Test of Character: The Story of John Holder, Fast Bowler and Test Match Umpire

By Andrew Murtagh and John Holder

Barbados-born John Holder arrived in England during the 1960s as part of the second wave of West Indian immigrants recruited by London Transport after the war. While working on the Underground he was recommended for a trial at Hampshire. Impressed by his speed and hostility with the ball, they signed him on the spot. For eight years, his career as an opening bowler followed an uneven course, periods of loss of form and confidence punctuated with moments of sheer brilliance, the most noteworthy both coming in his final year at Hampshire in 1972, taking 13-128 in the same match against Gloucestershire and a hat-trick against Kent. A back injury brought his county career to a close. What better way to stay in touch than to become an umpire? A first-class umpire for 27 years, he officiated in 11 Tests and 19 one-day internationals. Former teammate Andrew Murtagh had unique and unfettered access to his subject. Test of Character throws an interesting light on the job of an international umpire, with all its pressures, vicissitudes, controversies, and prejudices, leavened of course with a fair degree of humor, too.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Independent Publishers Group
• Release date: Jul 1, 2016
• ISBN: 9781785312427

Andrew Murtagh

Andrew Murtagh and Adam Lee are both engineers, authors, and activists. Andrew's background is in biomedical engineering and he works in the med tech industry; Adam a software engineer working in that sector. In their free time, both blog at Patheos on the big questions; Andrew at Soapbox Redemption, Adam at Daylight Atheism. Andrew is the author of Proof of Divine (2013), Adam the author of Daylight Atheism (2012). In their theological discord, they became friends, and have teamed up to end human trafficking. 

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man.

Introduction

I didn’t hit it, umpire.

Oh no? Look in the paper tomorrow.

Anon

AFRIEND of mine, not unknown to the subject of this book, once made this pronouncement to a group of fellow cricketers: If George Headley was the black Bradman then John Holder is the black Michael Holding. The pause was perfectly timed. "Oh, they’re both black." We all laughed, not least because we knew that John would have found it funny too. But everyone fully understood that underlying this quip, two subtexts were running alongside each other.

Firstly, when he was in his pomp, when everything clicked, with his back not playing up and his run-up sorted out, it was not fanciful at all to compare John Holder to the great Michael Holding. With his athletic build, his smooth, accelerating approach and his loose-limbed, fluid action, he had all the attributes of a fast bowler. And those of us who played with him and had to face him in the nets all agreed that he was distinctly rapid.

Second, the reference to his West Indian heritage was not a casual one because it made a very important point about his nature, his personality. I don’t think I know of anyone, barring Nelson Mandela, who has done more for race relations than John Holder. That is an exaggeration, I know, but in all hyperboles, there is more than a grain of truth. I am not suggesting that people don’t notice that he is black – that would be silly, for he remains a hugely attractive and striking figure, one who stands out in a crowd – but nobody cares. It just isn’t an issue, and never was. And this is because John himself doesn’t think it is of the slightest importance either.

Let us go back to the 1970s, when I first met him. This was not a period of racial harmony, social integration and multi-culturalism in this country. It doesn’t take much to bring to mind memories of the riots in Chapeltown, near Leeds, and in Southall and at the Notting Hill Carnival and, moving on into the 1980s, those at St Paul’s, Bristol, Brixton, Toxteth, Moss Side, Handsworth and Tottenham. Clearly, all was not well in a society where one ethnic group, the African-Caribbean, felt alienated and discriminated against and second-class. Yet talk to any professional cricketer of that era and his eyes will bulge in amazement at the very suggestion that his West Indian team-mates or opponents were in any way inferior or second-rate. You might say that such a small, tightly knit group of sportsmen existed in a bubble, isolated from the realities on the streets of run-down areas of inner cities, and you might have a point. But the very concept of the West Indian cricketer being, in any way, socially inferior to the English would have occasioned a hollow laugh. This was the time, don’t forget, when the West Indies were the best in the world. Once Frank Worrell and later Clive Lloyd, had knocked that team of such disparate talents, personalities and island backgrounds into a cohesive, fighting force, they took all before them. They were fitter, stronger, faster and more talented, they seemed to bowl quicker, to hit the ball further and to win much more often than any of their white opponents. Far from being inferior, it seemed to us, and to onlookers, that they were in every way, superior. It was the white players who suffered from an inferiority complex.

