Ross Taylor E-Book

Paul Thomas

• Herausgeber: Upstart
• Kategorie: Sachliteratur, Reportagen, Biografien
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

When an athlete with an exceptional record of achievement and longevity comes to the end of their career, the numbers can speak for themselves. Ross Taylor has scored the most runs, made the most centuries and taken the most catches by a New Zealander in international cricket. He's the first New Zealand cricketer to play 450 international matches. He's the first player from any country to make 100 international appearances in all three formats of the game: test cricket, one-day internationals and Twenty20. The numbers are extraordinary but they don't tell the whole story. They don't capture the unlikely, if not unique, aspects of Ross Taylor's journey to becoming one of our true sporting greats: * the part-Samoan youngster, brought up in humble circumstances and a loving and supportive family environment, who quickly made his mark in a predominantly white sport; * the dashing batsman who found fame and fortune amidst the glitz and glamour of the Indian Premier League, then adapted his game in order to realise his ambition of becoming a champion in the most demanding format, test cricket; * the young captain whose dream of leading his country turned into a nightmare that took a heavy toll on his well-being; * the resilient performer who overcame rejection and adversity to play a central role in New Zealand cricket's golden era. Here is the whole story - in black and white.

Leseprobe

A catalogue record for this book is available from the National Library of New Zealand

ISBN 978-1-990003-44-8

A Mower Book

Published in 2022 by Upstart Press Ltd

26 Greenpark Road, Penrose

Auckland 1061

New Zealand

Text © Ross Taylor 2022

The moral right of the author has been asserted.

Design and format © Upstart Press Ltd 2022

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

Designed by Nick Turzynski, redinc. book design, www.redinc.co.nz

Printed by 1010 Printing International Ltd, China

Jacket photographs

Front: Ross during the second test match between Australia and New Zealand at the Melbourne Cricket Ground, 28 December 2019.

Back: Ross on his way out to bat at the MCG on day three of the second test match between New Zealand and Australia, 28 December 2019.

PHOTOSPORT/GETTY

For Victoria, Mackenzie, Jonty and Adelaide and to all myfamily and friends, thanks for all your love and support —I couldn’t have done it without you.

Fa‘amanuia le Atua i la outou ta‘aaloga

(God bless this game)

Va‘ai lelei mata

(Literally: Use your eyes properly. Metaphorically: Stay focusedand keep your head in the game)

Fa‘amanuia i lau ta

(Good luck with your batting)

Fa‘apea foi tou au uma

(Good luck to the whole team as well)

Naoupu Taylor’s pre-game message to her son, Kelu (Ross)

Inside each of us there are two wolves.One is evil: it is anger, envy, greed, arrogance, self-pity,resentment, lies and ego.One is good: it is love, hope, humility, kindness, empathy,compassion, truth and faith.Which wolf wins? The one you feed.

TWO WOLVES: A Cherokee Legend

Contents

Foreword

Prelude: Redemption at the Rose Bowl

PART ONE: THE BOY FROM THE BUSH

1.What’s in a Name?

2.Going Places

3.Landing on my Feet

4.Foo (aka Black Cap 234)

PART TWO: SCAR TISSUE

5.Be Careful What You Wish For

6.Captain Cooked?

7.Blindsided

8.Forgive but don’t Forget

PART THREE: WELCOME TO MY WORLD

9.Eyeballs

10.Mind Game

11.Yellow Brick Road

12.Have Bat, Will Travel

13.Top Guns

14.Standing in my Shoes

PART FOUR: THE LONG GOODBYE

15.A Game of Inches

16.The Road to the Rose Bowl

17.Handle with Care

18.The Boys

19.Finishing Touches

Career Record

Acknowledgement

Foreword

Written just a few months before Martin Crowe passed away, this message was first read by Ross on the eve of the second test match between New Zealand and Australia at Perth in November 2015. His innings of 290 and 36 not out earned him the man of the match award.

Even if Ross hadn’t asked me to pen my feelings about his career, his quest for test centuries and his life in general, I would have done it anyway. Since he first cold-called me to talk about helping him with his game in 2006, I have naturally been inclined to want to offer guidance. Such is the nature of the man . . . I just wanted to be there for him. In a sense, he became the son I never had.

These words will hopefully enlighten those who are interested in knowing the deeper truth about Ross. It also gives me a chance to share my final words with him, to give him one last nudge, to thank him in the most grateful way for the experience of watching his maturity blossom.

What perhaps struck me most about Ross was his shyness — a characteristic that had sprung from his humble beginnings. That reserve, though, was accompanied by a warm smile and a genuine care for others around him. His loving upbringing was obvious.

Not so obvious, though, was how quickly and how badly his calm world would become flipped upside down. The depths of despair he would endure following his mean-spirited removal as the national cricket captain in late 2012 cut deeper than most people would have ever imagined.

For the first time in his life, he experienced overwhelming anger, resentment and mistrust. Trust had never been a problem for Ross. But, in a flash, all that was gone — such was the rotten odour that permeated his gunning down.

Three years on, Ross responded earnestly and proudly. He kept his head up and achieved more extraordinary feats with bat in hand, all for the team cause. Alas, all that came with a heavy toll. The effort to stay positive and to try to believe again in the meaning of trust exhausted his reserves. During the 2015 Cricket World Cup he was desperately trying to ignite another burner, to get the fire in the belly once more, but it never quite came.

