Hoggy: Welcome to My World

In India in 2001 there looked to be a serious danger that Ramps might punch a dressing-room attendant who was a bit too attentive shortly after he had been given out.

NASSER HUSSAIN

Once gave me a bollocking for not getting him a drink out of the fridge in Pakistan. He was sitting right next to the fridge, I was at the other side of the room.

DARREN LEHMANN

Boof had just been run out by a bad call from Gavin Hamilton at Scarborough. I was at the other side of the ground and I could hear Boof in the dressing-room shouting: ‘Stupid f***ing Scottish prick!’ If I could hear it, Gav, still out in the middle, would certainly have been aware of Boof’s feelings.

ANTHONY McGRATH

When we were playing in the Yorkshire second team, I was sitting in the dressing-room when Mags came back after playing a stupid shot. He started throwing his kit around, f-ing and blinding, and everyone else cleared out of the dressing-room. When everybody had cleared off, and there was only me and him left, he smiled at me and said: ‘I thought I should do that to make it look as though I’m bothered.’

4 England Calling (#ulink_f8698f3c-d964-5e9e-9476-9d5f5579a19e)

I had just got out of the shower and was brushing my teeth when the call came through from David Graveney. It was June 2000 and we were living in our first house together at the time, on Moorland Avenue in Baildon, and Sarah came rushing into our little en-suite bathroom from the bedroom. She had a look of shock on her face and her eyes were about to pop out of her head. She was holding the phone out to me with one hand, pointing to it with her other and mouthing the words:

‘OH…MY…GOD…IT’S… DAVID…GRAVENEY!’

This came completely out of the blue for me. I’d been bowling quite well for Yorkshire, but I really hadn’t thought yet about playing for England. I was 23 (and a half), not long back from my second season with Free State in Bloemfontein, but I still hadn’t really played a full season of county cricket. We had a load of talented bowlers at Yorkshire at the time and, to my mind, I had my hands full just hanging onto my place at the club.

But who was I to argue with David Graveney, the chairman of selectors? I took the phone from Sarah and Grav said: ‘You’re coming down to Lord’s for the second Test against West Indies. It’s not just one of those things where we’ve picked you for the experience, so be prepared to play.’

‘Erm, right, OK. Thanks very much. Thanks for letting me know. Much appreciated.’ I don’t think I’ve ever been so polite to anyone in my life. I went back into the bedroom, told Sarah and she started jumping around the room. Then we rang our parents and everyone else we could think of to tell them. Ringing my dad was particularly special. Playing at Lord’s for England was a long way from our games messing about at Post Hill with a big tree for wickets.

As far as I knew, the stumps in Test cricket would not be a sapling six feet high and three feet wide and you wouldn’t be given out for hitting Curtly Ambrose for a six over some trees (wishful thinking, I know).

I think the game that had probably put me into the selectors’ minds was a televised Benson & Hedges Cup one-day game a few weeks earlier against Surrey at Headingley. I had a shaved, bald bonce at the time, which probably helped to get me noticed, as it would have been the first time a lot of people had seen me in action. But I didn’t bowl too badly either. The ball was swinging round corners and I got out Mark Butcher, Graham Thorpe, Ali Brown and Adam Hollioake. Not a bad haul.

When it came to the morning of the game itself, we didn’t know until shortly before the toss whether I was playing or whether they’d go for Robert Croft, the spin option. I was hoping for clouds, Crofty was hoping for blue skies, and there was actually a bit of both. It was an agonising wait. Crofty kept coming up to me and saying: ‘Do you know who’s playing yet?’

‘No,’ I’d say. ‘Do you know.’

‘No bloody idea yet.’

‘How about we say that the first one to get their whites on gets to play?’

In those situations, as your stomach churns with nerves, there’s probably a tiny part of you that thinks: ‘God, maybe my life would be a lot easier if they went for Crofty. I might get smashed everywhere if I play and never get picked again.’ But it was only about one per cent of my brain that was thinking that. The rest was praying that I would get the nod. And about fifteen minutes before the toss, Alec Stewart, who was captain for that game, came up and told me that I was in.

I vividly remember turning up in the dressing-room for that game as the new boy, never an easy experience. I was quite lucky, because there was Craig White, Darren Gough and Michael Vaughan, all Yorkshire team-mates, but it was still quite a scary place to walk into. In one corner there would be Thorpey, Stewie and Mike Atherton, the older guys, in another there’d be the likes of Andrew Caddick and Graeme Hick. It was quite a cliquey setup at that time and I can imagine it being a fairly horrible place to walk into if you didn’t know anyone. But the Yorkshire lads made it easier for me, especially Goughie, who crossed the boundaries between the different groups.

