by Arunabha Sengupta
Summer 1986. For the very first time in their rather long and dismal cricketing history, New Zealand won a Test series in England. Of course the architect was Richard Hadlee. 10 wickets and an innings of 68 in the win. 19 wickets in the 3-match series, at 20.52.
The captain was Jeremy Coney.
And while the triumph was memorable, it was made priceless so by Coney’s account of the tour.
Let us start with his description of the early morning runs designed by the fittest members of the side John Bracewell and Ewen Chatfield.
The pre-breakfast running course had been approved by Bracewell and Chatfield. It was a dawdle for them, it merely woke them up. Yet for those of us whose metabolisms were unaccustomed to anything more rigorous than energetic teeth brushing before food it sapped finite locomotive levels to dangerous lows.
Coney describes left-arm spinner Evan Gray’s travails during these runs. Evan hit the wall each morning. The Vauxhall Bridge wall three-quarters of the way through the marathon. His breathing swelled from gentle hyperventilation to the wind section of the London Philharmonic. The thud of sandshoe on concrete was so loud it caused religious fanatics to claim the end of the world was nigh and drove Civil Defence officers to their bunkers.
And when Bracewell started seriously fining players for their tardiness in presenting themselves for meetings and functions, Coney described, Bracewell’s watch replaces Malcolm Marshall on the cricketers’ Fearometer.
The stuffy atmosphere of Lord’s and the first day of the first Test are rendered fascinating and quite revealingly satirical. The last hurdle (to walk through the Long Room) is the highest. It is the Long Room attendant. A stout St Peter who guards the entrance to the pavilion zealously. No woman’s foot has touched the stairs inside. No one passes through that door unless they have satisfied his substantial doubts. A passport is no good … Only after a forward defence (which he corrected) and answering questions about Ted Dexter did he move aside and allow me to pass.
There is the description of the dressing room. It’s a timeless place, WG would know the colours and the ambience intimately. He washed his hands here, combed his beard in the mirror and probably declared from the balcony.
Coney describes his filling in as the third seamer.
I fill in some overs. Smith and I quickly realise I have to bowl slower than usual! It reduces the batsman’s options but I tend to ‘put’ the ball rather than bowl it. One or two intercostal muscles later I simply can’t run or breathe.
And then Willie Watson, making his debut, has a minor mishap.
Willie’s at fine leg. What he’s doing down there is anybody’s guess. But the result is split trousers exposing the pride of Grafton. It’s bad enough at the local domain but half an hour into his first Test at Lord’s seems to be carrying attention-seeking behaviour to the extreme … on the most historic grounds in front of the most fastidious members wearing the most elegant apparel he departed in a crouched position.
When the Queen comes to meet them, and he introduces the cricketers, the younger ones respond with ‘How do’ and ‘Hi’. Finally Chatfield, who is experienced and can be counted on, offers a broken thumb.
I left a bewildered Queen wondering about the state of the colonies.
Coney led New Zealand in 15 of the 52 Tests he played. He won three series, the one against England and two more against Australia—at home and away. All were firsts for New Zealand cricket. All carried by the brilliance of Hadlee. But, it was Coney at the helm.
He led two Tests against the mighty West Indies as well, in 1986-87. One win, one loss.
He was a decent player as well. 2668 runs in 52 Tests at 37.57 with three hundreds, 27 wickets with his medium pace.
And he was, as we are seeing, an excellent writer.
In his autobiography he describes the backyard cricket of his young days with the same elan and excitement of a Test match.
My father’s dressing gown sleeves merged with the background, and he often claimed the use of up to 15 fieldsmen. Our immersion was total. Sometimes it was so dark I had to listen for the tell tale rhythm of his brogues in a follow through to know the ball had been released. Mother understood this and often delayed the soup long enough for a result, announced by Father’s incessant commentary.
The descriptions are as beautiful as hilarious. Let us look at the bit on dogs on the cricket fields.
Dogs have always treated cricket with studied interest. They like to get the feel of the covers or third man. They have played a part in all levels. From these early private encounters to the most public arena of Eden Park in a Test match, they turn up to confirm their curiosity.
The Eden Park dog was a particularly fearsome one. If it wanted backward square then no one else patrolled that area.
And there was the one in Radella, Sri Lanka. ‘Bootsie’ Edgar was hounded by a mangy hydrophobic beast. It’s the only time I’ve heard Bruce volunteer to field bat-pad to John Bracewell—at least until the dog’s attention wandered to a nearby tea-picker.
Dogs also supposedly helped his technique.
Countless times my better (backyard) efforts were ended when, supposedly in the throes of heavy ablution, they leapt horizontally to pluck a scorching off-drive two inches off the turf. This accounted for the urgent requirement of control and ball on the ground.
From the fun and flourish of the pen there peep through flashes of cricketing wisdom. I maintained that the quality of a player’s apparel was cosmetic, as was the way he scored his runs. The essential fact was dud he score them and how often? If someone evolved the technique where they stood behind the wicket on one leg and succeeded, then good luck to them. The aesthetic pleasure were secondary, the function was to score.
Alongside there is immense experience. A lot of them priceless. There are three chapters on Pakistan, one of them titled Rats. If that does not whet your appetite nothing will.
Tall, thin, unathletic and with long, spindly legs, Coney was nicknamed Mantis. His autobiography is therefore The Playing Mantis.
Kiwi cricketers do turn out unheralded, little-known, but excellent, readable books, and this is one of the best of them.
Jeremy Coney was a key member of the New Zealand team when they transitioned from a group of enthusiasts into a force to reckon with. He was born on 21 June 1953.