(Photo: Getty Images)
By Peter Hayter
One hesitates to mention alcohol in the current climate, but England’s last Test match at the WACA means this is my final opportunity to recall in print not only the most terrifying experience of my “professional” career, but also the most exhilarating, and to admit to the vital part played in it by drink.
So the time has come for you to prepare yourselves for the story of the day I faced Devon Malcolm, arguably the quickest and scariest out-and-out pace bowler England have ever produced, on the fastest, bounciest batting surface on the planet.
When proposed to me by the marketing chaps at the then Test and County Cricket Board I have to admit I had taken the idea with more than a pinch of salt.
Back in the summer of 1994, the England spearhead had just produced the spell against South Africa that prompted President Nelson Mandela, when meeting him for the first time, to greet him with the words: “I know you. You are the destroyer.”
In the final Test at The Oval known forever as Malcolm’s match, the gentle giant had been stirred by the removal of his helmet badge by Fanie de Villiers to warn him and his teammates, “you guys are history”, and he lived up to that promise by taking 9-57 in 99 balls, sending down deliveries upwards of 95mph at batsmen you could see trembling with fear.
His bowling that day was brutal and devastating and led the editor of the Board’s 1995 summer magazine to lean across the Press box table and ask me if I would be prepared to have a bat against him, naturally in carefully controlled conditions, then to write about the event so that I could try and explain to their readers what that was like for someone not paid to play cricket for a living.
“Of course,” I laughed, hardly looking up from my laptop.
“Great,” said Mr. TCCB, “we’ll organise it when you’re in Australia for the Ashes this winter.
“Fine,” I said, rather more concerned with my fast approaching Saturday afternoon deadline.
That’ll go no further, I thought to myself, and as, by the time England had lost the first two Tests against Australia in Brisbane and Melbourne, I had heard no more on the subject, I assumed I had got away with it.
But, after a winning draw in Sydney, Mike Atherton’s injury-ravaged side somehow pulled off an unlikely victory in Adelaide, one of the highlights of which was an absolute monster from Devon which uprooted the off pole of Steve Waugh for a duck.
Depending on your perspective, the Aussie hard man was either fractionally late getting behind the line of the ball ‘x’ or ‘y’ had had no intention whatsoever of doing so under any circumstances, and this was the cue for Mr. TCCB to pipe up: “Your net against Devon. It’s all set up for next week at the WACA.”
It took a while for this news to sink in but I realised there was no going back now, so when we arrived in Perth I sought comfort from contacts inside the dressing room.
Phil Tufnell was a great help. On his first tour Down Under he had actually been fined by the management for refusing to do what I had apparently volunteered for, against the same bowler, in the same nets.
His first reaction was to tell me: “You must be off your chump,” a view also held, it has to be said, by the majority of his colleagues, but at least he and few others did me the honour of administering a skinful of the aforementioned medicine in the hotel bar the night before and into the small hours.
At the ground the next morning Tuffers also invited me to help myself to the contents of his “coffin”, and thus I as able to insert, strap on or buckle up every single piece of protective equipment known to mankind, including a truly vast helmet, so heavy that I could barely hold my head up straight.
By the time I had managed to get it all sorted, the ensemble left me looking and feeling like I was walking out to bat in a diving bell.
With the anaesthetising booze still swirling around my system, I staggered across the field to the practice area, passed en route by various players whose messages of encouragement ranged from indifference to bewilderment to downright scorn.
Only one, Angus Fraser, alongside whom I played club cricket in our youth, offered practical help. “I’ll get in the net before Devon arrives and give you a few sighters,” he said, and his kind offer was gratefully accepted.
So, as Fraser ran in, I duly went half-forward in anticipation of his usual top-of-off-stump line and length corridor of uncertainty stuff, and the bastard sent down a bouncer that hit me smack on the left shoulder. I should have known. The old sod once bowled me a beamer in a charity match.
My cries of pain now attracted the attention of coach Keith Fletcher who, apparently unaware of what had been arranged, walked over to me and said sympathetically: “What on earth do you think you’re doing?” then promptly turned and walked off again.
Finally, the moment of truth was upon me. And the rest is a magnificent blur.
I was aware of the need to try and sight the ball in Devon’s hand as early as possible and to stay focused on it from the moment he let go. The Bradman method.
I was also aware, however, that his first delivery hit the back of the net behind me before I had moved a muscle. Sorry, Don.
Thereafter things did improve, marginally. I even managed to hit a couple in the middle of the bat, though this was probably more to do with the law of averages than skill or ability on my part, and, when he did send down some short balls he made sure he managed to direct them wide enough of off stump for them to pass harmlessly by, though some critics of his control and consistency believe this may also have been more to do with the law of averages.
True, there were a couple of moments when the ball flashed in front of my eyes, followed swiftly by my life, but I promise you now that nothing I have ever experienced before or since has set my pulse racing and my heart beating (not to mention my head throbbing) quite like they were during the ten minutes I spent facing one of the fastest bowlers of all time on one of the quickest surfaces.
I wouldn’t exactly describe it as fun, but it was certainly unforgettable, not least because every time I have bumped into Devon since then he has burst out laughing. Crazy, he called me then, and he still does.
Would I do it again? No chance. Then again, anyone got a number for Mitchell Starc?
