Graham Thorpe: Rising from the Ashes

Just the occasional one-day county match was shown on TV, but these matches did have an impact. They were good tests of character, being regarded by selectors and players as especially important. You found that some people performed and others didn’t. I tended to do well. In 1991,1 scored 91 in the Nat West Trophy final against Hampshire and just before I was chosen for England, I played in a televised Benson and Hedges Cup match against Lancashire — an amazing game which we lost after our last nine wickets fell for 18 runs — and scored 103. Although I was partly responsible for the collapse by getting out when I did, that innings helped my cause because I’d showed an appetite for the big stage by scoring runs against a strong attack including Wasim Akram and Phil DeFreitas.

Although I never craved attention, I certainly enjoyed the thrill of doing well when the stakes were high. That was not a concern. I wanted to test myself, and the toughest environment meant TV cameras and large crowds. You might think everyone feels like that but they don’t. I think it was one of the reasons Graeme Hick didn’t do as well as he should have done in Test cricket. He wasn’t the kind of bloke who was comfortable with public expectation, and in his case there was plenty of it. It just wasn’t in his nature. I could accept it because, as far as I was concerned, it was a test of me as a cricketer; what I didn’t like was when the focus shifted onto me as a person. Doing well in those circumstances was an incredible feeling, a feeling which I know I’ll never get again outside cricket.

In the Test arena, the pressure is intense and everything you do is subject to scrutiny from armies of TV, radio and newspaper pundits. When you are out, your dismissal is up on the big screen for everyone to study. It was difficult adjusting to all this, and I certainly wasn’t at ease with the goldfish-bowl existence. Suddenly, everybody knows your job, and when you’ve had a good or bad day. You have to learn to handle everything that goes with the successes and failures if you want to survive. What I realized towards the end of my career was that the nearer you got to retirement the greater the debate about your right to be still in the team.

Try as you might to escape hearing criticism, you can’t block off everything. You only have to bump into a mate and he’ll pass on an opinion some commentator has given on how you played. You say, ‘Oh really?’ while inside you didn’t want to hear it. Or some punter who days earlier had congratulated you turns round in a hotel lift and says, ‘That wasn’t a great shot you played today.’ Yeah, thanks. It pays to develop a thick skin.

I remember before my first A-tour going to the nets at Lilleshall and finding our squad mixed in with the Test boys on their way to the West Indies. For a kid with one full season of county cricket behind him, I found it bloody terrifying having the likes of DeFreitas, Devon Malcolm and Syd Lawrence trying to bomb the hell out of me at 90mph. It was a pretty harrowing experience and I took a few hits. Geoff Boycott had been brought along to coach the batters and afterwards came over to me and said, ‘Your technique’s not too bad, sonny, but you didn’t hit many.’ It wasn’t what I wanted to hear.

Naturally I was anxious to gain the approval of such a great figure in the game. Although I was being talked about as an up-and-coming player, I didn’t know if I was good enough to go any further in the game. A lot of people didn’t like Boycs but, with time, I grew to like him, respect him and appreciated that he was upfront in his views. It was his honesty and forthright opinions that later made him such a good commentator. He wasn’t always right but he was usually interesting. But you couldn’t be sensitive about what he might say about you or you’d really struggle.

Some of Boycott’s advice was easier to ignore than others. When we were bowled out by the West Indies for 46 in Trinidad in 1994, Boycott, who was commentating, urged us to get forward to Curtly Ambrose. It was the only way to keep him out, he was saying, especially after I was bowled by a shooter from Ambrose after a lot of hard graft for three measly runs. Well, yes, perhaps. But Curtly was about 6ft 7in tall and landing it just on a length, on an up-and-down wicket. Was I really going to lunge forward at someone bowling 90mph? I don’t think so! I decided to keep taking my chances on the back foot.

Once a seed of doubt is planted in your mind it can be bloody hard killing it off. I wasn’t good at it at first and got pretty intense about the whole thing. Stewie was a big help. He’d been in the England team a few years before I arrived. He was the most solid professional I ever met, and his attitude was that if you’d had a bad day you still had to get up the next morning and go through the same routine. ‘Don’t allow yourself to go down too far,’ he’d say. ‘Don’t get too up or down.’ Graham Gooch, my first England captain, was the same. ‘You’ve just got to keep working hard at your game,’ he’d say.

I think I started looking only at the good newspaper comments after reading Alex Ferguson, the Manchester United manager, say that he never read the press after a bad day. Much later, after I’d had my private life dragged through the papers, I was better at reading the bad stuff about my cricket. I was wise to the fact that some of the stuff written about you was plain rubbish. When I gave an interview, I would read the piece to see how it came out and would instinctively categorize it as good or bad.

