When I had first done the cricket commentary for BBC in 1962, I was an intense, young man who took cricket seriously and became a part of the battle on the field. I wore my emotions on my sleeves. I was also close to the Pakistan team and shared in its triumphs and disasters.
By 1967, I was still faithful to cricket but in my fashion, less passionate and more distant. I was enjoying watching cricket. Although I made a part of my living from cricket, it was becoming “a playtime in a homely countryside,” in the words of Neville Cardus, though not as carefree as the cricket I had played at Griffith’s Park in Los Angeles which had been a barrel of laughs, a Sunday romp.
The Pakistan team had been weakened because star players like Mushtaq Mohammad, Inthikab Alam and Nasimul Ghani were available only for the Test matches, tied as they were to county and league commitments and the Pakistan cricket board had made no serious efforts to compensate these players financially if they were to forego these contracts. It seemed an unsatisfactory way of building a combination. On a tour, one looks for a bonding and if three or four key players are not with the team, they become like guest-players. There was also a plan to induct Khalid Ibadulla, who was a professional with Warwickshire in the team. It also seemed unfair to young players who may do well in the county games but would be out of the reckoning for the Test matches because four places had already been reserved.
I made my way to Lord’s where Pakistan was playing Middlesex and I would be doing the commentary, not the entire day but snatches of it for overseas listeners. Not many people watched county matches and Lord’s looked like a railway station after the last train has left. The press-box and the commentary booth were lodged atop the Warner Stand at about extra-cover from the pavilion end.
A sole, elderly steward greeted one and said “Mornin’ Sir,” and you showed him your card and climbed the steep steps so that one was breathless when one arrived. The press-box was empty and there was a radio engineer who seemed surprised to see me. He told me that I was early and we would not be going on air till after the tea interval. I told him I was aware of it but I usually watched the entire match when I was doing the commentary. It was small talk and in England, no talk small or big is complete without some mention of the weather. It was a proper summer’s day and I felt it would have been better spent at Hyde Park, at the Forte’s restaurant that overlooked the Serpentine and watch children sailing their paper-boats and muscular men punting, the swans gliding by. Still, here I was at Lord’s and couldn’t really complain.
Tim Heald wrote about the poet Dylan Thomas: “When he was at school, his headmaster caught him climbing over a wall and asked what he was up to.... The boy said he was bored with class and thought he might pop down to St. Helen’s and watch Glamorgan at cricket. ‘Dylan,’ said the head,’ that is very wrong of you. Very wrong indeed.’ And then as he walked away, he half-turned and called out: ‘I hope someone catches you.”
As a school-boy in Bombay, I had once bunked school, in the company of Zulfikar Ali Bhutto to watch Joe Hardstaff, the Nottingham and England batsman play at the Brabourne Stadium. Mr Bruce, the headmaster had not been amused. There was no danger of my being ‘caught’. There was the danger of being bored.
Matches against counties had limited value. The counties themselves rested the players who were likely to be called up for England duty and the visiting team gave a chance to lesser players to get a knock or turn their arm over. They were practice matches.
The match against Middlesex was no different though Majid Khan scored a hundred in the second innings, his second of the tour and it was becoming evident that he was a far better batsman than he was a bowler. He was an uncomplicated batsman with sharp reflexes and he appeared laid-back, almost lazy but was a magnificent striker of the ball. I saw him as Pakistan’s future batting star.
There was another batsman who looked good and he was Mohammad Ilyas. Prior to coming to England, he had scored a hundred at Karachi against New Zealand. Writing for my newspaper, I had described that as “a savage innings.” This young lad was a ‘natural’ untutored in the fine art of batting as taught in coaching manuals. He didn’t so much as challenge the discipline of batting but worked around it. There was a certain defiance in him as a person and he was given to tilting at windmills and he brought this same non-conformity to his batting. He would get quick runs and then play an outrageous shot and get out.
I nicknamed Ilyas ‘Silly ass’. And then a tragedy befell him. Against Surrey at the Oval, two matches before the first Test match, he went for a sharp single, was sent back by Saeed Ahmed who was batting with him, he twisted his ankle and collapsed. In fact, he fainted and when he came to, he asked Saeed Ahmed whether he was out and when told that he was not, he fainted again. He was carried off and brought to the dressing-room.
I came down from the commentary-box. He lay sprawled and one could see his ankle swelling up. Obviously, he was in need of serious medical attention and not patch-up repairs. He was in considerable pain. I told the manager that he should be taken to hospital. I don’t think there was a budget for such contingencies for the manager seemed hesitant. I then told the manager that Ilyas was a PIA employee and I would send for PIA’s doctor in London, Dr Cowan. I must admit that I was a little surprised when the manager thought it was a good idea.
I contacted Dr Cowan and he said to send him over to his clinic. Thereafter, he was in the care of Dr Cowan who put his foot in plaster and informed me that it would be several weeks before he would remove the plaster. He was out of the tour. It was an injury that Pakistan could ill-afford.
After playing at Taunton, Brighton, Swindon and Birmingham, it was time for the first Test match at Lord’s. I had done bits and pieces of commentary and had made a special point of going to Brighton. I had played a lot of club cricket in Sussex and played at the county ground at Hove. We had driven by coach from Hastings and there was great excitement about playing at the county ground. I was determined to make some runs and had been in good form and had made a century against the Middlesex Wanderers, a London club. I had followed that up with another hundred at Rye.
The wicket at Hove looked very green and because it was a sea-side town, there was always swing for the bowlers. I opened the innings and was out first ball, leg-before, I departed, giving the umpire a stare and he stared back. I was reminded of a story about two people squaring-up. “One more word out of you and I will take my belt off,” says one, belligerently.
Replies the other, with equal belligerence: “And then what?”
Replies the first, with some humility: “And then my trousers will fall down.”
It is best not to engage an umpire, except in polite conversation.
A Test match at Lord’s is a special occasion. As one enters the Grace Gates, one gets the feeling that if one was wearing a hat, one would be expected to take it off. Lord’s maintains a strict dress code. You are not allowed in the pavilion if your are not wearing a jacket and tie. The stewards are all elderly, polite and in a British sort of way, like the summer weather, cheerful but without banter.
As I made my way to the commentary-box, I passed some very famous ex-cricketers. I knew one or two of them and stopped to exchange greetings. As the Lahori says with pride: Lahore is Lahore, the English say with reverence; Lord’s is Lord’s. It is meant to convey a system of values and there is something distinctly snobbish about it and it sticks in one’s throat as the Empire once did. And I was surprised that there was no mention of Lord’s in any of Kipling’s works nor indeed did P.G. Woodehouse’s Bertie Wooster stray into the Long Room. But there was an upper-classness about Lord’s and I wore a three-piece suit, my contribution to the decorum of the occasion.
