GRAHAM the autobiography

THORPE

RISING FROM THE ASHES

Graham Thorpe

with Simon Wilde

To my children Henry, Amelia, Kitty and Emma

Contents

Cover

Title Page

ONE: Incredible Journey

TWO: Sleepwalking

THREE: Clinging to the Cliff-Face

FOUR: I Don’t Like Cricket, I Hate It

FIVE: House of Cards

SIX: Learning From Lara

SEVEN: Pulling Out of Australia

EIGHT: No 1 Rebel

NINE: One-Night Stand

TEN: Salvation

ELEVEN: Clearance

TWELVE: England Again

THIRTEEN: Resurrection

FOURTEEN: Boxing Days

FIFTEEN: Payback in the Caribbean

SIXTEEN: The Magnificent Seven

SEVENTEEN: Fathers 4 Justice

EIGHTEEN: Grit and Glory

NINETEEN: Ashes … to Ashes

TWENTY: Sydney, March 2006

Index

Photographic Acknowledgements

Graham Thorpe’s Career in Figures

Copyright

About the Publisher

ONE Incredible Journey

I DON’T THINK I’m a typical professional sportsman. I wear my heart on my sleeve more than most. I’m emotional and sensitive, though sport has taught me when to be tough, but my life has not been all about cricket. In my heart I often put family first, and I am not sure that’s usual in sport.

Being harsh on myself, I’d say I was selfish in my early career. There were times when I got wrapped up in my own game. In fact I saw a certain amount of that selfishness in some of the early teams I played in at Surrey in the 1990s and, when I started with England against Australia in 1993, the need to make sure you were a success was intensified because many of us lived under the cloud of ‘two bad Tests and you’re out’. That also created an unhealthy environment, and not everyone wanted to play for England then. It could be an unpleasant, intimidating experience. And not everyone in the team was always happy for you when you did well.

The whole ethos of the junior cricket and football I played, and the one taught me by my father, was that the beer tasted sour in the evening if you’d lost, however well you’d done yourself. But I stuck to the belief that if I was going to go down, it would be on my terms. I wasn’t going to be fearful of failure, or be seduced into trying to be stylish for the sake of it, or intimidated into playing a cautious game. I never thought of myself as having a lot of talent. I learned how to survive at the crease, then to score runs.

I was very lucky in my cricket. With both county and country I survived to enjoy happier times when there was a lot of collective success, and the winning became more important than personal achievement. That is a rare state to achieve. In my final 18 months with the England team, it was a privilege to be part of such a successful, stable and selfless side. The cynicism had gone. Now everyone shared in everybody else’s success. It was a much happier dressing-room.

WHEN I WAS YOUNGER, I was proud of playing cricket for England but found myself operating like a bank, churning out money for my family against the day I finished. I was desperate to do well, but didn’t enjoy it as much as I should have done. I didn’t give very much as a person in those days. I was shy and uncommunicative. Ultimately it didn’t create happiness, and there came a time when I would have given back all my Test runs and Test caps to be happy again.

I don’t think I’m a difficult person but I’ll stand up and say what I think. Some people mistook my inability to wear the right kit as subversion, whereas it was mere disorganization, but I really was quite antiestablishment in my younger days. I was a kid, and kids inevitably mess up, and to make matters worse I didn’t always see managers actually doing what they were supposed to do — manage. You’d be amazed how many people in authority didn’t really understand those under them. For my part, as I grew up, I learned it was better to face up to things than grumble about them.

Naturally, I’d dreamed of finishing my England career with an Ashes Test on my home ground of the Oval — who wouldn’t? — but, as I well know, life doesn’t always work out the way you’d like. I had no hard feelings about being dropped for the start of the 2005 series. The better England had got, the harder selection had become, and I appreciated that they were striving to improve in any way they could.

Having sunk to a place from which I thought I would never pick myself up — after my depression and traumatic divorce and the drinking — I’m more careful now. When you’ve been hit by a juggernaut, you tend to look left and right. But I’m still basically a trusting person. If you can’t come to terms with what’s happened to you, you can never be happy.