And they were a decent bunch, to boot. Just look at some of the West Indian overseas players in the professional game during the 1970s: Tony Cordle (Glamorgan), Joel Garner and Viv Richards (Somerset), John Shepherd and Bernard Julien (Kent), Keith Boyce (Essex), Wayne Daniel (Middlesex), Vanburn Holder (Worcestershire), Lance Gibbs, Rohan Kanhai, Alvin Kallicharran and Deryck Murray (Warwickshire), Garry Sobers (Nottinghamshire), Michael Holding (Derbyshire), Clive Lloyd (Lancashire). Pretty well the entire West Indian Test team, if you include Andy Roberts and Gordon Greenidge from my county, Hampshire. I found them, almost without exception, to be extremely sociable and approachable, wonderful cricketers and generous opponents.

More than that, I thought West Indians were vibrant and colourful people, exotic even, quite unlike anyone I had met in my grey, drab childhood in south London. I was bewitched by their lilting accent, their boisterous conversation, their wide smiles, their joyful laughter, their colourful attire, their larger than life wives and their beautiful children. I just wished they didn’t try to knock my head off when I was batting and to smash the cover off the ball when I was bowling. And the reggae music that blared from their car speakers was never my thing but it would take a brave man to suggest that the volume be turned down. So Bob Marley and I became reluctant companions. Even the most narrow-minded curmudgeon would be hard-pressed not to accept that English cricket was greatly enriched by their presence.

You might have gathered that I like West Indians. And it was John Holder who first made this impact on me. Imagine if you will a young undergraduate making his first appearance at the County Ground in Southampton, the home of Hampshire cricket, and being introduced to probably the most perfect physical specimen of the human race he has ever seen. He radiated health, vigour, fitness, manliness. And what’s more, he was seriously good-looking. There were no West Indians that I recall at my university so this was a new experience for me. To be truthful, I did not immediately tune in to the cadences of his Bajan accent but I had no doubt about the width of his smile and the warmth of his welcome.

It soon became obvious that John was possibly the most popular member of the Hampshire playing staff. The supporters loved him too, because he was prepared to sign autographs, at length and willingly, always accompanied by a friendly word. He would engage in cheerful banter with them on the boundary edge and chat to them patiently whenever he was buttonholed. Groundsmen, gatemen, dressing-room attendants, office staff, pub landlords, hotel doormen, receptionists, maids, cleaning ladies, all fell under his spell. He was one of those rare charmers who appealed to both sexes. Men admired him for his athletic prowess and liked him for his engaging and humorous company. Women just swooned. And everyone recognised his booming laugh, audible at a hundred paces.

I was impressed too with the way he took the young Gordon Greenidge under his wing and kept an eye out for him. Gordon had arrived at the club, a shy, gauche, socially awkward boy, not long out of school, but bursting with talent. All did not go well at first and there were one or two sceptics on the committee who doubted he would make it. His team-mates had no such misgivings; the boy just had to grow up, get stronger and trust in his ability. John was a good mentor to him at this time, sharing as they did a Barbadian background, and tried to help him smooth off some of those rough edges.

The rest, as they say, is history. It always seemed a pity to me that Gordon opted to play for the West Indies – he was qualified by length of residence to play for England too – for we could have done with him. But blood is thicker than water and he went on to forge with Desmond Haynes one of the most celebrated opening partnerships in cricket.

John Holder’s cricket career enjoyed no such stellar success, though he had his moments, producing some inspired and devastating spells of bowling. But consistency eluded him. His bowling would fizzle, burst into flames, fizzle, ignite again, then splutter once more. How could a man resemble a world-beater one day and lose his run-up, his rhythm and his accuracy the next? It perplexed everyone, including himself. He never lost his good humour and his cheerful demeanour but you could sense the frustration and see the confidence ebbing away. And then he was gone. I reported back for duty at the start of the 1973 season and there was no John Holder to illuminate a cheerless, pre-season dressing room.