It wasn’t just criticism you had to deal with but advice, with pundits and ex-players telling you how to succeed at Test level, how to remove those little flaws that everyone was so quick to pick up on. You wanted to learn, so it was hard not to listen, but so much stuff was thrown at you it could finish you if you didn’t quickly sift what to listen to and what to reject. You only had to take in a well-meant few words from one of the TV boys out on the field before the start, and you could find your fears multiplying when you walked out to bat. Robin Smith went through a bad time with his problems against spin, and Graeme Hick and Mark Ramprakash would probably have loved to turn round and tell a few people where to go. I viewed batting for England as a box into which I could fit only a few pieces of advice that suited my game. Boycott’s mantra that you can’t score runs unless you occupy the crease was one of them. And I also worked out for myself that you had to take some risks to score runs, which built confidence.

Things changed quite a bit during my career. By the time I retired, players could call up a video of themselves within moments of walking off the field. For some, this was a big help because it gave them a better chance to sort out their problems themselves, rather than searching for advice from anyone who happened to be around. I tended not to overdo that side of things. I just kept a few tapes of myself playing well. My attitude was that you could guarantee seeing your dismissals plenty of times when you got back to the dressing-room, and I was more interested in positive thoughts than negative ones. If you were out to a crap shot, admit it and move on. Besides, I didn’t know how to work the laptop!

An interview I gave in The Cricketer magazine in 1994 reflected my attitude towards playing international cricket. ‘You need certain mental qualities,’ I said. ‘At this level everyone has to have ability, so what separates them is the extent to which they apply it to pressured situations. The more you play, the more you learn and the more people try to talk to you. But if you can enjoy it and keep it as simple as possible by playing on instinct, then you’re halfway there: it’s not an easy game, but at the same time you can’t afford to make it too complicated.’

In the end, it all came down to the individual. You had to be strong. No one could hold your hand when you were batting. Once you crossed the rope, you were on your own. You just had to look into your soul and see what you could produce.

IF I THOUGHT the step up to first-class county cricket was big, then the jump to Test cricket was no less of a culture shock. The cricket was so much more intense, more a searching examination of your game than anything I’d dealt with before. Of course, those going into the England side in those days were less well prepared than the likes of Andrew Strauss and Geraint Jones were when they made their Test debuts in 2004. Nowadays, the management go to so much more effort to tutor you about what to expect. And it also helps if the England side you join is in the winning habit, a luxury I certainly didn’t enjoy.

When I made my debut, against Australia at Trent Bridge in July 1993, we were already two-down in the series. England were in quite a bit of disarray, and before the series finished Graham Gooch resigned as captain and Ted Dexter as chairman of selectors. I was one of five players brought in for the match in Nottingham, and four of us were making our debuts; me, and Mark Lathwell, Mark Ilott and Martin McCague who’d win only 10 Test caps between them. Nasser was brought back after a long spell in the wilderness.

The press had been doing their stuff on the selectors, piling on pressure for change, and the response had been sweeping. It was a huge gamble but, with the likes of David Gower, Mike Gatting, Graeme Hick and Mark Ramprakash unfit or out of favour, there seemed to be a general feeling that it was time for some fresh batting. It was a pretty typical state of affairs, being in the middle of an Ashes series.

I knew by then that, if there were changes, I was in the frame because I’d played in the three one-day internationals before the Tests. By now, Keith Fletcher had been promoted to England coach. After our three A-tours together, perhaps he had put in a word that it was time to give me a go. Fletch didn’t survive long in the job — less than two years — and to me he always seemed under pressure.

Although I was slightly overawed in the one-day series, it was a good place to get a taste of international cricket and I was fairly satisfied with how I performed. I made twenties or thirties each time, and shared a big stand at Edgbaston with Robin Smith who did most of the scoring on the way to a record one-day score for England of 167 not out. However, I got out a couple of times to poor shots when we were in sight of victory, and we ended up losing all three games. I thought I should have gone on and won the match at Old Trafford, but I played like the inexperienced kid I was. I thought, ‘Wow, I’m playing against Steve Waugh and Craig McDermott. I’ve seen them on TV.’ It was the first time I’d played on the big stage and boy did I recognize it.

So, when the Test call came, I felt excited and nervous at the same time. And very proud. I was a bit anxious that I wasn’t in better form, as I was only averaging around 25 for Surrey that season. My fee was £2,300, which I viewed as a fortune — as did my parents, who told me I must save it!