When I look back to how things were a few years ago — after I’d tried to retire from the game and was cracking up, refusing to go out, getting paranoiac, desperately missing my children, battered by journalists and bills from the divorce lawyers, shocked by my wife’s lies in the Sunday papers — it seems incredible that things turned round the way they did, both in my personal life and in cricket, in such a short space of time. I expected nothing, but found redemption twice over. I’ve made mistakes in my life, but came to realize that that doesn’t necessarily make you a bad person. What has happened to me in the last few years has changed me. I’m more appreciative of life now and try to enjoy every day. I guess I’ve mellowed a bit. Having gone through some very bad times, I feel I’ve come through a better person.

TWO Sleepwalking

I FIRST gave up cricket three years ago. I remember it was July 2002 after the Lord’s Test against India, but that’s practically where my sure grasp of the facts stops. I was in a zombie state at the time, and my mind is blank about many things in that terrible period. Perhaps I couldn’t fully acknowledge it then, but I was going through a mental breakdown.

England played very well in that match, but when I think about that Test it feels as though we lost. The only fragments of memory I can dredge up about the rest of the guys are that it was Simon Jones’ first Test, Nasser Hussain got a hundred, and we won quite comfortably on the last day after India were left chasing a big score. When I think of what I did, I see myself as another person, someone I am watching on TV — not me, Graham Thorpe. It wasn’t me playing in that match, it was someone else. I was in another place altogether and it wasn’t nice, believe me. My state of mind all through that game was just down, down, down. I had become so depressed I was incapable of making a decision about anything. I was walking around in a heavy black fog. I think I’d reached rock bottom.

To say I was going through a messy divorce is an understatement. I had separated from my wife Nicky the previous year, but for months had kidded myself that we would eventually get back together. I suppose I had been in denial about the possibility that it might be permanent. It had been easy to persuade myself that things were not really as bad as they were because I’d carried on playing cricket. I’d spent much of the previous winter of 2001–02 touring Zimbabwe, India and New Zealand, so in that sense life had been pretty normal. I had told myself I was just spending time apart from Nicky and our two children, Henry and Amelia (who were then five and three), whom she’d taken with her, because that’s what I spent a lot of my life — too much of my life — doing. Being apart from them, playing cricket.

When I had been prepared to really think about the situation I was in, I often ended up convinced that Nicky would take me back, and that we’d end up together. Quite what evidence there was for such optimism I’m not sure because divorce proceedings were underway. But I clung to the hope like a life raft, which in a way it was.

During that harrowing week at Lord’s, supposedly the best place in the world to play cricket, the reality of my shattered world was finally sinking in. In the four months since I’d come back from New Zealand I had been living alone in the family home, without Nicky and without the children, and I could not delude myself any longer.

For a long time I had viewed my life as virtually perfect: a wife and young family I loved, a comfortable five-bedroom home near Epsom in Surrey, and a successful career. Top England players had started to be paid well. Then, the regulars could earn over £200,000 a year, and nowadays that figure has risen to more than £400,000. I was admired as one of England’s best batsmen of recent years, someone who, ironically now, was considered cool in a crisis. What more could I have wanted? But I began to fear that everything — my house, my family, my career — was collapsing all around me. Everything was out of control and there was no way back. I was staring into an abyss, scared. I couldn’t see a way out, ever. I couldn’t even see beyond the next few hours or minutes. Throughout that week, I was seized by one long series of panic attacks.

As it happened, I’d not played for about a fortnight before that Test against India and had spent a lot of time at home in the lead-up to the game. I might have played in Surrey’s championship match at Canterbury but they’d not needed me. They had a strong squad — they were leading the table and had been for most of the season — and trying to fit in the contracted England players on the few occasions we were available wasn’t easy. I had come to dread the time at home because it meant time alone and time on my hands; time to think about all that had gone wrong. I’d pretty much abandoned training by this stage. I was drinking and smoking every day and had been for several months; that was far more my idea of the way to get through a day. Not the ideal preparation for a Test match.

I found it hard to cope, and about a week before the match finally got up the courage to visit my doctor and ask for help. It wasn’t an easy thing to do but I was getting desperate. I’d actually been thinking about it for months. My parents, who knew I was in a pretty bad state, had suggested I go for counselling but I didn’t see the point. My attitude was that there was only one person who could help sort out my situation, and that was Nicky.

