The first Test of an English summer always has a certain frisson – who is shaping up and who might be shipping out? Will that debutant be able to make his mark? Will that old-timer still be able to cut it? Anticipation builds and the news cycle swirls in the run-up. Now here it is, the opening act.
High summer lies ahead, ready to spill its stories like when they slice open the shark in Jaws. Look – is that a Ben Duckett double century next to that number plate? And over there, is that … it is – Farhan Ahmed poking out from behind that chewed rubber dinghy with a five-fer on Test debut. How has that happened?
The first home Test summer I can vividly remember was the six-match visit from West Indies in 1995. Angus Fraser had been eschewed for the first game at Headingley and my seven-year-old self became weirdly invested in the performance of a blond and ruddy-faced Lancashire seamer picked to make his Test debut. When the images of Peter Martin pinning Richie Richardson lbw beamed out of my parents’ cube-sized Grundig telly, I remember the surge of joy in that living room hitting me purer than any shiny football sticker swap or playground haul of Pogs ever had or would since.
Of course, when you are a kid and cricket is on terrestrial television this stuff is so much easier. Finishing primary school in the early afternoon, you could be plonked on the rug with a sliced apple and a session and a half of play still to unfold. As the years pass and you grow older though, pesky old life gets in the way of hazy, lazy unadulterated stretches of Test viewing. Unless you’re a student, obviously, or a new parent who has somehow aligned the scheduling stars and wound up with a newborn at the start of a winter tour. Or if you have somehow managed to wangle it to be your job.
For the rest, though, those Thursday starts are a pain, eh? What with all that annoying “work” getting in the way and a manager/team who inexplicably don’t seem to be bothered about whether Sam Cook will jag the new Dukes and bequick enoughon his Test debut or even whether Zak Crawley’s Teflon coating might finally wear through?
Where do these people get off organising meetings for 11am? No matter, you’ve got your methods, your strategies. You’ve been in good form during the first months of the County Championship, honing your skills for the first Test. You do what the teenagers do and surreptitiously use an ear bud so you can tune in to Test Match Special on the sly. Do not – repeat NOT – start tapping your tea mug with your teaspoon when Soul Limbo kicks in, have some self-control. Play the long game. It’s Test cricket for God’s sake, show some grit and determination! Wait,who are you calling old-fashioned?
Open up your tabs on your desktop. Go on, fire up that trusty out-of-date spreadsheet ready to cover the over-by-over and live text alerts with the flick of a shortcut key should someone walk past. Concentrate. Use your process. “Be where your mouse is.” This thing could be over in an instant. Get your head down. Take each ball at a time.
Throwing air punches and pounding your hot-desk because Josh Tongue has been picked in the starting XI … what are you? An amateur? You’ll give the game away before the coin has even been tossed. Ah I see, you’re embracing the danger, running towards it even – propped up behind a lever-arch file and an empty coffee cup – is that SkyGo on your phone? You maniac – I love it.
When you reach a certain age you start to measure your life in Test match summers; they serve as timestamps, sunshine-shaped bookmarks. Ten years after my Peter Martin infatuation, it is 2005 and every run that pings across the Lord’s turf from Marcus Trescothick’s blade in the first Test of the summer gives hope that something special might be on the cards. Sure, this was “just” Bangladesh and a snarling Australia lie in wait but England look primed and ready. Maybe they could actually do it this time.
A few weeks later, at Lord’s once more, and Steve Harmison has Justin Langer hopping about like a toddler who needs a wee and Ricky Ponting is spilling claret all over the crease on the first morning of the Ashes. Maybe they could.
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In the days after the first Test of the 2023 Ashes I bumped into a former teacher of mine in the street, Mr S: 30 years apart in age, we were both giddily reminiscing about Zak Crawley’s sonic-boom cover drive off Pat Cummins to get the series under way. He was comparing it to Michael Slater’s rasping cut shot that served as a similar first-ball portent in the 1994 Ashes. England went on to lose the match but Mr S and I both agreed that the next few weeks would be unmissable.
He was one of those teachers for whom you always wanted to work hard. To make proud. In the 20 years since I had left school we would often bump into each other like this and swap life updates on the pavement amid the sporting digressions and song recommendations.
The other day I was at a social occasion surreptitiously following the cricket on my phone when it rang in my hand. My dad told me that Mr S had died suddenly. Far too young, far too cruel. Another English summer of Test cricket begins on Thursday. Another timestamp. Another sunshine-shaped bookmark that will, for me, glow a little duller than the rest. When the first ball is sent down at Trent Bridge, I’ll think of him.
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