Never a cricketer of the year
Five cricketers who somehow missed out
Scyld Berry
15-Apr-2008
Almost every cricketer of the highest skill since 1889 has been commemorated
by Wisden for posterity. With occasional exceptions, as for the
war years, the finest players of the time have been captured by photograph
and printed word as one of the Five Cricketers of the Year.
The traditional criterion has been the player's performance in the English
cricket season: before the Wright brothers took to the air the editor of Wisden
could not be expected to base his judgment on events abroad, in Australia
or India or South Africa. This has led to several cricketers of the highest
skill slipping through the net: players who have been great in other lands
but who have not excelled on a tour of England, or who have not been
engaged in county cricket.
Inzamam-ul-Haq announced his retirement from international cricket last
year, aged 37. In the expectation that he will not excel in a future English
season, Wisden has decided to select Inzamam, surely the finest batsman not
to have been a Cricketer of the Year, as one of five cricketers of times past
- to make good, to fill the gap, to set the record straight, if not rewrite
history.
The five who missed out come from overseas: almost inevitably so, because
English cricketers have had so many more seasons in which to excel. They
come from more recent times: almost inevitably again, because the pool of
international cricketers has expanded as more countries have been accorded
Test status. The finest player before the Second World War who was never
one of the Five Cricketers of the Year was, to my mind, the South African
all-rounder Aubrey Faulkner. He averaged 40 with the bat in Test cricket
and, bowling leg-breaks and googlies, 26 with the ball; and he opened what
could be termed the first academy in England in the 1920s, before committing
suicide aged 48. But his best performance was on South Africa's first tour
of Australia in 1910-11, when he scored 732 runs for the losing side in the
five-Test series.
The other four cricketers, to go with Inzamam, are all bowlers. Again, this
is not unexpected: in every country, save perhaps Australia, batsmen have
always been more glorified. A wonderful quartet they are too: the spin bowlers
Bishan Bedi of India and Abdul Qadir of Pakistan, and the fast bowlers Wes
Hall of West Indies and Jeff Thomson of Australia. All have been profiled
by writers who faced their bowling. Tony Cozier opened the batting for Lodge
School against Hall, playing for Spartan, in the days when three schools
participated in the first division of Barbadian club cricket; and he hit Hall's first ball through square leg for four. When Cozier reminded Hall recently
of this happy event, he replied: "You lucky you still living!"
Ian Chappell faced Thomson in the Sheffield Shield; Mike Brearley faced
Bedi in Test and county cricket. In 1987-88, the last day of a Test match
between Pakistan and England at Karachi was called off early, simply on
the grounds that the Pakistan captain, Javed Miandad, did not feel like
playing on after winning the series: a touch of lordliness that would have
appealed to Inzamam. And John Woodcock, on his last tour of Pakistan and
an admirer of Qadir because he saved wrist-spin bowling from extinction,
was given a bat by the England players and faced
a few balls from Qadir on the outfield. Happy days,
without security officers to warn everyone off.
Other South African all-rounders, in addition to
Faulkner, have slipped through the net. Not only
Eddie Barlow, who also did his best work on a
tour of Australia and must have come close when
reviving Derbyshire; and John Waite, along with Les Ames a prototype of
the modern keeper-batsman; but also Trevor Goddard and Denis Lindsay.
Jacques Kallis, Wisden's Leading Cricketer in the World for 2007, has only
to maintain his career graph to be a strong candidate this summer.
Assuming Kallis earns selection, the mantle of being the finest batsman
not to have been one of the Five Cricketers of the Year will pass to Gundappa
Viswanath, who scored over 6,000 Test runs for India, although Vijay Hazare
and Polly Umrigar, and Sourav Ganguly, will have their Indian advocates,
and Doug Walters his Australian ones. The finest wicketkeeper never selected
has to be Pakistan's Wasim Bari.
If Chaminda Vaas does not enjoy a successful county season, he may go
down in history as the bowler with the highest number of Test wickets never
to be a Cricketer of the Year. Nobody can be selected twice, but there will
always be some who deserved to be selected once, and weren't. One-day
cricket has become ever more of a criterion for selection, but not soon
enough for Michael Bevan. A calmer and more calculating run-chaser has
yet to win a one-day international.