I’d never met the doctor before but I think he knew who I was, which only added to my embarrassment. My problems had been splashed all over the newspapers during the last few months, and made my situation even harder to bear. I explained everything and every symptom, that I was waking at 3 am most mornings, my mind buzzing. I was unable to get back to sleep. I was down about everything. Depressed.

He listened to what I had to say and said, ‘Look, I think you’re clinically depressed. Maybe it wouldn’t be a bad idea to try to stabilize.’ So he put me on anti-depressants. My parents were against them and warned me not to get hooked. I’d tried other things to get me through the solitary nights, and thought anti-depressants couldn’t make me feel any worse. But they didn’t make me feel better straightaway. I know I probably should have continued to take them for a bit longer, that they might have helped, but I was scared off them by what happened next. When you start taking them you hallucinate. And I was taking them during the Lord’s Test against India.

I wasn’t thinking rationally. I was trying to get through each day as best I could. I was gambling with my future — though, frankly, the future was the last thing on my mind.

Sportsmen, especially, need to respect their bodies, and unsurprisingly I eventually felt the toll of filling my system with alcohol. Had anyone been able to observe me at really close quarters during this period, they would not have been impressed with me. I wasn’t impressed with myself. What I did was not good for me, except that it helped me escape my situation. I was depressed and desperate.

I kept playing cricket because I felt it would help me keep a grip on things. What else was I supposed to do? But I could feel this grip on things becoming more tenuous by the day. I didn’t know how long I could keep going, pretending I was okay. And at Lord’s, it all started to unravel.

All of a sudden, I felt extremely vulnerable. I became acutely aware that I was on a big stage and, for the first time in my life, I didn’t want to be there. I wasn’t just terrified that my marriage might be over, but that I was the last person to have worked this out. I was overwhelmed by public humiliation. I looked round the dressing-room and saw other people who were really quite enjoying themselves. I tried hard to enjoy it for them, almost forcing myself to be up for the game, but it was hopeless. ‘Could someone please, please, help me. I can’t do it any more. I just want to go away and hide forever.’

THAT GAME was the slowest torture. I reckon barely a minute went by without me thinking about my children. I tried to fight against it, but even catching a glimpse of children in the crowd was enough to trigger me off. I should never have played. I went through those five days with tears near to the surface with almost everything I did. I was constantly seconds away from breaking down. You can’t just walk off the field when you’re playing for your club or county, let alone England, but that’s what I wanted to do. Hide. But I knew I had to carry on. I knew how vulnerable I was but I also knew that tens of thousands of people, at the ground and on TV, were watching me. Sometimes you just have to put on a face, even though you’re feeling awful and your self-esteem is on the floor. Inside I was looking at my life and thinking, ‘I can’t go on any more.’

I remember a night or so before the game going with Dominic Cork and John Crawley to a pub around the corner from where we were staying in Swiss Cottage. Corky had been through divorce himself, and told me it was a process you eventually came out of. When you’re the one forced out, you fight against it. What I mainly remember about that evening is me yakking on, going on and on about my divorce. The children, the emotional cost and the friction, the money … you start to hate yourself, going on like a broken record, constantly explaining why, why, why.

On top of that I was nearly late for the start of the match. On the first morning, I had to deal with a phone call from my solicitor. He was trying to get a financial settlement with Nicky, as well as trying to work out contact arrangements for the children. The solicitors on both sides were in full flow — the parasites! I was getting letters from them every week and the bill was getting out of control. All of a sudden I was looking at my watch and thinking, ‘Shit. It’s 9.30am. I’m supposed to be out on the ground and here I am, in the car park, on the phone.’ I was still in occasional contact with Nicky and found myself ringing her. ‘Can’t we try and work this out between us? Have you seen the size of the bills?’

I dashed through the Long Room — late, late! — and sprinted onto the ground. All the boys were looking at me. They were already involved in their warm-ups. I was like, ‘Sorry, sorry, sorry … Sorry!’ I got on with my warm-up, finished, batted for five minutes in the nets. I went into the dressing-room thinking, ‘Yeah, we’re batting. I’m into this … I’ve got to be.’ I tried to settle myself down and focus but I was struggling. Really struggling.

