In memoriam

Bob Willis, †4 December 2019 Younger cricket viewers will know him as an Eeyore-like presence in the commentary box, with excessively conservative hair. (The air of taciturn pessimism, in the context of English cricket, was often no more than a sign of clear-eyed judgement.) In his playing days, the hair was rather more flamboyant, the manner just as downcast. They never matched. Bob Willis was absurd, a grumpy old man with silly hair who happened to be a fast bowler of rare pace, bounce and sustained aggression. Then again, fast bowlers tend to be absurd, especially English ones. Fred Trueman, professional caricature Yorkshireman; Frank Tyson, an English literature graduate who recited poetry at batsmen; John Snow, a poet himself; Darren Gough, flamboyant, twinkle-eyed, overweight, latterly a dancer; home-sick Steve Harmison; Mark Wood, with his imaginary horse. Bowling fast is itself absurd, a biomechanically perverse activity. All of the preceding suffered injuries, not least...