Of England players, two left-arm spinners Phil Edmonds and Phil Tufnell
took more than 100 Test wickets without being chosen as a Cricketer of the
Year, while another Middlesex bowler who was successful outside the game,
Gubby Allen, often said that he should have been. Probably the finest seamer,
though, never to have gained selection - for Wisden, that is, not England -
is the late Tom Cartwright. At least this master craftsman has been
commemorated in an admirable biography, which has been selected as
Wisden's book of the year.
Qadir's 'influence, not only in•The Cricketer International
Abdul Qadir
John WoodcockPakistan had been playing Test cricket for 25 years before they produced a
wrist-spinner who brought a touch of magic to the game. Until then Intikhab
Alam had been the best, and a very good cricketer he was, capable of hitting
the ball as hard as anyone of his
time and of bowling the best
sides out. But ABDUL QADIR
KHAN, who was born in Lahore
on September 15, 1955, was the
first with a full bag of tricks.
His influence, not only in
Pakistan but wherever he played,
was stimulating and beneficial,
though nothing about him, other
than his capriciousness, was
ever to be taken for granted.
Except in India, where Bedi,
Chandrasekhar, Prasanna and
Venkataraghavan were still in
power, speed was coming more
and more to dominate cricket
thinking as Abdul Qadir was
growing up. The cult figures
were Jeff Thomson and Dennis
Lillee, while in the Caribbean
the most formidable concentration
of fast bowlers the
world is ever likely to see was
being put together. World Series
Cricket, too, was made the more
spectacular for the emphasis laid
on pace and fury.
So when attention was suddenly drawn to an ebullient, highly strung,
unconforming 22-year-old from the precincts of Lahore, bowling a potentially
rich and sinuous medley of leg-breaks, googlies, flippers and gesticulations,
it was altogether timely. Within a few days of watching the uneasy opening
games of World Series Cricket in and around Melbourne late in 1977, I was
in Lahore being beguiled by Qadir in the first of his 67 Test matches, against
Mike Brearley's England side. Both technically and temperamentally, English
batsmen are at their most uncertain against good wrist-spin, so it was no
surprise when, in the first innings of the next Test, at Hyderabad, England
were dismissed for 191, Qadir taking six for 44.
The reason for his never becoming a Cricketer of the Year owes something,
but not everything, to English conditions. Because of them, England
themselves never have produced, and probably never will, a seriously and
consistently good bowler of the Abdul Qadir/Shane Warne type. To come
to acquire such a degree of controlled and varied spin needs pitches with
readier bounce and a lot more sunshine than are to be found in England.
"Tich" Freeman's phenomenal success, bowling quite gentle leg-breaks and
googlies for Kent (1,673 wickets in the course of six English seasons) came
in a game which differed so much from today's as to be but a distant cousin,
albeit a much-loved one.
On the first of his three tours of England, which came within a few months
of his success at Hyderabad, Qadir did no good at all. It was wretchedly
wet. By the time of the second, in 1982, he was established in the Pakistan
side and did pretty well. It would have been a lot better, he felt, but for the
umpiring, a matter which became an issue more or less wherever he played.
On his last visit to England, in 1987, he missed the first 50 days on what
might be called extended paternity leave, before taking ten wickets with
some lovely bowling in the Fifth and last Test at The Oval. It was the only
big occasion on which England really saw the best of him.
But in the pantheon of wrist-spinners he surely ranks near the very top.
Facing him or Warne at their best must have been as severe a test of a
batsman's nerve and capacity as any slow bowler has ever represented. Those
best qualified to make a comparison between the two stress, first of all, the
extraordinary difference between Qadir's bouncing, twirling, pumping runup
and Warne's few measured and menacing strides - the marauder and the
stalker. Bluff is, of course, the essence of their business, and here Warne is
in a class of his own.
