New Zealand Cricket Legends

I became an admirer of New Zealand cricket a little more than a quarter of a century ago; on February 22, 1992 to be precise. It had been a gradual process, but having lived there for the best part of a decade, something happened that made me finally decide to adopt my new country over England, the country of my birth. I had moved halfway across the world to Wellington because of work and fallen in love with the city. What better way than to sit around dreaming up the latest big advertising campaigns in the daylight hours, only having to go down to the beach today in late afternoon? It was an opportunity I hadn't had in Manchester.And the reason for this shameless switch of allegiance was simple. The cricket World Cup had arrived - it was being co-hosted by New Zealand - and I was caught up in the excitement and national pride. And, although the New Zealand team was, on paper at least, unexciting — I'd watched them through disinterested eyes since arriving in the country in 1982 — the hype was infectious. You couldn't turn on a TV or radio without this tournament's  catchy official theme song, "Who Rules the World?"—with its demonstrably untrue claim that this was a once-in-a-lifetime chance to rule the world—stirring up anticipation. Especially when it was combined with the innovations that were about to hit the sport I loved. Some of these were genuinely thrilling. The humdrum had been about to take a life of its own as white balls, black sightscreens and day-night cricket had hit the horizon. And if all that was not enough, the teams were going to be attired in coloured uniforms. In keeping with their fairly dour image at the time, New Zealand were kitted out in a sombre grey, in marked contrast to the bright yellow sported by the swashbuckling Aussies. It was these two teams that inaugurated the tournament, playing in Auckland. There was so much unity and national pride– something that had not been seen in cricket followings for the longest of times- that was the first time that I felt and that I belonged in the country.

Everybody had an opinion on Chris Harris's unorthodoxish bowling action or Mark Greatbatch's part as a pinch hitter.

It was almost as though towns and cities ground to a virtual standstill as the umpires emerged, looking like 1970s gameshow hosts in their brown jackets and white shoes. Everyone in Eden Park cheered as the New Zealand side—that is, the Young Guns, as the media liked to call them, although six of them were over 30—burst onto the field led by a guy who was already a national hero. Martin Crowe was the hero of all in New Zealand. Restless and inventive, he was a cauldron of ideas, both on the field—he opened the bowling with the offspinner Dipak Patel, which was audacious—took cricket-bat pendant on his silver neck chain; both he and his range of casual shirts were often advertised in the same magazines, both of which he modelled himself. It all started pretty horrifically, with John Wright going first ball, but that was forgotten by the time Crowe, with typical immaculate timing, brought up his hundred from the second to last ball of the innings. Then Gavin Larsen, a bowler who intimidated no one, had taken three key Australian wickets, and when New Zealand pulled off a shock win, the pitch was invaded by "30,000 Kiwis" – according to the TVNZ commentator anyway. Thirty thousand Kiwis nah outroo, that's rightt.anyway. The next morning, the result still hadn't sunk in. Beating the Aussies? Did that really happen? The seemingly insignificant Zimbabwe versus Sri Lanka clash later that day took on such importance-the Sri Lankans were our next opponents-that the game was shown on the giant screen (a gargantuan 25", if memory serves) in the boardroom at work. It was packed for most of the day. People were sensing that we were on the verge of something special, and when we beat Sri Lanka in Hamilton with almost two overs to spare, the feeling grew. Willie Watson, who had once described being taken to the cleaners by Kris Srikkanth and Sunil Gavaskar in the previous World Cup as "like bowling in the highlights", was largely responsible. Once we took care of South Africa, the press began talking of a clean sweep, eight from eight in the qualifying round. People at work who'd had no interest in cricket had now fallen in love with it. There were no other topics of conversation. Everyone had an opinion on Chris Harris' slightly awkward bowling action or Mark Greatbatch's role as a pinch-hitter.

Cricket did occupy the hearts and minds of New Zealanders in those heady weeks of the 1992 World Cup. Cricket occupied the hearts and minds of the people of New Zealand during those heady weeks of the 1992 World Cup © Getty Images

by now, the shops were spilling over with T-shirts, mugs, cricket ball-shaped soaps, jigsaw puzzles and even Young Guns phone cards. If there was a souvenir, I bought it. Cricket World Cup t-shirts were so common it seemed almost like a defacto national uniform. And the song did sell in huge numbers. Who rules the world? There was a growing feeling that it could be New Zealand, although it was hard to tell how my colleagues were reacting to all this, as many of them called in sick whenever the team was playing. The day after the South Africa victory was the first time that the tournament had a direct effect on my life. So it was that my Sunday League captain—a man who answered to the name of Tubby—won the toss and declared that we would be "having a bowl". He then tossed me the ball. As the team's only spinner, I was to take the Dipak Patel role: opening the bowling. Depressingly, I'd never actually taken a wicket, although I reassured myself that this was no longer the objective in the limited-overs game.I muttered the words "line and length" to myself, which is what some of the Young Guns were known to do. The opener charged up the pitch in my first over, missed the ball, and handed me my first - and only, as it turned out - wicket. It was a high I had never experienced, being caught up in this wave of cricket fever. The next game, on this Tuesday evening against Zimbabwe, I'd guess the most highly rated programme on TV was the weather forecast. There is an old saying in New Zealand — that if you want rain in Napier, then schedule a cricket match. We almost rained off the game, and so would have been sharing the points, spoiling our 100% record. It was certainly nervy as the covers went off and on with run-rate calculations coming into effect. But all that worrying was for nothing. New Zealand won their fourth in a row, comfortably, and the country went berserk off to bed.

