Derek Underwood dies

 Derek Underwood dies

At the start of what promises to be yet another busy and eventful season, cricket today mourned the loss of one of its treasured legends. When Derek Underwood skipped jauntily down the pavilion steps at either Lords, Headingley, Trent Bridge, Old Trafford or the Oval you knew you were in the presence of greatness and artistry, cunning and duplicity, nimble fingered dexterity and enormous charm. Derek Underwood represented Englishness, reassurance and an innate ability to remain calm in a crisis and just committed to the cause whether it be a losing or winning one. 

Derek Underwood belongs to a period when men opened doors to ladies, when courtesy and politeness were somehow the only characteristics of the game that were essential to cricket's welfare, standing and livelihood. Underwood was a model of consistency, almost unobtrusively dependable and fiercely conscientious throughout a long and gruelling Test or county match. Underwood never let anybody down because you knew where you stood with him. He was honest as the day was light, quietly thoughtful at times with a cricketing brain that always seemed to be working overtime and never disappointing.

Whenever Australia or the West Indies were in England, Derek Underwood was always prepared, anticipating the big occasion, sensing the atmosphere, alert and responsive, rolling up his distinctive white shirt sleeves with vigour, purpose and a concentration focused solely on spinning a ball, achieving both flight and turn with all the precision of an engineer drilling holes into sheets of metal. But it was that bowling action that took the eye almost immediately, like a watercolour painter using just the right amount of red, blue and green.

Derek Underwood started his club career at Kent and remained there loyally and faithfully, shirt billowing in the wind like a yacht sail, tugging up the said shirt right up to the shoulder before going through the familiar routine of rubbing earnestly on already red trousers and then twirling, tweaking the ball covertly and secretively like a magician who never reveals his hand. Then he embarked on those ritualistic party pieces: the spitting, polishing, the clever trickery up his sleeve, the sneakily mischievous and teasingly clandestine. 

But you remember with much affection Underwood's extraordinary England career that stood out most to English cricket fans who were transfixed by his whippy leg spin and spin that veered sharply in all manner of directions before cutting back into the batsman's pads with deadly accuracy. He would invariably let the ball seam, allowing the ball to simply move and wobble all over the place before shattering the wicket and bails. The batsman would hang his head shamefully and dejectedly. Derek Underwood had struck again.

You suspected that one of Underwood's central influences was Ray Illingworth, captain supreme of England from another era and the man responsible for bringing the Ashes back to England on English soil in 1969 for the first time in ages. Illingworth was another toiler and industrious grafter, always wearing immaculately white trousers red as a tomato, picking up the ball for an over of a ball that once it had become new, would behave like a naughty child who simply refuses to go to bed when their parents tell them to do so.

Like Illingworth, Underwood would step back very deliberately and contemplatively, hips moving in perfect unison with the rest of his body. Both were poised and controlled, scheming and manipulative, trundling past respected umpires including David Shepherd and Dickie Bird. Then the red ball would fly out of the index fingers deceitfully, fluttering beautifully into the air before floating fiendishly towards a terrified batsman.

And yet Underwood played alongside the very best that English cricket could offer. His contemporaries included  the incomparable Geoff Boycott for whom cricket was a work of art to be crafted and designed no matter how long it took him. So what if half centuries and centuries were likes works of pottery and clay, building projects where labourers would spend months and years on the same house or flat? Boycott was patient, careful, sensible and judicious and Underwood was made of the same cloth.

There was Alan Knott, one of English cricket's finest wicketkeepers, always with handkerchief sticking out of his trousers pocket, constantly stretching, flexing his back, hat jauntily placed on his head, pretending to scoop up a red ball and then flinging it theatrically to nobody in particular. Then down on his haunches, he would engage his fellow Kentish man with the loveliest grin on his face. Underwood and Knott were in perfect synchronicity, reading from exactly the same book.

There were the rock solid opening batsmen who provided the strongest cement and backbone of an England innings. Dennis Amiss and John Edrich were wise and commanding batsman whose natural inclination was to just grow into their innings. Then they would start pulling on and off drives with majestic power, shots rippling across the ground poetically, through the covers and then square cutting with a flowing swish and flourish of the bat. Then they would secure themselves at the crease with neat forward prods, singles here, twos there, then clubbing mighty sixes and fours with increasing frequency and intensity, hooking purposefully, despatching the short ball with both cruelty and then ferocity.

But today we lament the passing of one of England's most celebrated of cricketers. Derek Underwood just got on with the business of his trade, white shirt pristine clean, before rolling his arms and unleashing an over of mesmeric magic. Today the Garden of England county known as Kent will quietly raise a glass for its native gentleman. He will be remembered wherever and whenever cricket is played because Derek Underwood was just the master of his craft and that's quite an achievement. We salute you sir.