Botham’s Century: My 100 great cricketing characters. Ian Botham

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       Franz Beckenbauer

      Just one of the true giants of football to whom I was compared during my all-too-brief reign as the leading centre-half in the English game. Norman ‘bites yer legs’ Hunter, Ron ‘Chopper’ Harris, and Vlad ‘on me ’ead son’ the Impaler, were among the others. The debate rages on.

      Actually, I might have been good enough to have made a professional career in soccer. When I was 15, Bert Head, the Crystal Palace manager and, clearly, one of the shrewdest judges around, thought enough of my potential to offer me a trial at Selhurst Park.

      I’d been playing for Somerset Schools and training with Yeovil Town for a couple of years. At the time, the manager there was Ron Saunders, who went on to become one of the best in the league, and he recommended me to Bert.

      In the end I chose cricket, and the decision to do so came about as a result of me listening to my father, Les, for once. He was a top all-round sportsman himself, who’d represented the navy at soccer – good enough for Bolton Wanderers to try and prise him away from a life on the ocean waves – and he was the one I turned to when the time came for me to pick which horse to ride.

      ‘It comes down to this,’ he said. ‘You’re a good footballer, but I think you’re a much better cricketer.’

      Although I never regretted the decision I made, because I had a marvellous life in cricket, met some wonderful people, enjoyed some amazing experiences, and am grateful for everything the game enabled me to do, the enormous difference in earning potential between the two sports these days means that if I had to make the same choice now my decision would be different.

      When I put on my boots again ten years later I did so as an amateur with Scunthorpe United, and I enjoyed every kick. We were living about 15 miles from Scunthorpe at the time, in the village of Epworth; a mate of mine there called Steve Earle who was playing for the club invited me to do my off-season training with them, and within a year I’d progressed from the reserves to the first team. I very nearly had one of the greatest debuts in soccer history, by the way. Trailing 3–1 at Bournemouth when I came on as sub on 25 March 1980, we ended up drawing 3–3 with me having a shot blocked on the line in the dying seconds. If only. Sadly, I never got as close to the opposing goal again. We celebrated in an unusual fashion on the way home that evening, my great mate Joe Neenan and I sitting on the central reservation of the A1 scoffing daffodils for a bet. As you do.

      My first manager, Ron Ashman, had a unique way of preparing us for big games. Once, the day before an FA Cup match, he called us into the directors’ lounge. You never quite knew what Ron had up his sleeve, but this time we were expecting just the usual ‘death-or-glory’ speech. Ron had other ideas, though. He’d prepared a foul-smelling potion concocted from raw eggs and sherry, and encouraged us all to take a cup of it. Although you had to pinch your nose to avoid expelling the liquid as fast as you drank it, the stuff turned out to be quite palatable. What’s more it had the kick of a mule. One or two of the lads enquired whether a second helping might be in order, Ron kept filling up the punch bowl, one thing led to another, and when the cleaners came in several hour later they walked into a scene of utter devastation. I believe we lost the match.

      My greatest soccer memory – apart from Chelsea winning the FA Cup against Leeds in a replay at Old Trafford in 1970 – is of my penultimate match for the club, against deadly local rivals Hull City on Boxing Day 1983 in front of a capacity crowd of 17,500. My job for the day was simple – to make sure their centre-forward, Billy Whitehurst, didn’t get a kick. I played out of my skin, even if I say so myself, and the mission was accomplished in my usual ‘uncompromising’ style. Some years later, and completely out of the blue, I read an article about Billy, who, for a brief period in the late 1980s was one of the top players in the old First Division. In the article he was asked who his toughest opponent had been. ‘That bloody cricketer,’ he said, ‘The bugger kept coming back for more.’

      My worst soccer memory involves the mad Neenan. A redhead, he was, as they say, ‘fiery’. We were playing Altrincham in an FA Cup replay, with the knowledge that victory would give us a dream tie against Liverpool in the next round. Joe had been wound up and roughed up by their centre-forward in the first match, including a blind-side head-butt, and had vowed to gain revenge. Unfortunately, he chose about the worst possible moment to exact it. With time running out, another replay beckoning and the prospect of a trip to Anfield, their striker burst clear and found himself in a one-to-one with Joe. It wasn’t even subtle. Joe ran out and booted him in the meat and two veg. Penalty. 1–0. Bye-bye Anfield. So long Wembley.

      My brief but glorious career came to an end when the England management decided they did not want me risking my bones on the football field. It was fun while it lasted. Just call me ‘Kaiser’.