But unlike Warne, Qadir was always on the attack. He knew no other
way. It was a great part of his attraction, as well as of his relative
inconsistency. When it comes to deception, as in the way in which he
disguised his googly and various leg-breaks, not to mention his flipper, he
was a real little sorcerer. And whereas he may not have had Warne's
occasional in-drift, perhaps with a leg-break on the end of it, in Pakistan
he did bowl in front of umpires whose interpretation of the lbw law was
not always conspicuous for its neutrality. But that is another matter, and
should be allowed to take nothing away from Abdul Qadir's rare, often
dazzling skills.
'Besides being a gentlemanly cricketer, Bedi was also a terrific competitor'•Getty Images
Bishan Bedi
Michael BrearleyThe first epithet that comes to mind for Bishan Bedi's bowling is "beautiful".
More than with any other slow bowler, this is the word that stays. He prepared
to bowl with remarkably supple stretches for a man who was not slim: he
must have practised yoga. His fingers were wonderfully supple too, and part of his theatricality was fizzing the ball from one hand to the other before
starting his run-up. He was also striking in his choice of patkas, often pink
or bright blue.
He was not an elegant mover with the bat, or in the field. In both
departments he could be clumsy. Like Colin Cowdrey among batsmen, Bedi
was one of those athletes whose athleticism was expressed almost exclusively
in what he did best. A few easy rhythmic steps, perfectly balanced, and he
moved smoothly into the delivery stride. There was no sense of striving,
nothing rushed or snatched, no
hiccoughs, just an easy flow. He
bowled at the slower end of the
spin bowler's range, though not
dead slow.
Like most great bowlers, his
variation was subtle. Of all the
slow bowlers of Bedi's time,
none forced you to commit yourself
later than he did. With tiny,
last-second adjustments of wrist
and hand-angle, he could bowl
successive balls that looked
identical, perhaps as if each
would land on a length just
outside off stump. But with the
first he would cock his wrist
more, deliver the ball slightly
higher - it would spin sharply,
stay wider of off, and be shorter
than you anticipated. The next
ball, ever so slightly undercut
and a little quicker, would pitch
further up and come in towards
middle and leg stumps. To the
first ball you were likely to play
inside the line, and away from the body; to the second, outside the line, and
round your front leg, so that there was a risk of inside edge on to the pad.
The error of judgment induced in the batsman could be as much as a yard
in length and a foot in width. And he could make these changes according
to what he sensed the batsman was trying to do, in the moment of delivery,
so firm and balanced were his action and rhythm.
BISHAN SINGH BEDI, born on September 25, 1946, in the Sikh capital
of Amritsar, was a gentlemanly cricketer. If you hit him through the covers
for four he would say, "Well played." When David Hughes of Lancashire
hit him for 26 in an over in a Gillette Cup final, Bedi applauded each of
the three sixes. He didn't approve of the lap or sweep; being a purist he felt
these were unworthy shots. He did not readily bowl defensively - flat and
directed to middle and leg - though he could also do this. He liked to defeat the batsman in the flight, and have him stumped or caught off a skyer.
Having watched the England players being mesmerised by him in India in
1972-73, and written about them not using their feet, the author batted at
Northampton for Middlesex a few months later. The outcome: Brearley st
Sharp b Bedi 18 (though 57 in the second innings!). Of his 1,560 first-class
wickets, he took 434 in six seasons for Northamptonshire, and 266 in 67
Tests for India.
Besides being a gentlemanly cricketer, Bedi was also a terrific competitor.
Tony Lewis, who captained England in 1972-73, said he was a Dennis Lillee
among slow bowlers. If he liked you, he would be extremely friendly (I
greeted him with a namaste - the Indian greeting with hands together -
when I came in to bat at Lord's, and he enjoyed that). But if he took against
you, he could be a fierce antagonist.
Bedi is an extremely generous man. Being of a rare blood group, he gave
blood in Karachi on a Cavaliers tour in response to a newspaper appeal;
Benazir Bhutto sent him two carpets and a tea-set, while shopkeepers invited
Bedi to help himself. A forthright man too. He is not diplomatic. He can
be choleric. He declared in Jamaica in 1976 when he believed the umpires
had been too weak to put a stop to intimidatory and dangerous bowling by
West Indies. Recently he has not minced words about Muttiah Muralitharan
or Shoaib Akhtar. He is worried for future generations, who will copy these
actions. He has no faith in cricket's administrators. In retirement Bedi has
run a cricket school in Delhi. He also writes and speaks on television about
cricket, outspokenly.
