Wisdom of Ages for Strauss to Follow

If Andrew Strauss is burdened in any way by the responsibilities of leadership suddenly thrust upon him there is not much outward sign. We can discreetly look beyond recent form since his plane touched down in the Caribbean. He possesses a calm stance on most things, reads his fellow players' thoughts and prejudices with reliable instinct, and doesn't seem inhibited by the shadowy presence of his strong-minded, short-term predecessor, Kevin Pietersen.

As for his captaincy, how cautious is he going to be once the warm-ups are out of the way? Or how daring? Does he act on hunches? It's his show now, though one is sure he will be receptive to a word in the ear from experienced team-mates. He is at heart a democrat, not weighed down by inflexible notions.

Is it just a little too glib and silly of me to ask of his leadership intentions: Douglas Jardine or Sammy Woods? My hope is that he will opt for somewhere in the middle. The varying qualities of captaincy have always fascinated me, which begs the question as to who, from a disparate list of candidates, would have something to offer Strauss as a role model?

Jardine happens to be one of the best. He had an austere, patrician manner and, as far as I could discover, went in for rib cages rather than too much laughter. He was, of course, maligned because of his cussed, obsessively competitive edge as manifested during those internecine Bodyline exchanges. He polarized opinion among his players and the public, not a good thing, but at the same time was a man of physical and mental courage. He earned respect – well, perhaps never in Antipodean terrain – rather than affection.

I advocate the Aussie-born, Somerset-reared Woods because, apart from being a good rough-and-ready captain he had life and humanity nicely in perspective. Like Jardine, he had no time for draws. He would talk cricket all night and was often the last to leave the bar. He kept fit by walking to his Bridgwater digs from the county ground after a day's fast bowling, while in the dressing room his extrovert enthusiasm was infectious. He never quite lost the free spirit of the village cricketer. Sammy was as happy on the skittle alley, or when the fair came to town and once climbed through the ropes to take on a rugged booth boxer for three rounds.

He knew everything about man-management, whatever it was called in those days. So, in an odd way, did Mike Brearley, acknowledged as perhaps the country's finest captain. His voice was gentle, his persona cerebral. Not every fellow flannelled occupant of the pavilion grasped the point of one of his profound intellectual sallies, but they all accepted it was based on wisdom and well worth pursuing. Brearley's printed words on leadership have rightly taken on a biblical reference-book authority. One hopes that Strauss has carried them with him, perched perhaps alongside the Gideon in his hotel room.

Strauss's elevation reactivates that thorny old argument about the North‑South divide. Hardened Yorkies of my acquaintance see the new captain as worryingly unproven as a Test leader. They sniff at his Radley schooling and class structures that recede reluctantly. If he needs role models, they ask, what is wrong with Close and Illingworth? They have a point.

Indeed there are qualities and attitudes that he could usefully acquire from this hard-headed pair and so many others who captained with their varying virtues. Not Bob Wyatt, however; he scowled too much, a good-natured, misunderstood man who looked more curmudgeonly than he was. And not the once dashing, inspiring Percy Chapman, who eventually drank too much.

We all have our own idea of what makes a good captain. Immodestly, I feel I am qualified to opine on the subject. For more than 10 years I skippered a Sunday side, the Bristol Badgers, who had neither a ground nor much more than nominal collective kit, although we did have a useful fixture list.

I was the self-appointed captain for several reasons, none of which had too much to do with ability. What I possessed was a facility for recruiting players at the last minute. I relied on my mates and persuaded six Bristol City FC first-teamers, all capable cricketers, and several Gloucestershire CC seconds to turn out for one over-ambitiously conceived match. Mine was a multi-purpose role – as transport manager, I drove up to five of the team in my rusty Ford Anglia; I took over as umpire, white coat obscuring my emergency batting gear, when our man for the job needed to leave early. I collected the subs and consoled first-ball victims.

Team selection, obsequious psychology: it was all there. Not that Strauss, one feels, needs any additional guidance. Nor will he ever need to act as an overworked chauffeur.