As I write this, Ross is on the wrong side of thirty. He will have had to decide whether he wants to carve out one further rich period, one more fitting chapter to finish his days as one of our finest batsmen. Part of that will have involved remaining disciplined in his physical conditioning, his speed of foot and his endurance — all to enable him to push on and cement his name consistently among the top ten test batsmen in the world.

Perhaps to truly do so, Ross needs to chip off the remaining barnacles of an incident that must never be allowed to define him or steer him from his commitment and deep love of the game. All this so he can finish with a satisfied heart.

And yet, this is not so important. The centuries aren’t the aim any more, for he will at some stage own, or be close to owning, the record for most international centuries for his country. No, the fundamental truth is to find a balance that will carry his love of playing the game through to the end. There is a big picture at play.

It is just sport. And while it’s a privilege and luxury to be able to flirt with this great game, it’s nothing like the realities of life. It is as a loving and protective husband, father, son and friend that Ross’s peace and fulfilment will ultimately lie. Balancing the real with the lure to chase a game will be his challenge, and the making of him. His beautiful, naturally constructed home life will always be his foundation. No longer will he be rocked and shocked by the frenzied ego on tour. His humble upbringing will ensure he always heads back to the core of who he really is.

Essentially, Ross reveals his deepest truth when reaching a century. He stands modestly still, with arms aloft and tongue sticking out. It is done as a symbol of thanks to his family, friends and fans. It shows his gratefulness for the role he played in entertaining them . . . In that symbolic moment, his grace of character is on display. He has the respect, admiration and love of New Zealanders and many others around the globe.

As I write these final words, I wonder, with so much of his journey still to come, how it will all end up for him.

My sense is that he will pace himself, lifting massively at times, and all the while carve out that legacy he has longed for since day one. This will allow his true worth, as a New Zealander with strong values, to define him. Deep down, that will please Ross.

I trust in him.

Martin Crowe,Auckland, 12 November 2015

Prelude: Redemption at the Rose Bowl

At dinner the night before the World Test Championship (WTC) final against India at the Rose Bowl in Southampton, I shared a Covid-protocol table for two with Kane Williamson. He asked me how I was going. Usually, when people ask that question, they don’t want or expect a detailed analysis of your mental, physical and emotional state. They’re really just saying “G’day”. And we respond in kind with something like, “Oh, not too bad. Yourself?” But on the eve of what was probably the biggest game of our lives, neither of us was in the mood for idle chitchat.

I’d played 442 games for New Zealand, including 107 test matches. I’d been through form troughs and pressure periods and a traumatic episode that reverberated for years afterwards. I was a highly experienced, resilient campaigner who’d learned how to get through the tough times. Experience is an asset, but there’s a downside: some of it is experience of failure. You know things can go wrong; indeed, you know things can go wrong in ways you never imagined. That sort of experience can instil a fear of failure which is inhibiting, whereas youthful naivety can be liberating. That’s why selectors in team sports talk about that desirable mix of youth and experience.

I said, “Well, not great, but I’m trying to hang in there.”

And Kane said, “I was just asking to initiate a conversation, because I feel like I’m going to get out every ball.”

We were coming off a test series win in England, our first since 1999. I’d gone into that series not in the best of form, head space or shape — I had a calf muscle injury. I was 37 years old and some in the media were starting to question my place in the team. More to the point, I’d been dropped from the Black Caps Twenty20 team and sensed that those who’d made that decision weren’t necessarily inclined to stop there.

Kane asked how I’d approached facing England’s world-class seam and swing bowling combination Jimmy Anderson and Stuart Broad, in overcast conditions and armed with the bowler-friendly Duke ball, in the second test at Edgbaston. I said, “Do you really want to know?” He did, so I told him what was going through my mind as I waited to bat.

To put it bluntly, I was crapping myself. Head coach Gary Stead was on the other side of the room. I was looking at him, thinking, ‘He wants me gone but doesn’t want to get crucified in the media for dropping me.’ I was looking at batting coach Luke Ronchi, thinking, ‘He doesn’t know how I’m going to score my next run.’

Even my wife Victoria had had a go at me, telling me to pull myself together and front up. She had a gut feeling we were going to win the WTC final but could see this scenario unfolding: I don’t perform against England; I don’t get picked for the final; we win; I never get over it. Victoria doesn’t tell me what to do very often, but this time she didn’t hold back. I didn’t enjoy it one little bit, but maybe I needed it.

Devon Conway had made 200 on debut in the first test at Lord’s, compelling evidence that he had the game and the mind for test cricket. Will Young had come in from scoring runs in county cricket and was out in the middle playing well. Generation Next was becoming Generation Now in front of our eyes. The clouds were rolling in. In that series the older ball swung more than the new one so the best time to bat was at the start of the innings. The innings and the ball were 40 overs old.

Kane didn’t play at Edgbaston because of injury. I told him, “When you walked past me as I was waiting to bat, I seriously contemplated tapping you on the shoulder and asking, ‘Kane, if I don’t get any runs here, are you still going pick me for the final?’” (In international cricket, the captain tends to have a big say in selection. As it was, I ended up getting 80.)

He pissed himself. I’d never seen him laugh so much.

We spent 40 minutes talking about our form, our issues, what we were thinking and feeling. We went through the things you do to overcome self-doubt, to get yourself through bad patches, to find a way to survive and prosper. I suspect Kiwi cricket fans would have been aghast if they’d known that, on the eve of the WTC final, their number three and four, their most experienced batters and highest run-scorers, were telling each other how insecure they were. But it was a fantastic conversation that set the stage for what was about to unfold.