Why not? That was a question that puzzled me then and puzzles me still. After all, he hadn’t had a bad season the year before. In fact, it could be argued that he had bowled, in spells, as well as ever. He had destroyed Gloucestershire almost single-handedly, taking 13 wickets in the match, for 128 runs. And who could forget that electrifying hat-trick against Kent in front of his home supporters at Southampton? He had finished the season third in the bowling averages for Hampshire, with 37 wickets at 25.56. Not figures to set the world alight but neither were they worthy of the sack. It’s not as if Hampshire were flush with seam bowlers at the time. Was it his inconsistency that had done for him? The hat-trick spell, for example, was part of an innings analysis that read 3-106 off 26 overs, rather expensive, you might say. Or was it his bad back, always troublesome, that had convinced him to call it a day? Or was it his incredulousness at the fact that he had still not been awarded his county cap, despite having taken 139 wickets in 47 matches at a respectable average of 24.56? Or had he concluded that Hampshire’s attack for the following season had already been decided and that it didn’t include him? But even the most gifted of clairvoyants could not have foreseen that Herman and Mottram, who opened the bowling in 1973 (the year they won the championship incidentally), would go through their annus mirabilis remarkably free of injury. Or was it simply that he had become disenchanted with the game and wanted a change?

Privately, I wondered. But I was a young and new member of the team, fresh out of college, and only too conscious of my junior status. Hard to believe now but in those days an uncapped player was expected to knock on the dressing-room door before entering. I didn’t feel it was my place to question the internal politics of the club. Besides, the predicament really bothering me in that draughty Hampshire dressing room in early April of 1973 was more prosaic. Who was going to keep me cheerful and entertained all season, especially on those away trips? In short, who was going to fill the place with gaiety?

Time moves on and new friendships are forged. I gradually discovered in that team who was gregarious, jocular, diverting, hedonistic even, and who took life more seriously. It turned out that fellow spirits were not as thin on the ground as I had first thought. We were not known as the Happy Hants for nothing. I think we enjoyed our cricket without losing that competitive edge.

We lost sight of John Holder for a number of years as he pursued his career in the Yorkshire and Lancashire Leagues but he was never forgotten and whenever his name cropped up there would always be a story, accompanied by much ribald laughter. By the time he returned to the first-class game, this time as an umpire, my short career as a professional cricketer had come to an end and I was buried in a public school teaching English. Whenever we met up, mostly at Hampshire ex-players’ reunions, it was as if time had stood still. The smile was as broad as ever, the humour had not rusted and the laugh boomed as resonantly as it ever had.

One day we fell into conversation. I told him that I had had a couple of books on cricket published and I could see his mouth purse and his brow furrow in thought. He wondered whether I would like to write his biography; apart from his fluctuating playing career, he had been an umpire and a supervisor at the highest level of the game and had much to tell. After all, as Dickie Bird was fond of saying – repeatedly – there is no better seat in the house to watch cricket than from 22 yards away.

I pondered on the suggestion – for about ten seconds – and agreed. It will be a lot of fun, he assured me, as if it could possibly be anything else. And don’t forget, Mr Murtagh, he laughed, I taught you everything you know! True enough, there was no denying it. With the exception of one thing, however. I never listened to him when he talked about batting.

So, the idea was born, the project started and the memories stirred. But before we commence on the journey, I have this story – one of many – to tell of my subject, if only to give you a flavour of the man whose life I am seeking to chronicle. My nephew, Tim, turned out to be a decent cricketer and made a name for himself in the professional game, opening the bowling for Middlesex. During the course of one match, he found himself fielding at square leg where he engaged in genial conversation with the umpire between balls, the way cricketers do. The square leg umpire was none other than John Holder who knew well enough the family connection between Middlesex’s seam bowler and his old mate at Hampshire. The exchange went something like this:

So Tim, what are your social plans for this weekend? As you’re a Murtagh, I guess it’ll be something disreputable.

Well, as it happens, John, I’m going to my cousin’s wedding, Uncle Andy’s daughter.

The ball was bowled, the batsman played a forward defensive. No run. The conversation between player and official resumed.

