‘English Cricket RIP’, and the Board, driven by Brian Bolus, the chairman of the International Teams Group, duly instructed the chairman of selectors David Graveney, new coach Fletcher and the newish captain, Nasser, that the time had come for a clear-out and the introduction of some new faces, starting with the squad for the winter tour to South Africa.
The first time Nasser had ever met Duncan was when they came together in the autumn to begin planning the squad, and Nasser told me later that one of the first names Duncan raised was mine. Nasser said that had he done so a year later he would immediately have gone with Duncan’s judgement and picked me, but this time decided against it because he himself hadn’t seen enough of my batting nor known enough of Duncan to understand that when he said he had seen something in a player it was almost always something worth seeing.
‘Let’s keep an eye on him, anyway,’ they agreed. So while Michael Vaughan, Chris Adams, Darren Maddy and Gavin Hamilton were taken on the senior tour to South Africa, I was selected for the A team tour to Bangladesh and New Zealand, alongside Rob Turner, who Chris Read pipped for the role of Alec Stewart’s understudy in South Africa but who still had many backers to eventually take over as No. 1.
Of the four new bugs in South Africa, Vaughan made the biggest impact, walking out to bat on his debut in Johannesburg with England on 2 for two, which became 2 for four before he got off the mark. He kept his head to make 33 then, after a couple more useful scores, was made man-of-the-match for his 69 in England’s successful run-chase in the rain-affected final Test at Centurion Park; the South African captain Hansie Cronje had offered England a target, for reasons that remained his own until the match-fixing scandal broke and the truth of his deal with a bookmaker to ensure any result except a draw finally emerged.
I didn’t exactly set Bangladesh or New Zealand on fire, but the memory of events the previous summer in Taunton obviously stayed with Duncan because he insisted I should come back early from Somerset’s pre-season training in Cape Town in the spring of 2000 to attend an England training camp at Mottram Hall, Cheshire. Duncan also monitored my early season form, including a painstaking (i.e. long and boring) 105 out of 262 against Leicestershire in May – from 138 for seven Ian Blackwell and I put on 100 for the eighth wicket. All that I needed now was a chance and in late June, it came.
Nick Knight cracked a finger batting in the second Test against West Indies at Lord’s, which Hussain had already missed with a broken thumb, and England needed batting cover for the upcoming NatWest triangular one-day series with Zimbabwe and West Indies. On 2 July 2000 David Graveney dialled my number for the first time and changed my life.
Somerset had been on the road down in Maidstone, playing a four-day championship match against Kent, followed by a 45-over match on the Sunday. I was dog-tired and settled down in the back of Rob Turner’s car for the journey back to Taunton with a bag of sweets, ready for some kip, but decided I should probably switch on my phone for the first time that day to check my messages.
‘Hello, Tres,’ this one began. ‘It’s Grav. Can you give me a ring, please? Nick Knight’s broken a finger. We want to bring you in as cover for a couple of games and see what happens. Can you call me back as soon as you get this?’
Blimey, I thought. And then I thought again. First I wanted to check it wasn’t a crank call and second, if it was true, I needed to tread carefully. I knew how desperate Rob was to get a chance himself. I didn’t want to start punching the air and going off on one because I knew how disappointed he might feel at being overlooked again.
‘Hello, Grav.’ I said, as quietly as I could, without whispering. ‘It’s Marcus here.’
The rest of the conversation was pretty much a blur and afterwards, my first reaction was to ring the world, mum, dad, Hayley, Eddie Gregg and my mates at Keynsham, everyone. Yet at the same time I didn’t want to trample all over Rob’s feelings.
I needn’t have worried, of course. When I did tell him, Rob was thrilled for me. So I hit the phone big-time and, of course, everyone was massively excited. And all pretence at remaining cool, calm and collected went out the car window. Inside I was jumping up and down that I was going to be given a chance to do what I had dreamed of doing ever since I stood in front of the telly at home copying those far-away figures in white.
‘Wow. Bloody brilliant. Knackered. Run to a standstill, but 79, SEVENTY-NINE, for England! I loved that drug.’
‘Marcus, can I have a word?’ I knew the tone of Duncan Fletcher’s voice by now. I had been with the England squad for 48 hours, training and netting, initially at Lord’s, then at The Oval, where the first of the matches in the triangular NatWest series with West Indies and Zimbabwe was to be played the next day, 8 July 2000, against Zimbabwe. My first-ever team meeting had come and gone, without the XI being announced, so the moment Duncan spoke I knew what he was about to tell me would either send my spirits skyward or down to my boots. I studied his face to see if I could find any clues. Nothing. On the outside Duncan was the original closed book. On the inside, until you gained his trust, the pages were blank as well.
We were standing outside the Royal Garden Hotel in Kensington, when he pulled me to one side of the group of players with whom I had just returned after dinner.
‘Look,’ he continued, ‘you’re playing tomorrow. I just want you to go out there and play your natural game. Play like you’ve been playing for Somerset and enjoy it.’ And a funny thing happened. After all the waiting and wondering, all the uncertainty over whether I would ever hear those words and the occasional utter certainty I never would, I took what he said totally in my stride. Not in an arrogant way, nor blasé. I just thought: ‘Duncan’s just told me I’m playing for England tomorrow. Isn’t this great?’
By the time I walked into our dressing-room at The Oval the following day, I felt somewhat different. I looked around me and, suddenly, instead of a 24-year-old with several seasons of county cricket under my belt, some better than others, I felt like a spotty school kid on Jim’ll Fix It.
Over there was Graeme Hick, not only my early role model as a player but also my kit model as well. Alec Stewart, who seemed to have been playing for England for about 100 years and was actually about to set a new one-day international appearance record (125) and, in a few weeks’ time, play in his 100th Test, was busy making sure everything was in its place; and Darren Gough and my Somerset colleague Andy Caddick were tearing into each other like an old married couple which they carried on doing for the rest of the time they played together for England. Their mainly pretend bickering had actually boiled over in the recent second Test against West Indies at Lord’s when they and Dominic Cork had taken all ten wickets between them as the Windies collapsed in their second innings to 54 all out. By taking five wickets Caddick had earned the right for his name and analysis to be printed on the dressing-room honours board showing hundreds and five-wicket bowling spells in Test cricket, something Gough was desperate to achieve but had so far failed to do. Caddy had taken it too far and Duncan felt obliged to step in and pour oil on troubled bowlers, but you could tell all was well because they were back to the usual nagging and points-scoring. Graham Thorpe was there, back after having made himself unavailable for the previous winter tour to South Africa, to spend more time with his young family and suffering from burnout. ‘Suffering from what?’ I thought at the time. I respected Thorpe as a top batsman and great professional, who didn’t? But burnout, what the hell was he on about? Still, I was impressed by the way he was operating around inside his own quiet bubble, ready to flick his switch to the ‘on’ position the instant he walked onto the pitch and not a moment before. Matthew Maynard was trying not to show how much he was dying for a fag and a young Andrew Flintoff was bouncing around like a 6ft 5 in, 17 and a half stone Tigger, charming and infuriating everyone in equal measure. I wasn’t exactly overawed, more like brilliantly and blindingly