In all honesty, this week’s Spin was going to be about something else. Most likely 900 words on Zak Crawley’s curiously feast or famine Test match batting or a paean to Dan Lawrence’s quicksilver wrists, about opportunities spurned and grasped. Next week, perhaps. The shocking and sad news of Graham Thorpe’s death made all that seem like something of a folly, for the time being at least.
When Sir Ken Robinson appeared on Desert Island Discs in 2013 he told a story about a Leonard Cohen song coming on the radio as he was driving along the motorway somewhere near Warwick where he was then Professor of Arts Education at the university. Robinson was busy juggling work and a young family, perennially time-poor and haring between commitments.
Related: Graham Thorpe was always his own man and never shied away from a challenge | Mark Ramprakash
As Cohen’s unmistakeable baritone crooned “night comes on” from the dash it made him think of his mother back in Liverpool, how he wanted to go and see her but couldn’t really spare the time. The lyrics then jolted him with the realisation that his mum wouldn’t be around forever and one day he wouldn’t have the choice. He pulled off the motorway before the song had finished and made a 200-mile detour to have dinner with his mum. You can hear his voice crack as he recounts the story.
The first thing that hit me on hearing the news of Thorpe passing away was a gut-punch of sadness; 55 is no age to die. The second followed almost instantly – an overwhelming urge to call my mum.
Most of us who have a connection to cricket have it passed on to us. Some might come to the game by themselves, off their own bat, but more often than not cricket is handed down and passed along. My mum did that for me and my three older brothers. Dad’s interest would come and go, the game to him often informed by our reactions or as something that happened on the periphery as he got on with more pressing matters in his shed or concentrated on a mere triviality such as driving his young family down the motorway in a temperamental Renault Savanna while his cargo cheered, jeered and (more likely, this was the 90s after all) groaned at the radio.
“Who’s batting?” or “Who’s winning?” Dad still asks, often at moments of extreme tension.
“England!”
“No one’s winning … you know it doesn’t work like that!”
Mum still rolls her eyes and shushes like the rest of us. She is the sporty parent, the one who showed us how to grip a bat and throw a ball. The one who also knew how to tune any radio to 198 longwave with the dancing fingers and deft touch of an enigma code cracker. As the strains of Test Match Special broke through the static there would always be a few seconds of tension while it was ascertained what exactly was going on in the Test match.
Did Jonathan Agnew sound forlorn or frustrated? Where was Simon Mann on his Eeyore scale? What exactly is Henry Blofeld waffling on about? Mum would be sat in the passenger seat fielding the interrogations from the cheap seats in the depths of the Renault.
Well-worn refrains would be something along the lines of: “Turn it up then. We can’t hear back here.”
“Is it tea? It can’t be raining, why are they … hang on – are they all out?
or
“Any wickets?”
“Nah, I think Waugh’s got his century …”
“Thorpe’s in” or “Thorpe’s still in” were words that always provided some solace in the back seats. Thorpe was a headbanded and hard-bitten nugget of hope. A zinc-lipped beacon. A “Kookaburra Bubble” stickered mast on which to cling as England found themselves taking on wave after wave of all-time great bowlers. Be it night or day, seam or spin, lost cause, dead rubber or soul stirring victory – Graham Thorpe was batting.
Against a rolling backdrop of Cornhill Insurance, npower girls, spindly gasometers, snow-capped mountains and Tetley Beer hoardings – Graham Thorpe was batting. Against Australia, West Indies, South Africa, Pakistan, Sri Lanka, the dinosaurs of Jurassic Park and the aliens of Independence Day – Graham Thorpe was batting. During Labour landslides, Knebworth singalongs, through BSE, foot and mouth and Millennium Bugs. Somehow, Graham Thorpe was batting the entirety of the decade.
I called Mum and she confirmed as much. She was sad too but I suspect also happy that her youngest lad could recall so many childhood memories so evocatively. The campsites, grandparent visits or weekend “day trips” to B&Q bookmarked by England’s plucky duels. Everything from cross-channel ferries to scarlet fever flashes seemingly soundtracked by a clip for one off Graham Thorpe’s pads or a nurdle for two off Graham Thorpe’s hip.
Then the tributes, heartfelt messages and highlights reels started to pour in from across the cricketing world, forming a collective ticker-tape of grief, remembrance and praise. Of course, it then becomes clear that our family memories, while specific to us, were far from standalone. It was the same for many other followers of the game during that golden period of Test match cricket in which Thorpe honed his craft.
Countless other lives have been similarly interwoven by Thorpe’s batting. From the talent-announcing debut hundred against Australia at Trent Bridge through to the beaming smile in the Karachi gloaming and the emotional post-personal turmoil hundred at the Oval against South Africa, the double ton in Christchurch alongside Fred, the final knock against Bangladesh and all the quiet yet crucial 21 and 36 not outs in between.
After speaking to Mum, reading the tributes and rewatching the reels I fired up that episode of Desert Island Discs with Ken Robinson to see if I had remembered his touching anecdote correctly. While spooling through I landed on a fragment from somewhere else in the episode. It was Robinson, who himself died from cancer in 2020 aged 70, urging listeners to make the most of their time on Earth. “It amazes me how many people while away their time as if this [life] is for eternity, it’s actually rather short.”
I suspect Graham Thorpe never really knew the memories he created for others during his all too short a life. Those memories are now all that is left. Somehow, they are enough.
This is an extract from the Guardian’s weekly cricket email, The Spin. To subscribe, just visit this page and follow the instructions.
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