Oh those moments with Trevor Bailey & Peter Roebuck!

Raju Korti
It was the autumn of 1987. The Reliance World Cup was in full swing, and I was fortunate to meet a man whose voice had echoed through countless living rooms. Trevor Bailey, England’s Test all-rounder, writer, and the sardonic soul of BBC’s Test Match Special. Bailey wasn’t in India in his usual avatar as a commentator but as a cricket writer, detached from the boisterous box that included legends like Brian Johnston, Christopher Martin-Jenkins, Henry Blofeld and Don Moseley. Having grown up addicted to the BBC’s understated, wry, and supremely literate commentary, I approached the hotel reception with a touch of trepidation. To my astonishment, Bailey agreed to meet me, then working with The Hindu and its sister publications, Frontline & Sportstar, almost immediately in the lobby. No fuss, no pretense.

Me, Moiz Haq with Trevor Bailey and Peter Roebuck.   

By a wonderful coincidence, I was also occasioned to meet Harold “Dicky” Bird during the same time. During the 1987 Reliance World Cup match between India and New Zealand, a game forever stamped in memory as the only one where Sunil Gavaskar struck his lone ODI hundred, I also had the unusual privilege of securing a one-on-one with the legendary umpire. Bird was never easy to approach. He was famously blunt and, true to form, initially refused outright, saying he had little interest in journalists. It was only through the good offices of BBC Test Match Special’s Trevor Bailey and the thoughtful columnist Peter Roebuck, both of whom I had long conversations with the day before, that my credentials were vouched for. Thanks to their intervention, Bird relented and agreed to half an hour.

That meeting is etched in my mind, not so much for his views on umpiring or on his own cult status, but for the cadence and charm of his conversation. Listening to him, I felt he could have been a marvellous commentator, lacing authority with wit and a Yorkshireman’s candour. The initially stiff Bird, eased further when I told him that I loved John Arlott’s commentary. When I mentioned this impression to Bailey and Roebuck the next day, they broke into hearty laughter, as if to say they had always known Bird’s hidden flair. I also noticed something more, which reflected the professionalism of that generation. Be it Bird, Bailey, Roebuck, or any of their contemporaries, they insisted on meeting scribes in the hotel lobby, never in private rooms or suites. It was a small but telling gesture, upholding both dignity and distance. In Harold “Dicky” Bird, I remember a man who was hunched in the shoulders yet towering in his integrity. He never sought to be a figure of awe, yet players across the cricketing world revered him instinctively. He belonged to a breed that placed the game above the individual, even when the individual himself became an institution.

Barely a day after umpire Dicky Bird had turned me down politely, but had relented later thanks to a delighted Bailey, who appreciated a half-page article I had written on him. That conversation with Bailey turned into a two-hour masterclass in wit, warmth, and dry English humour. He spoke glowingly of his fellow commentators. “We were different in temperament but gelled beautifully,” he mused. I mentioned my eternal favourite, Brian Johnston “Johnners” to millions, and asked if he would pass along a letter of admiration. Bailey not only agreed but actually did, which I later confirmed through Peter Roebuck, the sharp Australian columnist seated beside me in the Press Box that day as India triumphed over New Zealand and Gavaskar scripted his only ODI hundred. Bailey smiled when I reminded him how Johnston and Moseley would dissolve into helpless giggles during commentary, and how Johnston had dubbed him “The Boil” after an Aussie distortion of his name (Boiley). He recalled the leg-pulling in the commentary box, often at the expense of Henry Blofeld, with the mischief of a schoolboy reliving dormitory pranks.

Bailey, nicknamed "Barnacle" for his gritty, immovable batting, laughed when I teased him about the long pauses in his speech that made it sound like he was trying to dislodge a piece of obstinate chicken bone from his throat. “You’ve noticed that too?” he chortled, clearly unbothered. He was candid about his sporting life: “I was actually a better footballer. I could dribble longer than I could bat,” he quipped in that clipped British accent. Yet, behind the acerbic wit was a man who understood the art of restraint. On the field and in the commentary box. “We never read out scorecards or explained field placings. Still, nothing escaped us. Commentary was fun, not a frenzy. And yes,” he added with a wink, “we did enjoy our wine and cakes, often sent by admirers.

”Toward the end, when I asked him if I could get Johnston’s book autographed someday, Bailey’s tone turned briefly sombre. “Johnners isn’t doing well... but I’ll pass on your sentiments.” That autograph never came. Johnston passed away a few years later. I had hoped to make up for it the next time Bailey visited India. But that reunion never happened either. He and Roebuck, the two men I met within days of each other, passed away within nine months of each other in 2011. The article I wrote on Bailey is now a tattered relic of yellowing paper, but the photograph remains intact. A reminder of a golden afternoon when I spoke with a man who embodied cricket’s wit, grit, and old-world grace.

That same week, I had another enriching encounter. With Peter Roebuck. Sharp, deeply perceptive, and unfailingly courteous, Roebuck had the disarming quality of turning an interview into a conversation among equals. We spoke at length about cricket, commentary, and writing. It struck me then -- and has stayed with me since -- that these men, Bailey and Roebuck, were giants of insight and elegance, yet wore their brilliance with quiet modesty. Both gone in the same year, they left behind not just cricketing wisdom, but a rare kind of human warmth that no obituary can fully capture. Unlike Bailey, I was occasioned to meet Roebuck a couple of times later. What struck me was his affability to meet anyone and everyone without any airs.

In their very different ways, Roebuck and Bailey embodied cricket’s finest virtues. Sharp minds, dry humour, and unshakeable integrity. Fittingly or ironically, both left us in 2011, just months apart.

(NB: The pic is 39-years-old. Between me and my dear colleague Moiz Haq, we handled the special four-pages devoted to World Cup. At the cost of patting our backs, we did an exemplary job.)