YES, but why Barry Richards? The question was posed to me on numerous occasions by friends and relatives, anxious to know what it was that had been absorbing my time these past 18 months. Most were satisfied by my answer that this was a story that deserved to be told, of a Test career cruelly cut short by an accident of birth and international politics. The fact that Barry’s name is scarcely known by a younger generation of cricket lovers is an injustice which I felt ought to be put right; his genius deserves more than a footnote in the dusty annals of the game’s history. And who better to tell the story than a former team-mate of his? Furthermore, if the account of his life needed a socio-political framework to interest more than just cricket buffs, then apartheid South Africa was as significant as most.
However, there was another reason, largely kept to myself, that impelled me to approach Barry, a trifle nervously, at our former Hampshire players’ reunion on the 40th anniversary of the 1973 championship triumph. Would he be willing for me to write his biography? He was interested but wary. Ever a private man, he was no doubt weighing up in his mind the pleasure to be had in reliving great moments and reminiscing about happy times against his usual apprehension about becoming public property. ‘Don’t worry, I’ve grown up,’ I assured him. ‘So have I,’ he smiled. ‘I can write too,’ I pressed him. ‘Look – I’ve been published.’ I flourished a copy of one of my books. He took it but did not open it to delve straight into chapter one. No, my academic credentials were fine, just dandy, he seemed to intimate. Something else was bothering him.
I could guess what it was. Some four years previously, his son, Mark, had taken his own life. We all knew but no one had brought up the subject with him, partly to save his feelings and partly to spare our own awkwardness. And therein lies the problem with mental health. It still remains an uncomfortable topic, in spite of recent, well-publicised cases of the terrible illness, even within the game of cricket itself. I took a deep breath and plunged in. I’m a sufferer myself, I told him, I’ve been hospitalised, I’ve been put on suicide watch, I’ve had numerous sessions of electroconvulsive therapy, I’ve been sent on counselling and therapy courses, I’ve been on heavy duty medication. In short, I know what it’s like. I’m stable at the moment but those close to me still have to keep an eye on me.
Still he paused. And then he agreed to the project. Whether my words had reassured him, I do not know. We got cracking immediately and soon we were immersed in sepia memories of long ago. Incidentally, thank heavens for Skype. Barry lives in South Africa and I live in England. The thing wouldn’t have been possible without the technology, even if I did have to suffer Barry’s regular taunting by displaying to me the azure skies of the Western Cape while I sat huddled over my computer, the rain lashing the windows of the conservatory.
One of the great pleasures of writing this book has been getting to know my friend better this time. Team-mates are close but all too soon their careers come to an end and everybody goes his separate way. This project has brought us back together again and I hope these pages will reveal that my affection and respect for the man now extend far beyond his prowess with the bat. Nonetheless, we both knew that the fearsome fast bowler was girding his loins, so to speak, pawing at the dirt for one final burst before stumps.
We remained on our guard, fully aware that the tragedy that befell him, late in his life, sooner or later had to be confronted.
It wasn’t easy, for either of us, but we knew that. I admired his honesty and I pitied his pain and guilt. I hope I have dealt with the dreadful affair with tact and compassion. It was a moot point whether we would mention it at all, wary of intruding on private grief. But it happened, even though Barry, with every fibre in his body, wished that it hadn’t. It has fundamentally changed him, I believe. And if this is to be a true record of his life, it had to go in. For this, I take full responsibility. I know that Anne, Mark’s mother, and Steve, his brother, desired not to have it included and I have done my very best to treat their feelings with sensitivity and due regard. My fervent wish is that the three of them, Barry, Anne and Steve, can somehow come to a point where they can grieve together for their lost son and brother, who was, by all accounts, a very special boy.
I am indebted to Tim Rice, a past president of the MCC and a long-standing friend and admirer of Barry, for his incisive and affectionate foreword to this book. He knows his cricket, Sir Tim, and he can recognise a star when he sees one. My thanks too go to Patrick Eagar, the doyen of cricket photographers, for his matchless portraits of Barry in action, capturing so well the artistry, beauty and technical perfection of his stroke play. Patrick’s father, Desmond, who was our secretary at Hampshire when Barry and I were there, also appears in these pages.
The list of people to whom I am indebted for their help in the writing of this book is a long one. First and foremost, I am beholden to my personal editor, Ruth Sheppard, with whom I have worked before. ‘Do you want this book to be the best?’ demanded my wife, a trifle unnecessarily, I thought. I assured her that I did. ‘Then I advise you to get hold of Ruth. Right now. The best deserves the best.’ She was right of course and I duly surrendered my manuscript to Ruth’s unflinching critical eye. ‘Ruth – you’re ruthless!’ I cried as I surveyed the wreckage of my purple prose being dumped in the trash. In truth, every writer needs a Ruth, to curb the worst excesses of irrelevance, digression, flippancy and ostentation that we are prone to and I, as a former English teacher not averse to wielding the red pen myself, could hardly balk a tighter rein. In fact, I welcomed her stringency, admired her erudition and occasionally laughed out loud at her comments.
It is testament to the high regard in which Barry is held around the cricketing world that many of the people whom I have mentioned or quoted in the book have been unstinting of their time and help, providing anecdote, opinion, memory and background information. I list them in no particular order: Vintcent van der Bijl, Lee Irvine, Grayson Heath, Roger Tolchard, Bryan Richardson, Richard Gilliat, Keith Wheatley, Alan Castell, Neil Minnaar, Denis Gamsy, David Allen (RIP), John Mortimore (RIP), John Traicos, Tom Graveney OBE, Robin Jackman, Andre Bruyns, Dave Anderson, Graham McKenzie, Mushtaq Mohammed, Mike Taylor, Derek Underwood, Greg Chappell, Tim Murtagh, Martin Harrison, Bob Cottam, John Holder, Richard Lewis, Bill Buck, Mike Hill, Shelley Morris, Martin Tyler, Garth le Roux, Mark Nicholas, Wilfrid Weld, Darren Lehmann, Dennis Yagmich, Rev. Mike Vockins OBE, Colin Brydon, Bob Murrell, Ingrid Diesel and Di Charteris.
My grateful thanks go to Pitch Publishing for doing such a fine job producing the book and particularly to the director of the company, Paul Camillin, who has shown so much faith in me, Gareth Davis and Dean Rockett for their painstaking proof reading, and Graham Hales.
To conclude, let me say only this. The mistakes in this book – and there will be a few – are all mine and I apologise for them.
Andrew Murtagh
December 2014