As I prepared for my innings that day — if ‘prepared’ is the right word — my attitude was pretty much, ‘Get out there and try your best. Things haven’t been great this morning but maybe you can drag it back. You might get a few quick runs and all of a sudden start enjoying it and carry on from there.’ It was how my mind worked at that time. There was no proper plan, no preparation. It was all a wing and a prayer.

One of the special things about Lord’s Tests, of course, is the social side. Spectators take picnic hampers, and you always know when the lunch interval is approaching because the stands start emptying as people slip off for lunch. And many aren’t in too much of a rush to get back promptly for the re-start.

Well, there must have been a few who missed my innings. I was down to bat at No 4 and not 5, where I’d been batting the previous few months, because Marcus Trescothick had been ruled out with an injury and we’d rejigged the batting order. As it happened, the second wicket fell only minutes before lunch, leaving me to negotiate a tricky little period. No time to get myself in, but plenty of time to get out. Fortunately, Anil Kumble served up a full toss first ball which even I couldn’t fail to put away to the boundary. But he beat me the following ball and, in the next over, the last before the interval, Zaheer Khan went past my bat too.

Zaheer is a lively and intelligent left-arm swing bowler, and I wasn’t surprised to see him preparing to continue when Nasser and I walked out for the afternoon session. Nasser played out the first over to put me back on strike at the Nursery End against Zaheer. Because of the slope running across the square, batting at Lord’s is all about getting used to two totally different ends. As a left-hander, I don’t mind the Pavilion End and can get into better positions there, but I have to fight not to fall over and lose my sideways position at the Nursery End, where the movement of the ball angled across you is accentuated by the drop.

Zaheer was right on target, bowling me a really good sequence of balls. He probably should have saved it for someone else, but then he didn’t know he wasn’t bowling to Graham Thorpe but his shadow. He beat me once, angled a couple into me that I had to play, before giving me one that pitched middle and leg and left me. I didn’t spot the movement, didn’t move my feet, and played down the wrong line. Then came the clatter of stumps.

I walked back to the dressing-room, unstrapped my pads and slumped into the big chair on the left of the window, opposite Freddie Flintoff, and threw down my kit. I had chosen that chair in the hope that it would bring me a change of luck. This was my tenth Test match at Lord’s, but I’d never scored a century, never got my name up on the honours board, and I’d been in the habit of moving seats in the hope it would alter my fortune. Maybe the missing hundred had something to do with the slope, but I think it was just one of those things. In the past, I’d revelled in the atmosphere and crowds at Lord’s, and certainly not everything there was against batting. The outfield was usually fast, so the ball raced away, and though I’d once been whacked over the temple by a ball from Courtney Walsh that I’d lost in the trees above the sightscreen at the Nursery End, having to spend a night in hospital, I’d returned to score 40. The last time I’d played India there, in 1996, I was confident of making a century until I got an inside edge off Javagal Srinath on 89. And now, surprise, surprise, despite the switching of chairs, my luck was still out.

I’d been smoking pretty steadily for some months by then, so I took my packet of cigarettes out of my bag and smoked two or three straight off. Mark Butcher said later that he remembered me for much of that match just sitting there in that chair, every lunch break, every tea break. All I remember thinking was, ‘Do I have to get back out there?’ Those sessions seemed like the longest and slowest I’d known.

The end of each day’s play came as huge relief, except that the relief quickly gave way to anxiety. In the back of my mind I’d be calculating that I’d got five or six hours of being awake — awake and totally miserable, before, if lucky, getting off to sleep. And sleep was hard to get. The anti-depressants hadn’t improved things, and I reckon I probably got only three or four hours of sleep a night during that match. I’d get up at 3am, feeling down, and light another cigarette. And I kept thinking, ‘I don’t want to be doing this. I can’t keep fucking doing this. This is killing me.’

I just couldn’t find any strength. I wished there was a magic switch I could flick to wipe away my entire memory-bank so I could just get back to living a normal life. But there wasn’t. If I was lucky I might drift off to sleep again for 30 minutes or an hour. Then I’d be up again thinking, ‘Now I’ve got to go out and play again.’

