WHENEVER I AM asked to pick a world eleven from all the Test cricketers whom I have seen, I always pick Ray Lindwall as my number one fast bowler. As to who partners him at the other end, I have to be very careful if Fred Trueman is listening. I just daren’t leave him out!
Linders was to me the perfect model for any aspiring fast bowler to follow. His run-up was not too long; it was relaxed and he gathered speed as he approached the wicket. His sideways delivery was copybook, and when he wanted to be he was as fast as anyone, but one of his strengths was his well-disguised variations in pace – the really fast ball being kept in reserve and used sparingly. The batsman would be on tenterhooks, never knowing when it would come. He was essentially an out-swing bowler, but after playing league cricket in Lancashire he began to bowl the in-swinger as well. Like so many Test fast bowlers who have played in the leagues, he soon discovered that he would not get many wickets from slip catches – his pace was too much for amateur slip fielders. So he had to learn to hit the stumps! What made him such a class bowler was that he swung the ball so late.
Cricket historians always say what a hostile pair Lindwall and Miller were, and of course they bowled bouncers like any other fast bowler, but they did not do so in the abundance we see today. It was interesting to find on talking to the likes of Len Hutton and Denis Compton that, although they rated Lindwall as the better bowler, they always preferred to face him rather than Miller.
I was lucky enough to keep wicket to Lindwall in a Sunday charity match at Didsbury during an Old Trafford Test in either 1961 or 1964 – I forget which. He was over here as a journalist writing for an Australian paper. I was standing a long way back, although of course he was getting on a bit then, and anyway would not bowl flat out in a charity game. Len Hutton was standing alongside me at slip and I suggested to him that we asked Linders to bowl just one ball as fast as he could. I asked him to do so before the start of his next over, and also warned the batsman to keep well out of the way. Linders then bowled one wide of the off-stump and it came through into my gloves chest-high, and nearly knocked me over backwards – and that was when he was over forty. But it proved to me how fast he must have been.
Linders was strong and beautifully built, five feet ten inches tall with big shoulders. He was a superb fielder anywhere, and a good enough batsman to average over 20 with the bat and to score a hundred in the third Test at Melbourne in 1947.
Like many fast bowlers, he liked his glass of beer. I am always very careful to have some cans in the fridge if I have any Australian friends coming, as I know how cold they like it, but I committed a terrible crime at a supper party we gave during the MCC Bicentary match in 1987. We had used up the cans which had been in the fridge, so when Linders asked for some more beer I opened a tin which, although not warm was not, I thought, cold enough. So when I had poured it out, I put some ice into it. You should have seen his face! I might have just hit him for six, and I realised what he must have looked like to a batsman as he ran up to bowl. He soon forgave me, but I now realise that ice in an Australian’s beer is sacrilege and I shall never do it again.
He had a slow Australian drawl with rather a husky voice, and he was one of the summarisers for ABC, during Ted Dexter’s MCC tour in 1962–3. He had a good sense of humour and was good fun in the box. He told a good story, and at the Lord’s Taverners’ dinner for Bill Edrich and Denis Compton in 1986 he told this one about two friends of his who stayed for three days in Bangkok on their way back to Australia.
On the last day the wife told her husband to go and amuse himself while she went shopping. She asked him to pick her up in a couple of hours. The husband thought that he would visit one of Bangkok’s famous massage parlours. He was given the address of one by the hall porter and duly rang the bell. An attractive Thai girl opened the door and he asked whether he could have one of their massages. She said certainly, and that it would cost him a thousand dollars. ‘Oh,’ he said, ‘I can’t afford anything like that. Two hundred would be the most I could pay.’ She apologised and said that she was sorry but that was their price and she couldn’t change it.
So he went off and visited one of the museums to while away the time before he collected his wife. This he finally did and was walking with her down the street, when he saw the Thai girl from the massage parlour walking towards them. ‘There you are,’ she said. ‘See what you get for two hundred dollars!’