We’d had the better preparation. India were a little underdone but, the way we looked at it, they were in the same position as we’d been going into the Lord’s test in which we performed pretty well. In the build-up, Indian coach Ravi Shastri and captain Virat Kohli argued that the WTC should be decided by a three-match series, rather than a one-off final. When I saw them saying that, I thought, ‘We’re a chance here.’ Putting that message out into the media came across to us as getting your excuses in early.

With the Duke ball, overhead conditions have more of a bearing on proceedings than the surface. The long-range weather forecast was for rain. We’d spent 10 days in Southampton leading into the England series and the forecast had been spot on every day. A spinner plays more of a holding role than an attacking one in damp, overcast conditions, whereas a fourth seamer or seam-bowling all-rounder aren’t bowling dead overs. Steady asked me, “What’s your team?” I said, “Four seamers and Colin [de Grandhomme].” He said, “Yeah, that’s our thinking too.” If the sun came out, there would’ve been a case for playing Ajaz Patel, but I didn’t think Kyle Jamieson was quite good enough at that stage to bat at seven, which he would have done had Ajaz played.

So, we were happily surprised that India picked two spinners. As it turned out, we took runs off Ravichandran Ashwin and Ravindra Jadeja, then Kyle [Jamieson] and Tim Southee smacked their seamers around. It wasn’t that conditions were easier, but their three quicks had bowled a lot of overs. With a fourth seamer, you lessen the load so guys come back fresher for their third and fourth spells. No doubt about it, batting would have been harder work for us if they’d taken in another quick. They didn’t make the same mistake in their subsequent series against England.

The first day was completely washed out, as was the fourth. The toss was a big deal: the batters were mighty pleased that Kane won it and we were bowling first. I’d never heard a New Zealand cricket team sing the national anthem the way we did before that game — we sounded like a team that was well and truly up for the battle. I’m not sure we would have sung quite so lustily if we’d been going out to bat.

But I thought Tim Southee and Trent Boult were nervous and didn’t bowl particularly well to begin with. It wasn’t what we’d become used to from them. I put it down to a combination of the occasion, the Duke ball and the pressure of expectation from the team. In the first 20 overs, Rohit Sharma and Shubman Gill put on 62 at three runs an over, which was well over par in the conditions. Kyle and Neil Wagner gained a measure of control and Tim and Boulty settled down in their second spells, concentrating on line and length rather than trying to bowl miracle balls. India’s total of 217 was too many; we should have held them to 150-odd given the wicket and conditions.

There were times during that game when we would have been off the field if it had been just another test match: the outfield was too wet and the light wasn’t good enough. But it was the inaugural World Test Championship final and there was a lot at stake, not just for the two teams taking part.

At stumps on day two, the first day of play, India were 146/3 with Kohli 44 not out. The next morning the outfield was really wet and wasn’t going to dry in a hurry: there was no wind, no sun and the lights were on. We would have been happy to have walked off. Kane went up to Kohli and said, “Mate, this is wet, what do you reckon? Do you think we should be out here?” Virat just shrugged and said, “It is what it is.” I have no idea what his mindset was: maybe he was thinking ‘If we can get the ball into this wet outfield, it’s going be hard to bowl with it.’ Or maybe, ‘I want to bat and I don’t need the opposition captain talking to me about the conditions.’

Or maybe he knew what the powers that be were thinking. The umpires told Kane that they were getting directions ‘from above’ — presumably the International Cricket Council (ICC) — along the lines of, ‘If it’s not raining, you’re playing, regardless of how wet the outfield is.’ Once it became clear that the umpires weren’t calling the shots, we knew we just had to get on with it. You could see it from the ICC’s perspective: it had taken two years to get to the first-ever test championship final so not to have a winner would have been a major anticlimax. It didn’t work for Kohli though — he was out without adding to his overnight score.

Like Twickenham, the Rose Bowl complex includes a hotel. It was the first time I’d ever stayed at the ground for the duration of a test match. It was quite nice to be able to switch off when it was raining, especially because I was nought not out for two days. When you’re not out during a weather break that might last half an hour or half the day, it’s hard to switch off sitting in a changing room. Being in my hotel room watching TV was much more relaxing.

Michael Gough, one of the umpires, was in the next room. I’d open my curtains in the morning, see him out on his balcony and say, “Any chance?” He’d say, “Go back to bed, Ross.” Even if you’re staying only a few kilometres from the venue, you can’t be sure that what you see out your hotel room window is what’s happening at the ground. When the texts came in from my family asking when play was likely to start, I could tell them to go to bed — no play today.

BJ Watling, who was playing his last game, and I had our own changing room — the geriatric ward. Because of Covid and the restrictions on spectator numbers, we had the whole side of the building to ourselves but, being superstitious and having scored an ODI century at the Rose Bowl, I had to sit in the same seat. So, it was just BJ and me up in the normal changing room; everyone else was down in a makeshift changing room in the hospitality area. But then our bowlers can’t sit still during run-of-the-mill games so they’d come up to watch with us.

In our first innings, Kane and I batted together for 14 overs, advancing the score by 16 runs. He was struggling and I probably let our painfully slow progress get to me. After drinks I tried to get things moving but played a loose shot and Gill took a good catch at mid-off. In the 2015 ODI World Cup final, I got out nicking a slower ball from James Faulkner — to this day I don’t know how I did it. In the 2019 final I was given out lbw when it was going over the top of the stumps but we’d lost our referral. On both occasions I walked off knowing that was it: I wouldn’t get a second chance. This time I walked off thinking, ‘I’m going to get another bat; I’d better make the most of it.’ That was how I dealt with it: I was disappointed but didn’t beat myself up too much.