So, where’s the wedding?

In Worcestershire. In a castle, actually.

A castle! I knew your uncle was rich. Not that he bought many drinks when we played together.

Another ball delivered, left alone this time by the batsman.

That’s just what my dad says too.

What time does it start?

What, the wedding?

Yes, Tim, the wedding.

Another dot ball.

Two o’clock.

You’ll struggle to get there on time, seeing the way this game is going.

Tim mournfully nodded his head as the fourth ball of the over was pushed unconvincingly into the covers. No run.

Tell you what, Tim, don’t you worry. I’ll make sure you get there in time. Anything for my old mate, Murt.

Gee, thanks John. But how are you going to do that?

John Holder, respected first-class umpire, grinned and tapped his nose. The fifth ball of the over was edged down to third man. A single was taken and Tim Murtagh was dispatched somewhere else on the Lord’s outfield for the new batsman.

Sometime later, I was about one third of the way through my speech as the bride’s father when the door burst open and there framed against the light was the figure of Middlesex’s finest. I hadn’t been a teacher for 30 years without being able to deviate at the drop of a hat from the prescribed text.

Tim! Great to see you. Better late than never.

Couldn’t miss Kate’s wedding, could I?

How did you get here? What happened in the match?

We lost. Mainly because your old mate, John Holder, gave me out LBW!

That brought the house down. Much funnier than any of my jokes, it has to be admitted.

Oh, come on, Tim. Let’s face it – you’re never out.

"Out? Out!! It was missing leg by six inches! I could have saved the game."

It was a good wedding and judging by my nephew’s dancing later on in the evening, it was obvious that a few glasses of Champagne had doused his spluttering indignation.

Was it out? I asked John, many months later.

Would have knocked all three out of the ground, he assured me, with a laugh.

Ever since the game was invented, tail-enders have moaned that umpires never give them the benefit of the doubt. Well, now is the time to find out the truth, it seemed to me, as I set out on the task of writing this book.

Chapter 1

A Superlative Child

Holder! You’ll never make a cricketer!

A coach at Combermere School

JOHN, it’s not really true that you were born in Superlative, is it? You’re pulling my leg. As a man of learning, Murt, you will know from your grammar that there are three degrees of comparison: positive, comparative and…Superlative!

He had warned me that this journey would be an entertaining one. In point of fact, Superlative does exist; it is a small village in Barbados. And yes, John Holder was born and raised there. Where else? It has to be granted that anyone born in Superlative does start out in life with a bit of an advantage over someone born, for argument’s sake, in Grimsby. As it happens, I have been to Barbados several times and although I have not visited Superlative, I have passed through scores of villages that were not a lot different. From John’s description, I can picture it clearly – a handful of modest but spotlessly clean dwellings, surrounded by fields of sugar cane, with barefooted boys playing impromptu games of cricket along its dusty road. It is situated in the parish of St George, one of eleven parishes that divide the island. It was a small and tight-knit community; his grandmother lived 50 yards away and his uncle next door to her, so there were cousins to play cricket with. John was one of six children – three boys and three girls – and they lived in a small three-bedroom house. My parents slept in one bedroom, the girls in another one and I was in the other, together with my two brothers, Neil and Paul. We were poor, you know, what you might call working-class.

Poor they might have been but in common with many families of that period, they were proud, industrious, law-abiding, God-fearing and academically aspiring. His father owned a lorry and during the sugar cane harvest from February to June he transported canes to the sugar factories. Sometimes John and his brothers were prevailed upon to help him get the truck ready and load it with the canes. The twin pillars of family life were the church and the school. They all attended church on Sundays and they were all expected to go to high school. Both parents were prolific readers. And so was I, said John. Don’t laugh. I used to read a lot when I was a kid. I wasn’t laughing. I wasn’t at all surprised that an articulate and well-spoken man would have had his head in a book when he was younger. I was merely smiling in recognition as he reeled off the names – Billy Bunter, Biggles and just about every cowboy book written – all of whom were familiar to me and would have been to any English boy growing up in the 1950s. "We were encouraged to read the newspaper, the Barbados Advocate. There was no TV, you know. We listened avidly to the local radio station, Rediffusion, for all the sport, especially when the West Indies were playing overseas. In such a way did I learn of all the cathedrals of cricket – Lord’s, Old Trafford, Oval, Melbourne Cricket Ground, Sydney Cricket Ground – never believing for one minute that I would ever play, and latterly umpire, there."

