How cricket helped Yardy deal with his depression

‘It’s something that’s always there. I’ll never be 100 per cent. But the periods of it being around are less. It still happens, just not for as long.’ — Mike Yardy

SIX years after his early departure from England’s World Cup campaign on the subcontinent, where, as he recalls in his poignant autobiography, he was ‘standing in front of the mirror in my hotel room wishing I could pull my own face off and be someone else’, Mike Yardy has a less anguished take on life.

The former England allrounder, whose obsessive compulsive disorder grew so bad he once convinced himself he had killed someone on a night out, is grateful for what he calls cricket’s ‘understanding’. He is the batting coach at Sussex these days, his old club. And the fact that he remains in the bosom of his sporting family says much for cricket’s progress in dealing with mental health. Yardy has been embraced, when once he might have been shunned.

Crucially, he is not alone. When Marcus Trescothick opened up about his own demons in 2008, it was as if a switch had been flicked. Suddenly, it was OK to not be OK. Andrew Flintoff, Monty Panesar and Jonathan Trott followed suit, as did many others. In Mental Health Awareness Week, few sports can claim to be as aware as cricket.

Whether it attracts a greater number of troubled souls than other sports, or has simply created an environment in which players can speak freely is a moot point.

Because for all the supposed allure of flying business class around the world and staying in fivestar hotels, many players have told another story.

Yardy is wary of blaming the loneliness of the longdistance lifestyle for his problems, saying he always had the tendency to obsess. But he concedes that cricket’s peculiar nature — an individual pursuit within a team context — can play on the mind.

‘You’re out there and people are judging you, but they don’t know what’s going on with you,’ he says. ‘It’s a great sport when things are going well but obviously you’re judged by your numbers, so it can work both ways.’

So what exactly did he mean by ‘wishing I could pull my own face off’?

He explains: ‘Part of it is about putting on an act. But it was also a frustration: why me? I got to the stage of feeling very sorry for myself. Why have I allowed this to happen? When I look back, it’s not very nice, it’s not comfortable to think about. But it does give a perspective to certain things. Some of the time it was very scary. When something’s wrong now, I think, jeez, it’s not as bad as it was. I wouldn’t want to experience that again.’

What advice would he give to a player experiencing the kind of intrusive thoughts that drove him to despair?

‘Speak to people,’ he says. ‘Be honest. And don’t fight it. It’s the worst thing you can do. I’ve spent a lot of my time trying to fight it. But it’s like running into a brick wall — you just take a longer run-up and hit it even harder.

‘You have to think of ways to go round the wall. There’s a bit of pride involved — you think you’re going to beat this. It’s what sports people want to do. But you can’t force things. I’ve learned that subtlety can be the best way.’

To its credit, cricket has spent the past decade and more learning something similar.