Trevor Bailey was an old adversary of Linders, but only on the field, where they had many a battle. Off it they were great friends, and this was proved at Sydney in the fifth Test in 1955. Bailey had made 72 and Len Hutton was about to declare. Bailey knew that Lindwall needed one more wicket to reach his hundredth against England, so he allowed himself to be bowled by Lindwall – the only time, I am sure, that he ever gave his wicket away. Cricket can be a tough game, however, especially when England play Australia. Four years later at Melbourne Bailey opened both English innings with Peter Richardson. He bagged a pair – each time falling to Lindwall! Such is gratitude.
Two final facts about Linders, perhaps not generally known by English cricket followers at least. He captained Australia once against India at Bombay in 1956 and remarkably, for one of the greatest fast bowlers of all time, he later ran a successful florist’s shop with his wife Peggy in Brisbane.
People often come up to me and ask: ‘Where are the characters in cricket these days?’ They then proceed to name a number of ‘characters’ from the past, and one name which always seems to crop up is Keith Miller. I must say he comes high up on my list.
First of all his appearance: tall, athletic, rugged good looks, imposing carriage and walk, all adding up to a dynamic godlike figure. You couldn’t fail to notice Keith. I believe that even in these days of helmets he would have been easily recognisable. His character matched his appearance – he lived life to the full and played cricket because he enjoyed it. He was competitive, as anyone who had to face his bowling would agree, but not to the extent that winning was the only thing that mattered. He had the gift of friendship. Even after bowling a particularly vicious bouncer, he would quite likely ask the batsman at the end of the over if he had heard the winner of the three-thirty. He had more friends round the world than anyone I can think of, and he kept in touch. On my seventy-fifth birthday the telephone rang and there was Keith wishing me many happy returns. He had rung Sir Leonard Hutton the day before for the same purpose. Other friends would suddenly get a call from Australia just to see how they were.
Somehow he communicated this innate friendliness to the crowds, and how he played up to them. Before running up to bowl he would paw the ground like a horse, tossing his head so that his mane of hair fell over his forehead. If the batsman hit him for six or played an outstanding stroke, Keith would applaud him. In 1956 at Lord’s, when Australia won easily and he had taken five wickets in each innings, he somehow managed to seize the ball at the end of the match, and as he strode triumphantly from the field he threw it into the crowd, just like a winning golfer does on the last green.
Off the field he enjoyed the bright lights and the company of the female sex. He didn’t believe in going to bed too early – even during a Test match – and you might find him at the Royal Albert Hall listening to a concert of classical music, one of his great loves. The other of course was racing, and most years you would see his handsome figure at Ascot in his grey top hat and tails, attracting more glances from the girls than other more reputed lady-killers. He would sometimes slip away from a match to a nearby course just to watch a horse he had backed. When over here he would make a regular morning call to his great friend Scobie Breasley, the Australian jockey with the bobbing head.
As befits his character, he gave gallant service to the RAAF during the war, and was over in England for the victory Tests of 1945. He captured the hearts of the spectators at Lord’s with a brilliant display of batting in an innings of 185. Rex Alston always remembered it well, as Keith seemed determined to break the glass of the old BBC commentary box, which in those days was above the England dressing room.
He was undoubtedly a great all-rounder, and on his record a better bowler than a bat. He was a powerful driver and a good cutter and hooker, but he often appeared unhappy against spin on a turning pitch. He would get into an awful mess, and often nearly did the splits as he stretched out down the pitch. He was a brilliant fielder, especially in the slips, where behind a casual façade he made difficult catches look easy.
It is as a bowler that he was most feared, however. Lindwall may have been better, but it is surprising how many batsmen of that era have said they would sooner have faced him than Keith. They never knew what he was going to bowl, and with his height and good action he would dig the ball in, resulting in explosive bouncers. He varied his run-up, sometimes turning round when halfway back and bowling off a short run. I have seen him drop the ball during his run-up, pick it up in his stride and bowl it without stopping. He could bowl a variety of balls, as I learned to my cost when keeping wicket to him once in a charity match at Cranleigh. In one over he bowled six different balls, including a full pitch, a bouncer, a googly, a leg-break, and an off-break. The other I think was just straight on a good length.