I wanted to know what sport he played in the winter. In Barbados, he explained patiently, there is no winter. But we did listen to the football results on the BBC every Saturday during the English winter. He also remembers the horror that all of them felt when they heard of the Munich air disaster on the radio in February 1958. As a result, out of sympathy, we all started to support Manchester United. Still do, as a matter of fact.

I get the impression that it was a loving environment in which you were brought up. Yes indeed. We were a close family. His brother Neil, who is four years older than John, heartily agreed. Our parents were reasonably strict, he said, but they gave up everything for us children. Although both boys went to great pains to explain to me that it was a blissfully happy and laid-back childhood, they were keen to point out that the parameters of good behaviour were clearly laid down and strictly adhered to. We knew where the line was, said John, "It was my mother, in actual fact, who was the main disciplinarian, the one who gave out the smacks. If she reported to dad when he came home, then you knew you were in serious trouble."

Knowing you, John, I expect you were in trouble quite a few times. His protestations of innocence did not entirely ring true so again I sought the more reliable opinions of his close family. John had a special place in our grandmother’s heart, said his sister, Mel, Not that she did not love us all but she tended to favour him because she always had a soft spot for good-looking men. So it was not only young girls who found him irresistible. She gave a knowing laugh at that. Another sister, Felicia, was also aware of this blatant favouritism shown by their grandmother. John could do no wrong in her eyes, she said, She even threatened to walk to the police station to report Dad if he dared to flog him. There was another occasion that sprung to mind. A neighbour complained to their parents that John had been disrespectful to her. Unfortunately for her, continued Felicia, our gran was there and demanded that they waited until John came home to tell his side of the story. The lady flounced off and that was that. Felicia expanded: John has always been a cheerful person, one who loves to tease others – a trait that has got him into trouble on more than one occasion. Possibly so but I have been witness to occasions when his quick wit and winning ways have been instrumental in getting him out of trouble. If you doubt me, listen to this story from Monica, the third of the sisters. On one occasion, John broke his curfew. Dad was waiting for him inside the doorway, strap in hand. John burst through the door and was in his face so quickly and talking so fast that Dad could do nothing. We did benefit because there was no more flogging.

John was prepared to admit that he lent a hand in the usual mischief that boys get up to, you know, such as pinching mangoes and sugar apples. In point of fact, it wasn’t scrumping that I had in mind; I’d always had a mental picture of the young John Holder, who was ever fleet of foot, making a hasty exit from a girlfriend’s house and being chased down the road by an irate father. He must have read my mind because he denied this vigorously. Oh no, nothing like that. I was a shy boy, as it happens. I know that you don’t believe me, he continued, but it’s true! All right, when I was a little older, I started to go out with girls. But there was nothing to it apart from the odd kiss here and there. It was all very innocent. Nothing serious, he continued, That is, until England! And then added virtuously, I was a good boy!

Girls were far from his mind when he was a young boy. The days were taken up with endless games of cricket, impromptu matches with his brothers, cousins and anybody else who happened to be around. Mel has a clear picture in her mind of the young John playing cricket in the road, in the backyard, wherever there was enough space. The bat was made from the spine of a coconut leaf or a piece of discarded wood. A pebble wrapped in scraps of cloth and woven with twine served as a ball if a tennis ball could not be found. Where there’s a will, there’s a way.

Play would start at eight o’clock in the morning on Saturdays and every day of the school holidays and would last until nightfall. The road had a slight incline. Bowling would be uphill with the wicket – a crate, box, whatever came to hand – at the top. On one side were the houses. On the other side were sugar cane fields. So we had to hit straight, John informed me, without a hint of irony. I reminded him that the straight drive was not a stroke that I saw him unfurl very often. That was not because I couldn’t, he assured me, "but because I chose not to. The gaps in the field were elsewhere." It is difficult to hold a conversation with John without eventually breaking down into laughter. What about the traffic? Traffic? This wasn’t London, this was Superlative. If there was a passing motorist, we would clear the stuff aside, stand back and let him pass. No more irritating and time consuming, I suppose, than a spectator inadvertently straying in front of the sightscreen. All that has gone now, he said sadly, Too much traffic.

