SIC TRANSIT GLORIA MUNDI

I remembered the stroke vividly, as if it had been played yesterday. Not one of my own, I hasten to add. I must have played a few half-decent shots in my career but none of them, curious to relate, stick in the mind. I was patrolling my usual patch at cover point, though I had shifted a little behind square because the ball had been passing by my right hand fairly frequently for the past two or three hours. It made no difference. Wherever I positioned myself, the ball seemed to flash past, square, in front of square or behind square. I was hopelessly outnumbered. If I make the point that the batsman was left-handed, the cricketers among my readers will understand why the ball had flashed past my right hand, not my left, as I was on the opposite side of the wicket than I would have been for a right-hander.

The stroke he had just played had that tell-tale ‘thwack’, such that you just knew that it had 4 written all over it. Judging that a chase to the boundary would be futile, I concentrated my attention on the batsman as he charged up to the other end, letting out a great whoop, leaping and punching the air. Why had he bothered to run? The ball had already thudded into the boundary board. I reflected that he probably deserved this moment of triumph. It is customary to applaud an opposing batsman’s hundred. Sometimes the clap can be a bit cursory. Ours was not. It had been a fine innings.

Graham Barlow

The occasion was a match between Middlesex Schools and Surrey Schools and the batsman was Graham Barlow. We knew each other, for this was not the first time we had been on opposite sides on a cricket pitch. Later, we became firm friends when we played together for London Schools, going on tour to Pakistan, and for British Universities. It always amused me – and it was something for which I would give him unmerciful stick, which he accepted with a bland smile – that somebody least likely to be called academic, such as Graham, could find himself in a university team. At that time, Loughborough PE College, was affiliated to Loughborough University, and carping aside, we were only too happy to have a number of talented cricketers among us, whatever the nebulous nature of their scholastic qualifications.

For Graham was somebody that I looked up to, wishing I had only half his talent. He became an important member of the powerful Middlesex side of the 1970s and 80s, a period in which they won the county championship five times. He was a talented all round games player and had already been capped for the England U23 rugby team before he gave up rugby to pursue his career in cricket. He was a natural athlete, a quick runner between the wickets and an outstanding fielder in the covers or mid-wicket, fast over the ground, with a powerful and accurate arm. It surprised me that he only played in three Test matches, in spite of scoring prolifically for Middlesex. As you would expect of a PE student, he was a fitness fanatic and stories abounded of his leading merciless pre-season training at Middlesex, which made him a deeply unpopular figure with his team-mates, that is until the season proper started in earnest.

My career stuttered and fizzled out, whereas his continued to shine brightly and inevitably our paths diverged and we lost touch. I read that he had eventually to give up the game, ironically for such a fit and athletic player, because of a persistent back injury. Then his life, as a coach of Central Districts and as a PE teacher at Whangarei, took him to the opposite end of the world in New Zealand.

We, a large number of former players, have a chat group on an email address. We are over 100 strong and our leader is the legendary Surrey and England off-spinner, Pat Pocock.

Pat Pocock, the former Surrey and England off-spinner, the leader of out Chat Group

Every day, he informs us of the birthday of all ex-pros, and invites comments, stories and best wishes from their contemporaries, friend and foe alike. Cricket is a long game, taking place over one, two, three, four or five days and inevitably there are passages of play when not a lot might be happening, fertile ground for a bit of fun. I bet there are more amusing tales told by ex-professional cricketers than in any other sport. Yet, it is the nature of life’s transience that bad tidings or news of people dropping off the perch filters through. Such it was of Graham Barlow in recent days.

The report from the Antipodes was not good. Graham has been married five times. That does not suggest to me a happy and stable family life, to say nothing of the injurious state that his personal finances must have been left. He has suffered the loss of several close friends and relatives and has had a recent heart attack. The thought that a strong and well-trained body – for he was a very fit man – brought low is alone discouraging. None of us is immutable and resistant to the ravages of time but Graham seemed so…well, indestructible. At least, it could be said that he has not yet been sent on his way back to the pavilion by Old Father Time, but it is an uncomfortable reminder that those blessed with preternatural talent do not always have a happy life.

On that afternoon at Uxbridge CC back in the 1960s, it seemed that Graham had the world at his feet, whereas I was destined to play only a bit part on the large stage. Sporting success and fame are transitory, I know, and none of us can play for ever. But I do wish I had been able to play a shot like that.