We were 100 behind and going at less than two runs an over. I was thinking that if India had a good spell and knocked a couple more over, we’d be under the pump. Which is pretty much what happened. I said to Steady, “We need to play some shots here; we can’t die in a hole.” “Yeah,” he said, “we’ll suss something at the break.” First ball after lunch, Colin smacked a cover drive for four. That set the tone. It sent a message that we were going to be positive and it took a bit of pressure off Kane.

The shackles loosened. Kyle and Kane put on 30 as did Tim and Kane, with the bowlers throwing the bat. Then Tim and Boulty put on 15 for the last wicket, valuable runs in a low-scoring game. The change of approach was the key: if we’d kept blocking it, we’d have been bowled out for 180 which would have put us behind the eight ball. Instead, we led by 32. Kane batted almost five hours for 49 but, crucially, he was still there for those partnerships with the lower order.

The game was extended to six days. Late on day five Tim got the big wicket of Rohit. It was quite dark, with less than 20 minutes till stumps, so we assumed they’d send out a nightwatchman. But out came the big gun: Kohli. In the slip cordon we were saying, “Is this a good idea? Is it an ego play or what?” Straightaway, Tim hit him on the helmet. I chased it to the boundary, the first time I’d really stretched out since injuring my calf. I was thinking, ‘One more day to go, surely the calf is up to it.’

I was intrigued that Virat had opted to come out to bat. Most top-order batters would have a nightwatchman in less challenging conditions and when the stakes were nowhere near as high. I know Virat pretty well, having played with him at Bangalore in the Indian Premier League, so I thought, ‘Bugger it, I’m going to ask.’ I went up to him and said, “Virat, no nightwatchman?” He was amped up, feeling the heat of battle. He snarled, “I’m better than the f----n nightwatchman.” It came out like, “I’m better than the F----N nightwatchman.”

I started laughing, thinking, ‘Fair play to you, mate, fair play to you.’ He realised it was me, and that it had been a genuine question rather than a sledge, and started laughing too. I got into the slip cordon and told the boys what he’d said. It was hilarious but also an insight into his mindset. I’d have a nightwatchman every day of the week but, if I ever become a coach, I’ll tell anyone who wants one, “No way. In the WTC final Virat Kohli said, ‘I’m better than the f---n nightwatchman,’ so get out there.” He survived till stumps, but KJ picked him up, for the second time in the game, early the next morning,

A few months earlier in Australia we’d seen what Rishabh Pant could do with the bat so my heart sank when Tim dropped him just as he was starting to look threatening. When we were in Sri Lanka in August 2019, Tim had poked fun at Boulty for standing on the boundary rope when he’d caught Ben Stokes in the World Cup final. Tom Latham had been gobbling them up at second slip but Tim, who has a great pair of hands and has taken some terrific catches in the cordon, prefers fielding in the slips to boundary riding, especially when he’s bowling. No slip catch is easy, and this one came pretty fast, but I couldn’t help thinking, ‘You want to take those in a World Cup final.’ We’ve all been there and it’s not a great place: the last thing you want is another catch coming to you. Tim started edging closer to me. We got so tight that I said, “Don’t worry about it, mate — just catch the next one.” But every two or three balls he’d edge a fraction closer.

I was running scenarios in my head. If they got a lead of 180 or 200, then both sides would be in the game: it’s the WTC final so you’re going to go for it, but that would give them a better chance of winning than if we put up the shutters. Pant charged Boulty, looking to smash it over mid-on. The bat turned in his hands, he sliced it and the ball went sky high square of the wicket on the off side. I didn’t register that Henry Nicholls had called for it; I just saw Devon running the other way and thought, ‘Oh no, it’s going to drop in no-man’s-land.’ Henry, running back from gully, took an amazing catch. The TV footage simply doesn’t capture the degree of difficulty.

The umpires called drinks and a few of us ran off for a toilet break. Henry and Tom overtook me. I thought, ‘Fair enough, their need must be greater than mine.’ There were three toilets; the middle one — the most convenient — was vacant. Nice of them to leave it for the old boy. I had sunglasses on but could still see things weren’t proceeding the way that nature and Thomas Crapper, the English engineer who played a significant role in the development of the modern toilet, intended: my pee was coming straight back at me. Someone had put Glad Wrap over the bowl and I was getting serious splashback. “Oh f--k,” I yelled, “who did this?”

Henry and Tom were cracking up in the other cubicles. When I emerged, the support staff eyed me warily, wondering how I’d react. I said, “Who was it?” Someone said, “I think it was Riaan,” meaning high performance logistics manager Riaan Muller. I said, “Riaan, was it you?” He said, “Maybe.” “All good, mate,” I said. “A bit of a laugh.” But manager Mike ‘Roman’ Sandle was sensible enough to deactivate the little booby trap before it claimed another victim. I very much doubt Kane would have seen the funny side of it if it had happened to him just before he went into bat. For that matter, I probably wouldn’t have seen the funny side if I’d just taken a catch.

Which I did immediately after the resumption — a straightforward one, off Ashwin. I was the only one in the cordon so I was probably at one and a half and it came at a nice height, just on my inside. In the huddle there was no talk about the game situation: it was all about my wee misadventure. A bit of light relief probably wasn’t a bad thing because the game had reached squeaky-bum time.