Sometimes the girls would join in. Sister Monica and Aunt Sylvia would play too, Mel told me, and both were pretty handy with bat and ball. When either of them smashed the ball into a nearby field or clean bowled one of the boys, there was jubilation, applause, laughter. So, mixed games of cricket were taking place in Barbados long before the MCC opened its doors to women. It was great fun, Mel insisted. On occasions these matches would be organised by their father, who gently but persistently taught them all about the game, even though he did not play himself. He was a good man, said John, Very reserved but he gave us all an excellent childhood. Mel remembers other versions of cricket that were sometimes played – Marble cricket, bat and ball and tip and run, all great fun. If you hit my grandmother’s house, said John, "you were out!" Lunch was often eaten on the hoof, usually a piece of sugar cane. There was no time to go home; the state of play always seemed to be critically balanced. So, by the time my brothers got home, said Mel, they wanted a double meal. She also remembers the occasional boisterous argument among the players. This would result in an early finish to the game. What a good idea, John. You should have done that when you were an umpire. That would have soon eradicated bad behaviour and disputes over decisions. You never did take umpires very seriously, Mr Murtagh, was his rejoinder.

Monica had more memories to share. It wasn’t always cricket, she insisted. Over the Easter weekend, everybody on the island flew kites. There was also a particular game of ‘scooter’, the nature of which escaped me but there was a lot of skin lost while enjoying this exploit. What about when it rained? It does rain in Barbados from time to time, does it not? When we had to be inside, our entertainment included our parents in such things as singing songs, choruses, hymns, telling stories and playing games such as ‘boxes’, ‘X and O’, ‘pick-ups’, reading and pillow fights. John’s affability and self-possession are well known and no doubt stem from these early years. So why didn’t you become a gentle, long-suffering off-spinner, smiling stoically as you were once more slogged over the ropes, rather than a mean, snarling fast bowler, trying to knock our heads off? Inner fury, he laughed.

All this healthy outdoor activity meant that the boys were fit. There was a bus garage in Superlative but little money for fares. They had no car so they had to walk everywhere. John thought that this was a waste of potential cricket time, so he would run to the shops and on errands. Were you ever taken to the Kensington Oval in Bridgetown to watch a Test match? Yes indeed. When I was ten, I was taken to see the visiting Australians. I remember watching Ray Lindwall and Keith Miller bowling, two great fast bowlers. None better to study and seek to emulate. When did you suspect that you were better than other boys? I knew I was the best in the neighbourhood. But there was no thought of making it a career or anything. It wasn’t until later, in my last year at school, when I was 17 or 18, that I started to bowl genuinely fast.

Let us take some time out here to discuss the fast bowler. First, it has to be said that what schoolboys or club cricketers call ‘fast’ is not fast at all. First-class cricketers would dub that speed of bowling as no more than brisk medium pace. It is difficult to put into words the true pace of a genuine fast bowler. You can measure it but 90 mph is meaningless unless you have actually faced someone that quick. And of course genuine fast bowlers only exist in the highest echelons of the game, beyond the experience of most cricketers. Television foreshortens the action and does not give an accurate picture. The perspective from the side, in the stands, is too far away and the ball is difficult to pick up by the naked eye. You can tell when a fast bowler is in the mood and has the bit between his teeth by how far back the wicket-keeper and slips are standing. I remember Tom Graveney telling me that they were standing 40 yards back in the slips when Frank Tyson was bowling downwind in that famous spell at Sydney on the 1954/55 Ashes tour. And still the ball was flying over our heads! he said. The best ringside seat, as it were, to get a feel of raw pace is to stand behind the batsman when he is having a net and facing a quickie. I defy you not to flinch when one flashes past the batsman’s nose and bulges the net in front of you. It has been calculated that a batsman has less than half of one second to react when a ball is released at 90mph from 22 yards away. That is not much more than the blink of an eye. Jeff Thomson was measured once at 99.8mph and he reckoned that there were times when he bowled faster. Don Bradman believed that the fastest bowler he had ever seen was the said Frank Tyson on that Ashes tour, faster even than Harold Larwood and Thomson. ‘Fast’ is too often applied to describe a bowler; it is a circumscribed term and should not be used loosely.

