Some characters provide most of their team’s character. Think of Ben “pain’s only an emotion” Stokes. Despite confusing two separate things, the Stokes quotation shows oodles of character. Think of Allan Border and Steve Waugh, the quintessential Aussie battlers. Think of Graeme Smith’s “fix-bayonets” generalship. Not everyone’s cup of tea, Smith was a larger-than-life character.
Think of a character like Freddie Flintoff whose character changed – the softening of character – as he grew into his role as comforter to Brett Lee. Freddie’s character has changed even more post-cricket. That’s character development, right there. We could even say – we have to be careful, and don’t want to offend – that Freddie’s on TV so often he’s a cartoon character.
Occasionally we’re confronted with the characterless character: Jacques Kallis. Here are individuals who give their team character by having nothing to add to it – that’s in terms of character, rather than say, Test centuries, of which Kallis has scored a stupendous 45.
I can’t remember how it happened, but when I first started reading about David Steele, I immediately suspected a hint of character. You’d need to have character, wouldn’t you, if you came from Northamptonshire? You’d need a bit of character, too, to make your Test debut at Lord’s against Dennis Lillee, Jeff Thomson and Max Walker, a Walker, I might add, who bowled with two short-legs.
I was only a boy, I guess I must have been about 10 when I stumbled upon Steele, but I remember thinking to myself, “This lad, although he wears glasses, has something, doesn’t he? He’s worth watching. Over the course of time, he might go on to really big things.”
Steele nearly didn’t go on to really big things at Lord’s in his debut. He went down one flight of stairs too many and found himself in the loos. Realising his mistake, he trudged back up and quickly made his way to the middle. He took a full four minutes to do so. That’s half a Joel Garner over right there.
Umpires were more lenient back in 1975, time not being what it is today. I imagine umpires Bill Alley and Tom Spencer might have chuckled at the nerves of the debutant, while, in the background, Dennis was undoing another shirt button. They helped Steele with his guard as the man from Northants began to cop filth from the slips (of which there were quite a few). He was off the mark with a hook off Lillee down to fine leg for four, a nice way to start.
Beneath his bright new England cap, Steele wore spectacles. As was the contemporary fashion, his shirt-sleeves were rolled up to the elbow. At 33 his hair was already silver. It was well-trimmed. Everything about him suggested the neatness of a tray of ripe avocadoes (forgive me, I’m South African, I can’t help it). And the inescapable conclusion: Steele’s a pretty neat character.
Barry Wood had already come and gone when Steele came in. Shortly afterwards he lost John Edrich and Dennis Amiss (both leg-before to the snarling Lillee) before also losing a young Graham Gooch, his handlebar moustache and hang-dog expression leading to unavoidable suspicions of dour character. England 49 for four.
With Gooch gone, Steele was joined by Tony Greig in his first Test as captain. Greig was England’s gangly South African skipper. The result? A composite character.
Compare Greig to Steele, English down to his sober back-lift and Duncan Fearnley bat. Greig was the extrovert, telling jokes in the middle of the room, while Steele was nursing something soft in the corner. Greig was all out-sized: his shirt collar turned up, his boxing-glove St Peters mitts, his scything Gray Nicolls bat. Steele’s only concession to anything even remotely flash was his two wristbands. They were pristine white, functional but present. Understatement. That’s a demonstration of character. English character.
The 1970s and early 1980s were a time of technical and equipment experimentation: crash helmets, aluminium bats, the Gray Nicolls scoop, the St Peters range generally. There were no fripperies or unnecessary fashion statements to Steele’s equipment. Here was the consummate professional. Wearing whites meant wearing white.
Steele might have got lost getting to the middle but he wasn’t lost once he got there. He middled quite a few. He was a good puller, taking on Lillee, driving well. It was Greig’s influence that had him in the side and he didn’t want to disappoint the composite character at the non-striker’s end.
The two put on 96 for the fifth wicket on a good pitch, one that Steele found to his liking. After going to 50 the English character played on to Thommo, with nine fours. He scored 45 in the second innings. He was up and away. I read in the pages of Tiger and Scorcher over the coming months that Steele had been named the BBC’s Sports Personality of the Year.
The following year, the West Indians visited England. I remember their team photograph, the team resplendent in their maroon blazers. And the names, everyone had at least three: Raphick Rasif Jumadeen, Vanburn Alonzo Holder, Thaddeus Michael Findlay, the reserve wicket-keeper. No-one referred to them by their full names, of course, but I couldn’t help myself. I looked at a name like Raphick Jumadeen and I was wide-eyed with wonder. You didn’t get Raphick Jumadeens in my suburb. You got Brian-somebody. And there were Daves. Too many Daves.
Steele was ready for Raphick Rasif Jumadeen, the slow left-armer from Trinidad and Tobago. He was also ready for Andy, Bernard and Wayne. It was a very bad series for the composite character, less so for Steele, who played in all five Tests after his three against the Aussies the previous year. With 308 runs, Steele was England’s highest aggregate scorer. His finest moment – the one that really built his reputation and therefore his character – was at Trent Bridge in early June, where he scored 106, his one and only Test century.
The Steele of 1976 was slightly different to the Steele of 1975. In ’76 he had taped up the blade of his bat handle, for one. He was wearing a pullover, for two. He was also a little bit more emotional. After going to his century courtesy of a pull off a Roberts no-ball, he allowed himself a fist pump with his right hand. It was a subtle thing, so subtle that it almost wasn’t there. You have to watch carefully, otherwise you might miss it. The restrained celebration. That’s character.
Whether Greig lost the ability to argue for Steele or whether Steele lost the ability to argue for himself, I’m not quite sure. By the time of the first home Test of the 1977 Ashes, Greig had lost the captaincy to Mike Brearley (Brearley = brains + character = cerebral character).
Greig was still in the side, but Steele was not. The coming players were Derek Randall, Geoff Miller and Graham Barlow. Bob Woolmer, who had made his debut with Steele against the Aussies in 1975, was coming into his own as a smooth all-round operator.
Steele wasn’t alone. Wood was jettisoned. So, too, was Edrich. John Snow made way – more or less – for Bob Willis. The first Test in 1977 under Brearley was drawn, but England won the second at Old Trafford by nine wickets.
There’s nothing like a Test victory to put distance between the present and the immediate past. Steele had served his function. He was yesterday’s man. Truth be told, he’d always looked a little like yesterday’s man and this was his charm. But he refused to believe in yesterday and liked to believe in tomorrow. And because he refused to believe it, so did we. I suppose you could call it character.