We bowled India out for 170 which meant we were 139 runs away from being crowned the first-ever world champions of test cricket. I went in to join Kane at 44/2 in the 17th over. We chipped away at the target; Kane was much more fluent than in the first innings which helped me out because I was hanging in there. I got hit on the head by Jasprit Bumrah. Getting ‘sconed’ by a bouncer isn’t an unexpected outcome. After all, the bowler intended to get the ball head high or, to put it another way, the bowler was aiming for your head. But when you get hit there by a ball that wasn’t that short, you’re left wondering: did it take off or did I get it wrong? When Kane came down to check on me, I said I’d felt I needed to get forward to it. He assured me I’d read it right — the ball had just taken off.

Our physio, Tommy, came out to take me through the concussion procedure: Do you know what ground this is? The Rose Bowl. Do you know who you are playing? India. What’s the score? We’re not far away from winning. I told him it felt exactly like when I got hit by England’s Liam Plunkett in Cardiff in 2017. “Well, if you can remember that,” Tommy said, “there’s nothing wrong with you.”

People must wonder what physios say to batters in that situation. Tommy was probably supposed to get me to recite the months of the year backwards, which some people couldn’t do at the best of times, let alone when they’ve been nailed on the melon. But the fact that I could remember getting hit at the 2017 Champion’s Trophy was good enough for him.

On that occasion, my focus was on getting as far forward as possible to the next one. I wasn’t going to act scared and hang on the back foot. Better to get out than look scared and feel like you’d bottled it. Given the circumstances, I wasn’t quite so gungho this time, but Bumrah’s follow-up was another back of a length delivery. If he’d bounced me, he probably would have pinned me again and I’d have had Tommy out there asking me the same questions. Or maybe not.

Partnerships are the key to chasing down a modest total. The bowling team needs to take wickets at regular intervals to maintain belief, build momentum and create a bit of panic in the batting team’s dressing room. Conversely, a productive partnership erodes the bowling team’s belief that they really have a chance of pulling it off. The longer the partnership lasts, the more the arithmetic shifts in the batting team’s favour. Then the finish line comes into view and, suddenly, you’re coming home with a wet sail. Kane and I put on 96, including 14 boundaries, which was as many as India hit in their entire second innings.

It’s hard to express how rewarding it was to hit the winning runs and for the two of us to be there at the end and walk off together. That iconic photo captures us savouring the moment in a typically Kiwi way: down to earth but heartfelt. I said, “Well, we’re bloody world champions and no one can take that away.” Kane grabbed me and said, “F--k, yeah.” That’s as emotional as he ever gets.

There was a good contingent of New Zealand fans in the Rose Bowl. They were singing the Cranberries song, “Zombie” with slightly different words: “He’s in your hea-ead, in your hea-ead, Conway, Conway, Conway.” Or: “We’re in your hea-ead, in your hea-ead, Kohli, Kohli, Kohli.” I was doing media in the changing room; the boys were in a huddle, singing along with the Kiwi supporters. When I joined the huddle, they broke into, “Ooh, aah, Ross Taylor.” Kane and I performed a duet of “Islands in the Stream”: “And the message is clear: this could be the year — for the real thing.” (Just for the record, I was Kenny and he was Dolly.)

I’ve never seen the Black Caps drink as much gin as on that trip — Colin has a mate who’s the boss of a big distillery. But despite being inundated with quality New Zealand product, it was a comparatively subdued celebration: I sat next to Kane drinking chardonnay, talking to home — Victoria, Mum and Dad and my long-time manager Leanne McGoldrick — and just letting it sink in. It was equal parts elation and relief: to have lost a third World Cup final would have been unbearable.

It wasn’t a messy night. I definitely had a sorer head after the 2019 World Cup final after-party down in the Long Room. The fact that there weren’t many partners or family there because of Covid probably had something to do with it. KJ and Devon were staying on to play county cricket so their partners were there, as was Kane’s wife Sarah, who’s English. That was about it.

For the first time I didn’t make a point of responding to messages. I just decided to enjoy the moment. Previously, when I’d made runs or we’d won big games, I’d felt duty-bound to reply promptly. I had over 600 messages. When we got home, I ploughed through them in MIQ (quarantine), but apologies if all you got by way of a reply was “Thank you.”

I didn’t feel physically tired but mentally I was shot. About 2.30 in the morning I fell asleep talking to my best cricketing mate Martin Guptill. I said, “Mate, I’ve got to go to bed, I’m cooked.” I pulled the sheets over me and went out like a light. I was still in my whites.

We got all our shirts signed but two of mine went missing. I told Mike Sandle who said, “Oh, funny that Kane’s missing two shirts as well.” For both of us to have a couple of shirts go missing suggests it wasn’t a coincidence — maybe they’ll turn up on eBay or Trade Me one day. I was and still am annoyed, not because I wanted mementoes, but they could have gone to a good cause. Tim sold one for over $40,000 to help a young cancer sufferer. At least I’ve still got the shirt I fell asleep in.

I’d signed to play for Derbyshire after the final. Victoria had encouraged me to do so on the reasonable grounds that I was getting towards the end of my career and there wouldn’t be many more of those opportunities. But there was to-ing and fro-ing over getting an MIQ spot. After the first day got rained off, we pulled the pin on the Derbyshire gig: I needed to focus on the final and the uncertainty around MIQ was a distraction. In hindsight, I’m very glad we made that call. With the final going to a sixth day, I would’ve been playing for Derbyshire in Birmingham the day after winning the World Test Championship. That would have been a challenge.

