The Test

by Nathan Leamon

Genres: Sports

Synopsis

'Engaging and enjoyable . . . as probing and as penetrative as a Jimmy Anderson opening spell . . . This is no ordinary novel by no ordinary novelist' Sunday Times 'A fine addition to the painfully thin oeuvre of modern fictional works about cricket' Mike Atherton, The Times 'Outstanding' Mail on Sunday 'If all you know is cricket, then cricket will break you . . .' It is the final Test match of The Ashes. A nation expects, and the rest of the cricketing world is watching. Fast-paced, humorous and candid, The Test follows the battles on and off the field as stand-in England captain, James McCall, tries to get his exhausted team across the finish line. Along the way, his story becomes one of fatherhood, friendship and trusting yourself when no one else will. Nathan Leamon's love letter to Test cricket is that rare thing: a novel that captures the feel and flavour of professional sport from the inside - the good, the bad and the simply surreal. Not since J. L. Carr's classic A Season in Sinji has there been a novel that quite captures the spirit of the game. Included in Wisden Cricket Monthly 's Finest Cricket Books Ever Written

Release date: August 2, 2018

Publisher: Constable

Print pages: 320

Sample

 

Australia

348 all out (119 overs)

 

England

20 for 2 (6.3 overs)

 

 

He plays.

He misses.

My heart stops.

From my angle, you can’t tell a miss from an edge. So for the beat after the ball passes the bat, my heart waits. Waits for the keeper and slips to erupt.

They don’t.

Heads and hands go up as one, the keeper skips sideways, the crowd gasps. But no appeal follows, just the collective in-breath of a play and miss. My heart starts to beat again.

I glance up at the screen and watch the replay. The ball has jagged sharply away from the bat. Too good. Too good for anyone.

If the fast bowler gets it right, the ball hits the ground four metres from you, ricochets off the turf at over 30 metres per second, and thuds into you or your bat one-eighth of a second later. If the ball deviates on pitching, you don’t have time to react. If it moves enough, you will miss it, regardless of how good you are. If it moves the wrong amount you will nick it, and that’s your day over.

I’m sitting on the balcony, trying not to fidget. I’m trying to not adjust my pads, to not fiddle with my bat handle, to not get up and pace the dressing-room floor. The effort of just sitting still is wearing me out.

I look back up at the TV, and now the cameras have cut to me, leaning back in my chair, feet up on the balcony rail in front of me. Thankfully, I look more relaxed than I feel.

There are good watchers and bad watchers. At the best of times I am in the latter category, and we are in a real hole here: well over 300 runs behind, and two wickets down already. The clouds have rolled in, and the new ball is snaking around venomously on a pitch that looked bland and unthreatening an hour ago when we were bowling on it.

I was getting showered and changed when the wickets fell, so I ask Grub, our wicketkeeper, to fill me in on what I’ve missed. There are coaches around, good ones, but they sometimes watch differently. Pay a man to watch a lion and he will do it. Tell a man he is about to go into the cage with the lion, and he will watch it in a very different way.

‘The left-armer’s going mainly across us. Nothing’s shaped back in that I’ve seen. Good gas, mind.’ The tension has thickened his Geordie accent.

‘Right-armer’s gone away mostly, mixing in his wobble-seam. They’ve bowled well like; need to see these two off. Get through this next half-hour.’

I nod.

Easier said than done at the moment.

‘Mac, congratulations on your appointment. How does it feel to captain England?’

It still sounds odd, ridiculous in fact, to my ear.

‘Look . . . it’s a very exciting opportunity. The series is beautifully poised and, obviously, to walk out at Lord’s in charge of England for the decider in an Ashes series will be a great moment. It’s a boyhood dream.’

‘Is this a long-held ambition? And would you like the role to become permanent?’

‘Rob is the England captain. I’m just keeping his seat warm until he’s well again.’

‘Your personal form has been poor of late. Do you think that will have a negative effect on your ability to lead the team?’