Hall was the first West Indian•Getty Images
Wes Hall
Tony CozierAt six foot three, with the physique and strength of a bodybuilder, a longjumper's
approach of 30 galloping paces and an explosive action that
propelled the ball at above 90mph, Wes Hall was the embodiment of West
Indies fast bowling.
In association first with Roy Gilchrist and more famously with his fellow
Barbadian Charlie Griffith, Hall revived the legacy of pace that had waned
since the heyday of Constantine and Martindale more than a quarter-century
earlier. His arrival coincided with the emergence of Garry Sobers, Rohan
Kanhai, Conrad Hunte, Basil Butcher and Lance Gibbs - the nucleus of the
formidable team that developed in the 1960s under the significant guidance
of Frank Worrell.
But for a twist of fate, WESLEY WINFIELD HALL, who was born at
Station Hill, St Michael, on September 12, 1937, might never have entered
such company. His obvious physical attributes were inexplicably overlooked
at one of Barbados's leading schools, Combermere, where he was consigned
to keeping wicket.
The first time he bowled competitively was as a fill-in in a club game for
Cable & Wireless, the company he joined on leaving school. He took six
wickets, abandoned the gloves and, within two years, was fast-tracked on
to the 1957 England tour. Aged 19, with the inadequate background of a
solitary first-class match, he had a predictably rough time, and future
prospects did not seem promising. Once more, luck intervened: when Worrell
withdrew from the 1958-59 tour of India and Pakistan, he was replaced by
Hall and Eric Atkinson, a seam and swing bowler.
What seemed an irrational
option proved a stirring success.
Hall took 46 wickets in the eight
Tests, and was the natural leader
of the attack for the next decade,
ending up with 192 wickets
from 48 matches. He called his
autobiography Pace Like Fire,
and there was little subtlety to
his approach. "Hall merely puts
his head down and lets you have
it, and it's pretty hot," wrote
C. L. R. James of his pomp in
England in 1963.
He was the first West Indian
to take a Test hat-trick, against
Pakistan on that 1958-59 tour.
But his reputation for spirit and
stamina was more defined by his
final overs of two memorable
Tests: the Brisbane tie of 1960-
61, and the draw at Lord's in
1963 when Colin Cowdrey, his
arm in plaster after Hall broke it
the previous day, re-entered for
the last two balls at the nonstriker's
end.
A combination of willpower and adrenalin kept Hall going each time. At
the Gabba, he had already sent down 17 eight-ball overs on the final day
when he began the last. At Lord's, he bowled unchanged for the 200 minutes
of a shortened last day, on the sustenance of just two hard-boiled eggs,
provided by Worrell on the team bus after his bowling spearhead had
overslept.
Yet Hall was much more than a tearaway fast bowler. His wholehearted
enjoyment of everything he did made him one of the most popular cricketers
of his generation. The Australian commentator Johnnie Moyes described him
as "a rare box-office attraction, a man who caught and held the affections
of the paying public" after the 1960-61 series, while James's impression was
that "Hall simply exudes good nature at every pore".
His batting was usually brief but entertaining, his vivid descriptions of it
often more so. His only first-class century came early on the 1963 tour of
England, against Cambridge University. "Ah, but it wasn't any old hundred,"
Hall would say, "it was against the intelligentsia."
He was eventually weakened by his physical efforts for various teams at
home and abroad, as well as the effects of a couple of car crashes (his
approach to driving was much the same as to his bowling). The signs that
his powers were declining were evident some time before he limped off a
Test field for the last time, midway through the first match against New
Zealand at Auckland in February 1969.
It was also Griffith's last series, ending a bowling alliance now
commemorated by a stand at their home ground, Kensington Oval. Hall's
passion for the game - and for life - remained strong, and he turned his
attention to an unlikely combination of cricket administration, politics and
the church. He established a youth league in Trinidad, and became a West
Indies selector, manager and even board president.
