He was an intelligent, well-organized man, which just goes to show that not everything is inherited in the genes, but he also had a keen sense of humour that I like to think was handed down. He also loved his sport. He would quite often take me to soccer matches on a Saturday afternoon, Nottingham Forest one week, Leicester City the next, and occasionally to Leicester Tigers or Loughborough Colleges for a rugby match. Things were okay financially when he died, in that while we were never what you could call genuinely wealthy, one of my father’s talents was that he was quite clever with the financial side of life and made all the right sort of provisions. He dabbled in the stock market, leaving my mother with a reasonable amount of collateral in stocks and shares, which she in turn passed on to me. He was a good bit shrewder than me in this sort of area, and definitely less extravagant.
My father’s death obviously left a void, but we were both able to cope fairly well. Nevertheless, as my cricket career began to develop, there was always this feeling of how much he would have enjoyed being around to see it. I felt it most acutely in the summer of 1976, when I scored my maiden first-class century. We were playing Middlesex at Lord’s, and I had a fairly undistinguished first innings, bowled by Selvey for 0. However, in the second I had played pretty well to be not out at lunch on the second day, and came out after the interval to complete what one or two observers imagined to be a thoroughly relaxed and nerveless hundred. On this occasion they would have been confusing relaxed with half asleep (I spent the lunch break fully asleep) because, I have to admit, I had not spent the previous evening preparing in a wholly professional manner.
I’d been out on the town somewhere, and while I think I managed to beat the milkman to the hotel door the next morning, it would not have been by much. The apparently laid-back Gower at the crease the next day was in fact trying desperately hard to stay awake, an exercise only achieved by repeated stabs between overs from the business end of Brian Davison’s bat. It was probably the least he could have done for me as Davo had become something of a soul mate of mine – and when it came to burning candles at both ends he was close to being world champion. If, after the likes of Roger Tolchard and Jack Birkenshaw had scuttled off to bed in mid-evening, anyone felt like giving it a bit of a late thrash Davo was definitely the man. What I took rather too long to discover was that he was better at it than me – better than most if it comes to that. Anyway, Davo was smashing it to all parts as we were looking to set up a declaration, while I was groping around in a fog attempting to make contact. I think Illy went on longer than he had wanted to so that I could make the hundred, so there was less glory attached to that innings than I might have liked. Lest anyone, by the way, get the idea that Raymond was a sentimental old fool on these occasions, I would like to point out that earlier in the season he had declared on me in the match against the West Indies at Grace Road when I was 89 not out. The Lord’s innings more than made up for that disappointment, although it was probably the first time I had gone out to bat in what could be described as less than pristine condition. If the century suggested that it was possible to spend all night on the tiles and still deliver the goods next day, there have been one or two cases along the way since that have provided strong evidence to the contrary.
Shortly after that I spent six weeks in the West Indies with a Young England side that included the likes of Mike Gatting, Chris Cowdrey, Paul Downton and Paul Allott, and that autumn, immediately after the English season ended, there was a Derrick Robins’ invitation trip to Canada. It only lasted three weeks or so, and when I came home, I went out to work for the first (and as it turned out, last) time. Mike Turner fixed me up with a job with one of Leicestershire’s bigger sponsors, Bostik, and, if you will pardon the fairly awful pun, being glued to a desk all winter did not quite fit my romantic image of the professional cricketer.
The next season was another enjoyable (and reasonably successful) one, and life at this stage seemed wonderful. I had climbed onto the rollercoaster and was going along for the ride. On the other hand, my cricket had become significantly more serious. I was earning a bit more than £25 a week by now, was sharing a flat near the ground with Roger Tolchard, and was being tutored by Illy in the art of becoming professional. ‘These pretty twenties and thirties are all very nice, Gower, but if you could possibly manage the occasional hundred we’d be obliged.’ Raymond was inclined towards the belief that cricket was a fairly serious business, and cricketers who smiled a lot were to be regarded with a certain amount of suspicion. Needless to say, I caused him the odd moment of aggravation, not least on one occasion while he was bowling during a Sunday League match against Derbyshire. We’d been down to Westcliff to play Essex the week before, put down every catch imaginable, and I’d dropped Kenny McEwan – who got a hundred – at least once if not twice. The result was that we’d spent most of the following week doing extra catching practice. Anyway, Ashley Harvey-Walker was batting well when Raymond came on, and I was despatched to patrol the leg-side boundary (these were the days when I had a decent throwing arm). Sure enough, he slogged one straight up in the air, and after swallowing hard at the thought of lily’s reaction should I happen to drop it, managed to cling on. Elation then took over, and as I was tossing the ball up several times and bowing to the crowd, I suddenly heard this apoplectic Pudsey voice bellowing, ‘Get t’bloody thing back, Gower. It’s a bloody no-ball!’ Having already allowed them to run two instead of one, I then hurled the ball in, and it ricocheted away off the stumps for another single. Raymond was now giving a passable imitation of Vesuvius, and Graham Cross has collapsed with laughter at short mid-wicket. I thought about inquiring as to how the captain of England and Leicestershire, not to mention one of the most miserly purveyors of off-spin bowling in cricket history happened to be bowling no-balls, but thought better of it.
If I had mentioned it to him, he would more than likely have claimed that the groundsman had painted the line in the wrong place, because if anyone were to hold a world excuses championship, Raymond would have won it with something to spare. Brian Davison used to keep a list of them, and believe me there were some absolute jewels. Illy once got caught at slip shortly after lunch to a ball that he claimed had seamed away on what was basically a flat pitch. He came steaming through the dressing room door claiming that a plantain had sprung up on a length during the interval. ‘T’umpire must have given me t’wrong guard,’ was another classic, and in one match when we were supposed to be defending, he was bowled having a wild slog at Allan Jones, whose trademark was a Jimmy Connors’ style grunt (only louder) when he let go of the ball. It was such a horrid shot that none of us in the dressing room thought he could possibly explain that one away, but sure enough, Raymond was more than up to the task. He came through the door, lobbed his bat in the direction of his chair and sat down. The tension was unbelievable, when he spluttered, ‘Would you credit it? That bloody Jonah and his grunting … I thought t’umpire had called no-ball.’ At which point the dressing room fell apart.
Raymond was, nevertheless, a fabulous captain to play under, and while he came in for his fair share of the inevitable dressing-room micky-taking, he had this amazing knack of being able to switch us all on to serious business at a moment’s notice. We’d be having a laugh and a joke, sometimes at his expense, and then the five minute bell would go. Illy would clap his hands, the place would fall silent and he would unveil some masterly tactical plan for the next session. Unfortunately, not every member of his team possessed his attention to detail, and there was one occasion at Taunton when one of Raymond’s brainwaves did not quite go according to the script. Viv Richards was in his pomp at that time, and having faced just one delivery before the lunch break, inevitably walked off 4 not out. He looked, we thought, ominously in the mood. However, Illy had worked out that he was not entirely in control of the hook shot early in an innings, and that the ball occasionally went in the air to what would roughly have been