The questions keep coming, probing, needling. I’m letting as many go as I can, and trying to dead-bat the rest. This is not just about cricket at the moment. The series has arrived at the sort of climax that attracts attention outside of the usual fans and journalists. We are, briefly, on the front of the newspapers rather than the back. So the room is packed, and for every familiar face in front of me, there are another couple I don’t know.

‘The Australians have been critical of England’s tactics so far in the series. Will there be a change now that you are in charge?’

‘No, I’m pretty sure they’ll still be critical.’ There are a few laughs round the room.

As it has got tighter, the series has become increasingly acrimonious.

‘I meant, will there be a change of tactics?’

‘Certainly not at the request of the opposition.’

‘Do you think the fact that you were the only real option as replacement captain saved you from being dropped?’

Ouch! ‘Michael, I don’t know what would or wouldn’t have been in the selectors’ minds if Rob wasn’t in hospital. I’ve been picked to play, so I’ll do everything I can as captain and player to make sure we win the Ashes.’

‘You’ve brought Casey Thomas into the squad. Will he be a like-for-like replacement for Rob?’

‘Look, we’re not ready to tell you the final eleven yet. We are still considering the option of playing an extra bowler. But, clearly, if we don’t, then Casey will play. He’s a very exciting [reckless], young [immature] player [ego], and if he does play I’m sure he will do a great job for us.’ I’m absolutely not sure of anything of the sort.

‘Thomas is a very stylish batsman. Does his selection represent a desire for the team to play a more attractive “brand” of cricket?’

It’s not fucking dressage.

‘No, Casey’s been picked to score runs.’

A volley of microphones are ranged on me, waiting for any slip, any unguarded comment. You don’t even have to say anything controversial to get into trouble. I was once too vague answering a banal question about contract negotiations, and this was splashed across the back pages the following day as, ‘McCall refuses to rule out player strike over pay!’

I don’t like these public occasions. I feel a sort of vertigo, as if I’m standing next to a cliff edge. Ever since I was a kid in school chapel services, I’ve been scared of suddenly doing the worst thing I can imagine. Of shouting out an obscenity during prayers, or laughing loudly during a funeral. My mind plucks at it, can’t resist imagining what would happen in toe-curling detail. It’s not that I feel in genuine danger of carrying through on it. It’s not tempting; just the opposite. It’s the sheer proximity of the cliff edge, of being a second’s whim away from disaster, which tugs and appals the imagination.

Under the table my knuckles whiten.

‘You haven’t scored a hundred in nearly eighteen months now. Do you think that puts you under pressure for your place in the side?’

What do you think?

‘Like I say, I’m a batsman. My job is to score runs. I haven’t been doing that and I need to start soon. Not to keep my place in the side, but to help win games of cricket for England.’

I glance over at the corner of the room to the large, lugubrious form of our team media manager. Jabba takes the hint and lumbers forward. ‘OK, gentlemen, I think we’ll leave it there.’ Additional questions keep coming from the packed room, but with his battered briefcase and even more battered face, he gestures me towards the door and, eyes down, I head through it, as quickly as I can without looking as if I’m fleeing.

 

 

 

 

‘Why do you let all those balls go past, Daddy?’

‘What do you mean, Sam?’

‘Why do you let all those balls go past without hitting them?’ His earnest little voice winds out of the telephone. The line makes him sound even smaller than he is. ‘Mummy says it’s because you’re waiting for the ball to go soft, but I think you should hit them for four instead, that would make it go soft quicker, wouldn’t it?’

‘That’s not a bad idea. Maybe I’ll try that. How are you doing Sam? How was school today?’

I know what the answer’s going to be before I ask the question. All I can ever get out of him.

‘Good.’

My eyes are screwed shut to catch every sound, the phone jammed hard against my ear, as if I can burrow down the wire to get closer to him. ‘How was the party on Saturday?’

‘Good.’

‘Did you have fun?’

‘Yes.’

‘Good. I’m glad. Can you put your mum on, Sam?’

‘OK.’

I hear him calling ‘Mummy! Mummy!’ in the background, then it goes quiet for a few seconds. He comes back panting. ‘She doesn’t want to talk to you . . . Gotta go, Daddy.’