It was the sixth ball of the over landing exactly in the same spot as the previous five that caused the pulse to race—the thrill, if you will. Nothing outside the ring mattered. The office cricket team used a 3" metal ruler, a squished-up ball of paper wrapped in Sellotape, and a wastepaper basket. Scores in excess of 1200 were not unusual. And the World Cup was starting to take on an unreal quality. West Indies were beaten next, followed by India. By now, the formula was well established. The dibbly-dobbly bowlers, relying on line and length, restricted the opposition to around 200. The thrill of seeing the sixth ball of an over land in exactly the same spot as the previous five got the pulse racing. Dull and predictable had become the new exciting.

The next game, against England at the Basin Reserve, looked like being one of the toughest tests yet. And I would be there to witness it. Confusingly, I'd bought the ticket when I was still an England fan. I sat in a packed Vance Stand, clutching my souvenir programme. There was real excitement and the huge ovation that the team received as they came out brought a tear to the eye. And they didn't let their country down. The bowlers, led by Patel, limited the English to 200, and Andrew Jones and Crowe got us home with time to spare. The New Zealand flags, and banners with slogans like "Great catch Greatbatch", were waving long after the players had left the field and the Barmy Army had left the ground.

I don't blush to say, that, even though I was in my mid-30s, I found it hard to sleep on the night of the final pool match, against Pakistan, with the tantalising chance of a clean sweep - beating all seven teams. The general feeling was that Pakistan would be taking it easy, as they had already qualified.

Chris Harris' century in the 1996 quarter-final wasn't enough to help New Zealand advance to the semisChris Harris' century in the 1996 quarter-final wasn't enough to help New Zealand advance to the semis © Getty Images

But they didn't, and for the first time since the tournament started, the Kiwis were beaten. This was a major shock. I had begun to see them as invincible. How could this happen? The experts on television did not seem to be that worried. According to them, it was just a game where there was nothing to play for and little more than a warm-up. But I was very nervous, not least because it meant we would have to face the same opponents in the semi-final a few days later. On the morning of the match, probably one of the most important in the country's history, there were reports that roads were virtually empty, as were city-centre shops. Omens were good. This was Pakistan's fourth consecutive semi-final; they had lost the previous three. New Zealand batted first, posting an impressive 262, with Crowe, as usual, leading the way with a quick-fire 91. With Pakistan at 140 for 4, and running out of overs, most of our thoughts were turning towards the final in Melbourne. And that was when it all went horribly wrong. Inzamam-ul-Haq joined Miandad and hit the dibbly-dobblies all over the place. The target was shrinking before my eyes. I could only stare open-mouthed at the TV, feeling helpless, but now despair replaced it as New Zealand's World Cup campaign fell apart. Defeat had been snatched from the jaws of victory. That was only one final twist of that knife, though, for England, winning their semi-final in Sydney; so as I so cynically set out to abandon my team and make a naked grab for England's glory, it turned instead into a defeat, an incredibly painful defeat, that confirmed something I had known for so very long. However old you are, however grown up you think you may be, it really is possible to have your heart broken by a game of cricket. There were consolation prizes. Crowe finished as the tournament's leading run-scorer and was eventually named Player of the Tournament. But it was hard getting back to normal life after that. Everything seemed a bit of an anticlimax.

No matter how old you've become, you can get your heart shattered by a cricket match. With the passage of time, I started to understand the fact that the team had to contribute something to the New Zealand cricket, and further years they were always a better side. The next World Cup, in 1996, they came closer to the semi-finals, thanks to an incredible 130 from Chris Harris. Three years on and the tournament in England they did make the semi-final and again we were playing Pakistan. I stayed up all night watching and hoping. We posted a reasonable 241; just like at Eden Park I felt the chances were good. Morning turned to night with the help of countless cups of coffee as I stayed awake to watch the Pakistan openers set the pace with a lightning first-wicket stand of 194, before their team strolled to an easy nine-wicket win. I wondered to myself how many more semi-final losses I could take.In the next year, however, I was back on my all-night cricket-watching vigil, during the Champions Trophy in Kenya. The Young Guns (now known as the Black Caps) did the near impossible and reached the final, defeating Pakistan in the semifinal, majorly being the back of a fine 87 by England-born Roger Twose. Our adopted team had made it through to the final. We were facing off against India, and predictably, the game started with. Tendulkar and Sourav Ganguly added 141 for the first wicket in quick time and when Tendulkar was finally out, most Kiwis had already been put to bed. But lived in hope and New Zealand slowly clawed their way back largely with a timely contribution from Harris putting them on course for their first ever victory in a major tournament. It was neck and neck and went down to the final over. I wouldn't have believed any human being could feel such tension watching a televised game of cricket from Nairobi. But when Chris Cairns hit the winning runs with two balls to spare, I leapt from my chair at five in the morning, punching the air, and thinking of a song I hadn't heard in years."  At last, the answer was New Zealand. Something I had been craving since February 22, 1992.Dave Roberts is a journalist and author, whose latest book Home and Away is now out in paperback© ESPN Sports Media Ltd.

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