He also found the time to be elected to Barbados's parliament, served as
a cabinet minister for ten years, and was ordained in the Christian Pentecostal
Church - positions that reflected his commitment to public service, and
offered scope for his always engaging, often prolonged, oratory.
Inzamam 'led the side for longer than anyone else since•AFP
Inzamam-ul-Haq
Simon BarnesWe really shan't see his like again. Inzamam-ul-Haq was almost certainly
the last of his kind: the last - now is not the time for euphemism -
unapologetically fat fellow to become a genuinely great cricketer. But he
was no Falstaffian biffer, blaster and roisterer: he was a man of quietness,
mildness and grace.
He possessed that rather unearthly elegance you find sometimes, but rarely,
in large people who are completely at home in their own bodies. When he
batted, his touch and footwork were every bit as remarkable as his power.
It is tempting to compare him to the hippo-ballerinas of Fantasia: but that
is wrong. There, the joke is about incongruity. Inzi never looked incongruous
at the crease: his balance, his eye - he was always able to play sublimely
late - his lyrical flow, especially with the pull-shot, made every one else
look undersized, awkward, malformed.
He scarcely ever hurried. INZAMAM-UL-HAQ was born on March 3, 1970,
in the sweaty city of Multan, a place where the only thing that hurry does is
spoil your shirt. At his best, he seemed to move cricket into a different time,
a different space. The entire game seemed to adjust itself to Inzi's rhythm.
He was not suited by build or nature to the frenetic into-the-advertising
fielding of modern cricket, though he was a brilliant slipper. But he always
brought with him a faint touch of absurdity: for alas, it behoves a batsman
sometimes to run. Most agree that as a bad runner between the wickets, Inzamam carried all before him: though his record of 40 times run out in
one-day internationals is only second-highest, behind Marvan Atapattu.
The greatest thing about Inzamam was that he did it when it mattered.
He was a century-for-your-life man. That ability was first shown in 1992,
in the Cornered Tigers World Cup. Imran Khan, the Pakistan captain, always
backed him, and stuck with him during that campaign despite poor
performances. In the semi, Inzamam scored 60 off 37 balls; in the final 42
off 35. Pakistan won.
Inzamam is one of only 11 batsmen to have scored 25 Test hundreds. But
the best stat of all is that 17 of those centuries helped Pakistan to a victory.
Inzamam was always a cricketer
of substance.
He has mostly been a mild,
but rather enigmatic presence in
international cricket. He has
never played the character, as his
build suggested he might. It has
suited him to remain slightly
unknowable. "It's my nature," he
said. "I'm a quiet person." All
the same, he has been involved
in a fair amount of scrapes. He
was once charged with assault
with a deadly weapon, the
weapon in question being a
cricket bat, after an altercation
with a heckling supporter in
Toronto, of all places. The
charge was later dropped. His
amnesia during the Qayyum
Inquiry into match-fixing also
raised a few eyebrows.
But, for the last four years of
his international career, he was
the Pakistan captain, and made
a good fist of one of the most
insecure jobs in sport. He led the side for longer than anyone else since
Imran. His reputation gave him authority, while his unemphatic nature was
better suited to the job than that of many follow-me-lads types. He took
Pakistan to third place in the Test and one-day rankings.
He presided over a team that prayed together five times a day and believed
it had left its equivocal reputation behind: a belief that accounted for the
dismay the team felt when punished for what the umpire Darrell Hair believed
was ball-tampering in a match against England in 2006. As a result of that botched, mishandled and in truth rather absurd affair,
Inzamam is on record as the only captain to have forfeited a Test, after his
team were late to take the field after tea. The whole business, more ridiculous than meaningful, needs no going into here: suffice it to say that in most of
cricket Inzamam emerged with his reputation undamaged, and actually
enhanced, insofar as that is possible, in Pakistan.
He retired three runs short of being Pakistan's leading run-scorer in Test
cricket, tripping over the last hurdle rather uncharacteristically. Perhaps he
now regrets all those short singles he turned down over the course of his
career, but probably not. His cricketing life has been notable for a kind of
other-worldly serenity: a gentle, baffled wonder at the way cricket balls can
be so readily despatched towards boundaries, a phenomenon strange but really
rather gratifying, not least because it obviates the need for violent exercise.