I said that to him winning was not the first priority and that he didn’t care for statistics and averages. He was a complete contrast in character to his Test captain in 1946 and 1948, and often disagreed with the tactics which Bradman used. In 1948 against Essex, the Australians scored 721 runs in one day, W. A. Brown and Bradman putting on 219 in ninety minutes for the second wicket. When Brown was out Miller strode out to join Bradman. He had had enough of this slaughter of a county attack, and proceeded – I suspect deliberately – to be bowled first ball by Trevor Bailey.
He was a natural cricketer who had little coaching and did most things by instinct. I remember that we were once making a programme about cricket coaching and the producers had booked Keith to explain the various ways of bowling in-swing, out-swing, etc. I asked him in rehearsal to show me the various grips, and he honestly didn’t know! He just bowled naturally.
Many Australians say he was the best captain they ever played under, when he led the New South Wales side. He led from the front and played for a result, and was insistent that everyone enjoyed their cricket. Perhaps he was a trifle too devil-may-care to make an ideal Test captain. He was once leading out the NSW team on to the field at Newcastle. He strode majestically twenty yards in front of them, tossing his head as he walked with that long stride of his. Jimmy Burke ran up behind him and tugged at his sweater. ‘Nugget, Nugget,’ he said, ‘we’ve got twelve men on the field.’ Keith didn’t look round or stop in his stride. He just gave that peculiar little cough that so often proceeded his speech and said: ‘Well, tell one of them to bugger off then,’ and went on walking. I think that says a lot about Keith’s character.
There is also a story of his days in the RAAF. He had left their station ‘somewhere in England’ to go down to the local town for a haircut. When he had had his haircut, he saw one of his officers in the street. ‘Ah, Miller,’ said the officer, who was carrying a bag of golf clubs, ‘are you going back to the station?’ ‘Yes, sir,’ said Miller. ‘Good. I wonder if you would mind taking my golf clubs back with you.’ So Keith slung them across his shoulder and walked back to the station, where he saw his commanding officer. ‘Ah, Miller,’ he said, ‘been playing golf, eh!’ ‘No, sir,’ replied Keith, ‘getting my hair cut.’ And he was given seven days in detention for insubordination!
For many years, every morning of a Test match before play started, a bustling figure with enormous grey mutton-chop whiskers would appear in our commentary box. It was ‘Godders’ with the latest Ladbroke betting odds for the day’s cricket. He was their consultant expert, who assessed for them the condition and state of the game. He was always chirpy, smiling and full of quips. I don’t ever remember him being put out by anything, certainly never down in the dumps. He was the eternal optimist.
This cheerfulness, supported by his tireless energy, was one of the qualities which made him such a great player for England. Even on the hottest days abroad he never flagged. In between overs he bustled from one end to the other, perky little steps, arms swinging – a busy man in a hurry. He would encourage flagging spirits with a reminder that the gin and tonics were waiting in the dressing room, ice tinkling against the glasses. He would rush from behind the stumps to make a poor return into a full pitch. He would ostentatiously applaud a good ball or a fine piece of fielding. He was a showman whom the crowds loved, and a wonderful support for his captain. He was also a great chatter-up of batsmen, something they didn’t always appreciate.
His rise to fame was rapid. As an eighteen-year-old he appeared in a few matches for Kent before the war in 1939. With Les Ames still having trouble with his back, Godfrey became the regular Kent wicket-keeper in 1946, and played for England against India in the third Test at the Oval – the first time I saw him. My first impression was his tremendous energy and flamboyant brilliance as he stood close up to the stumps.
He lost his England place in the first Test at Brisbane on Wally Hammond’s tour of 1946–7. Paul Gibb played instead, but Godfrey kept wicket in the four remaining Tests. He then kept wicket for England almost continuously until his ninety-first and final Test against India at Lord’s in 1959, when he took his (then) record of dismissals to 219. Appropriately, his last victim was a stumping, because in my opinion he was the greatest ‘stumper’ of all Test wicket-keepers. During the period from 1946 to 1959 he was occasionally not selected because of injury – Brennan, Spooner, Andrew McIntyre and Swetman replacing him – but in George Mann’s tour of South Africa in 1948–9 Billy Griffiths played in the fourth and fifth Tests, taking Godfrey’s place on merit.
