Frank Tyson (1930 – 2015)
Pacers in cricket are a privileged and pampered tribe; their whimsicalities, pet mannerisms, and even tantrums are happily made part of the cricketing folklore by an obliging audience. Ditto for the media which consciously makes terror and hostility the defining attributes of the many Sultans of swing and seam.
No wonder, many fast bowlers go to any extent to ‘win’ the coveted tag – even at the cost of losing line, length, poise, and purpose, both materially and metaphorically. And no, I am not referring to our beloved DSP Mohammad Siraj who had his moment (or did he?) in the Adelaide match after scalping a certain Head, at a time when India had lost the game and the last rites were underway. There have far too many such incidents which even few commentators seem to lap up (how many times have we heard on the comm box – “I like his aggression, he gives it his all.”)
So, a gentlemanly bloke would have been unanimously labelled a cat among the pigeons by quintessential members of the pacer fraternity. Even more so, if he recited Shakespeare, and Wordsworth in lieu of usual mouthful of highly inflammable content, spewed in colloquial tongues and dialects from the world over.
Yes, we talk of the great Frank Tyson who is best known across the globe for his dream spell in the 1954-55 Ashes tour that demolished the Aussies, after the hosts had pocketed the first match, which won him the admiration of Bradman and Benaud who were categorical in the submission that he was the fastest they faced ever.
Having said that, there’s much more to the Tyson saga than his fleeting role in intensifying the English-Aussie rivalry, which doesn’t find the place of pride it deserves given the reigning culture in popular sport of making demi gods out of cricketers and downplaying the people and processes which got them there in the first place. Most players who taste stardom hardly look back and even when they do, they do no more than pay lip service.
Thanks to the guiding light of the first hand insights of Dr. Makarand Waingankar or Mak Sir as he is fondly called, and heartfelt conversations with selfless exponents like Vighnesh Shahane and Zubin Bharucha, I learnt a lot about the Typhoon who triggered a downpour of disruptive innovation that gave Indian cricket a new lease of life.
Frank sir's story is as inspiring as it is astounding, a great case study and reference point for all those who love to keep the game above its players, best by default than design.
Tyson was born in the small municipal borough of Farnworth, then part of Lancashire before it was annexed by Greater Manchester in 1974. School life was replete with many a cricketing triumph but following his factory foreman father’s wish and command, he took his education seriously and went on to secure a coveted B.A. in English literature from Durham University.
Even during his brief World War II stint as an army cipher operator, his umbilical chord with cricket was intact. His pace bowling regularly shattered the stumps of many RAF and Navy opponents and paved the way for his first class debut in 1952. His awe-inspiring exploits in a Northants Vs Middlesex match at Lord’s marked his impressive Test debut vs Pakistan and soon after, he sailed down under for the ultimate contest.
And what a contest it was…
With a shortened runup, sturdy boots, and a thinking mind, Tyson wrecked havoc post the Brisbane loss and claimed 28 series scalps in a winning cause, and all this after sustaining a serious head injury from a Ray Lindwall bumper, which caused a huge swelling at the back of his skull in the Sydney Test which England won by 38 runs, thanks to Frank sir's 6 for 85. In the Melbounre test, he delivered surreal figures of 6 for 16 from 6.3 (eight-ball) overs on the fifth morning.
It is indeed tragic that he should have played only 11 tests post the Ashes triumph, ending his tenure with a tally of 76 wickets from 17 matches at an average of 18.56 and strike rate of 45.4 and best bowling figures of 7 for 27 (Melbourne Mayhem)
But the true maverick that he was, he left the game with a smile and never let his disappointment turn into regret. He settled for good in the same country that had catapulted him to global stardom.
Have a look at his astounding work horizon post his retirement from the game:
English, French and History teacher and later Head of languages at Melbourne’s Carey Baptist Grammar School,
cricket coach for Victorian Cricket Association, Mumbai Cricket Association and Sri Lankan National Team,
correspondent for reputed newspapers and magazines, ABC and Channel Nine commentator,
author and co-author of seminal books, and,
an oil painting artiste during his autumn years.
