Broad - Broadside: How We Regained the Ashes

BROADSIDE

First published in Great Britain

by Simon & Schuster UK Ltd, 2015

A CBS Company

Copyright 2015 by Stuart Broad

This book is copyright under the Berne convention.

No reproduction without permission.

All rights reserved.

The right of Stuart Broad to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

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Hardback ISBN: 978-1-4711-0159-5

Ebook ISBN: 978-1-4711-0161-8

Statistics and scorecards compiled by Ian Marshall

Typeset and designed in the UK by Craig Stevens and Julian Flanders

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CONTENTS

WORLD CUP MELTDOWN: 6 JANUARY14 MARCH

WEST INDIES TOUR: 2 APRIL7 MAY

NEW ZEALAND SERIES: 7 MAY3 JUNE

THE AUSSIES TOUCH DOWN: 430 JUNE

LIONS ROARED ON BY DRAGONS: 25 JUNE12 JULY

SILENCE IS GREEN AND GOLDEN: 1219 JULY

CLASS IS PERMANENT: 2031 JULY

DID THAT REALLY JUST HAPPEN? 16 AUGUST

RECLAIMING THE ASHES: 723 AUGUST

AM I DREAMING?

Have you ever been somewhere perfect, but wanted to be anywhere else?

Im lying on my bed in Sydneys Intercontinental Hotel, in a room with one of the most spectacular views on earth, in one of the most stunning cities Ive ever been to. The air is clear and there is a beautiful piercing blue sky above as yachts jostle for position on the shimmering turquoise blue water. The workhorse ferries service Circular Quay while massive ocean liners deliver excited tourists into the bustling port. The magnificent Sydney Harbour Bridge dominates the skyline while the Opera House completes my picture postcard view. In so many ways, its a scene of perfection.

But its lost on me. I want to go home. My curtains are drawn, the lights are out and my phone is off. I dont want to see anyone, be seen by anyone, and least of all speak to anyone. The walls are closing in. Leave me alone.

The remnants of my room service lunch lie barely touched on a tray on the floor. This cant be happening. Not again. I want to go home.

Im not leaving the room, I think to myself. Im too embarrassed. Were we really that bad?

Three days earlier, wed played Bangladesh in Adelaide in the penultimate group game of our Cricket World Cup. In every sense, it was a must-win game. But we lost. Badly. With one match still to play against lowly Afghanistan, we are out of a tournament wed had hopes of winning. We have no excuses. Weve been outplayed and out-thought. And we are getting hammered for it. I feel alone.

None of us whod boarded the plane from Heathrow so full of optimism just ten weeks earlier could in our worst nightmares have envisaged wed under-perform so spectacularly. We are ashamed. Weve let our country down.

Cheerio Chaps: Poms are Bangered and Mashed, crowed the front page of the Sydney Telegraph the morning after our tournament-ending 15-run loss to Bangladesh.

All the other papers are revelling in our misery too, while the abuse on social media gets so bad I delete the Twitter app on my phone. Wed lost, and in spectacular fashion, managing one solitary win over Scotland while being thrashed out of sight in every other game.

At times, Id felt completely helpless to stem the tide. I was fit and bowling pain free for the first time in a year, following major surgery on my knee. But I didnt hit my straps. I had tried my best, but Id come up way short. We all had. At times, teams found it easy against us. As a proud Englishman, in a country that loves to hate us, that is what hurt the most.

Barely 12 months earlier, Id flown home from Australia believing wed hit rock bottom after being whitewashed 5-0 in an Ashes series that had ended the careers of some of Englands greatest-ever players and accelerated the end for others. If anyone had told me then that a year later Id be back here again, feeling just as low, suffering the same abuse, Id have thought it was a sick joke.

But Im not laughing. The lights are out. Leave me alone. I want to go home.

Im not the only one in a dark place. Just across the corridor, my close friend and team-mate for almost a decade, Jimmy Anderson, has the do not disturb sign hanging off his door handle.

Occasionally a team-mate pops his head around the corner of the door. But no one wants to talk. Weve been abject and we want to go home.

And its not just the players. Earlier that morning our assistant coach Paul Farbrace one of the nicest blokes you could ever meet had gone out for a brief stroll around Circular Quay on the steps of our hotel.

He made the mistake of wearing an official England tracksuit. Within minutes of leaving the hotel foyer, he was copping abuse from Aussie fans revelling in yet more misery for the England cricket team.

Losers! one ungracious local screamed in his face. Farbs about-turned and headed straight back to the hotel. His stroll lasted five minutes. He wanted to go home.

Somehow, we must pick ourselves up and play one more, now meaningless, game against Afghanistan. If losing to Bangladesh had been bad, losing to Afghanistan would be catastrophic.

We drag ourselves to training, but were flat. Even our coach Peter Moores, normally so full of energy and enthusiasm, looks drained and withdrawn. Our captain Eoin Morgan, appointed in place of Alastair Cook just two weeks before wed flown out, appears distant and shell-shocked. He talks manfully about pride in the shirt and leaving with our heads held high. But you can tell hes hurting. Were all in shock.

But were also professional cricketers representing our country and we still have a game to play. Kids dream of doing this. Were privileged to do this, but it feels like a nightmare. Its Friday the 13th, but for once, our luck is in and we produce a decent enough performance to beat Afghanistan by nine wickets.

But there are no celebrations. We fly home the next day. Weve got more flak to face. Brace yourselves, boys. Its an Ashes summer.

Im in my usual spot in the Trent Bridge dressing room. Ian Bells sitting next to me, where he always does. Im staring at the red Dukes ball in my hand.

Outside I can hear the crowd chanting my name. Ive taken eight for 15 and weve bowled Australia out for 60 before lunch. In the process I claimed my 300th Test wicket for England. Eight for 15? All out for 60? Three hundred wickets? Did that really just happen? This is surreal. Am I dreaming?

Jimmy Andersons there, too. Hes not playing in this Test after injuring his side in the last game at Edgbaston. But hes done his job. His haul of six for 47 at Edgbaston had helped us win the Test match.

This match is not won yet, but Jimmy and I share a look. We know the little urn is coming home.