Thanks, Johnners: An Affectionate Tribute to a Broadcasting Legend. Jonathan Agnew

team having a much more settled look to it – too much so, some would argue. In fact, there cannot be many players in the current England set-up who do not know their international team-mates better than they know their colleagues back at their counties. This must help enormously. By contrast, at the time I made my debut, England players reported for duty on the morning before the Test, and had a quick net and fielding practice in the afternoon. The selectors, wearing suits, would watch knowingly from a distance, and then it was back to the hotel to prepare for the evening team get-together.

      I was curious to experience the eve-of-Test dinner, for this really was entering the inner sanctum. Ever since those days of the blacked-out sitting room at the farm I had dreamed of playing for my country, and although I had not been told that I would definitely fulfil my ambition the following morning, I was at least sitting at the table. To my right was Alec Bedser, the former great Surrey and England seam bowler and a previous chairman of selectors. To my left was Peter May, another legend of the game and the current chairman. How I wished Dad could see me now.

      Bedser and I had an interesting, if unusual, eve-of-Test-debut conversation, not about bowling, but about the potatoes he had recently planted in his allotment. He spoke at length about the variety involved, although I cannot now remember what they were. May was polite but very reserved. It dawned on me all too late that the experienced old hands – Botham, Gower, Allan Lamb and co. – had all dashed for the other end of the table. Down there, there was much laughter and banter. Finally, after May had said a few words of welcome, the select -ors left the room. It was now Gower’s turn to give the captain’s team talk. This was taken very seriously, with the players chipping in with their thoughts on how to dismiss each opposition batsman. After a short debate amongst the bowlers about the batsman’s weaknesses, Botham would announce that he would bounce him out. It became apparent that he would finish with all ten wickets in each innings, and the West Indies batsmen would be lucky to make double figures between them. It was funny, of course, but just like Fred Trueman, Ian had absolute, unswerving conviction in his own ability: he meant it.

      Ian did actually feature in both of the wickets I claimed in the match. First, he caught Gordon Greenidge at third slip. Then, as his great friend Viv Richards sauntered to the crease, Botham said: ‘Right. Don’t pitch a single ball up at him. Have two men back for the hook, and bowl short every ball.’ This I did for three overs or so, by which time Viv was looking a little exasperated, but was definitely on the back foot. Finally I pitched one up, the great man missed it and umpire David Constant ruled that Richards was LBW for 15. If I am honest, had the umpires’ Decision Review System been in place at The Oval that day, Viv might have had the decision overturned by technology: it looked a little on the high side.

      I remained in the team for the Test that followed; a one-off encounter with Sri Lanka at Lord’s which was a terribly disappointing match from an England perspective. Again, the team dinner was dominated by Botham’s plan to bounce out every batsman, but when he executed this theory against Sri Lanka’s captain, Duleep Mendis, the ball kept dis appearing several rows back into the Mound Stand. Mendis hammered 111 in the first innings, and 94 from only 97 balls in the second as his team dominated the match, and we all fared badly. The Test began in unusual fashion when, just as I was about to bowl the first ball, some demonstrators ran onto the field and Dickie Bird, the umpire, panicked. ‘Terrorists!’ he shouted, flapping his arms about. ‘They’re terrorists!’ In fact they were supporters of the Tamil Tigers in Sri Lanka, and after a few minutes they had made their point and quietly left the ground.

      I took only a couple of wickets in Sri Lanka’s first innings of 491, and preparing to leave the dressing room to bowl in their second, I heard a discussion on the television between the commentators, who were agreed that this was make or break for me. I do not blame them – it was our fault for having the sound up, and besides, they were right. Unfortunately, I went out to bowl with my head full of negative thoughts, bowled a load of no-balls, and although I was called out as a replacement, I failed to make the original selection for the winter tour of India.

      My final opportunity with England came the following summer, in the fourth Test against Australia at Old Trafford. I might have played in the previous game at Trent Bridge, but Arnie Sidebottom – father of Ryan – got the nod despite not being fit. Arnie knew he would probably not get through the Test, but such was his determination to win an England cap that he declared himself fit. He managed to bowl eighteen overs before hobbling off, and was never chosen again.

      The Test was played in miserable weather, with a howling gale blowing straight down the ground throughout, and too much time was lost for either team to force a result. I failed to get a wicket in my twenty-three overs, finished with match figures of 0 for 99 and lost my place to Richard Ellison, who bowled magnificently in the next two Tests to win the Ashes.

      I was surprised to receive, a few weeks later, an invitation from the Prime Minister’s office to attend a celebration at Number 10 Downing Street, but set off anyway full of curiosity. I suspected that the incumbent, Margaret Thatcher, was not much of a cricket fan when she shook my hand at the top of the famous staircase in Number 10 and warmly congratulated me on my performance. But she was a very generous hostess, and gave a small group of us a guided tour of the building.

      That was it for me on the international front; just a taster, and it is hard to avoid the feeling that I should have done better. Still, my England cap remains one of my proudest possessions.

      One thing my brief experience of Test cricket did teach me is that it cannot be easy to be England captain and then go straight back to one’s county and lead that team as well. But that is what David Gower had to do. It certainly would not happen today. Although there is now much more international cricket than there used to be, I refuse to accept that being captain of England against Australia in 1985 was any less stressful than it was in 2009. We knew in the Leicestershire dressing room that David would return from Test duty exhausted, and that taking us onto the field in a comparatively dull championship match was probably the last thing he felt like doing. It did lead to some amusing incidents, however, like the time he lost the toss and we found ourselves in the field against Surrey.

      ‘Bowl the first over then,’ he said to me rather wearily as we approached the middle. ‘And set your own field.’

      David wandered off to second slip, while I did the rest: point, mid-off, short leg, fine leg, third man . . . Hang on. Third man? A quick headcount revealed that we had twelve players on the field: David had forgotten to tell one of our squad that he was not playing in that match. In the end my old sparring partner Les Taylor, who was profoundly deaf in one ear, was despatched from the field after a great deal of long-range shouting and arm-waving from the skipper in the slip cordon.

      I loved playing under David’s captaincy, and he remains a regular dinner companion when we are commentating on England’s winter tours. He always allowed bowlers to think for themselves and work at their own plans. If he was not happy with the way things were going, he would suggest a change, but he was nothing like as pernickety as modern captains, who seem to make fielding changes after every delivery.

      Peter Willey, who led Leicestershire when David was absent and for one complete season when David took a breather, also played a huge part in my development as a cricketer. Peter was as hard as nails, and his legendary bravery at the crease meant he was regularly pushed out to do battle with the terrifying West Indian fast bowlers of the late 1970s and 1980s. He could not tolerate anything other than total commitment, and hated what he called ‘namby pambies’, of whom I would certainly have been one. He would exact his revenge for my gentle dressing-room teasing by making me nightwatchman whenever possible. This has to be the worst job in cricket. Having bowled for most of the day, the victim is then ordered to go out and bat against opposition fast bowlers who have only a few overs in which to give it everything they have. The theory is that a tail-ender is more dispensable than a front-line batsman, but it is a no-win situation, the cricketing equivalent of being blindfolded, having your hands tied and being given a last drag on a cigarette.

      The situation is far worse when one is also a complete coward, a weakness I cannot deny, and which Willey knew only too well. It always disappointed me that I was not braver as a batsman, but the sight of a huge West Indian fast bowler hurtling in to bowl at me turned