The Ashes According to Bumble. David Lloyd

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СКАЧАТЬ used to find enough enjoyment in fighting amongst themselves. During the 1974–75 tour we got friendly with the stadium control police, whose radio room was adjacent to our dressing rooms.

      So during our innings, we used to mill around in there, watch their surveillance, and listen to their officers reporting back on any shenanigans in the stands. It used to kick off regularly throughout a day’s play, not just once or twice, and not just play stuff either. I am talking proper fights. Just for the sake of it, blokes used to throw things at each other, and it only took someone to react and all hell broke loose.

      Remember those crowds were 95% Australian, so they weren’t being wound up by Poms. Australians are aggressive people by nature and sometimes they just like to scrap. Watching the surveillance gave us a rare chance at seeing the Aussies lose at something that winter.

      On the subject of crowd abuse, I suffered some minor incidents during my career, and tended not to react despite provocation. My general attitude was that they were looking for a rise out of you, and therefore refraining from a reaction would nip their game in the bud. Coming back with a quip only extended an unwanted interaction.

      But the one time I did react was when I was struck on the back of the neck by a lump of cheese as I fielded on the boundary. Bending down, I scooped it up and held it between my fingers, looking at it incredulously. ‘That’s not very mature,’ I said.

      Sometimes the friction on the boundary edge is not one created by the public but the players with their behaviour. When Colin Croft was our overseas player at Lancashire we received several complaints from those situated in the Lady Subscribers’ Stand of a rather disconcerting habit he had.

      Nothing out of the ordinary, really, at least as far as fast bowlers go, but nevertheless something that upset the predominantly female spectators at fine leg. Between bowling overs, Colin would regain his breath in the deep and clear his pipes further by blowing his nose onto the grass without the use of a handkerchief.

      Subsequently, as captain of the club, I was asked into a meeting to discuss the problem and find a suitable solution. You won’t believe the one that we came up with – Colin switched from fine leg to third man, where his nasal ritual could be carried out in front of the popular side of the ground!

       Chapter 2

      

      Playing in the Ashes would represent the pinnacle of any England cricketer’s career and the opportunity to scale it came bang smack in the middle of mine. Nine years after my debut; and nine years before I retired.

      My journey to the very peak of what English cricket has to offer began with a County Championship match on 12 June 1965, against Middlesex at Old Trafford, and has given me reason to chuckle every time I’ve heard the Half Man Half Biscuit song ‘F***in’ ’ell It’s Fred Titmus’ since. It’s probably what I subconsciously thought at the start of every over he bowled to me in my maiden first-class innings.

      Some late changes were made to the Lancashire team for that match, and an 18-year-old Lloyd, D, was one of the three call-ups, as much for a couple of impressive displays as a left-arm spinner in Second XI cricket at the start of that season as any ability I had shown with the willow in hand.

      I arrived at the crease on the opening day with the scoreboard reading 140 for five, and although I failed to shift the ‘0’ displayed under the number seven slot, I spent an age trying. So much so that I took a salt tablet for cramp before I was dismissed.

      My lunging forward to counter Titmus’s off-spin had taken its toll on my tense muscles, you see, because as a young player I was simply following advice from a more experienced colleague in Geoff Pullar. I was grateful for his input, too, as I sat waiting to go out to bat. Geoff’s instructions were to get well forward but to make sure my bat was out in front of the pad to minimise the chance of an inside edge ricocheting up into the air for the preying close fielders. It was a practice I carried through faithfully, but good old Fred got me in the end, and claimed a further eight wickets besides during my debut match.

      As starts to professional careers go, mine was fairly barren. Titmus bowled me in the first innings, and I was caught behind off the other spinner Don Bick for another blob in the second. In between, although I claimed a couple of wickets, I dropped nightwatchman Bick, who went on to score 55 and help Middlesex to a useful 77-run lead. After a pair, a costly miss like that in the field, and a modest start to my career with the ball, things could only get better, I suppose.

      But while I might not have started as I meant to go on, I certainly finished strongly. To be honest, I had a fun-filled playing career, but it would be untrue to claim I loved every minute of it. Towards the end I lost the enjoyment of turning up for work, a trait that I previously took to be inherent.

      It didn’t help my batting that my eyes were no longer what they used to be, and if only I had gone to the optician’s sooner to address a natural deterioration, I might have scored a few more runs in the couple of years when my enthusiasm for cricket waned. I knew I was not seeing the ball well enough either when batting or in the field, and as soon as I got a prescription things improved markedly. So much so that my tally for the summer of 1982 touched upon the 2,000-run mark in all competitions.

      But a recurrence of the neck injury that was to rule me out of the final Ashes Test in 1974–75 hastened the end for me the following season. I missed half of it recuperating from its debilitating effects and by the time I did return the club had unearthed some exciting young talents to fill the void.

      Amongst them was the swashbuckling Neil Fairbrother, whose performances persuaded me that the club no longer required my services. I notified them of my intention to retire well before the end of the campaign. Somewhat surprisingly, it did not dissuade them from picking me, however, and in contrast to my spluttering start, I went out with a real bang.

      My final Lancashire appearance, at Wantage Road, Northampton, saw me open the batting with another left-hander, Graeme Fowler. We were of different generations but both of us hailed from Accrington, and we both hit hundreds in a drawn match with Northamptonshire. It was the perfect time to say goodbye.

      Like all good stories, this career of mine had a happy ending, and there was ultimate contentment in the middle too when I was informed that I would be representing my country abroad. Not just anywhere, either.

      When I was called up for my maiden England tour, in late August 1974, it is fair to say that I had limited travel experience behind me. I had never been out of Britain for a start, and the most exotic place I had visited on any type of excursion was North Wales. My mum and dad used to favour the Welsh coastline as the destination for our summer holidays, and we would always stay in one Methodist guest house or other. Firstly, because they were cheap and we were far from flush with cash. Secondly, because it gave my dad a chance to sing; one of his passions in life was singing.

      The correspondence I had been waiting for to inform me of my selection in the 16-man party to tour Australia and New Zealand arrived while I was playing in a County Championship match for Lancashire against Nottinghamshire. It was in the form of an official letter from the Test and County Cricket Board, penned by Donald Carr. It was a bit like receiving a letter from the Queen: ‘You have been selected to represent England on the MCC tour of Australia … blah de blah de blah …’ In cricket terms it was akin to the royal seal of approval. After I’d confirmed my intention to travel – the letter asked whether I would like to go, and so I had to reply with something enthusiastic СКАЧАТЬ