I must admit, this week’s Spin was initially set to cover another topic. It would have likely been a lengthy exploration of Zak Crawley’s hit-or-miss performance in Test match batting or a tribute to Dan Lawrence’s agile wrists, reflecting on missed chances and seizing opportunities. Perhaps that’ll be next week’s focus. The heartbreaking and shocking news of Graham Thorpe’s passing shifted my perspective, making everything else seem rather trivial, at least for now.
In 2013, Sir Ken Robinson shared an anecdote on Desert Island Discs about a Leonard Cohen song that played on the radio while he was driving near Warwick, where he served as a Professor of Arts Education. He was wrapped up in the chaos of balancing work and a young family, perpetually short on time and racing between obligations.
As Cohen’s unmistakable voice sang “night comes on,” it brought thoughts of his mother in Liverpool to Robinson’s mind; he longed to visit her but couldn’t find the time. The lyrics struck him with the sobering realization that his mother wouldn’t always be there, and one day, he could lose the opportunity. He exited the motorway before the song was over and took a 200-mile detour to have dinner with her. You can hear the emotion in his voice as he tells the story.
The moment I heard about Thorpe’s death, I felt a wave of sorrow; passing at 55 is far too young. Almost instantly, I felt compelled to call my mum.
For many of us connected to cricket, our affinity for the sport is often inherited. While some discover it on their own, cricket tends to be a family tradition passed down. My mum instilled that passion in me and my three older brothers. Dad’s interest was intermittent, often dictated by our exuberance or background events as he focused on issues in his shed or dealt with a mere distraction like navigating our unreliable Renault Savanna with his noisy crew of children.
“Who’s batting?” or “Who’s winning?” Dad still asks during high-stakes moments.
“England!
No one’s winning … you know it doesn’t work like that!
Mum shakes her head in exasperation, just like the rest of us. She was the sporty parent, the one who taught us how to hold a bat and throw a ball. She also had a knack for tuning into the longwave radio frequencies with the nimble finesse of a codebreaker. When Test Match Special broke through the interference, there would always be a brief moment of suspense as we tried to figure out what was happening in the match.
Did Jonathan Agnew sound dejected or irritated? Where did Simon Mann fall on his Eeyore scale? What topic was Henry Blofeld meandering through? Mum would sit in the passenger seat, fielding our incessant questions from the back.
Our well-worn phrases included: “Turn it up then. We can’t hear back here.”
“Is it tea time? It can’t be raining, why are they … wait – are they all out?”
or
“Any wickets?”
“Nah, I think Waugh’s got his century …”
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The news that “Thorpe’s in” or “Thorpe’s still in” offered a comforting beacon from the back seat. Thorpe, a gritty and resilient figure, was a symbol of hope. He was like a “Kookaburra Bubble” stickered mast amidst waves of legendary bowlers that England faced. Day or night, seam or spin, in lost causes, dead rubbers, or in soul-stirring victories—Graham Thorpe was there, batting.
Against a backdrop of Cornhill Insurance ads, npower girls, rickety gasometers, snow-capped mountains, and Tetley Beer billboards—Graham Thorpe was batting. Facing off against Australia, West Indies, South Africa, Pakistan, Sri Lanka, and in moments ranging from Labour landslides to Knebworth sing-alongs, through crises like BSE and foot and mouth disease, Graham Thorpe was there, persevering through the entire decade.
I called Mum, and she felt the same way. She was sad, but I think she also appreciated that her youngest could recall so many vivid memories from childhood. The camping trips, visits to grandparents, or weekend “day trips” to B&Q were often punctuated by England’s brave battles. Everything from cross-channel ferries to fleeting cases of scarlet fever seemed set against a backdrop of a clip off Graham Thorpe’s pads or a gentle nudged single off his hip.
Soon after came the flood of tributes, heartfelt messages, and highlight reels from the cricketing community, creating a collective outpouring of grief, memory, and honor. It became clear that our family’s recollections, while unique, were not isolation. Many others have shared a similar bond to the game during Thorpe’s illustrious era in Test cricket.
Numerous lives have been intertwined with Thorpe’s batting—from his debut century against Australia at Trent Bridge to the radiant smile in the twilight of Karachi, the emotionally charged hundred at The Oval after personal turmoil, the double century in Christchurch alongside Fred, his last innings against Bangladesh, and all those quiet yet impactful 21s and 36s not out in between.
After my conversation with Mum, as I processed the tributes and revisited the highlight reels, I queued up that Desert Island Discs episode featuring Ken Robinson, hoping to recall his poignant story accurately. As I listened on, I stumbled upon another part of the episode where Robinson, who succumbed to cancer in 2020 at the age of 70, urged listeners to cherish their time on Earth. “It astonishes me how many people pass their time as if this [life] is eternal; it’s actually quite short.”
I suspect Graham Thorpe was unaware of the memories he forged in the lives of others during his tragically brief time. Those memories, though all that remains, hold significant value.
This excerpt is taken from the Guardian’s weekly cricket email, The Spin. To subscribe, please visit this page and follow the instructions.
