Graeme Hick: My favourite cricketer

GREG JAMES is a lifelong cricket fan. His devotion to Hick, an enigmatic giant and a sensitive colossus of Worcestershire, is a story wholly his own

I love a gut feeling – a can’t-quite-put-my-finger-on-it realisation. But it’s only at the ripe old age of 29 that I can rationalise one such inkling from childhood. I now unequivocally know why Graeme Hick was my one and only. And why was that, you ask? Because he was no one else’s.  

It was actually more than just contrariness. A fair bit more, actually. It goes without saying that Hick wasn’t an obvious choice, him being in and out of the England set-up more regularly than Peter Moores.

He was quiet. He was reserved and emotional. This scorer of 136 first-class hundreds and 64,372 professional runs was once even rather nastily described as a “softie”. This – as mean as it always looks in print – only served to make me commit to him that little bit more.

Simply, I related to this man as a cricketer. “Batsmen aren’t supposed to be tall,” I was told repeatedly when growing up. “You should bowl more because you look like Alan Mullally,” coaches would say. Brilliant, I thought. “Reach for the sky, eh sir?” I’d counter. Ironically.

But in Hick I found hope in exception. He offered the very real prospect that I – and lanky, long-armed ganglers everywhere – could be a successful batsman. A great batsman in his case.

And on his day, he was just that. Every bit as good as any of the game’s greats. It’s just ‘his day’ wasn’t as often as it should have been.

Hick would be the first name I’d look for after stealing dad’s morning newspaper. He’d be the first player I’d seek a glimpse of when attending England matches. And the only signature I wanted scrawled across the back of my Slazenger V600, which used to accompany us to grounds everywhere, ‘just in case’.

The mismanagement of Hick’s career has been much documented. But even through the eyes of this diehard supporter, it’s fair to say that form was never a constant ally. But by all accounts, especially according to those that were in the know, Hick was never given the support he needed. Or his talent deserved. A Test average of 31.32 tells only the downside. He was a sensitive soul that by his own tragic admission felt a “foreigner in the dressing room”. That’s sad. Really sad, actually. But as a cricketing outlier as I was made to feel then, it made me back him even more. Because I shared his pain.

And here is the reason why I felt a kinship. As a year 7 student at Bishop’s Stortford High School I played a lot of cricket. Along with listening to the radio and watching The Simpsons, it constituted my entire life. To the point where I’d create makeshift pitch covers in the back garden using Mum and Dad’s shower curtains so I could resume practising at the earliest opportunity after a rain break. Form an orderly queue, ladies...

^{Graeme Hick made 405* for Worcestershire against Somerset}

I was cricket captain that summer, and oh my god was I proud.  The team had a successful season and I was having the time of my life. I dreaded September because it meant no cricket, carol services, the dark and even worse still, rugby.

I hated playing rugby. So much so that I refused to play. I didn’t want to get wet, cold and hurt. But the school’s PE department didn’t accept my reservations. When I wanted to attend winter nets in Chelmsford, they wanted me up to my ears in mud and ice on the rugby field.

As a consequence and punishment for not chasing eggs I was stripped of the captaincy by the cricket masters, whose names will remain nameless. But needless to say, I hated Mr Watkin and Mr Evans for it. It made me miserable. I felt left out, unsupported and worst of all it became the catalyst for me falling out of love with my favourite thing in the world for a while.

My form suffered as collateral damage. I was embarrassed by the episode. Even a bit lost – rendered an unfortunate outsider through no fault of my own.

I projected my situation on Hick’s. He was just like me, I believed, a soul that needed looking after, nurturing and someone who wanted to feel welcome and valued in order to succeed. When those support networks, corner men and champions aren’t there, I don’t care who you are, reaching your true potential doesn’t happen. I didn’t in year 8, and neither did Hick. Bishop Stortford Under-13s was the England cricket team. Evans and Watkin my Raymond and my… Illingworth.

For me there was a happy ending. I went off to High Roding CC and loved every game. I have a lot to thank the club for. It was a fantastic place, as are many clubs across the country. It is somewhere I missed every summer after the family moved from the area.

For Hick it was also a happy ending. It is no surprise that as soon as Worcestershire’s favourite import returned to New Road, he was rightly given a hero’s reception.

I’m almost certain Hick has found peace with the game and his career, living now as he does in Australia. I hope he can look back and be proud. Real fans understand the full story. He achieved things that thousands of us might only dream of. Hick was a run machine, my idol, and a dignified cricketing presence right to the end. Bless him for his height and his might. Forgive him his sensitivity and even his lack of undue and endearing gangliness. Graeme Hick was a right player. By every measure. Almost.

This article was published in the Summer 2015 edition of The Cricketer - the home of the best cricket analysis and commentary, covering the international, county, women's and amateur game

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