The last time you saw him, his animated face filled the television screen, his
eyes wide, the lips of his open mouth chirped and the big Australia batsman
Matthew Hayden expressed nothing but contempt for him. “Hey, Mattie, this
could be your last knock for Australia, mate,” he was mouthing. As Hayden
glared, the Englishman just carried on. “Hey, mate, don’t throw it all away,
not in your last knock for your country.” He has been variously and
colourfully described, this 36-year-old Cumbrian, Paul Nixon, who has
devoted 18 years of his life to cricket and in return earned the respect of
his peers on the county circuit. “Nico”, they called him, and when purists
turned up their noses and said he wasn’t quite good enough, the men who
better understood the nature of competition just pointed to his record.
Wherever Nico was, things were won.
That respect meant much to him, but what he most wanted was recognition at the
highest level: that is, to play for England. That yearning stayed with him
for years, and though he got close, he never got there. “Poor old Nico,”
they said, “worse men have played for England.” He was 36 and preparing for
the start of his benefit year when the call came. The Ashes had been
terrible, the mood was grim, they decided it was time for Nico.
He was parachuted into the one-day team for the Commonwealth Bank series and
while nobody thinks this seasoned wicketkeeper rescued his stricken mates,
it is fair to say he played a part. More than that, his belligerence defined
England’s resurgence, and who can say the newfound fight did not have
something to do with the attitude he brought to Australia.
It is character that distinguishes Nixon; he has an enthusiasm that bubbles
endlessly and a competitive streak that flows, lava-like, from the core of
his being. Those who crossed his path didn’t easily forget the experience.
Steve Waugh played with him for a few months at Kent. “Nico? He’s like a
mosquito buzzing around in the dark of the night that needs to be swatted
but always escapes,” said the former Australia captain. “He is elusive but
ever-present. This guy makes Ian Healy [the wicketkeeper who played for
Australia under Waugh] look like a choirboy, with his rasping wit,
enthusiasm and stunningly accurate assessments of opponents. Geez, I love
the guy’s work. He should have been born an Aussie.”
It was far from Australia that Paul Nixon was unleashed into the world. He was
Brian and Sylvia’s only child, but with this offspring there wouldn’t be
quiet or boring days, or perhaps much need for a second or third child. The
Nixons were farmers from Langwathby in Cumbria and if there was one thing
Brian Nixon liked as much as farming, it was sport. He was a footballer, a
cricketer and later a football referee and, in the autumn of his sporting
life, a cricket umpire. His only son would inherit the same zest for life
and passion for sport. They worked their 600-acre farm: barley, potatoes,
cattle, sheep and plenty else besides. The one part of the deal that the kid
disliked were the days and weeks spent snagging turnips. But there were
compensations, like seeing six newborn lambs in shoeboxes sitting on top of
the Aga cooker.
There was a big indoor barn where, in winter, the young boy would fasten down
a mat and practise his cricket. Football was just as loved and he dreamt of
playing for Carlisle United. He got as far as the reserves, but knew he was
a better cricketer and from the age of 18 the game was his life. Until, at
an age when he had accepted that the international game had passed him by,
they decided he was good enough.
He walks purposefully into the Marriott hotel, near Leicester, where he now
lives. Dressed in blue jeans, white shirt and a jacket, he looks healthy and
fit. Not seeing his interviewer, he sits down and orders a coffee. He does
not expect to be recognised and is surprised when officials from Leicester
City, in the company of the club’s new owner, Milan Mandaric, approach him.
They want Mandaric to meet Nixon.
“This is Paul Nixon,” they say, “who will be going off to the World Cup with
the England cricket team next week. Paul, this is Milan Mandaric, new owner
of Leicester City.” Nixon smiles, as much at the introduction as out of
natural politeness: “Paul Nixon, England cricketer” — he likes that.
It was mid-December when the phone rang. Michael Vaughan was on the other end
of the line. They became friends on the England tour to Pakistan and Sri
Lanka in 2000-01, so it wasn’t unusual for the England captain to call. They
spoke about this and that, then Vaughan got a little more serious. “Paul,”
he said, “I like what you’re about, so keep hitting cricket balls, keep in
shape and keep cricket-fit, because you never know. I don’t pick the team,
but maybe we need a Paul Nixon in Australia.” What had Vaughan seen that
tempted him to put a little hope into the still vulnerable heart of a
36-year-old?
Perhaps it was seeing the shameless madness of Nixon’s dedication on tour in
Sri Lanka five years before. After training in Kandy, the weary England
players, including Vaughan, filed on to the team bus. Somebody asked where
Nico was; another voice said he had decided to run back to the hotel, for a
bit of extra training. What kind of lunatic runs back to the hotel? “Only
the toughest,” thought Vaughan, and he never forgot that.
Eleven days before Christmas, David Graveney, chairman of the England
selectors, called. Nixon’s mind was elsewhere. There was his benefit year,
which would kick off with a big dinner at the Walkers stadium early in 2007,
and a property project in the Bahamas. “I am one of five people involved in
developing a 3,000 acre site on Long Island in the Bahamas,” he explained.
“It is an eight-year project that will include a marina, a golf course, a
hotel complex, which will be amazing, and more than 1,500 homes. We put the
first 340 sites up for sale a year ago and have already sold over 300. We’re
working with the Bahamas tourist people and we’re due to have a meeting with
the Bahamas prime minister in the next few weeks.”