(During the home series against the West Indies in 2017, I was having a drink with their coach, Stuart Law, the former Australian batsman. We got onto the subject of English county cricket. Stuart, who’d played for a few counties, said, “You always go to Derbyshire when your career is on the wane; that’s the last club you go to.” I thought, ‘Oh, that’s handy: if I ever get to Derbyshire, I’ll know the end is nigh.’

A month or so later I found myself sitting next to Tom Harrison, the chief executive of the England and Wales Cricket Board, on a flight out of Dunedin. When I realised that he’d played county cricket, I passed on what Stuart Law had said. Tom seemed to find that interesting. Then I asked the question I should have asked before I thought of sharing Stuart’s theory: “Where did you play your county cricket?” The answer, of course, was Derbyshire. I was very apologetic, but he just laughed.)

I had a few champagnes in the lounge at Heathrow and a few more on the plane. I’m not a big champagne drinker, but it seemed appropriate. It was a strange state of mind to be in: on a high but not ecstatic because you know you’re heading for MIQ. Roman must have got sick of being asked, “Do we know what hotel we’re in?” We had business class to ourselves so I had the speakers out, but it was as if the pilot was determined to keep a lid on things: every time we congregated in one area, we’d hit turbulence. In Singapore we found out we were going to the Sebel in Manukau. Roman allocated the two available suites to me and Tim on the grounds of seniority. Age has its consolations.

Two hours out of Auckland the pace battery — Boulty, Wags and Tim — woke everybody up and started pouring Baileys. It was like, “Morning, boys, get this down you and enjoy quarantine.” It was decided that BJ would look after the trophy for two weeks. He didn’t get much say in the matter.

It wasn’t until we left MIQ and got out among the public that the significance of what we’d achieved really hit home. There was the same sort of thing after the 2019 World Cup and beating the Aussies in Hobart in 2011 — people shaking your hand in the supermarket and cafés — but this time it was still happening six months later. I think for players and fans alike there was a sense of karma, a feeling that winning the test championship made up for 2019. We had our share of luck in the WTC, but the cricketing gods did us no favours at Lord’s.

I felt for Martin Guptill, who’d played in the 2015 and 2019 finals, and Mitchell Santner. Mitch played at Lord’s, got a duck and didn’t bowl particularly well. He had a finger injury so was rested for the Edgbaston test; Ajaz Patel took his place and bowled beautifully. We were restricted to a squad of 15 for the Rose Bowl so Mitch missed out on being part of the final and sharing that historic moment, despite playing an important role in getting us there.

As we were soaking it up in the dressing room afterwards, I told Kane that I’d loved the conversation we’d had the night before the game. He said, “Yeah, mate.” That was our sign-off. One week from that conversation to walking off together as world champions. How strange and sometimes wonderful this game of cricket is.

PART ONE:

THE BOY FROM THE BUSH

Chapter 1.

What’s in a Name?

My full name is Luteru Ross Poutoa Lote Taylor. My mother Naoupu — also known as Ann — is Samoan. She had 13 brothers and sisters and, when she was 15, her widowed and slightly overwhelmed mother sent her down here to live with one of her brothers. My father Neil is a Pakeha New Zealander. I’m half and half: black and white. I grew up equally comfortable with both parts of my identity, equally at home in both cultures.

My sisters Rebecca, Elianna and Maria also have multiple names and Mum made sure we understood the significance of all of them. In my case, Luteru — the Samoan equivalent of Luther — was the name of the minister at the Samoan church in Wainuiomata. Ross is my paternal grandmother’s maiden name; her family came from Scotland. Poutoa refers to our connection to the old Samoan royal family and Lote is a diminutive of my maternal grandfather’s name.

The first leg of the flight home from the Caribbean is from Port of Spain, Trinidad to Houston, Texas. I’m always a bit nervous going through an American airport. You feel guilty, even though there’s no reason you should. The officials and cops look at you with an expression that seems to say, ‘You may think you’ve got no reason to be worried, but we know better.’ One immigration officer studied my passport for a while. “That’s a long name,” he said. “I can see this is a New Zealand passport but are you an Aborigine?” “No,” I said, “my mother is from Samoa.” “Oh,” he said, “so you’re Samonian.” Once he remembered that Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson is also Samonian we were all good.

At home, I was called Luteru or “Kelu”, the familiar variation. Mum and my grandmother went with me on my first day of school. The principal struggled to pronounce Luteru — this was 1989 when there probably weren’t many Pacific Islanders in Masterton — so Grandma Sylvia said, “Just call him Ross.” I’d never been called Ross, but I’ve been Ross ever since. Sports writer Dylan Cleaver once wrote on espncricinfo: “Ross Taylor. Three clipped syllables. So very Anglo. So very middle New Zealand, but that’s not who Taylor is. That person is a figment.”

(New Zealand Cricket made all my bookings in the name of Luteru Taylor because that’s what appears on my passport and various other forms of documentation and ID. It confused more than a few taxi drivers and hotel staff over the years.)

Mum reckons I could’ve been called “Wainui”. There wasn’t a Samoan church in Masterton, so we often went down to Wellington, where some of Mum’s brothers and sisters lived, to attend services. (We also went to my grandparents’ church in Masterton; between them, the two sides of my family ensured I had a religious upbringing.) Mum went to Wainuiomata for a weekend and I arrived early. I was scheduled for April but born in Lower Hutt on 8 March 1984. The umbilical cord got wrapped around my neck three times but, luckily, there was an experienced nurse on duty.