'Aww, mate, I just shuffle up and go wang'•Getty Images
Jeff Thomson
Ian ChappellWhen asked to describe his bowling action, Jeff Thomson replied in typically
laconic fashion: "Aww, mate, I just shuffle up and go wang." It was the perfect
description for what he did, except that it failed to reveal the carnage resulting
from a simple "wang".
For two years until he badly injured his shoulder at Adelaide in December
1976, Jeff Thomson was the most lethal bowler on earth, with a better average
and strike-rate than Dennis Lillee. And there wasn't a stat for what his presence
did to opposing batsmen's psyches.
Admittedly, the West Indian off-spinner Lance Gibbs was no batsman, but
before the 1975-76 series he said to me, "I can sort out Lillee, he has a
wife and kids like me, but you're responsible for that mad man Thomson.
You must convince him not to kill me."
"But Gibbsy," I said, "I'm not captain."
"I don't care," Gibbs responded with his distinctive cackle, "I'm holding
you responsible."
His concern probably stemmed from Thomson's infamous quote before
the 1974-75 Ashes series that "I'd rather see a batsman's blood on the pitch
than his stumps lying on the ground." Although he denied ever saying that,
it had the desired effect on opponents. Thomson was nothing like that in
reality, but the ferocious image did him no harm.
Once batsmen realised "Two-Up" (the nickname came from Thommo's,
a famous Sydney gambling den which stayed one step ahead of the law)
was quite a normal, decent human being, he was handled with a little more
ease - but that also coincided with his serious shoulder injury.
He was bowling like the wind on that fateful day at Adelaide. He was
agitated after Alan Turner had dropped Zaheer Abbas; when Zaheer mistimed
another pull and Thommo saw Turner circling under the ball he took off for
the catch. They collided, and Thomson was never quite the same bowler
again.
He obviously knew he was in trouble, because when he finally sat up
clutching his shoulder he cursed, "I'll kill that ****" - adding, after a long pause, "if I ever bowl again." No one has ever worked out whether he was
referring to Zaheer or Turner. Actually Adelaide was a hoodoo ground for him. In January 1975 he was
in the process of rearranging the stumps, fingers, ribcages and life priorities
of the England tourists when he injured his right shoulder. The first day was
called off as rain had got under the covers, so a few of the Australians
played tennis on the grass courts
behind the members' stand.
Apparently Thomson had felt
a click in his shoulder while
serving, but hadn't mentioned it.
On the rest day he played tennis
again, and this time his shoulder
gave out. This is not altogether
surprising, because he liked to
do everything flat out: he bowled
quicker than anyone, drove dragracing
cars, and attempted to
serve as fast as John Newcombe.
In those two years before
his injury, JEFFREY ROBERT
THOMSON, who was born in
Sydney on August 16, 1950,
was the most lethal bowler I've
seen. In Australia, he was able
to make the ball rise alarmingly
at express speed to throat height
from just short of a length - but
following the injury some of that
steep bounce went missing. He
was still quick, but no longer just
shuffled up and went wang. He
began to use a longer run-up and, although the extra bounce was elusive,
he could still dial up the express speed.
In 1991, some 13 years after a Bridgetown Test in which Thommo had
sent down an intimidating spell to Viv Richards and Gordon Greenidge,
I went into the Kensington Oval's Pickwick Stand. The aficionados there
knew their stuff: they had seen plenty of Barbadian pacemen, from Manny
Martindale in the 1930s, through Wes Hall and Charlie Griffith, to Malcolm
Marshall and Sylvester Clarke. They'd also witnessed quickies from other
islands like Andy Roberts and Michael Holding.
I asked, "Who's the fastest you've ever seen?" To a man they immediately
replied, "Ooh man, dat Jeffrey Robert Thomson. He don't bowl fast, man,
he bowl like de wind."
That Jeffrey Robert Thomson left an impression wherever he went.
Sometimes it was a mental picture, other times it was a bruise, but he left
his most indelible mark on cricket when he just shuffled up and went wang.