John Holder was fast. That I can testify to. So can team-mates and opponents. There can be no quibbling here. It was the game’s loss as well as his that inconsistency and inaccuracy, brought on, no doubt, by a troublesome back – the scourge of fast bowlers – shortened his career. But it must have been truly wondrous to witness the development of this young cricketer as he matured and grew into a genuine quickie. At some point in his teens, the realisation must have dawned on John that his dreams had no limits.

Remembering that the aforesaid Frank Tyson was dubbed by the press as ‘Typhoon Tyson’, mention must be made of the fearsome hurricane that hit Barbados in 1955. John remembers it vividly and is grateful that his family survived. Hurricane Janet was one of the strongest on record; at its peak, it reached Category 5, the highest, with winds up to 175mph. When it smashed into the island, winds in excess of 120mph were destructive enough, killing 38 people and making 2,000 homeless. John’s description of the scene is striking, What I remember most was the howling wind, then the eerie calm and then the torrents of rain that fell for hours. When the hurricane had passed, there was this strange quietness. On finally going outdoors, I could see that almost everything had been flattened as far as the eye could see. My grandmother had a miraculous escape when a giant cabbage palm tree fell alongside and parallel to her house. Had it fallen on the house, everyone inside would have been killed, as the house would have been reduced to matchwood. A state of emergency was declared throughout the island and we received huge amounts of aid from Britain, America and Canada. Households were given tokens, for you to go to certain centres to get rations. My mum sent me to St Jude’s Junior School half a mile away for the rations.

How did you survive? We were very, very lucky. Our house wasn’t touched at all, God knows why. My parents had a sturdy, mahogany bed and we all sheltered under that. But nothing hit us. Were you frightened? I was only ten so yes, I suppose I was. One of my cousins who lived nearby had a lucky escape. As he ran from his parents’ house as the roof was torn off, a sheet of galvanised metal flew past, nearly decapitating him. But there was a degree of excitement about it all, as you would expect from a kid. My parents did all the worrying. But that wind!

When John attended primary school, there was no organised cricket as such, no proper coaching, no school matches. He remembers his time there as uneventful, with the exception of two teachers who were too reliant on the cane. One of them beat out of true rage. Even his own kids were terrified of him. Fortunately, I wasn’t in his class. Were you ever beaten? I was big and idle and got into mischief, was his enigmatic response.

In 1956, when he was 11, he went to Combermere School, the oldest school on the island and also one of the best, boasting among its alumni Frank Worrell and Wes Hall, as well as other notable political and civic dignitaries. Is there a blue plaque anywhere in the school commemorating your contributions to Combermere’s academic reputation? He snorted. I’ll have you know that I wasn’t too bad in the classroom. That was never in doubt in my mind, as it happens. John is bright, articulate and intellectually confident, in short, nobody’s fool. Furthermore he is widely read, with an enquiring mind. These qualities do not, as a rule, droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven. His teachers must take some credit for instilling in him the good habits of the classroom. For example, he loved Latin grammar. It gave him, he firmly believes, a secure basis for accurate expression in his own language. What’s that – Bajan? He could afford to laugh, for standard English is his native tongue and he speaks it better than many born in England, in a more mellifluous tone too. It was not only Latin that held his attention but English – demonstrably so – and French. French! Now that did surprise me. But it shouldn’t have. Our headmaster, Major Noot, an Englishman, encouraged the speaking of French, which he spoke fluently. In John’s later career working for the International Cricket Council, he was for some time the Regional Umpires’ Performance Manager and France was one of the European teams that came within his orbit.

