Jack Shantry: The figure of fun who became a folk hero

Jack Shantry is no longer, primarily, a cricketer.

Despite a series of injections into his lower spine - "they kill the nerves in my lower back," he explained. "There is minor chance of paralysis but I'm sure it'll be fine" - Shantry has been forced to accept defeat in bid to revive a career that has been as enjoyable as it has been unexpected. Aged 30, with the possibility of a benefit season next year suddenly gone, it is all over. He has to start again.

It was no surprise Shantry should go to such lengths to extend his playing career. Not blessed with the talent of many of his contemporaries - he played for Shropshire age-group sides with James Taylor and against the likes of Chris Woakes and Moeen Ali - he was forced to compensate with determination and hard work. He was, after all, a left-arm medium-pacer who didn't move the ball back into the right-hander. It's like being a seasick sailor. It's a significant problem. He wasn't part of a first-class county academy; he wasn't fast-tracked; he wasn't an age-group star and he wasn't - at any stage - anyone's idea of what a professional cricketer looked like.

But he found a way. Despite - or maybe because - of a bowling action his own brother described as "a cry for help" and a pace described by one wag (ok, it was me) as "between slow and stationary" he finishes his career with 266 first-class wickets at an average just under 30 and two first-class centuries. Both of them ridiculous, but we'll come to that later. And before anyone suggests his record is a reflection of the mediocrity of county cricket - and Division Two in particular - it has to be acknowledged that his Division One record is more than respectable: 90 wickets at a cost of 30.74 apiece.

I first learned of Jack in the summer of 2007. It seemed, for a while, as if he were playing in every game I covered. Within three days that August, Shantry played for Minor Counties, Shrewsbury and Shropshire. Around the same time, he was also playing for Minor Counties U25s and, by 2008, Manchester University and Worcestershire Second XI, too. At one stage, in 2008, he played 30 days of cricket between June 3 and July 16 for at least five different sides. And, at the end of that period, he bowled 62 overs in a Minor Counties Championship match. He would travel anywhere, trial anywhere, putting himself - and the ball - in good areas in a desperate bid to win an opportunity to break into the game he loved. Play, sleep, travel, play. Rinse and repeat. It's hard not to warm to that. And it's not hard to see why his back has worn out.

When he finally won an opportunity - Worcestershire offering him a contract that didn't compare especially favourably to the income of the Big Issue seller outside the McDonalds in the city - he immediately dropped out of university to pursue it. It was a mad decision, really. He was two years into an English Language degree in Manchester and there was no guarantee that his cricket 'career' would extend beyond a few second XI appearances. But he believed in himself and knew this was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to live that boyhood dream. He jumped.

I knew his brother, Adam, from his time at Warwickshire. An engaging character, he made an impression on debut, playing against West Indies A. He gave Tino Best a fearful send-off and then remembered he may have to face him in a few hours. The conversation, apparently, went like this: "There's the pavilion… No, not you Tino. Well batted, mate. That was unlucky. Jeez, your hair is looking great. You know, you're a really handsome man…"

Perhaps more revealing was the fact that, without the knowledge of the club or his teammates, Adam had taken to visiting sick supporters in the off-season. A remarkable effort from a sportsman in their early 20s. Anyway, for reasons I don't entirely recall, I'd taken to making Alan Partridge references to him in almost every piece and he had responded by leaving the odd (shop-soiled) Terry's chocolate orange for me in the press box. A few years later he swam the Channel to raise funds for the Tom Maynard Trust. He's now coaching at Shrewsbury School. The kids there are lucky to have him, not just for his experience and skill - he could swing the ball round corners, albeit at the same pace as Jack - but for his kindness. Jack is made of similar stuff.

There's was an everyman quality to Jack that made him something of a favourite with spectators. While some cricketers breeze into the game with such ease they almost seem to be a different species - think David Gower or Sam Curran - you could see and feel the struggle with Jack. It was obvious he wasn't the most talented and you could see how much the game meant to him. He was the under-dog having his day in the sun; the journeyman rubbing shoulders with stars. And never, not for a moment, did he forget where he came from. Every spectator was treated with courtesy; every game was treated like a Lord's final.

He will bristle at that portrayal. He has always thought he was a bit more talented than has been credited and, to be fair, his record suggests he was probably right. When I have tweeted something admiring about Rikki Clarke or Zak Chappell or a million other eye-catching players, he has often sent a polite but firm rebuke pointing out that his statistics are better than theirs. And it's a good point. Aesthetics don't win games. And if you combined his character - his determination, his spirit - with that talent of Rikki (or Rikki as a 20-year-old, anyway; he's not so different to Jack these days) you have a world-beater.

There were days that it seemed Jack could take on the world. In September 2014, with promotion on the line, he scored a century from No. 9 and claimed a 10-wicket haul against - of all teams - Surrey. Coming to the crease with his side leading by just 34, he thrashed a century in 86 balls and then followed his six-wicket haul in the first innings with four more in the second. It was enough to win his side promotion on the final day of the season at New Road.

The great Paul Edwards (his wonderful match reports are here and here) was planning a book - Shantry's Match - about an incredible four days. Two-thirds of it was written. Alas, Paul's excellence as a writer is not matched by his excellence as a technician. Instead of pressing a button that said 'no' he pressed a button that said 'yes'. The book was lost.

Maybe that's the way it should be. Maybe you should never try and pin down the rainbow that was Shantry in that match (though if anyone could, it is Paul). It was the stuff of campfire tales and ghost stories. Of myths and legend told in hushed voices to an enraptured throng. Of Headingley '81. "Shantry would have hit that for seven."

