From Father to Son

August 1977, I woke early, very early for me. It was dawn. I crept into my parents bedroom and my father was awake smoking his customary cigarette. He told me to look out the window and see what the weather was like. It was OK and looked like it might be a glorious day.

"Well I'd better get up" he said. "Time to make some sandwiches and get off"

It was really going to happen I was going to my first Test Match, to Headingley, to the home of my beloved Yorkshire County Cricket Club, to see my hero.

We arrived at 5.45 having driven from Huddersfield. There was a queue already. The early editions of the papers were being sold. Just one story on the back pages. Just one thing that mattered.

We finally got into the ground at about 9am and positioned ourselves pretty much at mid wicket on the hallowed Western Terrace. Just in front of us sat a group of Castleford miners who had taken the day off to be there. They didn't have seats but that wasn't a problem as the hundred or so Watney's Seven party packs that they had brought would make a fine substitute and later on in the day keep us all entertained no end.

Out came the captains and the toss was completed. The tannoys raged out and the cheer went up, England to bat.

Out they came the great Greg Chappell in front. Out they came captain with plastic skull protector, hero with collar up. And then it started with old tormentor Jeff Thomson winding up and like the trebuchets of old sending down a vicious missile he promptly did for captain Brearley. Woolmer in, soon Woolmer out and then came the hero of the Centenary Test, Derek Randall, the clown who four days later would take the catch that gave brought home the Ashes, that healed the scars of Ashes to Ashes, Dust to Dust if Lillee don't get ya then Thommo must!

The day crept on he kept his nerve, Labrooks were getting nervous the miners had a bet on. Past his 50 sun getting hotter, bitter being drunk, noise getting louder sandwiches consumed, first day cover bought, atmosphere becoming tenser, Randall gone and Grieg in. Six over fine leg for the big man. Still he kept going.

Collapsing beer cans for seats led to continual laughter from the terrace. More laughter as the miners tried to put them back to no avail as they collapsed causing the domino effect.

And then Grieg gone, Gooch in running out of partners would he do it. Chappell to bowl steps forward stroked down the ground, four, eruption, Vesuvius in the shape of massed Yorkshiremen flowing onto the pitch.

I wanted to go, I so wanted to go but my dad's hand on my shoulder stopped me. Oh how I wished I had gone.

Day ends off we trudge hero not out, memories etched. Miners five hundred quid richer.

That was the day my dad took me to Headingley to see Geoffrey Boycott score his Hundredth Hundred.

And why have I told you this. Well listening to Aggers today before the start of play going around the crowd at Lords listening to all the stories reminded me of that day when my passion for the game of cricket exploded, especially when a little six year old lad told us about his hero, and how 1 billion Indians were hoping and longing for their hero to score his Hundredth Hundred. And secretly I think all cricket lovers too!