Extract from
– BUT SOMBRE MEMORIES TOO
The
Commonwealth tour to Pakistan was organised by the journalist Alex Bannister and
pitted us against sterner opposition. Alex, whose stock reply to any question
would usually be prefaced with “Well, old son”, was a contemporary of E.M.
Wellings of the now defunct London Evening News. Alex and his acerbic
colleague, who wore a permanent look on his face as if he had a shirt pocket
full of rotting seaweed, were good pals and were known in the press box as
‘Arsenic and Old Son’.
Alex
spent the first week of the tour arguing about our hotel bills, and it wasn’t
until the arrival of the experienced former Australian skipper Richie Benaud, a
campaign veteran from leading an Australian team around Pakistan, that things
settled down. In Karachi, our bill came to something over seven million rupees.
Before calling a meeting with the hotel management, Richie warned us, “You
must keep smiling at them, however much you know you’re being stitched up.”
He suggested for future reference that we should stay on and observe how he
approached the task of reducing the huge bill.
Slowly
and with great deliberation, line by line, he went through it, smiling and
mouthing pleasantries all the time, getting agreement on things such as “20
steaks at 800 rupees each? Well those steaks were wonderful, a real credit to
the hotel and the chef. But as there were so many, don’t you feel that perhaps
400 rupees each would be better for both of us?” This ‘compromise’’
suggestion was delivered with a smile. The hotel management responded with
similar expressions of pleasure, gratitude and eventual agreement.
After
well over an hour of discussion, the final agreed bill came to three million
rupees. Honour and face on both sides had been maintained and, with much
handshaking all round and entreaties for us to return again in the future, we
left.
A
consummate politician, negotiator and captain was our Richie, as well as a
mighty handy cricketer in his pomp.
Alex
had gathered together a more than useful side, and we played three so-called
Tests against the full Pakistan team. The first at Multan was held in the middle
of a medieval fort which a few days earlier had staged a camel carnival.
The
outfield had solidified camel pats everywhere and, after partially clearing most
of them, a matting pitch was rolled out on a wheelbarrow and anchored down in
the middle. We changed in a tent right alongside an open latrine, dug especially
for our use. It had plenty of visitors and included the Northampton opening
batsman Roger Prideaux who virtually camped alongside it for the duration of the
match.
Five
times a day the game would be halted for prayers, surprisingly often at the very
point when it looked like our more-than-useful bowling attack of Keith Boyce,
Peter Marner, David Allen, Don Shepherd, Mushtaq and me were on the point of
making a breakthrough. We made history in Pakistan’s first innings when Don
got a very dicey lbw appeal against the legendary Hanif Mohammad upheld by the
local umpire. We reckoned that it was the first time in twelve years that Hanif
had been given out this way in a home match and, to no one’s surprise, the
guilty umpire failed to reappear for the remaining three days of the game.
In
the second ‘Test’ at Lahore, Richie made a most generous declaration. Asif
made a fine hundred, and they only wanted 54 to win in 50 minutes when Hanif,
coming in low down the order because of what we’d been told was a severe knee
injury, arrived at the crease. Richie set an ultra-defensive field. The minutes
ticked over and, with the draw becoming inevitable, the crowd – excited by
Asif’s earlier innings – became restive and took to barracking their
captain, Hanif. Before the last over began, Richie called us around him, not to
talk tactics but merely to say, “Listen, when the game’s over, for God’s
sake, leg it back to the pavilion as fast as you can, don’t hang around out
here.” I was stationed at mid-off with my back to the pavilion.
Pakistan’s
greatest batsman then blocked out the final over. The game was drawn, but the
crowd were incensed and were after Hanif’s blood. After he’d carefully
pushed the last ball back to the bowler, I immediately turned and raced off
towards the pavilion. With 20 yards to go, I was passed, not by Hanif’s
runner, but by the man himself, ‘crippling’ knee injury and all. He knew
what was about to happen and didn’t want to be around to take his chance on
being garrotted.
The
crowd broke through the security fencing as if it wasn’t there and charged
after us, laying siege to both teams’ dressing rooms, chanting and threatening
to burn the place down. It was two hours before the police finally dispersed
them and we were able to retreat to the safety of our hotel.
In
Karachi we looked on the point of gaining an unexpected victory when, with 45
minutes to go, we were told to leave the field, get our tour blazers on and,
together with the similarly attired Pakistan team, stand in a line on the
boundary edge to meet a minor official of the local cricket league. It wasted 20
minutes and was enough for the home side to emerge with what their newspapers
described as ‘a creditable draw’.
While
the results were relatively unimportant, the trip itself was nevertheless voted
a great success and much enjoyed by all us visitors.