As a wicket-keeper Godfrey was the man for the big occasion. Like many Test players he was at his best when playing for his country, but perhaps lost some of the incentive when keeping for Kent. He was the most spectacular wicket-keeper I have ever seen, and also the most brilliant. He did have his occasional off-days, however, the most disastrous being the last day of the 1948 Test against Australia at Headingley, when as a result of many missed chances at slip or behind the wicket Australia made 404 for 3 to win. But normally he was an inspiration to his side. He crouched close to the stumps, balancing on his toes. He stood up to fast-medium bowlers like Alec Bedser, who insisted on him doing so ‘because I like something to bowl at’. Alec was basically an inswinger, and this meant that Godfrey often had to take the ball on the leg-side, which he did superbly. I was not there, but am told that in 1950–1 in Australia, when both he and Alec were in their prime, his taking of the swinging new ball on the fast, bouncy Australian pitches was miraculous. So much so, on his appeal of, ‘How’s that?’ when he brought off a fast leg-side stumping in an up-country match all the square-leg umpire could say was, ‘Bloody marvellous!’
Of course he had to stand back to the quick bowlers like Tyson, Trueman and Statham, and he hurled himself acrobatically in all directions to take seemingly impossible catches. Perhaps his greatest was when he caught the left-handed Neil Harvey off Tyson wide down the leg-side in the third Test at Melbourne in 1955. People who were playing in the match have told me that they had never seen anything like it. In the pre-war days of Oldfield, Duckworth and Ames, the wicket-keepers seldom flung themselves at the ball, and I suppose that Godfrey was one of the first of the great wicket-keepers to hurl themselves like goal-keepers. The crowds love it, and undoubtedly catches are taken which would never have been attempted in the old days.
As a batsman he always enjoyed himself, and with his twinkling feet (he was once a boxer) he ran very fast between the wickets and stole some outrageous singles. He loved to hit the ball, and scored 98 not out before lunch against India at Lord’s in 1952. Two years earlier against the West Indies at Old Trafford he made the first of his two Test hundreds, and it only took him 2 hours 20 minutes. In contrast, in the fourth Test at Adelaide in 1947, he took 97 minutes to score his first run in a back-to-the-wall partnership with Denis Compton. But no matter what he scored, the cricket always came to life when Godders was batting.
Off the field Godders was always the life and soul of every party. His outrageous ‘Carmen Miranda’ won the fancy-dress prize on all the boat trips to and from Australia. In 1958–9, with Trevor Bailey, Frank Tyson and Raman Subba Row, he founded the ‘Bowers Club’, of which I had the honour to be elected a member. It was a male-only drinking club, and we would meet once a week and carry out various rituals invented and conducted by Godders, accompanied by the odd glass of wine.
He was always a gambler at heart, so he was especially happy in his consultancy job for Ladbrokes. Not all of his ventures were successful, however. Most of his benefit money went into chickens, but they all got the croup! He was in the marcasite business, and used to bring samples of his wares to the dressing room, but I believe his partner ‘disappeared’. There was also the little matter of some land development on the Essex coast: unfortunately, someone forgot to obtain planning permission! At one time he was mine host in a pub on the A3 just outside Petersfield. You had to be a bit wary of calling in to see him, as he would greet you warmly and announce to the assembled drinkers that the drinks were on you! He was also the genial host at the Sportsman’s Club, greeting all and sundry as if he had known them all his life. In spite of – or perhaps because of – all his varied activities, I doubt he ever became a millionaire, but he brought fun and laughter to all his countless friends and to every stranger he met.
For years after he had retired from cricket Godders still turned out in charity matches with his mutton-chop whiskers and the glasses which he later wore. He would crouch close up to the stumps and bring off miraculous stumpings, often down the leg-side, which was his speciality. He would keep for about an hour and then go off, having shown to an admiring younger generation what real wicket-keeping looks like.