That was the era before central contracts came in and selection was much less consistent in those days. As a result, I think that players in general were a bit more concerned with looking after themselves. Not in a way that was particularly unpleasant, but in my later years as an England player there was a much more welcoming feel to the dressing room and that came about through consistency of selection. It is much easier to play for the team if you know you’re going to be part of the team for the next game. That’s not intended as a criticism of particular individuals; insecurity is a perfectly natural reaction when you’re not sure of your place in the team. But the whole experience of playing for England was just a massive thrill, especially to be starting out at Lord’s, which is always that little bit more special, especially for a wide-eyed lad from Pudsey. I particularly remember opening my big box of prezzies, containing all my different pieces of England kit, and thinking: ‘Bloody hell, do I get to keep all this?’

I was glad when we were bowling first because that meant no more waiting around to get on with the damn thing. Caddy and Goughie didn’t bowl too well to start with and the Windies were none down when I came on from the Pavilion End in the eleventh over. My first ball was to Sherwin Campbell, who absolutely slapped it, but it went straight to cover. PHEWEE! I then managed to make him play and miss a couple of times and my first over in Test cricket was a maiden, which helped me to breathe a big sigh of relief.

I bowled okay in that initial spell, but didn’t get any wickets and got a bit of a tap in my last couple of overs. As a first bowl in Test cricket, though, it could have gone worse.

I also took a catch when Campbell top-edged a hook off Dominic Cork to fine leg. I made a right old meal of it, rolling over backwards after I’d caught it. It was swirling in the air† (#ulink_2222c3d2-6d43-5767-b1bb-9fc950cfc514) for ages and I could feel my heart thumping in my chest like a drum. But I clung on, heard the crowd cheer and thought, ‘Yep, I could get used to this.’

In the second innings, the West Indies were bowled out for 54, which wouldn’t even have been a good score down at Post Hill with a big tree for stumps. I didn’t bowl in the second innings, but I can’t say I was too disappointed, because wickets were falling all the time. Piece of cake, Test cricket.

Then, of course, we had a run chase in the fourth innings that didn’t quite go according to plan. Chasing 188 to win, we still needed 39 when Nick Knight was the seventh man out and, as number eleven, I had to put my pads on. At that stage, I’m not ashamed to say, I was ABSOLUTELY POOING MYSELF.

The situation only got worse when Caddy was lbw to Ambrose, leaving us 160 for eight. For anyone on their Test debut, that would be a fairly nerve-wracking situation. For a number eleven batsman potentially going out to face Curtly Ambrose and Courtney Walsh with a Test match in the balance, it just didn’t seem fair. I didn’t get picked for England to score runs, but that, I thought, was how I was going to be judged. And this was the second match in a five-Test series, with England already 1-0 down, so if we lost at Lord’s, the series was as good as gone.

I just sat there in the dressing-room, rigid in my seat with all my body armour on: helmet, chest guard, arm guard, thigh pad, bat between my legs, resting my chin on the top of the handle. I’d actually batted quite well in the first innings, when I got 12 not out, slogged Curtly and survived a few balls that whistled past my lugholes. But that wasn’t giving me any more confidence in this situation.

One second I’d be thinking: ‘Please, please, please don’t let me have to go in.’ Then, a couple of moments later, another thought would flash through my mind: ‘What happens if we only need four to win and I go out and bash one through the covers to do it?!’ No. Calm down, Hoggy, calm down. How about: ‘What happens if it’s four to win and I miss a straight one?’ Far more likely.

For every run that was scored by Corky or Goughie, everybody was on their feet. For every ball that was stopped by a fielder, there was a groan of disappointment. I just stayed silent. Then Corky nudged Walsh through the off-side for four, we had won and everybody was jumping around, screaming and celebrating like mad. So I did the same.

The next Test was at Old Trafford, on a more spin-friendly surface, so Crofty came back into the side and I wasn’t required for the rest of the series, but I was picked for the winter tours to Pakistan and Sri Lanka. Much to my surprise, I found Pakistan a most hospitable place to a seam bowler, at least as far as the wickets for practice matches were concerned. On pitches that seemed to have been tailor-made for me, I managed the ridonculous stat of taking 17 wickets in two first-class matches. Mind you, I seem to remember Marcus Trescothick turning his arm over and conning a few people out with his wobbly seamers, so taking wickets can’t have been that difficult.

Despite picking up all those wickets, I didn’t get a sniff at the Test side because Caddy and Goughie were well established as the first-choice quick bowlers. They were a good opening pair who complemented each other well: one was a lanky git, the other a short arse; one a bit short of self-belief, the other with enough confidence for both of them and the rest of the team put together. They worked well together, but I don’t think I’ve ever seen such a keen rivalry between two players in the same team.

On one tour to the subcontinent, Caddy developed a habit of occasionally coming off the field during the warm-up games. Nothing unusual there; bowlers often do that in the build-up to a Test series to rest a niggle or strain. But during one warm-up match, he came off the field when we hadn’t taken too many wickets and the opposition were scoring plenty of runs. Goughie was not amused, and at the end of the day’s play he had a go at Caddy. ‘I’ve been sweating my bollocks off out there, busting a f***ing gut while you sit on your arse in the dressing-room. You’re not f***ing injured, but if you do that again, I’m going to break your f***ing legs.’

