Marcus Trescothick's ghosted autobiography, Coming Back to Me, belongs to an increasingly popular genre, one that admits to the notion that cricket and the cricketers themselves are not inherently interesting enough to sell, writes Mike Atherton in the Times.
To invest the pages with more bite and, no doubt, more marketability, the player admits to some previously unrevealed trauma, or, in Trescothick's case, a trauma that had been only half-revealed ... Other than moments of dark humour, such as when Peter Gregory, the England team doctor, tried his hand, unsuccessfully, at acupuncture, and when Trescothick was taken in by a fraudster of a hypnotist, this is a joyless book. There is little of the thrill of playing sport at the highest level, none of the humour, nor the fascinating details or character sketches of dressing-room figures that make a sporting life worthwhile.
In its Ashes Heroes countdown, the Times lists Craig McDermott as No. 45.
Meanwhile, the Independent's Brian Viner attends a black-tie dinner at Lord's Taverners to celebrate cricket's 10 surviving centurions – the men who made at least 100 first-class hundreds.
Geoffrey Boycott had other tactics for staying in all day. The scorer of 151 first-class hundreds recalled the advice of his Uncle Algy, that "when two people get involved in a run-out, one of t'buggers is going to be unhappy. Make sure it isn't you." Amid much knowing laughter, he added: "I followed that advice all my life until I met that bastard Amiss." I don't know how Dennis Amiss, another of the centurions, reacted to being called a bastard. And I couldn't quite see whether the mother and grandmother of a young lad at the table next to mine winced at such salty Boycottian language.
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