Holding out for a hero

Andrew Miller looks at Ian Botham and assesses the impact he had on English cricket, both as a player and in the 12 years following his retirement

In Ian Botham's 50th year, closure on his mighty career was finally achieved. After a 20-year quest for England's next great allrounder, which for many years seemed more significant that the establishment of a match-winning team, the heir apparent was anointed two months ago at The Oval, as Andrew Flintoff put his final seal on a glorious summer of redemption, the like of which had not been seen since Botham's own apogee in 1981.

To understand the impact that Botham had on the game of cricket, it is not enough just to list his incredible achievements with bat and ball, or reel out the BBC archive footage of his glory years between 1977 and 1982, which reveal him for the peerless attacking swing bowler that he was. In that time, he snared 249 wickets at 23.32 in 54 matches (and clubbed 11 of his 14 centuries) before wear and tear began to blunt his cutting edge.

Botham was - and still is - larger than life. Boundaries could not contain him, rules were there to be broken, controversy stalked him like a lawyer chasing an ambulance. Amid all his mayhem, he became the most influential English cricketer since the Second World War, providing enough golden moments in his five-year zenith to sustain England's faithful through the barren and often depressing slough that followed.

And yet, to what extent was Botham responsible for that slough? I do not mean personally, of course - we are talking about a man who could not have coped with losing a game of tiddlywinks - but such was the ease and magnificence of his match-winning, that he managed to hoodwink an entire generation. Years of received wisdom, that planning and preparation were the secrets of success, were disproved in an instant by a once-in-a-lifetime maverick.

As befits a man who bestrode the world game, Botham's is a tale of two nations, not one. Nothing that he achieved, nor the legacy that he left, can be assessed without addressing his impact on his favourite foes, Australia. Botham should have been an Australian. Brash, athletic, hard-living and born to win, he would have thrived in the mateship culture that drove their game in the seventies - assuming he could have coped with being in the same dressing-room as Ian Chappell, that is.

But instead of being one, he set about destroying them. From his very first Test wicket at Trent Bridge in 1977, a revolting long-hop that Greg Chappell chopped onto his stumps, to his last hurrah at the 1992 World Cup, when his portly medium-pacers sent the hosts spiralling towards the very first exit gate, Botham lorded it over the Aussies, questioning their very manhood with each new insult.

The list of his achievements against the Aussies is endless. There's the summer of 1981 of course, which needs no further mention here. The return series four years later was scarcely less emphatic, while the tour Down Under in 1986-87 featured two of his most outrageous performances - the brutal century at Brisbane that set England on the way to their last Ashes win for 18 years, and the five-wicket haul at Melbourne that was achieved in spite of a torn intercostal muscle and a pace that would have flattered Ian Bell.

Botham's success against Australia, in fact, is the sole reason why people recall the 1980s with such wistful affection. Ashes glory was a fig leaf for wider failings, such as the loss of 14 out of 15 Tests against the mighty West Indies, a team whom Botham was never able to master. And in 1986, while he was serving a ban after admitting to taking cannabis, England contrived to lose home series against New Zealand and India (who have not won a significant series outside the subcontinent in the 19 years since).

That summer should have been a warning, because as his star began to fade, so the panic set in. How to replace the irreplaceable? A host of hopefuls were thrust into his role - David Capel, Phil DeFreitas, Darren Gough - but none could ever hope to bear the burden, not even Gough, who shared with Botham the same never-say-die bravado, but who finished his fine career as an unashamed No. 11, let alone a counter-attacking No. 6.

It's taken 20 years for England to realise they were barking up the wrong tree. As they floundered through the nineties, waiting for inspiration to slap them in the face, the real solution was coming to fruition Down Under, where Botham's old adversaries were regrouping with the sort of wounded vigour that only the vanquished can feel. After their nadir of the mid-1980s, Australia vowed "never again", and under the hard-bitten leadership of Allan Border and Bobby Simpson, they set about establishing a dynasty of champions.

It took a decade of futility for England to follow suit. For all those who followed England's fortunes in the post-Botham era, the 2005 Ashes provided closure on so many counts. Yes, Flintoff was anointed and the search for the next allrounder was finally called off, but more importantly, his series-winning performances were achieved as part of a tight and united team ethic, and not in spite of the loose-knit alliance that had been the backdrop for Botham's achievements. This time, the "never agains" are being emitted from English lips.

But what comes around goes around, and still the search goes on. "The Next Great Allrounder" is now an Australian obsession, as Shane Watson, Andrew Symonds, Cameron White et al compete for the right to carry their country into a new era. Botham's message to those that have followed him is a simple one. Beat that if you can.