“Gardening” while batting is nothing more than a therapeutic pursuit—one intuitively aligned with the perceived serenity of cricket. I was fortunate to partner with some decent laikers over the years; pretty much all had different craic and tapping habits. For now, we’ll leave those and get to them later.
Generally, batters from every era have persistently tapped down imperfections on a cricket pitch—invisible, or not. Often the tapping is done no-look. Nerves need to be calmed, breathing brought back to speed. I grew up marvelling at the dexterity of old-school batters flattening Northern England puddings with the back of their Gray Nicolls blades. Gardening also enables batters to converse, settle on strategy, and—in most partnerships—exude an entirely unwarranted level of importance. It’s just a game of bluff—the act within the game.
But the gardening moment that stays with me belongs to my father, John Arthur Speak. It went something like this:
John said I wasn’t old enough to trip on a Saturday with him and his chaperone, Alan Brammer. John was a good enough cricketer to pocket brown envelopes most Saturday nights, and he seemed in reasonable demand in club-land. We lived in South Manchester—Dad couldn’t drive a nail into wood—you’ve heard this before—though he did have a decent cover drive. Nevertheless, this wouldn’t deter him from plying his trade in all corners of Manchester, Lancashire, and beyond.
Alan Brammer was his driver. Disappointed that I wasn’t of age to trip out with them both, I always looked forward to Alan’s arrival. He drove a maroon Triumph sedan, always clean, leather seats matching his black jacket. Mum would call him a honey—an American, a good ol’ boy. I would try to check the scores from the Saturday—it wasn’t straightforward then; when I did find the results, it looked like Alan was a decent opener. Not the Bazball type, but dependable. A perfect foil for his more adventurous partner.
Those Saturdays were long: plenty of sulking, annoying Mum, doing not much, waiting for them to return, which never happened before lights-out. Inspection would have to wait until Sunday morning. Always an early start, tip-toeing downstairs, first stop the garage to inspect John’s bat. I got pretty good at predicting how many he’d made by the ball-marks. He probably knew, and didn’t say. Fridays, before he got home from work, I would wet-cloth the bat-face to allow for an easier prediction.
And the gardening study. It took me a while—normally I only looked at the front—to fully understand the V-shaped cluster of dirt painted across the back-toe.
Later, Dad confirmed this was a result of the gardening practice he undertook when playing on a sticky pudding. Cricket gardening is and was a thing. John and many like him didn’t have the luxury of playing on manicured grounds with covers and an army of curators. League cricket in the North afforded maybe half a dozen weeks of weather where part-time curators could produce a hard, true surface.
I knew he thought I was entitled to play where I did—in the nicest way.
Reflecting then and now, my father’s cricket gave me perspective. That cricket exists in layers—the professional game, the serious league stuff, the boys and girls who just loved getting out there on a weekend. As I climbed, I believe our cricket connection quietly waned—John was always there, just not conspicuous. He taught me most of what I needed, then let me find the rest in a different world from where I grew up. I still don’t know—and never will—if he did that reluctantly, or whether he knew I would, should, figure it out along the way.
John loved cricket in a way I wasn’t able to. That’s probably the greatest gift he gave me. True perspective
As for the gardening—I’ve never needed to do it, and I’m worse for that.
Nick
P.S. Happy Birthday Alison and Paul :)
Took me back to my childhood Nick, nice short story 👍