Last laugh to Guptill, just like my old man

My father was an extremely hirsute man. His body hair had something of a gingerish hue as well.

In fact, often when he was toiling in his expansive vege patch, in the right light, with the sweat of his efforts matting the thick thatch on his back into a sodden weave, he could easily be mistaken for a visiting orang-utan foraging for root vegetables.

In his final failing years, he confessed to me one afternoon that as a child he’d been mercilessly teased by schoolyard bullies about having what his mother had always described as “gorgeous auburn curls”.

As if being raised through the depression years wasn’t tough enough, poor dad was made to feel a lesser individual because he was deemed by unkind contemporaries to be unforgivably ginger.

To his lasting credit, however, he capitalised on the experience to drive himself to become an accomplished jazz musician, home brewer and broad bean grower.

He also had the last laugh on his childhood tormentors, telling me with a wistful tweak of his massive orange moustache that the two bullies in chief ultimately received some proper payback — from Field Marshal Rommel at El Alamein in 1942.

As much as anything, I think that’s why I’ve always had a soft spot for Martin Guptill.

I first laid eyes on a reedy 14-yearold Guppy in the early 2000s in a school match at Avondale College. It was blatantly obvious at that point he was an extraordinary talent.

But what impressed me most about the lad wasn’t his feverish enthusiasm for the game, or the obvious skills he exhibited even at that young age.

What struck me was his modest manner and the encouragement he gave to his teammates. He also displayed a maturity beyond his years, evident in his willingness to accept the disappointments the game often provides.

I include this last quality because, as luck would have it, I was umpiring when Martin took strike for the first ball of Avondale’s innings.

After the match, which my team won in a tight finish, I had a quiet word with him. I commiserated with him on getting a golden duck and apologised for perhaps rushing to judgment with the lbw decision.

In hindsight, I said, I now realised it had been missing leg by a foot or so. He politely agreed, adding that he’d also got a fairly thickish edge on it — which would explain why it had flown through square leg for four.

But it was the gracious manner with which he accepted my administrative faux pas that for me earmarked him as one who had not just the talent but the perspective to cope with the slings and arrows cricket can torture its players with.

Guppy has had to struggle upstream on a number of occasions.

I was present at Headingley a couple of years back when he was all at sea to Graeme Swann’s high quality off spin, subsequently losing his place in the side. He grafted his way back in, only to find himself the subject of scepticism regarding his technique and strike rate.

Perhaps after the weekend’s mindblowing innings against the Windies, the doubters will be packed off to El Alamein.