In all probability, the exertion of his bowling days gave him arthritis, which would have caused him some discomfort with advancing age. In the proverbial mandatory overs (borrowing from Mak sir’s apt name for life’s concluding span) he sought peace and tranquillity in the sunlit confines of Queensland’s Gold Coast.
I yearn to know more about his final sojourn at the Gold Coast from any authentic source, whether from among his family or friends.
The biggest regret is that it’s now impossible to know him better.
There’s hardly any surprise that Nariman Jamshedji Contractor sir, the fearless India southpaw, should describe this lament in precise words: “Frank was a good coach and a gentleman. But the highest tribute I can pay is you have to know him to know how good he was.”
It was Nari sir who roped in Tyson sir for bringing Mumbai cricket from the gory days of the 80s back to glory days. The search for the right bowling coach, given that off-mark bowling had become the Achilles Heel of Mumbai in the 80s, took him to England where Frank sir’s bowling mate Kieth Andrew shared his thoughts on who he thought was made for the job. Coordinates were established with the marked man in Australia, and after an iterative to and fro of key conditions posed and reassurances given, and after the sticky challenges of bureaucratic delays, logistical issues, and financial constraints had been resolved, Frank Tyson took guard office as the head coach of the BCA-Mafatlal bowling scheme armed with a copy of the Bhagwad Gita to know Hindustan better!
The rest as they say was history!
Frank sir left no stone unturned to get the raw, rookie Mumbai bowlers to do more than just get better with their line and length, helping them develop strong legs through incessant running drills, learn key life skills, as also alter their food habits and lifestyles for the better. To ensure effective communication, he learnt Hindi and Marathi.
The outcome was for all to see and applaud. The six feet plus tall lads reversed the fortunes of Mumbai and became match winners on the strength of their bowling exploits.
Frank sir later coached several aspirants at the Maharashtra Cricket Association, Bombay Cricket Association, Karnataka State Cricket Association and even the National Cricket Academy in Bangalore that created many champions for India.
The ubiquitous cricket columnist and die hard activist Mak sir, who had an emotional connect with Nari sir and shared his concern for Mumbai cricket in toto, struck a lifelong chord with Frank sir too, both personally and professionally as the chief coordinator of camp after camp in state after state.
The celestial chemistry between the trio raised the benchmark for Mumbai and India cricket in unimaginable ways.
We hope and pray today’s authorities create an enabling environment for young pace bowlers to absorb the invaluable insights of the Typhoon and learn how to put pace bowling in perspective, as also internalize its surreal enchantment.
A translation of Frank sir’s flowing prose, a passage from his memoirs “A Typhoon called Tyson” in different regional languages for the benefit of our young lads from all over the country will help create more Jasprit Bumrahs and prevent prospects from losing their way to become Gumraahs:
“If I had my life to live over again, I would not ask for success alone, sweet though it is. I should only want to be allowed to bowl fast once more. To those who have bowled quick, really quick, there is no comparable feeling in the world. The sudden clutch of suppressed anticipation as you mark out your run: the hesitancy that blossoms into arrogant confidence as, from a shuffling slow start, the stride quickens, lengthens, and becomes smoother; two yards from the wicket now and time to give it everything you’ve got; the body swivels, left hand plucking at the clouds, right arm swinging in a deadly, ever-quickening arc as the batsman appears in the sights over the left shoulder; the left leg is raised high, ready for the final plunge and the body is poised and ready; crash! – the skull shakes and the muscles of the body jar screamingly, as the front foot thumps down like a pneumatic-hammer and the ball rockets on its way at the cringing batsman, pursued as if by an avenging angel, the bowler’s flying body. What power there is in bowling fast! What a sensation of omnipotence, and how great the gulf between this sublime sensation and ordinary, mundane everyday existence!”
Pacers in cricket indeed deserve to be a privileged tribe; hope they keep purposeful assertiveness ahead of showy aggression. When a long stare does the job, and an occasional cuss word doesn’t cause fatal damage, why lose poise and purpose by getting personal?
Even the transformed Ricky Pontings and Matt Haydons of today won’t approve of such toxic behavior from the dugout and the comm box respectively, having been there and done that the wrong way throughout their playing careers, albeit as batsmen!