Milburn, was also left out.
In Cape Town, the South African parliament roared with delight when the news came through. In England, the storm broke over the selectors’ heads; MCC became an object of contempt and ridicule. Then, two weeks later, Tom Cartwright, a bowler who batted, pulled out through injury; D’Oliveira, a batsman who bowled, was inserted instead. The cricketing case for this was again elaborate, though perhaps not as elaborate as Cartwright’s thinking. He had unusual political awareness for a cricketer (probably more than the chronic appeaser Douglas-Home) and harboured mixed feelings about touring at all; it seems likely he used his twinge as an excuse (see Wisden 2008, pages 1552–53). Vorster almost certainly could not have banned D’Oliveira had he been chosen originally. With world revulsion building against apartheid, that would have been too nakedly racist, even for South Africa. But now he had his chance because it looked, not just in South Africa, as if the selectors had caved in to political pressure. The night after D’Oliveira’s inclusion, Vorster was speaking (half-drunk, it is said) in the heartland of white supremacy, to members of the Nationalist Party in Bloemfontein. He was able to tell them: “The MCC team as constituted now is not the team of the MCC but the team of the Anti-Apartheid Movement.” He got a phenomenal ovation. D’Oliveira would not be allowed in, and MCC had to cancel the tour. Short-term, Vorster had won. But both Vorster and apartheid would be dead before South Africa played cricket against England again, and the sporting isolation created by banning D’Oliveira marked the start of the regime’s painfully slow downfall.
Only one man emerged with credit. D’Oliveira made a habit of rising to the major occasions of his life, and he behaved throughout this one with integrity, dignity and implacability. In the years of political strife ahead, he would not let himself be used by either the rigid boycotters or apartheid’s apologists: he remained his own man. He played on for England; indeed for the four years after the great rumpus, he did not miss a match (so much for the selectors’ original judgment). His performances included perhaps his greatest innings: an unbeaten 114 on a shocking pitch at Dacca in the hastily arranged riot-torn series that replaced the abandoned South African tour. And he continued to play well for Worcestershire until 1979, when he may well have been past 50. He then became county coach for 11 years, forming a notably successful partnership with Phil Neale as captain.
D’Oliveira had always been a good watcher – he worked out how to pick the Australian mystery spinner John Gleeson – and he was a conscientious, tough and effective coach, if stronger on the importance of mental attitude than on the minutiae of technique. And his essential decency shone through in odd ways. The former county secretary Mike Vockins remembered him being saddled with a coaching commitment at a school in Redditch on a snowy day. He was not sure he could make it, so he drove there in the morning to convince himself it was possible, then went back to do the job in the afternoon. Basil also became a proud patriarch. His son Damian played 14 seasons for Worcestershire, and in 2011 his grandson Brett followed them into the team, and also became the fourth generation of D’Oliveiras to play for St Augustine’s. By then dementia had overcome Basil, but his family – led by the staunch Naomi – sustained him. And he was revered across the cricket world, most of all, far from Worcester, in the country that once spurned him.
From Wisden Cricketers’ Almanack, 2012
‘I like to think that people are building these West Indians up, because I’m not really sure they’re as good as everyone thinks they are. I think people tend to forget it wasn’t that long ago they were beaten 5–1 by the Australians and only just managed to keep their heads above water against the Indians just a short time ago as well. Sure, they’ve got a couple of fast bowlers, but really I don’t think we’re going to run into anything more sensational than Thomson and Lillee so really I’m not all that worried about them. You must remember that the West Indians, these guys, if they get on top are magnificent cricketers. But if they’re down, they grovel, and I intend, with the help of Closey [Brian Close] and a few others, to make them grovel.’
Tony Greig speaking ahead of the 1976 Test series against the West Indies
In 1976 I was on the Surrey groundstaff and was present in the pavilion at the end-of-series match that would ultimately complete the West Indians’ 3–0 domination of the series. To this day I can remember the amazing atmosphere at the Oval, with the West Indian supporters calling for Greig to grovel, which he duly did. Although Tony was one of my great cricket icons at the time, to see him on the outfield in front of the West Indian supporters on his hands and knees was both funny and sad; it was, however, the right thing for him to do. Tony was a great showman and if anyone was actually going to get down and grovel in front of thousands of people, then it would be Tony. Having spoken to him on many occasions about it since, I know that he regretted making that comment and admitted it was a stupid thing to say. He knew the moment the words were out of his mouth it was a mistake, but he was frustrated at the time by the interviewer, who he felt, if not exactly belittling England, was not giving them the credit they were due going into the series. Of course it would all come back horribly to haunt him.
Sir Derek Birley
By 1975 England had ceased to be the unquestioned leaders in world cricket. It was no longer politically correct to talk about the British Commonwealth and by the same token the International Cricket Conference was somewhat less Anglocentric than of yore. But tradition and prestige still counted for a good deal. MCC might by then be more shadow than substance, but the club still owned what was probably the finest cricket ground in the world. Lord’s was still the place for the great international occasion. It was the obvious place for the Prudential Cup, the first international limited-over tournament, later known as the World Cup. The takings, despite England’s mediocre showing, came to £200,000 and the final between West Indies and Australia was watched by 26,000 people and took a record £66,000.
Australia stayed on after the Cup for the resumption of the bouncer war. Obliged to discard the shell-shocked batsmen of the previous winter, England had to look for coarser-grained but tougher customers. They discovered the kind of hero so beloved of tradition as to be part of the national self-image – the quiet, unassuming chap who stands up to the bully. This was David Steele, a thirty-four-year-old from unfashionable Northamptonshire whose grey hair made him look even more venerable, and who wore glasses. Having long given up hope of being picked for England he found himself having to go in to stop the rot against Lillee and Thomson.
Steele recalled the scene as he walked out at Lord’s:
People were looking at me. I could hear them muttering, ‘Who’s this grey old bugger?’ as I walked past. Tommo stood with his hands on his hips. I said, ‘Good morning, Tommo.’ He said, ‘Bloody hell, who’ve we got here, Groucho Marx?’
Scorning thigh pads and chest-protectors – just a towel or two stuffed in his clothes – Steele made 50 and went on to have a splendid series. That England staved off total disaster that summer also owed much to the courage of John Edrich and the wicket-keeper Alan Knott, and, not least, to the aggressive approach of Tony Greig, who replaced the nice-mannered but ineffectual Scot, Mike Denness, after the first Test.
Denness himself was an emollient successor to Illingworth, whereas Greig, born in South Africa of expatriate parents, represented the return swing of the pendulum. Greig’s appointment aroused dismay amongst English nationalists. This was not generally for his specifically South African connections, which only troubled a handful of liberals. The TCCB’s deep regret at having to cancel the planned 1976–7 tour of South Africa, on account of the Commonwealth leaders’ Gleneagles agreement which excluded South Africa from sporting contests, was probably shared by most cricketers.
The purists’ concern was that Greig, though captain of Sussex, was a carpetbagger, not normally resident in England. That winter, Wisden