The Shorter Wisden 2013 (11 page)

Greig’s death in late December inadvertently reawakened the debate. His alliance with Kerry Packer to set up World Series Cricket was regarded as the ultimate betrayal of the game’s
spirit. Yet by forcing the national boards to accept they had been paying their best players less than was fair, Greig did a favour to every cricketer who succeeded him. The jeers at Taunton
suggest the spirit of cricket remains an elusive notion.

Growing pains

Jim Troughton definitely smelled of champagne as he emerged from a raucous dressing-room on a sunny September afternoon in Worcester. Fair enough, too, for his Warwickshire side
had just secured the Championship with a round of matches to spare, and the players were drinking not just to celebrate, but to forget the pain of 2011, when Lancashire pipped them to the title on
the final afternoon. But this whiff of glory was more noticeable for being slightly incongruous: county cricket and glamour rarely rub shoulders, and they will do so even less from 2014, when the
Twenty20 Cup is due to take place throughout the summer, not in a block in June and July, as previously.

In fact, there is something to be said for this. With most games scheduled for Friday evenings, spectators may finally be able to get to grips with the calendar. The threat of the jet stream
again heading south and staying put will be less serious for a competition not played in one go. And counties may be obliged to employ fewer overseas players, since Twenty20 specialists are less
likely to pop in and out – a trend that has damaged the rapport between them and their clubs and fans.

But this is an issue that has been fought over by 18 counties, all with their own priorities. And so there is a flip side. Twenty20 without glamour is like Test cricket without the forward
defensive, or one-day internationals without another paranoid tweak of the playing regulations. Other countries stage their Twenty20 domestic tournaments in a block, which – like it or not
– suits the format’s biggest stars, their suitcases never quite unpacked. The Morgan Review proposed the change from 2014; it did so with the best of intentions, and the counties are
acutely conscious of the need for stardust. But the tournament risks evoking a nice cuppa rather than a glass of bubbly. Ten years after it first hit the county scene, our Twenty20 cricket could be
heading for middle age before it has reached its teens.

Are you sitting comfortably?

The tiff between
Test Match Special
and
Test Match Sofa
, a group of friends who began providing ball-by-ball commentary on the web in 2009, might normally have
been dismissed as a piece of media self-importance. But it was more than that. For while
TMS
were far from flattered by what they regarded as
Sofa’s
imitation, they knew
there was no law to stop them. At first, the ECB were annoyed too, fearing a dilution of the radio rights, for which the BBC had paid – but at the start of 2012 the deal was renewed, for six
years.

Naturally, the friction has suited the underdog. But were
Sofa
really treading on
TMS’s
toes – or even endangering the ECB’s earnings? And why has no one
followed
Sofa’s
lead, as some have feared? (Answer: because live commentary takes time, effort and money.) Besides, the two have different audiences; it’s hard to imagine that
all the 20,000 or so who tuned in on a daily basis to
Sofa
during the India–England Tests had come from
TMS’s
large and loyal listenership.

TMS
retains four major advantages: its history, its stars, its professionalism, and its status as a rights-holder, which allows access to venues, players and the big-match buzz. To fret
over
Sofa
is like Barbra Streisand falling out with the manager of the local karaoke bar.
Sofa
needn’t be seen as a menace, either to a radio institution whose longevity is
part of its appeal, or to the ECB’s bottom line. Cricket needs all the friends it can get. It ought to be the richer for two disparate voices, united by one passion.

What’s come to perfection perishes

You may have noticed that
Wisden
is celebrating its 150th edition – in plain English, its sesquicentennial. A certain amount of self-regard is inevitable, but
not, we trust, too much. Anyway, you never know what is lurking among the family silver.

The Almanack has always striven for accuracy, while being forlornly aware that this is far from the same thing as perfection. In 1950, the report of Cambridge University’s match against
Yorkshire recorded three debutants for the county: the third of them was Fred Trueman, “a spin bowler”. In 1976, praise was lavished on “the amazing Kallicharran”, after Viv
Richards ran out three Australians in the World Cup final. And in 2009, the name of the Haileybury bowler was given as J. W. D. Hughes-D’Aeth, when it should have been W. J. D.
Hughes-D’Aeth, as any fule kno.