Things were so different then to how they are now. There was no great analysis of the opposition beforehand, no studying of videos. I can’t even remember a team chat. We just had dinner the night before the game at the hotel, a three-course meal, with the seniors having a glass of wine and the juniors like me sitting there trying hard to hide our nervousness. This strange ritual survived for a few more years. We might be joined by the chairman of selectors and the chief executive and committee-men of the club hosting the game, who’d inflict a lot of small-talk on you when all you wanted to do was think about the game ahead. Everything was so much more formal then. I remember there was even a rest day during the game because the Sunday was the day of the Wimbledon men’s singles final!

I was extremely nervous going out to bat late on the first afternoon at Trent Bridge. I remember pulling on my head-band and helmet and thinking, ‘Just don’t let yourself down … Don’t mess up.’ You so want to do well but you’ve no idea what’s going to happen. And the not knowing was terrible. I can distinctly recall crossing the boundary line and telling myself, ‘Breathe, breathe, breathe … You’d better take some of this in … fast.’ I could feel myself shaking.

Allan Border had been Australia captain a long time and, in his drive to make them the best side in the world, encouraged them to be pretty uncompromising in the field. They had a few roughnecks and they were a pretty abusive bunch, although sledging never greatly bothered me. I don’t remember the slip cordon saying anything as I took guard, but they’d given me a fair bit of unprintable abuse in the one-dayers so there was every chance that they did. Maybe I was too nervous to hear them. But Merv Hughes, who could dish it out better than anyone, was soon right in there working me over with the ball. His first delivery had no sooner flown past my nose than he said he was planning to kill me.

I think Merv was carrying an injury that game, but he was still snorting and huffing, puffing and staring. In a way, it was like those Saturday afternoons I’d known on the football field, in which the game was played amid undercurrents of fear that someone would do you serious physical harm. Merv gave me a couple more bouncers which I got out of the way of nicely, but then he really let one go which tucked me up and all I could do was fend it off my glove to gully. Shit! What an awful way to get out! That’s not good at any stage but in your first Test … ‘Thorpe, you know what he’s got? A weakness against quick bowling, that’s what.’ I knew what I’d get in my second innings. I couldn’t have advertised it better if I’d painted a big red ‘X’ on my forehead.

Things didn’t get any better. I dropped a chance from Michael Slater that was flying straight over my head as Australia built a small lead of 52 and, by the time we’d lost our top four, second time around, with me about to bat again we were only just ahead. Fortunately, the third day was drawing to a close and Gooch decided to send out a nightwatchman instead of me. To my relief, Andrew Caddick survived until stumps, and I was able to contemplate the second Test innings of my life over a family barbecue at home on the rest day.

Caddick frustrated Australia a while longer on the Monday morning and, by the time I walked out, the Australians were pretty eager to get stuck into me. They were very chirpy and one of the umpires, Roy Palmer, soon intervened to ask if I wanted him to stop all the swearing. I just said, ‘No, I’m enjoying it. Just stop them if they spit at me!’

Steve Waugh and David Boon, both fielding close to the bat, certainly had a lot to say. When I pulled a ball past Boon, crouched at silly point and looking like a Viking with his droopy moustache, he threatened to kill me if I did it again. I kept my mouth shut and got on with the job. As I’d said to Palmer, their words didn’t intimidate me but made me all the more determined to give it my best shot. It was just what I needed.

Predictably enough, they tested me out with more short stuff but, by now, the pitch was flat and I dealt with it okay and, eventually, Big Merv tried so hard to get rid of Gooch and myself he picked up a strain and hobbled out of the attack. My main memory is of Shane Warne and Tim May’s bowling. They were an exceptional partnership, and I look back with immense pride at managing to bat against them for what turned out to be almost a whole day. I owed a lot to Keith Fletcher that I played spin as well as I did in those days. He’d given me a lot of advice with England A, and I always put a lot of value on what he said. This was certainly bowling on another level compared with anything I’d faced before, and I found it difficult to dominate in the way I had in county matches.

I actually found May the harder of the two. My technique against off-spin hadn’t developed by that stage. Previously, my only plan was to run down the wicket and hit it over the bowler’s head but that was unrealistic at this level, against someone with such good control of flight, and who varied his line of attack to an extent I’d never experienced. English off-spinners were very stereotyped by comparison.

Like me, Warne was in his early twenties and hadn’t played a lot of Test cricket but he’d already played a big part in the first two Tests and, one reason I’d been picked, was that left-handers were reckoned better able to cope with leg-spin. I think it did give me an advantage, particularly once I’d got used to how far he was turning the ball into me. Often, he simply turned it too much and I was able to let it go through, and his googly was not that great. But he was incredibly accurate with his leg-breaks, and I’ve never seen anyone drift the ball as much as he did in his early days.