‘Bye, Sam . . .’ But the line is already dead. ‘. . . love you.’

Love you, Sam.

 

 

 

 

Jabba and I wander back across the outfield from the press conference.

The ground is having one of its mythically perfect moments.

The clear, untroubled light picks out the leaves on the trees behind the Nursery End.

Lord’s is beautiful in the sunshine.

Great white sails on a lush, unblemished sea.

Ahead of us, though, a familiar figure stands like a storm cloud in the middle of the square, glowering down at the pitch.

‘Hail to the chief!’ The sight of his natural foe causes Jabba to chunter belligerently as he shambles forward.

‘I’m sure there are people who like Yorkshiremen,’ he mutters irascibly. ‘I’m sure there are people who enjoy their company . . . people who don’t find them a race of smug, joyless vulgarians—’

‘Jabba!’ I warn gently.

‘I’m sure these people exist and that there are plenty of them.’ He pauses, stopping to readjust his bulk. ‘I’m just not sure there are that many of them outside Yorkshire,’ he concludes acidly.

‘You’re even more misanthropic than usual this morning, Jabba. Now look out, he’s coming over.’

The chief exec marches up to us. ‘Morning, Mac,’ he says curtly, shaking my hand. He nods coldly at Jabba, no hand offered. Jabba, barely acknowledging the nod, turns away to study the Lord’s skyline. The pair’s mutual animosity is no secret.

‘Big day on Thursday . . . hope you’re up to it?’

‘We’ll do our best.’

‘Not good, losing Rob like that. Massive blow for us.’

You don’t need to tell me. Rob has been an immense presence all series, a sporting icon at the height of his powers.

‘Can’t tell you how important this is for all of us . . .’ he continues.

‘Well . . .’

‘. . . for the game, for the country even.’

‘Like I say we’ll—’

‘What’s the side going to be? You decided yet?’

‘We’re probably leaning towards Thomas. He’s—’

‘Really! Didn’t expect that.’ He stares at me dubiously. ‘You sure? Big match to throw him into . . .’

Jesus, at some point I’m going to get to finish a sentence.

‘We think—’

‘Other options, you know? More experience.’

‘Like I say, we think—’

‘Sure you know best. Have you checked that with Rob, though?’

‘Yes, he’s on board with it.’

‘Well . . . OK . . . I see.’ He still looks dubious. He opens his mouth to say something, but I’ve already grabbed the opportunity offered by his momentary hiatus to nod, break away, and head off in the direction of the pavilion. Jabba drops into stride alongside me in silence. I feel like a tugboat escorting a battered old warship.

‘You can always tell a Yorkshireman . . .’ he says. ‘You just can’t tell him much.’

I drop into my best Barnsley accent. ‘They say what they like, and they like what they bloody well say!’ I turn to look at our media manager. ‘He really doesn’t like you, though, does he?’

‘Odi et amo.’

‘No . . . I reckon just hate.’

‘Well, you can judge a man by his enemies. So that’s a tick in that box for me.’

We start to climb the steps to the pavilion.

‘You know one thing I’ve noticed, Mac,’ he rumbles. ‘The easiest way to determine your standing in someone’s eyes is to observe to what degree they accurately attribute your ideas to you.

‘There’s a sliding scale that runs all the way from them giving your ideas to someone else, through appropriating your ideas for themselves, right up to falsely attributing other people’s ideas to you. If they hold you in high enough regard, they will tag your name to a thought they want to promote, in the belief that your halo can add a sheen of quality.’

‘So where do you fall on our friend’s scale, do you think?’

‘Ha! I reckon he’d rather credit a fortune cookie than me.’ He shrugs. ‘Like they say, you can achieve anything if you don’t care who gets the credit.’

I am in bed, reading. Trying to calm my mind. Trying to let the tension slide out of me enough to go to sleep. The pill from the doc sits on the bedside table next to me. I’ll use it if I have to, but as a last resort.

