another crack. So I informed Micky of my availability and he accepted the news gratefully.
Then they proceeded to let me down badly. The night before the squad for the tour was due to be announced, Kath answered the phone. Ted was on the line.
‘Hello Ian,’ he said. ‘I’m afraid we’re not taking you to the West Indies.’
‘You what?’ I replied. ‘You begged me to make myself available for the winter tour and I told the South Africans where to go as well. And now you are saying you don’t want me after all.’
‘Er well, I didn’t ask you personally,’ he replied feebly.
I felt like I had been stabbed in the back. I went berserk and slammed the phone down on him. I don’t think I have ever felt so devastated. Seeing what a state I had worked myself into, Kath left the room; she knew I was not going to be fun to be around for a while. I was so enraged that if Ali Bacher had been sitting there with a contract and a pen I would have signed without a moment’s hesitation, and to hell with the consequences. I took myself off to the drinks cabinet and emptied a bottle of brandy in an effort to get it out of my system. Then, to really rub it in Micky and Ted later denied that they had persuaded me to make myself available. As far as I am concerned their denials were a lie.
To this day I’ve never been given a satisfactory explanation. From what I have been told it was Gooch, who replaced David Gower as captain when he was sacked at the end of the series and then also found himself out in the cold, who did not want me. Maybe I’ll never find out for certain. What I do know is that it was another phone call from Ted, on quite another subject, which finally removed any doubts that my England career was over.
A few days before the Trent Bridge Test against Australia in early July 1993, I answered the phone and, bearing in mind how he and the other selectors had studiously ignored my performances all summer, I was surprised to hear Ted on the other end of the line. That surprise quickly turned to amazement when I heard what he had to say. He asked me if I would be interested in taking the England A-team to Holland as captain.
I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. Trying to avoid a conversation with him because I had heard enough and didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of even discussing this farcical suggestion any further, I replied that I had prior engagements and left it at that. But when I put the phone down I was seething. Ted had spent half the summer messing me about and now he had the cheek to ask me to get involved in a clog-dancing mission. All I could think of was that this was supposed to be some sort of peace offering for excluding me from the Test side, or a fancy public relations exercise. Either way, I was thoroughly cheesed off. It was just about the last straw.
The Test side was losing and showing no signs of improving. When they picked the side for the third Test from a position of 2–0 down with four to go, the party of thirteen contained five uncapped players. And then I received this call from Dexter asking me if I would like to waste my time in Holland. I knew now that my last chance had gone forever. If Ted really didn’t want me to be part of the new set-up, why didn’t he have the decency just to say so, instead of all this messing around? In the back of my mind I can’t help thinking that the real reason why Gooch, Dexter and company did not want either David Gower, Allan Lamb or myself back in the picture was that, if we had succeeded, they would have been left with an awful lot of egg on their faces. Against that sort of reasoning I knew my international career was over no matter how well I performed.
Once I discovered where I stood, I started to think about Durham. I wanted to be sure in my own mind that I was doing the right thing by them.
To be totally honest, there was no point in my playing any more championship cricket because we were near the bottom of the table and the county needed to rebuild. Although I had proved to myself that I could still perform with the bat by scoring a century against Worcestershire, my last match had ended with a two-day defeat by Surrey at The Oval. I had batted twice on the second day, faced eight balls, and made eight runs. We lost by an innings and more than 200 runs. I knew I was not going to be around for the following season and started to think about retirement in a positive way. At Durham there were four or five players whose contracts were on the line, and it was not fair that I should take up a place in the team while they were in limbo and likely to have only a handful of games in which to prove their worth.
At that point eight championship games remained, and I reasoned that by leaving there and then those fringe players would get a fair crack at earning contracts for the next season. It would also help the club because it would give them a chance to assess the talents of those players as they planned ahead. With those thoughts in my mind, there was obviously not a lot of point in my carrying on.