Ahh, Shantry facts. For the uninitiated, it's was a Twitter hashtag that played on the image of Jack as an unlikely hero achieving impossible feats. It was born on a rainy day and grew like a pet alligator. He didn't always like them. While he understood the original tweets were meant fondly - his team-mates provided some of the best - he was never entirely comfortable with the image of him as a lovable fool somehow overcoming the odds: Charlie Hawtrey boxing or Herbie going bananas. A few were simply mean-spirited and disrespectful. But a couple still make me smile. How about this one, from @Beardy_Ed: "The Dalai Lama has an inspiration poster of @JackShantry on his wall." Or this, from @RhysPWilliams: "Jack Shantry once killed two stones with one bird." The first line of his ESPNcricinfo profile reads: "The figure of fun who became a folk hero." He was never sure how to feel about any of that. At times - such as when we made this video it made him genuinely furious.

It was probably that bowling action that provoked the jokes. A bowling-missing-in action. It was absurd: a landscape picture squeezed into a portrait template. Instead of the quick run and large delivery stride prescribed by coaches these days, Shantry tip-toed to the crease as if trying to come to terms with his first set of high heels and delivered with both feet together just behind the popping crease. The arm was so high that it sometimes passed the perpendicular and forced the head towards his thighs; the ball propelled so slowly it sometimes came out like a shuttlecock. He thought, as a boy, he had the same action as Brett Lee. Then he saw himself on video. "You have a bit in common with Brett Lee," I once told him. "What's that?" he asked, his little face lighting up in expectation of a compliment. "Well, you're both mammals and… no, that's it."

But, blessed with height - he is six foot, five inches - that action allowed him to bowl from what he claimed to be the highest delivery point in the county game and generate bounce. Combined with accuracy that nagged like a tax return and an ability to nip the ball away from the right-hander, he demanded respect. You could attack him, but you might well have to hit the ball in the air to do so. And, just as it seemed as if batsmen had worked him out - the theory was you could play him like a right-arm, away-swing bowler - he found a new trick. Bowling a leg stump line to left-handers he picked up a remarkable number of wickets - including top-order players such as Michael Carberry and Ian Westwood - caught at leg slip. Alastair Cook joked that he had a dead leg from allowing the ball to hit it rather than falling for the ploy while Justin Langer, in his final first-class game, is said to have turned to the slip cordon and said: "I'd rather slam my **** in a door that face this ****." Shantry dismissed him shortly afterwards.

Might there be comparisons between Shantry and Chad Bradford? Bradford was the pitcher made famous by Moneyball. Like Shantry, he had an extreme, unconventional action. And, like Shantry, he was thought too slow to make it as an elite player. And, by succeeding, might they both have shown that accepted wisdom in coaching places too high a premium on aesthetics? In an age of homogenised seamers with robotic actions banging the ball in back of a length, in a cricketing environment that can sometimes emasculate its young players by surrounding them with so much support they can lose the ability to make their own decisions, Jack showed the value of being independently minded. His action, his fields, his approach: all were original. He'll leave a hole in that Worcestershire dressing room and a hole in the county game. But it's better than that hole in his spine growing any bigger.

The transition back to normal life after a playing career is desperately hard. Some never reacclimatise. Jack will be okay. It will hurt and he will miss it, but he'll be okay. For a start, Worcestershire are looking after him - he has been given an ambassadorial role until the end of the season. As he put it in a charming (and almost certainly tear-drenched) media release, he has "many memories to last me… and though I had hoped to make many more, I will watch with joy as our new crop of fast bowlers come through and trust they cherish their careers as much as I did mine." A future in umpiring is a strong possibility.

There were more incredible days. He thrashed another first-class century (this time from No. 10 in the order) against Gloucestershire, with the second 50 taking just 14 balls; yes 14! He has career-best match figures of 10 for 26 in a first-class match - albeit against Oxford MCCU - and 7 for 69 in an innings against Essex. In the summer of 2015, he claimed 57 Division One Championship wickets at a cost of only 25.08. Only seven men in the division claimed more. There were 12 five-wicket hauls in his first-class career. Each one of them an eloquent reply to those of us who doubted him.

There's an odd paradox at the heart of life as a cricket reporter. Well, one who never played the game professionally, anyway. We are, invariably, sitting in judgement on people who are far better at the thing we love than us. We pass comment on their work-rate as we eat cake and find fault in their footwork against fast bowling from the comfort of our air-conditioned press boxes. We call for players - and coaches - to be picked and dropped without fully appreciating the life-changing consequences. All I can say in defence is that it was a delight to be proved wrong by Jack. And, as I've told him previously, I would swap my career for his in a heartbeat.

I have a mortifying memories of a live TV appearance a few years ago. Asked whether Stuart Broad or James Anderson - I don't recall which now; they've become like Ant and Dec to me - should be classified as "a great bowler," I mumbled some mealy-mouthed nonsense along the lines of "if they're great, what was Malcolm Marshall?" As if to bestow such a compliment somehow costs us something. It makes me cringe to think of it. My view has changed considerably.

Jack Shantry was, in many ways, an unremarkable cricketer. He never played for England or even England Lions. He never appeared in T20 Finals Day or a Lord's final. I can't find any record of him winning a man-of-the-match award. He was no Malcolm Marshall.

But to have fought through such adversity to earn a career in the game, to have spent 10 years in the sun, under the shadow of the cathedral and the chestnut trees at New Road, to have changed alongside Phil Hughes and Ravi Ashwin and Steve Smith, to have bowled against Michael Clarke, Ian Bell, Marcus Trescothick and Mark Ramprakash - and dismiss them all - and to have represented the club he loves in all formats more than 250 times, always with a smile on good days and bad… well, that's pretty bloody great, isn't it?

Well bowled, Jack Shantry. I've never known a cricketer make more of themselves and I've never been more delighted to be proved wrong.