(Photo: Getty Images)
By Derek Pringle
Ian Botham was in his sixth year as an England super star when I first played international cricket with him. We had locked horns before in Essex v Somerset encounters, meetings that had engendered some antipathy. But we got on better once we were on the same side, both of us treating cricket, as well as life, as an adventure.
People forget now but between 1981 and 1987, before Botham took a break to have an operation on his back, he was the most famous sportsman in Britain. When Nike advertised a new football boot it was Botham – who occasionally moonlighted for Scunthorpe United – who was on the posters and not some permed footballer.
The experience of playing with him especially after fame had arrived, as I did, was never less than one of unadulterated admiration. Not that he ever did anything to make things awkward for team mates, at least he never did if he liked you. Yet it was difficult to ever see him as an equal which is what psychologists reckon participants of team sports need to do if they are to pull their weight.
He would try to ease any apprehension newcomers might have by being helpful in a very “Beefy” way, such as the evening before my Test debut against India at Lord’s in 1982. In those days, the Test would start on a Thursday though the players would meet up for practice at 3pm the previous afternoon. A quick bat or trundle in the nets, a few calisthenics with Bernard Thomas, the physiotherapist (which Beefy was often excused from doing), all followed by a team dinner with the selectors in the team hotel, at which tactics might, or might not, be discussed.
Those dinners were not done by halves being four courses washed down by wine of both colours and then port. This one wound up at about 10pm at which point Beefy headed me off at the pass just as I was about to board the lift that would take me to my room.
“Come and have a drink with me at the bar,” he said. “It will help quell the nerves. You won’t be able to sleep otherwise.” The knowing looks from team mates told me that this was a potentially hazardous option but here was England’s greatest cricketer being helpful and thoughtful, so how could I refuse.
Fortunately, I’d learnt to drink quite well at university, so was not too much the worse for wear when I eventually went to bed at around midnight though the “cocktail” of alcohol in my system did give me a muzz upon waking. You can see why the old adage goes: “Beer before wine, fine. Wine before beer, oh dear.” Still, I took a wicket in my first over at which point Beefy said: “See, I told you you wouldn’t be nervous if you stuck with me.”
Watching Botham at close quarters I quickly realised he was playing the game on another level, at least to me. His 208 at the Oval in that series was really something to behold. People think big hitting was invented with T20 and modern bats but Beefy was hoisting Dilip Doshi, India’s left-arm spinner, on to the top level of the pavilion. One of his four sixes even struck the pavilion roof, a mighty hit I have not seen replicated by anyone.
It was all out assault. Doshi would bowl, Beefy would lurch down the pitch bat hoisted high, Doshi would cover his head with his hands and another ball would speed towards the boundary. Inspired by this I tried to do the same when I got to the crease but was stumped for a paltry nine in a total of 594. Any journalist who watched that game would have known there and then that I was not the next Botham, though that did not stop them pedalling such nonsense. Beefy’s celebrity meant the bar was often raised high for the post-play p**s-up. Once, while fielding in the slips with him at Lord’s against the West Indies, he asked me what I was up to after stumps.
“Not much,” I replied.
“Want to go to a party then?” he asked.
“Where?”
“Elton’s place…”
“Not half.”
And so we did. About eight of us went round to Elton John’s beautiful home near Windsor to take wine with him, his recent wife Renate, and his band. Bernie Taupin, aka ‘The Scribbler’ and Elton’s lyricist, was also there. The buffet was for 80 so we feasted well, leaving Beefy to play celeb with the assembled rock royalty.
Of course it wasn’t always Boys Own stuff for Beefy, as even the sainted can come crashing down to earth. When they do, though, they have a knack of spinning it as if such mishaps are beyond their control such as the one that occurred during the Ashes Test of 1982 in Perth.
Despite making over 400 in our first innings, England were still some way from making the game safe when Beefy strode to the crease in our second hit with the score reading 77 for three. Having been on a bender the previous night (he was favouring jugs of whisky and ice cream at the time), he’d been dozing on the physio’s couch when the wicket had fallen.
“Beef, you’re in,” said the 12th man, handing his bat and gloves to him. Now, there are those who get into the zone hours before their innings but this was no such occasion. A quick buckle-up of the pads, a splash of water on the face, and out Beefy went. It didn’t go well. He missed the first ball from Geoff Lawson and had his middle stump removed by the second.
Given our predicament, he returned to a silent dressing-room. “Sorry lads,” he announced. “Didn’t see it.” After which he tossed his bat into his cricket bag, ripped off his pads and hopped back on to the physio’s couch to resume his kip.
England saved the game but after that my suspicions were confirmed about players like Beefy – their supreme talent meant that they expected success almost as a right. Yet, if failure should intervene there was no dwelling on the matter as it was never their fault.
It takes an incredible mind to see the world that way which is why most players achieve a fraction of what Botham did. But even with those feelings of inadequacy in his presence, playing with him – 14 Tests and 23 ODIs – was one hell of an experience, in a good way, and one I shall cherish always.
*This article originally featured in TCP’s 21 July 2017 edition.
