Ian Botham - Botham - My Autobiography

Then when I read the newspaper reports of the incident the following morning, that set me off again. Kath said it sounded very much as though Dexter did not want me in the England set-up at all. How dare he imply that the Aussies were trying to con the selectors into picking me by throwing their wickets away? Anyone who knows the slightest thing about them also knows that getting out to me is the last thing an Aussie wants to do, especially Border, for whom the events at Headingley in 1981 still hurt badly. The ball that bowled him at Arundel went through the gate between bat and pad as he tried to push it through the off-side. That was a weakness of Border’s which I had probed successfully in the World Cup match in Sydney where I managed to take four wickets in seven deliveries without conceding a run and scored 53. We went on to win the match comfortably, and that was probably the moment when the Australians lost their chance of qualifying for the final stages. Wisden wrote: ‘The combination of the old enemy, the bright lights and the noisily enthusiastic crowd demanded a show-stopper from Botham, and he provided it’. Did Border give me his wicket that night as well?

By this time I had worked myself up into such a fury that I was determined not to let the matter drop. I demanded an apology from Dexter. Two days later the phone rang at home at nine in the morning. It was Ted.

He mumbled something about what he had said being a throw-away line which he had come up with because he wanted to avoid the interview being all about Ian Botham. It didn’t wash. After all, I had just bowled the Australian captain and under the circumstances the first thing any interviewer was going to ask him about was my England prospects. It was the time of year when everyone is speculating on who is, or is not, going to make the team. Dexter went on to offer, by way of some bizarre justification: ‘You’re the master of the one-liner, Ian – look at what you said about Pakistan being the kind of place you would send your mother-in-law for a paid holiday’.

‘Yes, Ted,’ I replied, ‘and the board fined me £1000 for that one.’

I told him I was not happy about what had been said and I was not going to back down. If someone in Ted’s position behaves like that then it is for him to explain, not for me to sit back and let it wash over me. In the end he did apologize and the matter was finished – that was all I wanted. What did amaze me was that the TCCB let the whole episode rest without further comment. If it had been a player who had opened his mouth and said what Dexter had said, there would have been an almighty stink and an apology would not have been enough to calm things down.

In absolute honesty, I never expected to get picked for the first Test that summer. I felt I should have been because, although over the years my all-rounder’s mantle had fallen to a succession of pretenders, none of them had really looked up to the job. Players like Chris Cowdrey, David Capel and Phil DeFreitas had all been tried and found wanting. Chris was never in my class as a bowler or batsman, although he was a great trier. Capel was never really fit for long enough to be considered a front-line bowler, while DeFreitas flattered to deceive. According to most observers, the latest one to try his hand, Chris Lewis, had shown an alarming lack of what used to be known as ‘moral fibre’. In my opinion, I could still contribute more to the team than he did. Lewis has an enormous amount of talent, but he has a tendency to bale out when the pressure is on, and I don’t think anyone who watched the first Test of the ’93 series against the Aussies would disagree.

But if instinct told me I was not in the frame and Dexter’s performance at Arundel did nothing to ease my fears, the writing was on the wall when Lewis picked up an injury and was ruled out of the third one-day international at Lord’s, to be replaced by Dermot Reeve. Not only was I behind Lewis in the selectors’ eyes, I was now behind Reeve as well. No disrespect to Dermot, but if you had asked the Aussies which of us they would have preferred to deal with there would only have been one winner. Certainly, the Aussies I spoke to were delighted yet somewhat bewildered to learn that I was being ignored.

In his prime, Ted Dexter was a courageous batsman and a brilliant all-round sportsman. He has also always been considered somewhat of an oddball. People who played under him as captain often said that he would wander about in a world of his own, during a match as well as before and after one, and he was renowned for reacting to moments of high pressure by practising his golf swing in the slips. As far as I was concerned, however, he crossed the line between eccentricity and idiocy far too often for someone who was supposed to be running English cricket.

Ted retired from the game long before I had started. As a youngster, I wasn’t really a great spectator of cricket because I was always far more interested in getting out on the local recreation ground to play with my mates. I had obviously heard of Ted; the late Kenny Barrington, his Test colleague and later the manager of England who taught me so much, confirmed that he was a hell of a player. He also confirmed that often Ted lived in his own universe.

The first time Ted made any real impression on me was in his career as a television commentator. The incident happened when he was broadcasting from Old Trafford on one of those typical black, thundery Manchester days. He was sitting under an umbrella doing quick interviews with players when suddenly, in the middle of the conversation, he started hopping around all over the place and began shouting hysterically, ‘Oh my God. I’ve been struck by lightning!’

Years later, when I returned to the Test scene in the summer of 1989, I had my first brush with the wackier side of Ted. He had just taken up his position as the new chairman of the England committee with promises of a more professional approach and a brave new world for English cricket after years in the doldrums. Here he was, the man to lead the charge towards a glorious new dawn, making a complete and utter fool of himself in front of the players.

We had arrived in Birmingham the day before the third Test against Australia and were due to meet in the hotel conference room for the customary pre-match meal, get-together and tactical team-talk. This is the time when the players can exchange ideas about the strengths and weaknesses of opponents and establish a few operational rules. Although those who have played Test cricket with me over the years will tell you that my input was normally minimal and usually confined to ‘he can’t bat, I’ll bounce him out’, it’s true that what is discussed in these meetings can occasionally make the difference between winning and losing. This time, however, Ted turned what should have been a reasonably serious discussion into a night out at Butlin’s. As we filed in, Ted stood in the doorway handing out songsheets.

I couldn’t believe my eyes. There in black and white was the score to the hymn ‘Onward Christian Soldiers’ while underneath was Ted’s own version, entitled ‘Onward Gower’s Cricketers’. It is worth reprinting in full, see page 24.

‘Right’, said Ted. ‘Now look, lads, when you get in the bath tonight, I want you to sing this at the top of your voices.’

I thought to myself ‘What the hell is going on? Whatever he’s drinking, I’ll have a pint!’ I had played upwards of 90 Tests and suddenly here was this guy telling me in all seriousness to sit in the bath and sing about knocking the ‘kang’roos’ flat and not upsetting Ian Todd, the cricket correspondent of the Sun . David Gower, the skipper, looked as though he was having a near-death experience. The rest of us just sat there in stunned silence. I can’t imagine what the younger players thought. All I do know is that neither I nor any of the other players did much singing in the bath that night.