History and maths, by contrast, did not excite John’s intellectual curiosity. But here again, the teachers at Combermere deserve commendation. He knows who Bradman is and he can count up to six. According to his sister, Mel, He lost interest in the academic programme, which was a pity as we were sure he would do well. She said that, instead, he embraced the sporting life of the school. I love that use of the word ‘embrace’, with all its connotations of warmth, tenderness and devotion. These are not concepts readily associated with the violent intent and sweating labour of fast bowling but immediately you understand what she means. Cricket gets to you like that.

Notwithstanding his waning appetite for his academic studies, John got on well with his teachers and remembers one or two with particular affection. Harry Sealey was a great man, a special person, he said. It was not so much the lessons he taught or skills he instilled but more his enthusiasm for cricket and his unstinting encouragement and support for the budding bowler. Clearly he saw something in his protégé and did everything he could to nurture his special talent.

For himself, John had enormous respect for the man and believed that he always had his pupil’s best interests at heart. He stood head and shoulders above the rest. And there was another teacher, Bruce St John, whose contribution to John’s education his pupil recalls with a gale of laughter. According to John, he had been to England and attended the basic MCC coaching course. During a practice session, he lined us all up to demonstrate the forward defensive stroke. Suddenly, his voice was heard booming out over the gaggle of practising boys, ‘Holder, you’ll never make a cricketer!’

Everton Weekes, the great West Indies batsman and a former pupil at Combermere, at that time the national coach, occasionally came in to cast his eye about. He didn’t do much coaching of the technical stuff, said John, but he was good at passing on little gems of advice. Were you ever coached to bowl? I mean, adjusting your action, changing your approach, that sort of thing? He shook his head. I learnt by watching the greats, Wes Hall, Charlie Griffith, Roy Gilchrist. If you wanted models to copy, then I suppose there could be none better in the art of fast bowling than that clutch. It was only when I got to Hampshire that people started to meddle. And look where that got me!

A contemporary and lifelong friend, Vincent Nurse, remembered the schoolboy Holder. John was a popular and imposing lad. He made friends easily and quickly earned their respect. Of course, John’s prowess with a cricket ball helped him, Nurse would be the first to admit, but there was more to his friend, he contends, than the ability to bowl fast; His softly spoken manner could easily have led one to believe that he was a pushover but one would be proved wrong. John stood his ground firmly, even when sometimes his views did not prevail. Nurse recounted a story with great glee that apparently went down in school folklore, one that John was only too keen to expand on.

Combermere tussled with one or two other schools on the island for the bragging rights of which one was pre-eminent at cricket. Harrison College usually won but one year they got their comeuppance, to the great delight of our hero and the rest of his team. It was 1963, he recalled, They thought they were the best and were an arrogant bunch. We were determined to knock them off their perch. Earl Williams, who was in that team and who also became a lifelong friend, remembers the occasion vividly. John was our very successful opening fast bowler and like most fast bowlers, he keeps reminding people of his batting prowess. This is nothing less than the truth. Fast bowlers usually find themselves at No 11 and always complain that their partner starts to slog wildly as soon as they come to the crease, as if there is no tomorrow. ‘You see,’ they grumble when the last wicket quickly falls, ‘no-one to stay with me.’ My opinion is that fast bowlers can afford to boast. They don’t have to face themselves.

But back to the epochal duel between Combermere School and Harrison College in 1963. The trophy at stake was the Ronald Tree Cup, said Williams. We were in trouble, said John, Nine wickets down and over a hundred to win. That didn’t sound like trouble – more like ruination. We shared, Winslow Skeete and I, a last-wicket stand of 109 and won the match! John cried. The jubilation in his voice was as evident as it no doubt had been 50 years before. So what happened then? Eh? I just told you. We won. No. To the peerless batsmanship when you got to Hampshire? "Murt, don’t you remember those massive sixes I used to hit?" True enough. They did go many a mile.

The school 1st XI, together with Harrison College and Lodge School, played in the first division of the national men’s league. We competed with other teams that had great West Indian players like Sobers, Weekes, Hall, Griffith, Nurse, Hunte, Cammie Smith, to name a few, said Williams. It was a tough environment. No quarter was asked and none given to the schoolboys. "Griffith was