I’ve written before about what I see as the four stages of building a career. First, to survive—stay in the game. Second, you build. Third—and what should be the biggest block—you thrive. And fourth, to close it out, you protect.
Cricket doesn’t represent real life.
In cricket, batting averages matter because they give us an indication of what a side will likely score in a given format. There’s no more storied batting average than Don Bradman’s 99.94. Bradman played his last Test in 1948.
But in real life, we’re not keeping track of how many times you beat your average or your strike rate—we’re keeping track of the impact people make.
I exited Lancashire at the end of the 1996 season. I was averaging 40, or close to it, in first-class cricket. Younger, more talented players needed space. I was 30—a bit-part player who had waited for his chance and gone through all four blocks. I still don’t know why I chose Durham as my new home, but I did.
Geoff Cook, Durham’s director of cricket, asked me during pre-season how many games I thought I could win for my new team. I was in protect mode. Cook was asking me to step back into thrive. I couldn’t do it. I was too conservative. Durham’s team was very different to Lancashire’s—young, inexperienced. They brought me to the North-East to win games.
I didn’t allow myself to step back. I regret that.
The people who change things rarely show up in the averages. They show up in the moments that don’t get counted—the conversation that shifted someone’s thinking, the decision made under pressure, the quiet consistency that held a team together.
Nick
