A Sporting Life
If Steve Harmison thought he was nervous before the first Test, just imagine how he'll feel before the second one, writes Frank Keating.
Great expectations to hard times in a blink. If Steve Harmison, by his own admission, was "frozen solid with nerves" on Thursday when he delivered his notorious first-up delivery - one now imperishably logged in Ashes history - how will the poor fellow cope when he wings down his opening onion in Adelaide on Friday? For sure, twice as many sadists round the world will be booking early alarm-calls just to watch his inaugural single launch-pad salvo.
Ruthless pragmatists are even calling for Durham's broody mixed-up gangle of limbs and angst to be put on a plane home forthwith - and, however much the big bloke might readily settle for that, neither best mate, captain Fred, nor the mulishly stubborn coach would countenance such a charitable solution. For Friday they just have to cross their fingers that it'll be all right on the night. As they always have with Harmy.
Just about the last thing Fred Trueman had a beef to me about, before he died this year, was Harmison: "The lad can take wickets all right: trouble is, nobody knows, least of all him, exactly when, because the four crucial, elementary bowling functions - his head, left shoulder, right arm and basic bottle - are each flailing around up there and they only ever happen to synchronise by complete ruddy accident."
Trueman might have even seen Harmison's first ever championship match. Wisden Almanack 1997: "Chester-le-Street, September 1996: Durham v Leicestershire. More injuries persuaded Durham to register another young pace bowler, 17-year-old Stephen Harmison from Ashington. But his first Championship performance was not good: he went for more than eight an over, adding to Durham's disbelief . . ." Harmison bowled nine overs that day and finished with figures of nought for 77.
Another general bowling calamity on Friday, however, and Duncan Fletcher must admit his original glaring mistake and ensure Jon Lewis, already in Perth, is pawing the earth and in the trim for the third Test there in a fortnight. The County Championship's champion, with his faith in, and competence at, the eternal verities of straightforwardly accurate new-ball bowling, is easily England's nearest ringer for the metronome McGrath and his impressive clone Clark. And, while the Waca pitch may be less fiery, groundsmen cannot mess about with the fabled Fremantle Doctor, that ocean breeze which so perfectly suits the swing of a spot-on medium-paced right-hander. Just an ancient's abroad thought from home.
Gluttons for punishment
The playwright Arthur Miller once said the structure of any authentic theatrical tragedy had to have "the same precise unities of a classic sports contest - that is, the unfolding narrative of how birds come home to roost". A few pigeons might have been fluttering home at Brisbane but at Twickenham it's been more like loft-fulls of bloody and headless chickens.
Don't blame simply the man at the helm but the ludicrously overcomplicated and unwieldy system he thinks he needs to work with. Every "expert" he employs has to get his oar in. All national teams these days feel dependent on far more track-suited, top-whack, back-up boffins on the edge of the field than there are young men actually playing on it. "Nutritional-dieticians" are now de rigueur in rugby. They get my goat.
Obviously to earn their money they need to dream up some new wheeze but, when I toured with England or the Lions, the pre-match brunch was easy: you simply ate what suited you, although usually the collective appetite held sway - boiled fish for the professional men, just toast and honey for the college chaps, a steak for the working-classes (the mighty Pontypool front row, I remember, let nothing pass their lips till tea-time).
England's obsession with drinking gallons of water throughout a match may be one thing - the All Blacks are thirsty only for the ball - but quite another bloated matter was reading Jamie Noon's newspaper diary of his Twickenham pre-match Saturday routine: "8am Breakfast: Fruit 'n' Fibre, poached eggs, beans on toast, protein shake, juice, yoghurt, fruit, green tea. 10am Team meeting. 11am Lunch: Pasta, toast, eggs, beans, jacket potatoes, boiled chicken, yoghurt. 2.30 Kick-off." No wonder the midfield has been leaden. Alas, too, poor Jamie, that trencherman's double whammy could well be a condemned man's last breakfast for England.
Frank Keating will return next year
Ruthless pragmatists are even calling for Durham's broody mixed-up gangle of limbs and angst to be put on a plane home forthwith - and, however much the big bloke might readily settle for that, neither best mate, captain Fred, nor the mulishly stubborn coach would countenance such a charitable solution. For Friday they just have to cross their fingers that it'll be all right on the night. As they always have with Harmy.
Just about the last thing Fred Trueman had a beef to me about, before he died this year, was Harmison: "The lad can take wickets all right: trouble is, nobody knows, least of all him, exactly when, because the four crucial, elementary bowling functions - his head, left shoulder, right arm and basic bottle - are each flailing around up there and they only ever happen to synchronise by complete ruddy accident."
Trueman might have even seen Harmison's first ever championship match. Wisden Almanack 1997: "Chester-le-Street, September 1996: Durham v Leicestershire. More injuries persuaded Durham to register another young pace bowler, 17-year-old Stephen Harmison from Ashington. But his first Championship performance was not good: he went for more than eight an over, adding to Durham's disbelief . . ." Harmison bowled nine overs that day and finished with figures of nought for 77.
Another general bowling calamity on Friday, however, and Duncan Fletcher must admit his original glaring mistake and ensure Jon Lewis, already in Perth, is pawing the earth and in the trim for the third Test there in a fortnight. The County Championship's champion, with his faith in, and competence at, the eternal verities of straightforwardly accurate new-ball bowling, is easily England's nearest ringer for the metronome McGrath and his impressive clone Clark. And, while the Waca pitch may be less fiery, groundsmen cannot mess about with the fabled Fremantle Doctor, that ocean breeze which so perfectly suits the swing of a spot-on medium-paced right-hander. Just an ancient's abroad thought from home.
Gluttons for punishment
The playwright Arthur Miller once said the structure of any authentic theatrical tragedy had to have "the same precise unities of a classic sports contest - that is, the unfolding narrative of how birds come home to roost". A few pigeons might have been fluttering home at Brisbane but at Twickenham it's been more like loft-fulls of bloody and headless chickens.
Don't blame simply the man at the helm but the ludicrously overcomplicated and unwieldy system he thinks he needs to work with. Every "expert" he employs has to get his oar in. All national teams these days feel dependent on far more track-suited, top-whack, back-up boffins on the edge of the field than there are young men actually playing on it. "Nutritional-dieticians" are now de rigueur in rugby. They get my goat.
Obviously to earn their money they need to dream up some new wheeze but, when I toured with England or the Lions, the pre-match brunch was easy: you simply ate what suited you, although usually the collective appetite held sway - boiled fish for the professional men, just toast and honey for the college chaps, a steak for the working-classes (the mighty Pontypool front row, I remember, let nothing pass their lips till tea-time).
England's obsession with drinking gallons of water throughout a match may be one thing - the All Blacks are thirsty only for the ball - but quite another bloated matter was reading Jamie Noon's newspaper diary of his Twickenham pre-match Saturday routine: "8am Breakfast: Fruit 'n' Fibre, poached eggs, beans on toast, protein shake, juice, yoghurt, fruit, green tea. 10am Team meeting. 11am Lunch: Pasta, toast, eggs, beans, jacket potatoes, boiled chicken, yoghurt. 2.30 Kick-off." No wonder the midfield has been leaden. Alas, too, poor Jamie, that trencherman's double whammy could well be a condemned man's last breakfast for England.
Frank Keating will return next year
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