So when the name Graveney appeared on the screen of his mobile phone, two
thoughts struck him: an invitation to the Hong Kong Sixes or, more likely,
some Lord’s Taverners work to be done. He hadn’t spoken to Graveney for
years. “Paul, I’ve got good news and not-so-good news,” he said. “Your
name’s in the hat for Australia and the one-day team, but we’ve not decided
yet. We’re going to send you all the kit and an airline ticket, just in case
you’re selected.” The kit came and sat unopened in a room at his home in
Leicester. If the next call from Graveney didn’t bring good news, he
wouldn’t open the gear. He thinks of the England blazer from the 2000-1 tour
that sits unloved in his wardrobe. Because he played only in warm-up
matches, the blazer meant nothing. He wasn’t an England player and couldn’t
ever wear it.
Graveney called again five days before Christmas and the news was good. “I put
on the shirt, then tried on the blazer. I phoned my mum and dad. Jen [his
wife] phoned her mum. The funny thing was that Dad was already in Australia,
supporting the England team. We Cumbrians love our sport; we don’t have big
clubs, we don’t have academies or other great facilities for our kids, but
when Carlisle United get into Europe, this is going to change.”
He lives on adrenaline, an endless supply secreted by his enthusiasm glands.
Martin Johnson, the rugby union legend, once shared a gymnasium with some
Leicester cricketers. Johnson had been sceptical about the amount of
training cricketers did, but excused them on the basis of what he saw as a
rather leisurely game. Then he noticed this one guy training harder than
everybody in the gym and asked who he was.
They said the guy’s name was Nixon and a sick bucket was left alongside him in
case any of his teammates attempted to join him. The guy was clearly a
nutter, but he had Johnson’s respect. “Why don’t you come and train with the
rugby boys?” said Johnson, framing the question to see if Nixon was a true
nutter. He said he would love to. A hint of a smile lit up Johnson’s face.
This guy was no fake. For two months, Nixon trained with the Leicester
Tigers.
“I wanted to do every drill, take part in every bit of contact, and I loved
it. A lot of the time when I was younger, I used to think I had too much
energy for cricket and that football and rugby suited me better. The
Leicester Tigers work so hard, but I was okay with most of it. It was the
scrums that nearly killed me. I packed down alongside Johnno in the first
eight [pack] and there were some very serious scrums against the second
eight. My body was twisted every way but it was great.”
That was what Michael Vaughan wanted in Australia and almost certainly what
England needed. He didn’t waste time Down Under. He knew, the Aussies knew,
everyone knew that he hadn’t been taken all that way just to squat behind
the stumps and ease his way into international cricket. He would be himself,
let his passion express itself and not be inhibited by the presence of
Australians. They were telling the cat to drink milk.
The best moment for him was the scene in the changing room at the Sydney
Cricket Ground before the Twenty20 game against Australia. “The stadium was
filling up,” he says, “the music was pumping, the umpires were walking out,
it was an amazing, blue-sky day and the three lions were on my chest. I am
standing alongside men like Michael Vaughan, Freddie Flintoff, Kevin
Pietersen and I'm going to play for my country. If I had never done another
thing after that, it would have been enough.”
England, of course, needed more from Nixon. Could he get under the skin of the
Aussies: be the mosquito around their heads, always buzzing but never
swatted? Once he got within talking distance of them, he was in his element.
“I am not a sledger, I don’t do that. All I do is drip-feed negativity into
a man’s brains. Whether you use physical stuff or technical stuff, you play
with their minds.”
Can he explain with reference to individual Australians?
“First thing I noticed, the Aussies were very stand-offish. They wouldn’t talk
to us, wouldn’t look at us, and it made me laugh. So I go all extreme, way
over the top. ‘Ah, Symo [Andrew Symonds], great to see you, mate. How’s
everyone, the family?’ And when the game starts, I get at him. ‘I know you,
Symo. If you edge me and I take the catch, I’m going to send you a copy of
the scorecard, to your home, every day for a year’.
“Ricky Ponting was harder, because he was in amazing form. ‘Ricky, I don’t
think you’re that good at picking up a slow ball’. But with Ponting, it’s
better to get his mind off the game, get him out of the present. ‘What about
the team for next week, Ricky, picked it yet? I saw those jazzy shoes you
had made for yourself, very cool’.”
Michael Clarke bristled when Nixon asked why he had changed the sticker on his
bat. “That old sticker, Michael, it was always lucky for you. The new one’s
not going to bring you the same luck, wait and you see.”
“Nixon,” replied Clarke, “you’re a club cricketer. Let’s have the club
cricketer who’s also a member of Dad’s Army.”
The challenge was eagerly accepted. “How’s it going to feel, Michael, to be
caught by a club cricketer? How. Is. That. Going. To. Feel? You know what,
you’re going to make a club cricketer’s day.”
On it went with Nico and his endless ebullience. It happened that England’s
form improved soon after his arrival, as if his very presence had put a
smile on people’s faces and helped them to find their better selves. It is a
wonderful, perhaps fanciful theory that will again be put to the test in the
World Cup next month.
New face in the England team
— Made his one-day international debut for England against Australia last
month, aged 36
— After 10 internationals he averages 11.6, with a best of 49 against
New Zealand. He has reached double figures only three times
— As a young player, he was competing for an international berth
alongside Jack Russell and Alec Stewart. He was Stewart’s understudy for the
2000-01 tours of Pakistan and Sri Lanka
— He is rated as the best player of the reverse sweep in the English
game and has been a key figure in Leicestershire’s success in the Twenty20 Cup