Dad’s a true-blue Masterton/Wairarapa man: to this day, he gets annoyed whenever a journalist or commentator mentions that I was born in Lower Hutt. My sisters were all born in Masterton.

We often spoke Samoan at home. Mum wanted us to speak and understand the language so that we remained connected to our Samoan heritage and identity. Every time a Samoan made the All Blacks, Mum would come up with a family connection, no matter how tenuous. It was like she was trying to prove the proposition that all Samoans are related. Whenever it happened, we’d ask, “So how are we related to this guy, Mum?” It never failed to crack us up.

However, Mum and Eroni Clarke actually are cousins. When Eroni — in just his first year in the All Blacks — played against Ireland at Athletic Park in 1992, Mum’s sister Aunty Tu — short for Tualupetu — asked him for tickets to the game, but he’d already given his allocation away. He managed to get a couple of tickets off Michael Jones and Aunty Tu suggested to Mum and Dad that they should send me down to Wellington for the game. So, eight-year-old me caught the train from Masterton to Wellington by myself. It was a journey I’d made many times and Mum and Dad knew the conductor who kept an eye on me. But how times have changed: nowadays, most parents — and Victoria and I are in this category — wouldn’t let their eight-year-olds go to the dairy by themselves.

I watched my first All Blacks test sitting next to Zinzan Brooke, who was very nice. His brother Robin played his first game for the All Blacks that day. It was the last test with four-point tries, but that didn’t stop the All Blacks rattling up 59 points to Ireland’s six. Those were the days when the All Blacks simply didn’t lose to Ireland.

Togi Lote and her sister Upu, who played for the New Zealand softball team for years, were probably our closest cousins. When I was 10 and they were 16 or 17, their older brother Norman Lote decided I was soft and set about hardening me up, basically by using me as a tackling bag. “We’re just hardening you up for cricket, mate,” they’d say. Eventually, for self-preservation, I’d put my knee up just before I was tackled. You’d get red-carded for that now. Fast forward a couple of decades and they’re telling me that facing Brett Lee bowling 155 kph is a piece of cake compared to being steamrollered by them in the backyard. I’ve never needed to worry about getting too big for my boots because my family, immediate and extended, would have brought me down a peg or two in a big hurry.

Dad was a factory worker while Mum worked at the New Zealand Housing Corporation. When she was made redundant things started to change. Money had always been an issue but after that it got really tight. Mum’s second job was cleaning the Work and Income premises. I’d go there after school to help her by cleaning toilets and sinks and getting rid of rubbish. I used to clean 10 or 15 toilets a day. As I got older, I came to understand what Mum and Dad had to do to make ends meet and the sacrifices they were making for their children. Later, whenever cricket wasn’t much fun, I always tried to put things in perspective by thinking back to those days.

Mum was the disciplinarian; if Dad got involved it meant you’d done something pretty bad. His parenting rules were: no drugs, no motorbikes and take your time when batting. He had a cousin who was left paralysed after falling off a motorbike, which affected Dad profoundly.

Mum says I was “a real boy” by which I think she means a real handful. She tells a story about looking for the belt when I’d been naughty and me saying, “It died so I buried it.” They found it when they dug up the potato garden. Maria, on the other hand, reckons I was a “Mama’s boy” and got away with stuff my sisters wouldn’t have dreamed of trying.

I got bullied on my first day at school. When I told Mum about it, she said that, if it happened again, I should hit back with whatever was at hand. As it turned out, it happened again after I’d been playing tennis so I grabbed a racquet and whacked my tormentor on the nose.

The principal rang Mum at work to say I was in his office and in hot water, could she come in? When she arrived, she asked me, “What have you done, Ross?” I said, “I hit him, just like you told me to.” Some mothers might’ve taken exception to being thrown under a bus. Not mine: she told the principal that, yes, she had instructed me to stick up for myself; if the teachers couldn’t protect little kids from being bullied, what choice did they have? Apparently, the mother of the kid who wore my cross-court forehand wasn’t happy.

Mum taught me the rudiments of cooking, just like her father had taught her. She and Dad worked long hours so Rebecca and I often had to feed ourselves, which meant making do with whatever was in the cupboard: bread, eggs, spaghetti and, occasionally, corned beef. When cheese became an option, we got a bit more ambitious and creative. That’s probably where my love of cooking comes from.

I had three hugely influential relatives on Dad’s side: his mum, Grandma Sylvia, her husband, Grandad Jack, and my great-aunty who we called Aunty Mary. They were our babysitters when Mum and Dad were at work — there was always shortbread in their cupboards — and they funded a lot of the trips to hockey and cricket tournaments that my parents couldn’t afford. I was really close to Grandma Sylvia who was a very special person and a big part of my life. She died when I was on the fateful tour of Sri Lanka in 2012, making it a doubly devastating blow. Aunty Mary died during the equally grim West Indies tour earlier that year.

Grandma Sylvia loved cricket. She was my biggest supporter. She drummed two things into me: be humble and, at the start of an innings, look for a single down the ground to get under way. Towards the end of their lives, she and Jack struggled to see the ball when they watched live cricket so they’d listen to the radio commentary.