My mind is whirling, jumping from one unfinished thought to another.

I watched him signing autographs today. Strutting around in his new England kit. Tall and athletic, with boy-band looks and immaculately fashionable hair. He walked past a group of teenage girls and their eyes followed him, entranced. After he’d gone they turned and mouthed ‘Oh my God!’ to each other.

I can’t shake the feeling that he is the wrong call. But nor can I tell whether my distrust of him is a result of our history. Casey Thomas would never have been my choice. But others have made the decision. I am just going to have to trust them.

I check the time on my phone, and feel the usual impulse to call Beth. I want to hear her voice, want to tell her, It will be OK, it won’t always be like this. But it never works out; I can never find the words. We can talk about the kids now, but little else.

I force myself to focus on the book in my hands, flick through the pages, looking for the one I want. It’s a collection I know well. I find the right one, read it from the page, even though I know it by heart.

Bright clasp of her whole hand around my finger,

My daughter, as we walk together now.

All my life I’ll feel a ring invisibly

Circle this bone with shining: when she is grown

Far from today as her eyes are far already.

Ten minutes later, my eyelids droop, the book slides from my hand. I flick off the light and turn over. Darkness swallows the room.

And there they are.

I often find them here. Just as I start to let go. As my mind makes that first sideways slide out of full consciousness.

They wait for me in the shadowlands, on the borders of sleep. Not as they are now, but as I remember them best, two years younger. Faces, smiling one moment, then impossibly earnest.

As from the start, their smallest movements open my chest to the elements, my flawed heart bruised by each glance and gesture.

‘Come, Daddy. Come,’ arms outstretched. I reach for them. Hands, tinier than rain on my skin, pluck at my fingers. Then, turning, they lead me, baby-stepped, down into the dark.

 

Australia

348 all out (119 overs)

 

England

24 for 2 (7.5 overs)

 

 

The rest of them are chuckling, looking past me to the silent TV screen in the corner of the room. I follow their eyes and groan.

A couple of years ago I was out of shape, and considerably heavier than I am now. On the screen is some old footage of me scoring runs. It is from my ‘fat phase’. I’m playing well – I remember the innings, I get a hundred – but I look decidedly chunky and, as I take my helmet off and lift my arms aloft, the difference between my face and the younger, chubbier one on the screen is comical.

‘Wow,’ Grub drawls in his thick Geordie, ‘lookin’ a tad low in the water there, mate.’

‘Sell that diet, Mac,’ comes a voice from the back of the room. ‘You’ll make millions!’

‘The camera adds ten pounds, remember,’ I say smiling.

‘That right, is it?’ Grub asks ingenuously. ‘So, just how many cameras are on you there, Mac?’

We are still laughing when it happens – the bowler runs in and bowls; the batsman plays what looks like a firm push back down the pitch, but behind him the wicket explodes. The fielders erupt, instantly followed by every Aussie in the ground.

I flick to the replay on the screen. Good ball. Nice length, and it’s just nipped back up the slope into the top of middle-and-off.

Right then, Mac.

I slip on helmet and gloves, hop out of the chair, and spend a few seconds trying to get my feet moving.

‘Go well, Mac.’

‘Dig in, mate.’

‘Good luck, Jimbo.’

I am out of the dressing-room door and down the stairs. Paintings of the game’s Greats stare down at me; my spikes clash on the hard stairs; down into the Long Room, lines of faces turning to look. Voices bounce around me, wishing me well, urging me on.

As usual, on the way to the crease my heart is properly ticking. It never goes away this; never gets much less than it was the first time. Pulse racing, blood pounding.

My mind gets quieter. From the moment the helmet goes on, it switches to the job at hand, becomes stiller. Released from the torture of waiting, it gets calmer.

But my body doesn’t. It gears up for the first ball like it’s a fight to the death, gives it the kitchen sink during the walk to the middle. Adrenaline, testosterone – you name it, it’s flowing. I’m shivering slightly from the force of it as I take guard. My hands trembling a little as I settle the bat into my grip. Not nerves, excitement,. . .