In issue 21 of The Nightwatchman, John Crace reflects on those tours he always wished he was on.
This article appears in issue 21 of The Nightwatchman. Available in print and digital editions.
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I’ve let my team down. I’ve let my country down. But most of all, I’ve let myself down. Previous England tours to Australia have been marked by a complete change of lifestyle. Late nights in front of the television to capture the morning’s play Down Under. A vigil that was sometimes extended past the lunch break if the game was particularly exciting or if an England player was nearing a milestone. Then to bed with the alarm set to catch the last hour or so before the close. It was a gruelling regime at times, but one I seldom deviated from. Or regretted. I would go in to work tired but happy. Knowing that I had done my bit.
This last winter has been completely different. I started with the best of intentions. For the first day of the first Test in Brisbane, I was sat in front of my TV – armed with Diet Cokes and snacks – in time for the toss. But as the match got under way, I found myself curiously detached. I managed a flicker of disappointment when Alastair Cook nicked off to slip early on, but I was more disturbed by the incessant chunter of the commentators on BT Sport. They never stopped talking. Even when they had nothing to say. By the first drinks break I had had enough and went to bed.
That turned out to be the highpoint of my Ashes viewing. Thereafter the most I managed to watch live were the last few overs of the day when I got up in the morning. It wasn’t just that it was all somehow too predictable – I heroically devoted hour upon hour when I would have been better off asleep to England’s 5-0 whitewash a few years back – it was also just too unengaging.
In many ways that series was the bridge between the old school and the modern tour. One where the balance shifted from a more leisurely, enjoyable approach where players and reporters rubbed along and what happened on tour stayed on tour, to the present-day professional variety where players are scarcely even aware of what country they are touring and where contact with the media is strictly controlled by tour managers and agents.
Edmonds captures the tensions, the cliques, the sense of drift and the siege mentality perfectly. And for someone who claims not to be that interested in the cricket – the actual games are recorded merely as footnotes – she seems to have a profound understanding of the psychology of the game. She wonders aloud about the psychological pressures each player is under – most writers ignored the impact that the death of his mother just weeks before the tour had on David Gower’s captaincy – and dares to say the unsayable.
While the players and management consistently bicker and fret over their preparations, Edmonds calls it as it is. England were being thrashed because they were up against the best cricket team in the world. End of. Best of all, Edmonds appears to love being in the West Indies. She takes time to see different parts of the islands and immerse herself in the culture. Her obvious enjoyment can’t help but rub off on the reader. If you have somehow missed this book, catch up now.
This, then, was how I spent my winter. Not on the tour that was actually taking place, but on ones that I would – for different reasons – liked to have been on. I can’t recommend it too highly as a displacement activity. For this is one of the great gifts of cricket’s literary history. If you don’t like the game you are watching, there’s always plenty more from the past to choose from.