There was one significant advantage in getting out of the game at this stage. I’m sure that it is the hope of every father who plays professional sport that he will one day be able to watch his son performing at the same or higher level. I have not proved the exception to the rule, even though I have never pushed Liam to play cricket, rugby, or tiddlywinks for that matter, and have merely made sure that I was available if he needed me.
But no one in the family, least of all Liam himself, was under any illusions about the problems he might have to confront simply because of who he was. The fact that he has always been a naturally gifted sportsman and he is my son, means that he has been prey to the long-lens treatment. To a certain extent there is no harm in that, as long as the photographers and newspapers involved haven’t over-stepped the mark (and, by and large, they haven’t).
True to form, however, just around the time of my retirement, the thing we feared most happened. Liam, having been selected to play for England Under-15s against the touring South African boys in 1992, had showed enough talent and promise to be offered a summer spell with Hampshire. On his first day at ‘work’, a 2nd XI match against Worcestershire at Southampton, his club captain Mark Nicholas told me he had never seen so many reporters at the county ground. Liam took the whole thing in his stride, even being relaxed enough to tell the assembled throng that he intended to be even better than his Dad. Cheeky bugger! Liam, being a Botham, then managed to play a good game as well as talk one by taking four wickets.
So far, so good. Then, a couple of weeks later, the inevitable happened. A friend of mine from one of the national papers told me that people had been asking questions about an alleged incident involving Liam and some other Hampshire cricketers in a nightclub. Here we go again, I thought.
Liam had been playing for Hampshire seconds against Warwickshire in Leamington Spa. One evening after the close of play he went with some of the players to a local nightclub. Because he wasn’t born yesterday he made sure that he drank only soft drinks, but someone there recognized him and told the manager he was under age. The manager talked to Liam, told him what had happened and informed him, regretfully, that if there were any complaints he would have to ask him to leave. Half an hour later, the same guy complained again and Liam duly left with the minimum of fuss.
Apparently, this non-event was enough to get the Sunday Mirror terribly excited and a story duly appeared along the lines of Liam Botham, son of cricketing legend Ian, blah, blah, blah … being kicked out of a nightclub. What bothered me most was that this kind of thing is actually believed by people who should know better. These ignorant idiots, who for some reason have convinced themselves to believe everything they have read about me over the years, turn around and say ‘There, look at Liam Botham, like father like son’, and the mud sticks.
The problems of living and working under the scrutiny of the media were only one of the reasons why Liam made his decision to give up cricket in favour of his chosen professional sport, rugby union.
I never had any doubts that Liam was good enough to make a career for himself in cricket. His performance on first-class debut for Hampshire on 28 August 1996, two days short of his 19th birthday, proved the condition known as golden balls was indeed hereditary. Pulled out of a 2nd XI game he turned up for the county’s match against Middlesex at Portsmouth after the start of play, dismissed Gatt with his seventh delivery and finished with figures of 5 for 67. Had he been able to operate outside the glare of publicity over who he was and rather just be judged on how good he was, he might even have gone all the way.
But his decision was based as much on how he saw the two sports progressing as much as any feeling over living in the spotlight. Frankly, for a young man equally good at rugby and cricket, by the time he had to choose, there seemed little choice to make.
Of course, I would have loved to have played with or against Liam at county level. And I was delighted when he was brought in as a last-minute replacement for a charity match between the Rest of the World and my own England XI at Hove a few weeks before I announced my retirement. But realistically it was never going to happen in any other way. By announcing my retirement when I did, rather than dragging it out to the end of the season, I felt I could at least try and deflect some of the inevitable attention away from him as he attempted to take his first steps in the game.
I don’t regret many things in my life but the circumstances surrounding my final game have left me with a tinge of guilt. Although I was more than happy to be bowing out against the Aussies, it was such a spontaneous decision that I didn’t even get an opportunity to tell my parents about it. I didn’t exactly know what to tell them and, besides, the telephone did not seem the right way to go about it. As usual, it is the people nearest to you that you think about least. In all likelihood my father Les would have wanted to be there for my swansong; in some ways it was a relief that the game itself was a non-event.
