Loads of lolly
With England's US$20 million match coming up on the weekend, we look back at some of the leading figures in the sport who had money on their mind
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Had Compton been rather more organised with his admin, he might have earned far more. It was on England's 1948-49 tour of South Africa that he finally succumbed to a bulging suitcase of unopened letters, handing the onerous task over to the journalist and Fleet Street veteran Reg Hayter. He in turn passed the hundreds of letters, to Bagenal Harvey, a publisher, who immediately seized the opportunity to become the first sportsman's agent, securing Compton his famous deal with Brylcreem that was worth £1000 a year. Compton's slicked-back hair was slapped on posters across the country, and Harvey pocketed a princely 10% fee for his trouble.
Emburey's track record of taking the cash is almost unparalleled - he was the only man to go on both of England's sanction-busting rebel tours of South Africa ("in hindsight it was a mistake… but at the time my decision was purely monetary") and completed the hat-trick by taking up a coaching role in the ICL. If only World Series Cricket had come a few years later than it did, he almost certainly would have joined that as well, although, ironically, it was the defection of Derek Underwood and Tony Greig to Packer that gave Emburey his England opening. Despite two three-year bans for touring South Africa, each time he was forgiven and returned to the England side.
The swanky cars, bling on the wrist and opulent Mumbai apartments had many conservative Indians narrowing their eyes in distrust. Where had India's goody-two-shoes got all this money from suddenly? Their wariness was validated in 2000 when India's favourite son admitted his involvement in match-fixing, confessing to having accepted vast sums from Mukesh Gupta ("John the Bookie", or MK) for bending two matches in 1996 and 1997. Worse, he was found to be the central figure in the Central Bureau of Investigation's landmark investigation in 2000; Hansie Cronje claimed it was Azharuddin who introduced him to Gupta in the first place. India's jewel had fallen off its crown.
Reckoned to be the second most recognisable male face in the world in the late 19th century (Gladstone, before you ask), Grace was instrumental in taking cricket from a pastime and making it the first global sport. To many he epitomised the Victorian ideal of sportsmanship. The reality was that despite being regarded as an amateur he made more money from cricket than any professional, and did so at almost every opportunity. "He had a status of his own, accepted by all and in particular by the MCC," EW Swanton observed. Grace's money-grabbing antics were less tolerated in Australia, but in England he could do no wrong. It was said at the time that he found cricket a country pastime and left it a national institution. He also left it a considerably richer man.
The Indian Premier League and its so-called rebel cousin, the Indian Cricket League, have both attracted players out of retirement and contentiously lured some away from domestic and international cricket, but this is not new. The great Sydney Francis Barnes preferred the Lancashire leagues to the drudgery of endless county matches, but it was mainly a financial decision. He believed in his ability and expected to be paid accordingly, even sacrificing his England career - he was left out between 1902 and 1907.
The shabby treatment of Gatting by England's selectors made him ripe for the picking to lead the second rebel South Africa tour in 1989. But as the apartheid regime was slowly dismantled, the level of protests surrounding the tour made playing anything resembling normal games impossible. Although Gatting and his colleagues had signed a two-year deal with the South African board, violent demonstrations and a bomb blast led to the tour being cancelled after a torrid month. The promised money was only paid in part and the damage to their careers far outweighed any financial gain. "From the day that tour started we knew we were going to be banned for three years and that is why we expected our contracts to be honoured," Gatting lamented. Like Emburey, he too was picked by England when his ban ended.
Geoffrey Boycott may have been the driving force behind England's rebel tour to South Africa in 1982 but Graham Gooch was the skipper at the helm. Reportedly paid £60,000, he was lambasted by the tabloids who called the tour - which was financed by South African Breweries - "Gooch's Dirty Dozen". Later, in his autobiography, he wrote: "Living in a free country meant, surely, that I could be free to hire my talents anywhere I wanted. Just like any businessman. For a month's work it was six times as much as I'd get in five years or more as a county pro." Ian Botham was offered £85,000 but turned it down, insisting that he could never again look Viv Richards in the eye if he signed on. Boycott called the reason "puke making", but he, Gooch and their cohorts were each banned for three years.
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Azharuddin and Cronje's involvement with match-fixing was all the more distasteful given their abuse of power. Socially - and politically in Cronje's case - these were highly respected and revered sporting figures, whose names were tarnished overnight by greed. Azharuddin had put Cronje in contact with MK Gupta in 1996, and by 2000, Cronje had met his conspirator-in-chief, Sanjeev Chawla. The seeds of corruption were sprouting shoots all over the place. Cronje offered Herschelle Gibbs and Henry Williams - two of his most vulnerable players, given they were non-white and South Africa's racial quotas were infiltrating selection decisions - US$15,000 to throw a match in India. Worse, he told Chawla that he required $25,000, thus guaranteeing himself a $20,000 cut. It confirmed his guilt and greed. Cronje's voracious appetite amounted to $140,000, he later told the King Commission.
James Seymour is an almost forgotten Kent batsman from the early 20th century, but modern players owe him a great debt. He is the man who took the Inland Revenue to court to establish that players' benefits should not be subject to tax, a rule that still applies. However, while until recently benefits were a way of rewarding poorly paid cricketers at the end of their careers - in effect, benefits were their pensions - the system has become increasingly abused. Cricketers can no longer be deemed to be badly paid, and what used to be fairly genteel affairs run by a few volunteers have become slick cash-generating operations run by professional fund-raisers. The sums generated can now exceed a million for the high-profile stars, and the whole process has become increasingly divorced from the rank-and-file county members who used to be the bedrock of the system. In an era when the game's anachronisms have been swept aside, this one remains… because too many people are making too much easy money from it.
Hudson was the pony-tailed jazzer who attempted to lure Ian Botham to Hollywood. With his ice-cream mullet and iconic status in Britain, Botham was, Hudson claimed, the next Winston Churchill, Cary Grant or Horatio Nelson. As fanciful an image as this is, Botham was swept up by Hudson's grand plans, which also included a total revamp of the domestic game. "Let's have matches between teams captained by Eric Clapton and Elton John. We could put them on telly and the crowds would come flocking in. I'd love to see cricket totally orchestrated: Pink Floyd playing and the game going on," Botham recalled Hudson saying in his autobiography. Hudson's first step to reinvent Botham was a range of "unique and classic" clothing, including a grotesque line of jackets in Rastafarian red, yellow, black and green. "The fact that I am colour-blind may have had something to do with it," Botham wrote. "He's off his rocker." Unsurprisingly, Hudson was sacked six months later.
From hero to traitor. Greig's alliance with Kerry Packer shifted cricket's landscape like nothing before it. On July 31, 1977, he finally took his stance at being "ripped off" by English cricket. As England captain, Greig earned a paltry £210 per Test, roughly £1200 for the season. Packer, on the other hand, promised £12,000 a year for World Series Cricket. For Greig, at 30 years old and with a young family at home, the decision was purely financial and a very easy one to make. "I didn't want to be an umpire or coach, and certainly didn't want to get down on bended knee and take a begging bowl round to a bunch of pensioners," he said in 2002. "I couldn't think of anything more demeaning." He never played another Test, but there is no doubt he and Packer brought the game "kicking and screaming into the 20th century".