That was not an untypical exchange between them. They were mates, up to a point, and keen for the other one to take a few wickets, as long as they were taking more wickets themselves. I reckon that each of them always kept a precise tally of how many Test wickets the other had taken. How petty can you get? Both of them are good pals of mine, but I would never dream of slipping into a conversation with either of them the fact that Goughie took 229, Caddy got 234 and I got 248. The thought would simply never enter my head.

Anyway, back to my early days with England. After failing to make much headway on the tours to Pakistan and Sri Lanka, I had to wait until the following season for my first Test wicket. I was called up for my second cap against Pakistan at Old Trafford, where I managed to pick up three wickets in each innings. There had been plenty of times in the preceding eleven months, since my debut against West Indies, when I had wondered whether I would ever take a Test wicket, but the all-important first one came when Younis Khan shouldered arms to one of my devilish outswingers that fails to swing. And I’m not absolutely sure that the ball was going on to hit the wickets.

BUT WHO CARES? I’D WAITED ALMOST A YEAR FOR THIS!!!

A few overs later, I had Inzamam-ul-Haq caught, slicing a drive to Ian Ward in the gully. Now that one was definitely out and I was beginning to feel a bit more like a proper Test cricketer.

Unfortunately, I injured my knee shortly afterwards and missed the whole of the 2001 Ashes series. Maybe my body sensed that there was a very good team coming up and decided to give me a break. That ailment also meant that I only played seven matches in the season that Yorkshire won the County Championship for the first time in thirty-three years. I was still working my way back to full fitness with a few one-day games when the title was wrapped up against Glamorgan at Scarborough, but I was fit enough to join in the celebrations. It was a particular triumph for David Byas, our long-suffering captain, and Darren Lehmann, our incomparable overseas player who was such an influence on my generation at Yorkshire.

The first time I encountered Darren, or ‘Boof’, as he is universally known, I was a second-teamer turning up to practice at the start of a new season. On days like that, you have a look around to check out for the usual suspects and for any unfamiliar faces. I remember saying to Chris Silverwood: ‘Spoons, who’s that short, fat bastard over there?’

‘That’s the new overseas player,’ Spoons said.

‘It can’t be,’ I said. ‘He’s fat.’

But one look at Darren Lehmann with a bat in his hand and we knew immediately what a class act we had on our hands. This is someone who makes the game look ridonculously easy. He could have walked into other any Test team in our era and he should have played much more for Australia. His confidence, his personality and his competitive steeliness worked wonders in the Yorkshire dressing-room.

As captain we had David Byas, who was strict, straightforward and basically had the attitude: ‘I’m the captain, you’re not and I don’t really care if you like me, you’ll do as I say.’

Boof, as senior pro and vice captain, was a good foil. He was one of the lads, but if a bollocking needed to be given he wouldn’t hesitate to hand it out. He’s a laid-back guy, but knows exactly when to flick the switch to go into his match mode. That is a difficult balance for a player to strike; few people can do it successfully, but then few people have been as good as Darren Lehmann.

Yes, he liked a beer or three after a game and he was a bit old-fashioned in that way, but you would never find him giving less than his all in a match. I’ll never forget playing in the game after the championship had been clinched at Scarborough in 2001. Two days afterwards, we had a Sunday League game against Nottinghamshire and, in the celebrations of the previous two nights, Boof had certainly not taken a back seat. This was evident from the fact that, before he went out to bat on the Sunday, there was still a pool of champagne left in his upturned helmet from the post-match party we had held in the dressing-room.

When the second wicket fell against Nottinghamshire and his turn had come to bat, he picked up his helmet, swigged the champagne from it, popped it on his head and announced: ‘Right, watch this, boys. This could be special.’

He was as good as his word. He proceeded to score 191 off 103 balls, which was one of the most amazing innings I’ve ever seen. He was playing some incredible shots, down on one knee, hitting it over the keeper’s head, swatting it between fielders with one hand, pretty much doing as he chose. Nobody else could have played an innings like it. It was extraordinary.

A few years later, I shared a bit of a stand with Boof against Sussex at Arundel when the ball was reverse-swinging all over the shop. James Kirtley was curving it wickedly away from me one ball, then back into me next ball, I didn’t have a clue which way it was going to go from one ball to the next. So at the non-striker’s end, Boof said: ‘I think you need a bit of help here, Hog. I’ll have a look at how the bowler’s holding the ball in his run-up. If I hold the bat in my right hand, it’s coming in to you. If I hold my bat in my left hand, it’ll go away. If my bat’s in between, I haven’t got a clue.’ And every time he went right or left, he was absolutely spot on. I had a marvellous time, suddenly started looking like a competent batsman, and there were some looks of genuine surprise on the faces of the Sussex fielders.

In that same innings, Mushtaq Ahmed was bowling at the other end from Kirtley. Boof had reached his 100 by this time and he was ready for a bit of fun, so he said: ‘Right, Hoggy, where do you want me to put Mushy’s next ball?’