He also had a great flipper although, with time, I learned to pick it from the daylight that would show between ball and hand when his arm was at the top of its delivery. Even at this stage, it wasn’t hard to work out that this fiery character, with his blond locks, white zinc cream on his face and confrontational attitude, was going to enjoy the celebrity side of the game more than me. Once you had played against him a reasonable amount, you knew what tricks he’d got but the first few times were difficult. He hadn’t played in the one-day internationals and I’d only faced him once before, briefly during Australia’s warm-up match against Surrey. I had tried to cut him and missed badly as the ball spun back miles, and he soon had me caught down the leg side.

Now, on a slow pitch, I used my pads to kick him away a lot. Otherwise, I swept him or went back to try tucking him away on the leg side. Once, I attempted a drive through extra cover but the ball spun straight back past me and I decided against a repeat. In my early encounters with Warne, I found I could stay in but not really dominate. At Edgbaston, later in the same series, and at Brisbane, the following year, I batted around four hours for 60s. In the first innings at the Gabba, I’d tried to take the initiative by going down the wicket but he did me in the flight, I checked the shot and ended up chipping back a return catch for 67, and it was not until much later in the series that I felt confident enough to take more risks against him.

In that second innings at Trent Bridge, it was made easier for me that Gooch was batting so well at the other end. He was the senior man and I just tried to stay with him. I didn’t really know Gooch then. I’d only occasionally played against him in county cricket. He was constantly practising and couldn’t understand why others weren’t like him. When it came to training he was ahead of his time.

He carried a set of dumb-bells in his bag and, if he didn’t get any runs, he’d go off for a run or to lift weights. We put on 150 together and he just kept encouraging me. ‘Keep going,’ he’d say. ‘Keep going. Don’t give it away.’ A good partnership is often just about careful encouragement to keep going, battle hard and never throwing in negative thoughts.

We went a long way towards making England safe and, when Gooch was finally out, Nasser took over and kept me company for the rest of the day. At stumps I was 88 not out. On the last morning, Gooch told Nasser and I to score runs as quickly as we could before he declared. We were too cautious and ended up setting Australia 371 in 77 overs but, having spent the series being battered into the ground, it was natural, I suppose.

I got off to a good start by hitting a couple of boundaries. Then, on 97,1 had a real swat at a bouncer from Brendon Julian, a future Surrey team-mate. I looked up and thought,’… Oh, shit!’ as the ball sailed high in the air and I saw Slater running towards it. Fortunately, Slater dived but couldn’t quite make the catch, and the ball bounced just in front of him and over his head for four. Though it didn’t set up the win we wanted, scoring a hundred in my first Test was thrilling. For the first but certainly not last time, Nasser and I found ourselves together at a special moment in one of our careers, but what I remember most clearly was the congratulation of Border. Despite having been totally uncompromising throughout he shook my hand and said well played. Typical bloody Aussie!

This performance, of course, pushed me firmly into the public spotlight. I was the first England player to score a century in his first Test for 20 years. I felt like a shy school kid and cringe when I remember the TV and press interviews I gave after the game. As Peter Roebuck wrote about my post-match interviews, ‘Here was a man out of his depth.’ In the following days, I received lots of letters of congratulations, and gave a few more interviews, but thankfully didn’t delude myself into thinking I’d made it on the back of one game. Apart from anything else, I knew what big Merv had done to me could easily happen again — and I wasn’t wrong.

I was brought down to earth in the very next Test at Leeds. I was out for nought and 13, both times to Paul Reiffel, who darted the ball around like an old-fashioned English seamer. Soon after, my dad told me what Jack Bannister had said of me on the radio, “ ‘He can’t play the inswinger, he can’t play the outswinger and he can’t play the short ball.” … He don’t think much of you then.’ That was the kind of comment that in those days could really hurt.

We took another hammering, and having Steve Waugh dropped by Athers in the 150s off a wide half-volley (the nearest I would ever come to taking a Test wicket) was no consolation. We were sitting in the dressing-room after the game when Gooch told us he was resigning as captain. He’d been England captain for four years but recent results had been poor. I was just a novice, but even to my inexperienced eyes it was obvious he was feeling the pressure. It was another indication of the unforgiving nature of Test cricket.

That series taught me some hard lessons. I was sledged out in the next Test at Edgbaston, Atherton’s first as captain, and, as it proved, my last of the series because a guy called Peter Dickinson, who played for Farnham, broke my thumb in the nets on the morning of the final Test at the Oval. Personally I did okay, scoring 37 and 60, but England were again on the wrong end of things, although, in company with the tail, I dragged things out as long as I could in the second innings. I’d gone past 50 and we were eight down and leading by 97, not yet enough to give us any real chance, when I patted a ball back defensively. Ian Healy, the Australian wicket-keeper, turned to his team-mates and shouted, ‘Hey! You know what? This guy’s playing for red ink …’, meaning I was only concerned with being not out.