In December 2006, Grandma Sylvia and Dad were watching an ODI against Sri Lanka at McLean Park in Napier. My run a ball 128 not out was overshadowed by Sanath Jayasuriya’s 111 off 83 deliveries. One of his five sixes was heading straight for Sylvia but fortunately a guy sitting in front of her jumped up and caught it. She hadn’t seen it coming so was blissfully unaware that she was in harm’s way.

Grandad Jack, whose name was actually Raymond, had been a chicken farmer and still kept chickens. He’d enter his best birds in the various Wairarapa competitions in my name: he did the work; I got the glory in the form of ribbons and certificates. Of course, I claimed I’d made a crucial contribution but in fact I did next to nothing.

Grandad Jack hadn’t been much of a sportsman — my uncles reckoned he scored one try in his life and that was only because his teammates pushed him onto the ball in goal. Grandma Sylvia, though, had an impressive sporting pedigree: her father, my great-grandfather, played rugby league for Australia. He was a Canterbury farmer and a good enough rugby player to actually represent the union. He later went to North Queensland on a working holiday. The family knew he’d played league for Queensland but had no idea that he’d played one game for Australia — against New Zealand Māori — until a rugby league historian discovered it.

The story broke in the Sydney Morning Herald when we were playing a test at the Sydney Cricket Ground. My Uncle John was at the game and there wasn’t anyone at the SCG more surprised than him. I walked past Nathan Lyon when he was batting. “I always knew you were a good bugger, Ross,” he said. “Now it all makes sense — you’re one of us.” Talking to Dad and my uncles, I still find it amazing that their grandfather never told them he played for Australia. Whether he was being humble or just didn’t think it was a big deal, no one knows.

In a sense, Nathan’s call wasn’t entirely fanciful. Growing up, I loved watching the cricket from Australia; in fact, I probably preferred the cricket across the ditch given that a golden era in Australian cricket was unfolding before our eyes. I can remember watching that famous one-day international in Hobart in 1990 when Chris Pringle bowled a maiden with Australia needing two runs off the last over. I dreamt of playing at those fabled grounds — the Gabba, the SCG, the MCG, the Adelaide Oval. (My favourite Aussie ground would be the “old” Adelaide Oval; I don’t like it as much now with the big new stands.)

I don’t know whether I would have played cricket if Dad hadn’t been keen on it. He was a decent cricketer, good enough to be picked in a North Island junior school team with future internationals Bruce Edgar and, coincidentally given our future relationship, Ian Smith. I loved watching him play for the Lansdowne Club.

I can remember being five or six and counting down the hours till my first game of cricket. I’d been to practice and turned up keen as mustard on the Saturday, only to find the rest of the team were no-shows. Tears were shed. I ended up playing with older kids, as often happens in small towns and rural areas. In terms of my development, I firmly believe that playing as much as I did against kids who were older and better than me was a massive help. Dad claims to remember the very first ball I bowled. Apparently, I came off the long run thinking I was Richard Hadlee and rattled the stumps.

The problem was my sisters weren’t that interested in cricket. The solution was a hockey ball in a hockey sock on a string suspended from a branch of the kowhai tree in front of our house. As an 11– or 12-year-old, I would hit that ball for three or four hours a day. One night I was still hitting at 9.30; the guy across the road, fortunately a good mate of Dad’s, yelled, “That’s enough, Ross — go to bed.” Without knowing it, I was teaching myself how to bat. If I hit the ball too hard, it would swing up and get stuck in the tree so I had to develop a bit of touch. I did it partly to pass time — we didn’t have Sky TV at that stage and had to go to Aunty Mary’s to watch the Hurricanes or any big sports event — and partly because I enjoyed it. It absorbed me. When the kowhai lost its main branches in the big winds that hit Masterton in 2021, Mum and Dad rang to deliver the bad news. They were quite upset because of the fond memories attached to that tree.

I also played kilikiti in inter-church games in Newtown with my cousins and uncle. English missionaries introduced cricket to Samoa in the early nineteenth century and kilikiti evolved into Samoa’s distinctive take on the game. There’s no limit to the size of teams — basically whoever turns up, regardless of age or gender, plays — and the rules are pretty flexible. Supposedly, the only hard and fast rule is that the host team forfeits the game if they can’t provide enough food.

In the Newtown games they lobbed under-arms to the little kids. I stood right in front of the wickets and smashed it, which caused mutterings among the elders. My cousins had to tell them, “He plays palagi cricket.” They stopped lobbing it to me and started bowling fast, but I blocked it, which was also frowned upon. The core principle of kilikiti is that you try to slog everything; my attitude was that, if the ball wasn’t in my hitting area, I’d block it. I also made a nuisance of myself with the ball, to the point where someone asked the minister of Mum’s church, “Why did you bring that little boy?”

The Lansdowne club had several third-grade teams. When I was nine, I was drafted in to play for one of them, who were shorthanded, against Dad’s team. The batting order was literally a lucky dip — you stuck your hand in a bag and pulled out a number. I picked two so I opened the batting. I was given out caught behind when I was on not many — I didn’t get anywhere near it — but they let me have another go. I ended up getting 40. They definitely went easy on me, but you’ve still got to get them. As they say, look in the book. There it was in black and white — Taylor, R: 40.

When I was about 10, Mum took me to the Warehouse to buy some rubber-soled sports shoes, as opposed to cricket shoes. I was a size 9 then, but Mum got size 12s on the basis that I’d grow into them and it would save money. I’m sure some parents must have watched me flopping around in them like a clown and thought, ‘Jeepers, this kid’s got big hooves.’ Within a few years I was a size 12 but those rubber-soled shoes were long gone.