But these things happen in a publication that has been weighing in at 1,000 pages for 90 years, and at 1,500 since 1999; this year’s edition takes the total number in the Almanack since
1864 to 133,491. The miracle is that these things don’t happen more often. If you find an error in the 150th, please be gentle.

THE KP SUMMER

P
ATRICK
C
OLLINS

A few weeks after the close of the 2012 season, Geoffrey Boycott used his pulpit in the
Daily Telegraph
to tell Kevin Pietersen some home truths. Cricket, he said, was
a unique sport in the way it accommodated individuals within a team framework. He explained: “There is room for talented people because nobody wants to watch 11 robots. There is even room for
awkward so-and-sos, as long as everyone is clear about the team objective and the individual doesn’t put ‘I’ before ‘team’.” And he concluded: “When
Alexandre Dumas wrote
The Three Musketeers
, their motto was exactly what it should be in cricket: ‘All for one and one for all.’ I think Kevin has forgotten that.”

It was easy to imagine the derision in the Pietersen camp. Here was Boycott, the ultimate awkward so-and-so, championing the cause of the collective. Why, it was practically a definition of
hypocrisy. Who could take him seriously? The answer, I suspect, is a substantial majority of the cricket-following public.

The English game has always revered its gifted nonconformists. From the likes of Compton and Trueman, through to Botham and Flintoff, special indulgence has been granted to those who ruffle the
feathers and raise the spirits. Some may have feet of clay, others may be characters verging on caricatures, yet affectionate memory cherishes the purple passage, the golden hour. Pietersen has
given us many such moments, yet affection continues to elude him. There are reasons for this, and most of them involve self-absorption, self-promotion and a distressing absence of self-awareness.
Boycott’s analysis feels uncomfortably accurate.

Clearly, things would have been far easier had the player not possessed so much talent. A mundane Test cricketer would have been cast aside with sympathetic platitudes and sighs of relief. Terms
such as “difficult” and “disruptive” would have been murmured at unattributable briefings, and the phrase “not a team player” would have carried the force of a
professional obituary.

But Pietersen is different, his ability unquestioned and his Test record formidable. He has achieved the kind of eminence which enables him to be known by his finest innings. There was the 158
to secure the 2005 Ashes at The Oval, and the nerveless 227 at Adelaide in 2010-11. Then, in 2012, came three of the finest innings the modern game has known: in Colombo, at Headingley, and most
dramatically, most violently, at Mumbai.

His batting has also evoked comparisons with some of the great ones, most frequently Hammond and Dexter. Once, as I passed a bibulous lunch in the Harris Garden at Lord’s, I heard an
elderly member assert that Pietersen was “the closest thing to Jessop I’ve ever seen”. Since the Croucher played his last Test in 1912, the claim seemed a touch implausible, yet
heads nodded approvingly.

In fairness, the richness of Pietersen’s talent can unhinge even the most sober of judges. When the mood is upon him, he bats like a demented philanthropist. His improvisations are
stunning, his imagination is beguiling. He invents strokes, seemingly on a whim, and he has the eye, the timing and the grizzly strength to bring them off with a flourish. On such days, he reduces
the science of field placing to a quivering lottery.

Similarly the bowling. One recalls the bellowing bewilderment of Dale Steyn as Pietersen flipped him through midwicket en route to his 149 at Headingley. Allan Donald, South Africa’s
bowling coach, described the performance as “the innings of a bit of a genius”. No, reservations about Pietersen do not concern his skills.

Yet reservations exist, and they are both real and relevant. Indeed, they may be traced back to when he left his native land. He departed with a flounce, citing an unconvincing quarrel with the
quota system. Certainly the move to England opened up the kind of commercial opportunities which were less easily available at home, yet his instincts and his attitudes remained essentially South
African. As one of his former colleagues put it: “He even retained that famous South African sense of humour.”

So his course was set. Aware that an English mother and four years’ residence would enable him to play Test cricket for his adopted country, he worked unsparingly on his game. Just as
nobody ever questioned Pietersen’s ability, they never doubted his diligence. He had a proper respect for his own burgeoning talent, and he refined it over hour upon arduous hour in the
county nets at Nottingham.

