How acid-tongued Willis became a national treasure
He accused Keaton Jennings of being a “robotic stick insect”, Jonny Bairstow of “flapping away like a performing seal”, and Graeme Swann of “creeping into the lifeboat on the Titanic with the women and children”.
Bob Willis, who died in December, could scorch a microphone with his mordant wit. And yet, once the broadcasting light switched off, he was the kindest and
Sadly missed: Bob Willis, former England fast bowler and captain, proved to be a laconic entertainer behind the microphone most charming of men – which viewers instinctively understood. When the tribute volume,
was published a week ago, the initial print run of 15,000 copies sold out in three days.
The first half of
is a detailed biography by Mike Dickson – the sports reporter who was part of Willis’s close circle of friends. The second half includes essays from the likes of Michael Parkinson, Tim Rice and John Major. The book is both enjoyable and eye-opening: a must for anyone old enough to have witnessed “Goose” and his high-stepping, stiff-armed dash to the wicket. Closing the final page, you feel that you know Willis well enough to start a conversation with his ghostly presence. You also understand how, in an understated way, he became a national treasure.
It was Willis’s many contradictions that made him so fascinating. He had a distinctive voice (“laconic and monotone … someone called me Mr Mogadon”), which he used to deliver tablet-ofstone verdicts like some cricketing Moses. Yet he was anything but humourless. A great entertainer, his party trick after a few drinks at his Thames-side flat was to whack on – a novelty single recorded around one of his Ashes missions – and play air guitar.
Or consider Willis’s countercultural streak. He wore his hair long, and listened to Bob Dylan so obsessively he failed his O-levels. Yet once he became a cricketer of stature, he repeatedly sided with the establishment. He did not just turn down Kerry Packer’s World Series breakaway, but also backed bans for the rebels, even though it meant alienating mates such as Tony Greig and Dennis Amiss.
There was a lot going on, then, behind the hollow-eyed stare that Willis used to wear while bowling. His was a deep and complex character – as well as a highly entertaining one. And if he delivered strong results as England captain (seven Test wins, six defeats and five draws – a tally beaten only by Mike Brearley in that pre-modern era), it is probably because he made people want to play for him. What Willis was not so good at, though, was reading the riot act to those who misbehaved. His own professionalism – which manifested itself in endless dawn laps of Edgbaston – was so deeprooted that he struggled to understand less dutiful players. Dilettantes scrambled his brain.
This cultural disconnect proved to be a deal-breaker when Willis briefly worked as a tour manager. The year after his retirement in 1984, he took charge of an under-19 trip to the West Indies, where he came up against a young Phil Tufnell – the Bradman of hedonism. The experience was so disconcerting that he plumped for broadcasting there and then. Such tales make
a delight to read. We learn of Bill O’reilly’s early description of the great man – “a two-iron with ears” – as well as his own compulsion to hand out nicknames in all directions. To Willis, his mother and father were not Anne and Ted, but Grummidge and Tannoy, for reasons too obscure to enumerate here.
One small complaint is that the editor – Bob’s brother David – has found no room for my favourite description of a bowling style. It was penned by the immortal Frank Keating, and it compared Willis to “a 1914 biplane tied up with elastic bands trying vainly to take off ”.
A truly great line. You can imagine Willis reading it, and bursting into his characteristic cackle. Surely no one has ever combined heat-seeking bouncers with such an infectious laugh.
He wore his hair long, and listened to Bob Dylan so much he failed his O-levels