I had decided to keep the news quiet until I had had the chance to talk to Geoff Cook, the director of cricket and David Graveney, the captain, about my plans. Dean Jones was the only one of my team-mates who knew in advance. I have always been very close to him and knew that, in the tradition of a true Aussie, if you tell him something in confidence you can be certain it isn’t going anywhere else. I told him on the Saturday morning when I picked him up on our way to the game. Dean said he wasn’t surprised. He told me that he and his wife, Jane, had been talking about me quitting only the week before, speculating on when it would happen. When I arrived at the Durham University ground, I saw David and Geoff, told them my decision and swore them to secrecy. At first David was dumbfounded, but when I explained that the body had had enough he accepted it. Mathematically, we still had a chance in the Sunday league competition and I told him that if he wanted me for the last few games, I would be happy to oblige. Once I told Geoff the reasons for my decision, he agreed that I had done the right thing and I appreciated that.
The information was so watertight that none of the other players knew about it until the following day, when the Mail on Sunday, who had managed to get wind of the story somehow, let the cat out of the bag. When I reached the ground for the second day’s play the place was buzzing. Geoff felt he had to confirm the story, but I was determined not to say anything publicly to anyone until I had fulfilled my newspaper column commitments by giving Chris Lander of the Daily Mirror the exclusive to which he and they were entitled. The rest would have to wait.
The third and final day’s play eventually started late in the afternoon because of rain, but there had been no sitting around for me. From the moment I arrived at the ground, it was like a circus. First there was a press conference that lasted 55 minutes, probably the longest of my career. Someone asked if I thought the rain would turn the day into something of an anti-climax, but I joked that as I had spent a lot of the last twenty years praying for a cloudburst, in some ways this would be a fitting end. I had hoped that my last day in first-class cricket would end more quietly than it did. I just wanted to drift back into the dressing room, pack up and go. The rain delay destroyed any prospect of a result, contrived or otherwise, but the skies cleared enough for us to play a pretty meaningless three or four hours in the afternoon. If ever there was a case where umpires or captains should be given a little bit of discretion in deciding to end the match, irrespective of the weather, this was it. The crowd was marvellous but nobody gained anything from us going out there except those who had spent so much time in the beer tent that they would have been captivated by watching Humpty Dumpty sitting on the wall. Steady, I wasn’t that overweight!
In my final spell of bowling I decided to have a bit of fun to try and cheer everyone up by doing my Jeff Thomson impersonations, among others. Then, after a few overs I turned to David Graveney and said: ‘Thanks David, I think that will do’. It was quite a moment. As I turned to take my position in the field, the reality of what I was doing suddenly hit me – no more bowling, no more batting, no more anything. The pavilion clock showed there was still half an hour to go but that was it from me, my time was over. It was the end.
Both batsmen, David Boon and Matthew Hayden, came down the wicket to shake my hand and I cannot remember anything that happened between that moment and the time stumps were drawn. I had, as they say, lost the plot. In fact, the only thing I do recall was my appalling attempt at keeping wicket for the final over of the match, minus pads and gloves. However, I was soon brought back down to earth when at the close of play I went into the dressing room to clear my locker. The bastards had pinched the lot!
On arriving home I threw myself into a small party we had arranged for close friends. I finally crashed at ten to five the following morning after talking Egyptian into the small hours with Alan Herd. It was only a short nap as I had to leave the house at 7.15 a.m. to catch a plane to Alderney where we have our second home. I have no idea how any of the others got home. It is quite possible, of course, that one or two might still be there now.
2 A BOUNCING BABY BOTHAM
There was a time three months into my mother Marie’s pregnancy when the entire Ian Botham story might have been over before it had even begun.
Both my parents had been good at sport, highly competitive and fit as fiddles. Les, who was a keen cricketer, ran for East Yorkshire, had a soccer trial for Hull City boys and played for Combined Services, while Marie had played cricket, badminton and hockey to a reasonable standard. For some reason, however, they had acute difficulties in starting a family.