If batting was bad, fielding was worse, and there was a good reason for that. Not only had my wife left me, she’d left me for someone who was also in the public eye. He was Kieron Vorster, who was Tim Henman’s fitness trainer at the time. Naturally this made the whole affair that much juicier to the papers, and there’d be no shortage of wags in the crowd with a few beers inside them ready to crack tennis jokes when I retrieved the ball from the boundary. Sure enough, the wisecracks started when we fielded, but I wasn’t strong enough to take them. ‘Bitch …’ [that was often my first reaction] ‘… for doing this to me.’

There were many times when I just wanted to walk off. I’d go onto the field, look up at the clock and think, ‘A two-hour session. Two hours.’ Then I’d look again. One hour, 50 minutes. I just wanted the next break now, to get off. I think I stood at first slip next to Alec Stewart quite a lot of the time and prattled on about things off the field, as you do. I’d played more cricket with Stewie than perhaps anybody. He’d been on the Surrey staff when I’d joined 14 years earlier, and we’d changed next to each other in the dressing-room for most of that time. We were chalk and cheese in some respects. He was good at concealing his emotions and if something had been going wrong for him off the field, as with me now, you’d probably not have noticed. He would have been his usual professional self.

I remember finding it really difficult to encourage the bowlers; I probably did it occasionally because I felt I had to. In fact I hardly touched the ball, but I did have a chance early on to catch Sachin Tendulkar which I put down. Brilliant. ‘I’ve only gone and put down the world’s leading batsman. I don’t think I can do this again. I can’t play for England again.’ Some of the lads knew something was badly wrong, but no-one said anything.

On the second night of the game I reckon I got off to sleep about midnight, maybe lam, and was up again by about 3 or 4am, having woken sweating like a proverbial pig. I often did around then. The drinking was making me a bag of nerves. Maybe three or four beers or a bottle of wine and I’d wake up in the night, sober, in a cold sweat, my mind jumping. And I wasn’t looking forward to the cricket at all. I told myself to try and find something positive to latch onto but there was nothing, just that clock ticking round, the lunch and tea breaks and the moment I could get off the pitch. I must have been tired by then. Really, really tired.

On the third day, the Saturday, a solicitor and barrister came to see me. It was a completely surreal experience. Here I was playing a Test match for England at the greatest venue in the world, being interrogated in a lunch break about my finances. It was perhaps an indication of my state of mind at the time. I should never have let it happen, and it showed how easily manipulated I was at that time. I was so racked with guilt over my marriage break-up that I was always trying to accommodate people, and show what a decent bloke I could be.

We went through my whole financial situation, how much a settlement was likely to cost, how much Nicky was likely to get, and in the back of my mind I’m thinking, ‘You’re discussing my future earnings, discussing my next year’s salary and what maintenance I’m going to pay, and I’m not even sure I’ll be earning a penny then’ I had an England contract but they were renewed — or not — each September, and I wasn’t certain I was going to be in England’s thinking in one week’s time, let alone two months.

After tea, I batted again. We were already well ahead and preparing to set India a big target. We were 60-odd for two when I joined Michael Vaughan, who was already playing well and on course for a century — he was then in the early stages of a golden run that lasted for the next 12 months. It was after tea, and there was still a while to go until stumps. Even if I’d been in a great state of mind it was the kind of situation I’d have found awkward. I was rarely great when the match didn’t demand much of me. I preferred it when we had our backs to the wall — but now that only applied to my private life.

I remember walking out to bat and looking around the field, supposedly to take in where the fielders were positioned, but knowing full well that I wasn’t going to do a thing. I had absolutely zero game-plan. A couple of balls came down from Kumble and I just swung my arms, feet planted at the crease. Somehow, in the next over from Ajit Agarkar, I squirted one out on the leg side for a single. That got me back down to Kumble’s end. I remember registering that he’d decided to go round the wicket to bowl into the rough, but I thought, ‘I don’t really care.’ I blocked one, then left one, before having another wild swing. The ball leapt out of the rough, hit high on the bat and my drive went uppish to a fielder in the covers.