But still popularity evaded him. Some tell us he has always wanted to be loved. Others, more perceptively, observe he has a strange way of showing it. In the course of a distinguished career,
Jason Gallian played three Tests for England and scored more than 15,000 first-class runs, yet he is destined to be chiefly remembered as the Nottinghamshire captain who hurled Pietersen’s
kit from the dressing-room balcony at Trent Bridge.

Earlier in the match, Pietersen had told his skipper he wasn’t happy, that the pitch wasn’t up to his standards, and that he wanted to leave. He said he was surprised and
disappointed at Gallian’s reaction. He joined his chum Shane Warne at Hampshire in the winter of 2004, won his first Test cap the following season, and made just one Championship appearance
for the county in the next five years. “Geographically, it just doesn’t work,” explained Pietersen, helpfully. “I live in Chelsea.” Before joining Surrey, he thanked
all and sundry “for the support I have had during my time at the Rose Bowl”. Once again, he seemed surprised when his departure was not widely mourned.

In this respect, as in many others, his reactions resemble those of the professional footballer. Loyalty to club or country is often lightly bestowed. When Pietersen first started playing for
England, he said: “You are brought up to be loyal to the country you are in, but I have never been totally patriotic to South Africa.” Upon touring that country, he announced: “I
just sat back and laughed at the opposition, with their swearing and ‘traitor’ remarks… Some of them can hardly speak English. My affiliation is with England. In fact, I’m
going to get a tattoo, with three lions and my number underneath… No one can say I’m not English.”

The power of the trite gesture: kiss a badge, choose a tattoo, assert your allegiance with a needle. As football long since discovered, it is a crashingly simple and curiously effective
ploy.

England were swift to embrace this stunning talent. He announced himself during that tumultuous Ashes series of 2005, and set a pace which rarely faltered. Occasionally, there would be criticism
of a reckless dismissal, but his sheer weight of runs provided an eloquent response. They gave him celebrity status, and he greeted it like an old mate. No longer Kevin Pietersen, he became
“KP”, maker of headlines and friend of the famous. The brighter the spotlight, the more he appeared to relish it. As England captain, Michael Vaughan handled him astutely. “You
can see how he winds people up, but he just needs managing,” Vaughan would say.

Managing him was one thing, but giving him the keys to the train set was quite another. The captaincy of England demands all manner of qualities which Pietersen quite clearly has never
possessed. And yet, in the face of all the evidence, he was chosen to succeed Vaughan. He lasted for three Tests and five months before the ECB sacked him, a removal they presented as a
resignation. The details of his ham-fisted attempt to depose coach Peter Moores are now the stuff of history, although when they come to write the textbook of witlessly incompetent coups, they may
well find space for the Pietersen Manoeuvre, which involves issuing a “back me or sack me” ultimatum before disappearing on a winter-sun holiday in South Africa.

As ever, the small incidents stuck in the mind. There was his eager espousal of the terminally naff. He once asked for a meeting with Simon Cowell, and emerged, star-struck, to declare:
“That guy’s a legend!” Then, shortly before the infamous Stanford tournament in Antigua, he fatuously insisted he would be as keyed up as on the first morning of an Ashes series.
Little things, yet they illustrated an attitude which was hopelessly ill-suited to the task of leading the national team.

England were fortunate in that the entire, turbulent affair enabled them to give the job to the man who ought to have had it in the first place, and Andrew Strauss became one of the finest Test
captains of the modern era. Yet they were also fortunate in Pietersen’s response to his reduction to the ranks. Piqued, he simply toiled at his technique. His consolation came in his
enormously lucrative association with the Indian Premier League, a competition which helped lift him from mere affluence to genuine wealth.

And Strauss appreciated the efforts his predecessor was making. “Nine-tenths of my time as England captain, I found him a good guy to have in my team,” he would say. “He set
the right example in practice, and I felt he could have been far more resentful of me in the sense that he had been removed as captain before I took over.” From time to time,
Pietersen’s real feelings would emerge, as in the aftermath of the successful Ashes defence in 2010-11: “You know what, I have never said this before, but I got rid of the captaincy for
the good of English cricket, and we would not be here today if I had not done what I did then.” Thus was history bizarrely rewritten.