A chat with Tony Greig: Chronicling the man who made Cricket talk back!

Raju Korti
My first glimpse of Anthony William Greig, better recognised by cricket buffs the world over as Tony Greig, dates back to 1972-73 when I was among the countless school-going boys hysterical about the game. The Englishmen were led by another Tony, Lewis, who looked more like a Hollywood star and became an instant hit with the Indian media for his impeccable manners. On that tour of India, however, the scene stealer was Greig with his six feet seven-inch frame and infectious energy. That was not his only claim to fame. Greig, with his aggression and crowd-friendly antics, was lustily cheered wherever the teams played. My most abiding memory of that tour is of Greig protecting the boundary and catching oranges thrown at him by exuberant spectators with the same practiced ease as he caught cricket balls.

Tony Greig (Wikipedia grab)

Greig was a revelation on that tour with his all-round performance. As a batsman, he would stride out boldly to the Indian spinners and hit them into the stands. As a bowler capable of bowling gentle medium pace and cutters, he could extract awkward bounce even from the placid Indian pitches. Greig had both height and stature, if you know what I mean. Thanks to Wisden Almanack and Sports and Pastime, which carried articles by the likes of Neville Cardus, Jim Swanton, Jack Fingleton, and Richie Benaud, we youngsters were very well informed. We knew how Greig, who could never have played international cricket because of the Gleneagles Treaty, was pitchforked into the English team due to his Scottish parentage. The Treaty barred South Africa and its players from international cricket because of apartheid, and had it not been for his ancestry, Greig would have been condemned to play alongside greats like Ali Bacher, the Pollock brothers, Eddie Barlow, and Mike Procter in domestic cricket, since the Pretoria regime remained adamant on its racial policies.

In a way, Sunil Gavaskar, who strode like a colossus on the cricketing firmament during the historic 1971 Caribbean tour, was partly responsible for introducing us to those South African giants. Garry Sobers, whom I consider the game’s greatest of all time, picked Gavaskar for the Australia versus Rest of the World series, and that team included several South Africans whose names were already legends to us.A couple of years later, Greig’s antecedents came in handy for media tycoon Kerry Packer, who used him to recruit the best of West Indian, Australian, Pakistani, and South African talent for the World Series of Cricket, derisively dubbed the “Packer Circus.” It turned out to be just that in letter and spirit. All the cricketers were banned by their national boards for their “betrayal.” For all the interest and hoopla generated by the Packer Series, the matches were largely low scoring and became little more than statistics in record books. The point, however, is that Greig’s leadership qualities had surfaced even before he was formally inducted into the MCC’s Test eleven. His role in that colourful venture later cost him England’s captaincy, which he had inherited from Mike Denness, and exposed him to criticism and bitterness.

During the home summer of 1974, England faced three Tests each against India and Pakistan. Greig averaged 42 with the bat and took 14 wickets, his hundred against India at Lord’s being the highlight. It was good preparation for the Ashes tour of Australia, where the Englishmen, uncharitably called “Poms”, were the favourites. As it turned out, they were made to hop, skip, and jump by the blistering pace of Dennis Lillee and Jeff Thomson. While most of his teammates were clueless about what had hit them, Greig stood tall with a gritty 110. He was a standout character in a losing team and won the admiration of the “hard-playing” Aussies who respected his approach to the game.

When Greig toured India again in 1976-77 as captain, he justified the mantle by winning a series in the subcontinent against the best spinning attack in the world. I was then a college-going youngster who realised how thoroughly he had done his homework. I remember watching the tall Greig holding his bat almost chest-high against pacers and then adjusting his stance quickly to bring the bat down against the Indian spinners.

By 1987, the equations had changed. I was now a journalist with The Hindu, and Greig had taken on a new role as writer and commentator. In the Press Box, I was fortunate to be seated between Greig and another commentator I deeply admired, Trevor Bailey. I was working on an in-depth feature on Bailey. Greig, who overheard our conversation, tapped me on the back and said warmly, “That was wonderful, mate.” That little boost led to an interview with him at his hotel. He was amused to know that he had once caught an orange I had thrown at him during the 1972-73 series.

By then, I knew how brutally blunt he could be. His ebullient oratory had created quite a flutter when he commented that the West Indian players wilted under pressure. He said, “I like to think that people are building these West Indians up because I am not really sure they are as good as everyone else thinks they are. People are forgetting they were beaten 5-1 by the Aussies and barely survived against the Indians. Sure, they have a couple of fast bowlers, but I do not think we will run into anything faster than Lillee and Thomson. The West Indians are magnificent when they are on top. But if they are down, they grovel, and I intend to make them grovel.

”There was a furore as expected. The word “grovel” carried sinister connotations for the West Indians, many of whom had slave ancestry. At a time when apartheid and the Gleneagles Agreement were live issues, a white South African using the word “grovel” was bound to be explosive. Stung to the quick, the West Indian bowlers took special delight in targeting Greig, and he became their prized wicket. True to his nature, he expressed no remorse.

By then, Greig had made a smooth transition to the commentary box. As a commentator, he was expressive, animated, and sometimes theatrical. You could visualise his intense face and the excitement of the game through his words. He probably knew, and perhaps even revelled in, his enduring popularity in India whenever he commentated in matches involving the Indian team.

Partly because he had seen me chatting at length with the likes of Bailey, Henry Blofeld, and Peter Roebuck (who would later take his own life), Greig spoke with complete candour when I interviewed him. “I still think of the West Indians in the same breath,” he told me. I did not mince words either. “As a commentator, your bias often showed. You spoke as fluently as the BBC greats like Brian Johnston, Don Moseley, Jenkins, and Blofeld, but you sometimes overplayed your hand. Was it exuberance or design?” I asked. “Oh, they are all seasoned veterans and peerless,” he said with a smile, “but I am what I have to be.

”That same flourish often coloured his commentary, whether he was describing the cricket or the jewellery worn by ladies in the stands. His narration could swing from extreme to extreme, sometimes carried away by his own passion, never overly concerned about the fallout. Yet, whether one liked him or not, he remained in a league of his own.

In that conversation, Greig spoke freely. Sometimes criticising Indians, sometimes admiring them unabashedly. He was always candid, never cautious. When he later spoke matter-of-factly about his lung cancer and its inevitability, there was no trace of self-pity. Compare that with our own Yuvraj Singh, whose bout with cancer was endlessly revisited by the media and public.

In his last lecture at the Spirit of Cricket Cowdrey, Greig said, “I have never had any doubt I did the right thing by my family and by cricket.”

He truly epitomised that.