SPECTATOR SPORT
The goodness
of Gooch
Frank Keating
WHAT a match, and what a man! And what, after that little lot, is there left to say about Graham Gooch? 'Why not tell them', suggested the wife (giving one of those pinch-lipped looks), of the night we ran for the last train to Liverpool Street from the Essex suburbs after supper chez Gooch, with Graham having to give you a fireman's lift like you were a sozzled sack of spuds, which was particularly decent of him since you'd first demolished his best wines and spirits before berating him with your usual tipsy tirade about "playing with apartheid", and all that after Brenda had not only got the twins to bed but spent all that time preparing a lovely South African bobotie with curried lamb and almonds. I cringed. 'Why didn't we ring for a cab?' is all I can think of saying on these occasions. What I do remember, though, is that Graham is the only man, before or since, from whom I've ever borrowed a hair- drier. Christmas Eve, Delhi, 1982, before we went to Midnight Mass. He also lent me his razor that night, for in those days he had only his sagging, hangdog moustache and it was my mandible that was matted black with the rebarbative stubble of a Khyber brigand, like his today.
The looks of a bandit belie the goodness of Gooch. No matter the muttered, pout- ing press conference. He was made captain by grudging default. Suddenly he is what England and English cricket had hungered for and found. An outstanding performer in the whole canon of the game, but hero as well to his troops as human being and steadfast, self-sufficient male. Jefferson's lost paragon: the wise innocent. 'I know I look a totally miserable sod out there,' he says. 'I wish I didn't, but there you are. The truth is I love the game deeply, and all its intricate bits as well as simplicities. Whatever I look like, I'm enjoying it all right. Ask any of the Essex lads, and I don't think they'll say I'm morose and dull and introverted. I hope not anyway.' In fact, he can be a brilliantly diverting mimic. His party piece on his opening partnership with Boycott, spot-on Yorkie accent and all, used to have me in fits; and his beautifully observed send-ups of the beady-eyed Willis's approach to the wicket (the rickety biplane trying to get airborne), or Chris Old's or DiIley's (both would crumple, clutching a knee, at the crease) were Tati-like in precision and hilarity. He also does a perfect Underwood, running up with his great big Cornish pastie boots splayed out at ten to two.
Gooch was born in Leytonstone on the first day of the fourth test of 1953 (v. Australia at Headingley: Hutton and Com- pton both Lindwalled for ducks, the callow Graveney top scorer with 55). His older sister was also a Brenda. His father, Alf, was a carpenter. Rose only gave up at the wire-making factory when the kids arrived. Young Graham would spend his time whacking a ball about in the playground alongside the council block at Mills Court, or on the beach during the August week's holiday at Romney. He left Norlington School at 16, and only joined Essex, `to try my luck', after a four-year apprenticeship as a toolmaker. Within two years, in 1975, he was picked for England, against Australia at Birmingham.
Rose bought a new outfit for it. He got a duck in the first innings. In the second, he caught her eye up in the stand as he was going out. She waved, timorously. Another duck. Neither of them has men- tioned that day since. Another touching, homely, honest-to-goodness thing about Gooch's cricket is that when he is playing, be it at a grand stadium or, say, Worcester or Cheltenham out in the shires, Alf and Rose more likely than not will be there too, on a bench with the thermos and sandwich tin. They must be mighty proud of him these days: I know it's only a game, but England certainly is.
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