MY ‘INSANE’ DEBT TO BRUCE FRENCH IN HEADINGLEY’S SNOW
IT was a bitter, depressing March morning in 2016, the bruised cloud so low you felt it could hardly sink much lower without smothering the whole of Headingley.
It was damp and so cold that you’d have thought the hollow of winter was still with us.
In the conditions — we even got some sleety snow later on — only the slightly insane would have headed anywhere except indoors. But I knew I needed to sharpen up my wicketkeeping, which meant I also needed coach Bruce French.
The work we had to do required space and fresh air. That’s why we found ourselves in front of the Western Terrace. Frenchy and I had the run of the place — at least once I’d sweet-talked Yorkshire’s groundsman Andy Fogarty into letting us train.
Frenchy’s a hard taskmaster. There’s no mucking about. He isn’t slow or shy about letting you know when something is wrong. I needed his clear eye and straight talking.
I don’t like intensely complicated coaching. I prefer to work things out by myself. A gentle hint is all I need, otherwise it’s like finishing a crossword after someone has given me the answers.
Frenchy dragged out what looked like a bowling machine set up at floor level. The ball comes out of it at up to 55mph. He stood in front of me with a miniature bat, making it harder to guess whether the delivery would come straight through or take a snick. He’d later hurl a ball into a ridged, sloping board, which would send me diving everywhere.
There was also a session with the slip cradle. Frenchy slung balls into it and I stood at close range. He peppered me with catches that came very fast and very hard.
I’ve been through practices during which I’ve felt as though medieval torture would have been easier. Once, in India, the day was hot enough to melt metal. If I made a mistake, I had to take off all my kit — gloves, inners, pads, box — and then put them all back on again, beginning from scratch. I hated it. But nothing was more arduous than my day with Frenchy.
I got frustrated with myself. The noise came from the strangled shouts I made whenever I dropped or couldn’t get near a catch. My palms throbbed, my fingers stung. I was soaked to the skin.
When I came into the England team I was always being asked whether I ‘really’ wanted to be a wicketkeeper. It was as though no one had noticed the work I’d already put in to make myself one.
On that filthy day, the practice over at last, I walked towards our dressing room wishing that anyone who had ever put the question to me could have been there and seen every second of those three hours.