My over-riding feeling as I trudged off was huge sadness that I could have played in such a state of mind, but there was anger too, anger that Nicky, I suspected, would have been happy to see me go through this torment. She had spoken of getting her revenge — and if that’s what she wanted it must have been sweet. I kind of made up my mind there and then to pack it in, walking off the field and trudging through the Long Room to an embarrassed silence.

It would have been almost completely silent in the dressing-room, too. It’s usual for someone to say, ‘Bad luck, mate’, but that was one thing I always hated because often it wasn’t bad luck and, even if it was, I didn’t want to hear it. So I’m pretty sure it was quiet. I felt a sense of relief as I sank back into my chair thinking, ‘This is definitely the last time. I can’t go through that again.’

WE WON the Test with quite a bit to spare, late on the final day. I remember taking the winning catch: I have this picture in my head of holding the catch off Simon Jones low down at gully, throwing it up and seeing the boys running together. I simply turned and walked off.

Nasser knew one of his players hadn’t really been at the races. I’d spoken to him during the game, out the back of the dressing-room where there’s a TV, and told him I didn’t think I could do this much longer. That was shortly after I’d had that session with the barrister. Like Duncan Fletcher, the coach, Nasser knew very well I’d been having severe marital problems for several months.

I told him I couldn’t get my mind into any decent place to play cricket. Playing for England, you’re meant to have your whole heart and mind in it. I said that I didn’t feel I was giving him anything, wasn’t giving the team anything and that, to be honest, he’d have to get rid of me in a game or so anyway if I carried on the way I was. It really was best if I went away and tried to sort myself out. He reminded me that two games ago I’d got a hundred. ‘Yeah, and do you know how I managed it? Because I’m not sure I do.’

Alec Stewart and Mark Butcher, my Surrey muckers, were very good at the end of the game. They stayed around. Butch had gone through a separation of his own a couple of years earlier and said I reminded him of himself then, playing cricket but not really wanting to be there. Butch said he admired me and that I would eventually come through, stronger. I felt on a good level with Butch. We both understood that although there was a game going on out in the middle, occasionally things off the field had to take priority. They were kind words of encouragement, even if I found them hard to believe at the time.

I hadn’t really said anything to Duncan during the game, but could tell the wily old fox had been keeping an eye on me. Duncan had been England coach for three years, and I had learned that I could speak honestly with him. His public image was dour but there was a lot more to him than the public saw. He was always sensitive to how his players were getting along as people. I knew he cared about us and I trusted him. He’d had his own difficulties in life, growing up in Zimbabwe and taking the big step of leaving for South Africa in his mid-thirties with little money in his pocket and few firm plans in his head.

Soon after the finish, I called him onto the balcony. ‘Are you all right?’ he said. ‘No. I don’t think I can do this any more,’ I replied. ‘I don’t want to carry on the way I’ve been during this game. I really need to get away from cricket and have a break. I’m not giving you anything. To be honest, I’m totally fucked up at the moment.’

‘I can tell your mind’s not on the job …’ He was trying to cajole me. ‘But what are you going to do? I’m concerned about you as a human being. All right, there’s the cricket side, but I’m more concerned about you. You come away from the cricket now and what are you going to do? Sit at home and your problems are going to multiply by 10.’

‘I just can’t go on the way my mind is,’ I explained. ‘I’m not freezing out there, but I am becoming a wreck. I think I’m losing control of my mind.’

‘All right,’ he said. ‘But, you know, you’ve got to do something.’

A few minutes later, I spoke to Keith Medlycott, the coach at Surrey, and Richard Thompson, the club chairman, and asked them to support me because I had to withdraw from all cricket.

And so there I was, left to pack my bags.

As I walked through the Long Room, I looked around for one last time. ‘This is it,’ I thought. ‘I’m never going to play at Lord’s again.’ If you’d told me that I would not only play more Test matches at Lord’s, but the next time I’d help Nasser knock off the runs for victory, I simply wouldn’t have believed you.

Honestly, my over-riding feeling then was of utter relief. I didn’t know what I was going to do, but I knew I couldn’t go through another match like that again.

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