Healing Between the Lines: A Personal Journey in New Zealand

Last winter I covered England's Test series for wisden.com. Here's the story of how it happened, why I needed it so badly, and how I got along...

“Excuse me young man, can I grab my germy rag?” I recognise the voice instantly. I tell myself to play it cool but can only offer a jittery, “Er? Yeah, sure, no worries,” as former England captain, now legendary broadcaster and journalist – and my number one childhood cricketing idol – Michael Atherton leans across to retrieve a mucus-filled cloth from the desk just to the right of my laptop.

It wasn’t the interaction I had daydreamed about when I knew I’d be joining the ranks of the press corps for England’s winter tour of New Zealand but frankly, I couldn’t care less. The man responsible for me batting throughout my teens with a Gray-Nicolls Powerspot had, in a manner of speaking, been the first of my new comrades to introduce himself. He may have looked like death barely warmed up but even in that moment, the adage of “never meet your heroes” was proven to be utter nonsense. In the ordinariness of the exchange lay a strange and soothing power – I instantly felt my nerves begin to settle.

Just moments earlier I had been unsuccessfully grappling with power cables, failing to locate travel adaptors, spilling my water, and struggling to log on to the Wi-Fi. Due to my general anonymity, I suspect my Mr. Bean act went broadly unnoticed, but as I was attempting to set up in the press box (well, media tent) at the Hagley Oval to cover my first day of Test cricket for wisden.com, I felt decidedly ill-at-ease and self-conscious.

Athers (as I was obviously now fully qualified to call him), on the other hand, despite his illness, had just returned to the temporary marquee having effortlessly fulfilled his duties on the outfield unveiling the brand new Crowe-Thorpe Trophy. Fifteen minutes before the curtain is raised on the series, we couldn’t have been in more contrasting places.

Yet, surreally, there we both were, Christchurch co-workers, wearing the same lanyards, sipping the same coffee, surveying the same scene through the same windowless flap. Yes, The Times’s chief cricket correspondent had played 115 Tests for England and covered countless more, whereas I was tentatively placing a foot on the first rung – attempting at the age of 44 to reinvent myself – 20 years after my Essex League career had begun to fade. But strip it all away and here was just a man, standing in front of another man, asking him if it was ok to grab his snot-ridden hankie.

While I was clearly operating several country miles from my comfort zone, I wasn’t entirely alien to this world; a decade or so previously I’d completed an LSJ diploma in freelance sports journalism. Back then I also contributed regularly to All Out Cricket magazine, whose editor – now Wisden Cricket Monthly’s – Phil Walker, I’d known since being teammates in the Essex Schools sides of the 1990s where our more talented contemporaries included Graham Napier and James Foster.

Despite enjoying a steady trickle of work from AOC, I failed, primarily for mortgage-related reasons, to relinquish the day job and continued to work as a graphic designer for a financial services company until a few short months ago. And as a result, my journalistic endeavours remained firmly on a rather distant backburner.

So, if at any time during the first half of 2024 you’d have suggested I would end the year in an entirely parallel universe, posing questions to Ben Stokes in press conferences, having lunch with David Gower, and enjoying close-of-play pints with Steve Harmison and Jeremy Coney, I’d have legitimately questioned what substance may have crept into your roll-ups or infiltrated your vape pens. In fact, as last summer approached, it wouldn’t have been an overstatement to say I was enduring something of an annus horribilis.

I’d split from my fiancée the previous winter but remained cohabiting (not something I would recommend in a hurry), was three years’ deep into trying to shift East London’s most unsellable flat and was feeling increasingly disillusioned and burnt out at work following years of never-ending rebrands and restructures. Struggling to cope with so much misalignment I was diagnosed with moderate depression and anxiety.

For an hour every Wednesday, beneath sympathetic lighting in a pastel-hued office off Chancery Lane, I was gently invited to talk. Initially, I found the counselling sessions difficult; opening up (sans Powerspot) wasn’t something that came naturally but as the weeks passed, the silences reduced and I slowly began to find a rhythm that worked. The dialogue started to flow, became deeper, more wide-ranging. My relationship breakdown, unresolved miscarriage trauma, and the albatross of the property non-sale all loomed large, but one theme kept resurfacing – my lack of direction and my desire to get back into sports writing.

I’d been with the same firm for more than a decade, but the world of wealth management wasn’t one I fully understood or one that fitted particularly well with my own values. Their mission statement was essentially marketing speak for: “Let’s make rich people richer” and even though my team just made the brochures and web pages look pretty, it didn’t sit well. When I discovered Rishi Sunak was a client, I knew I needed out.

In June, following yet another reorganisation, an escape route presented itself. An option of redundancy was tabled, and quicker than a teenager offered their first IPL deal, I signed on the dotted line. The very next day, in a scarcely believable plot twist, the sale completed on my immoveable maisonette. With a couple of windfalls on the horizon, I immediately booked flights to New Zealand.

It wasn’t just England’s upcoming Test series and the allure of those grassy banks that turned my head; I’d been enamoured by the country from a young age. My dad’s Kiwi rugby pals would visit our grey suburbia every few years, bringing with them yarns of this impossibly beautiful, mythical land of mountains, fjords, glaciers and volcanoes. It had long been on my bucket list.

On the eve of my adventure, a bitterly cold mid-November night, I’m meeting Phil at one of my ‘happy places’, Mile End snooker club. After booking flights, I’d embarked upon a campaign of polite yet persistent pestering and my contacts had delivered – press accreditation for England’s Test series.

Over a couple of Jameson’s and a few scrappy frames, Phil gives me a last-minute pep-talk on what I should expect and what is expected of me: “Keep your head down, don’t piss anyone off, enjoy the free food and write some nice words.”

***

Perhaps it’s the delirium that accompanies 30-or-so sleepless hours, but it takes me all of about half an hour to decide I need to permanently move to New Zealand. With the warm sun beating down upon the wide, tree-lined, and broadly empty streets, I find an instant serenity.

It’s six days out from the first Test and despite a running battle with my eyelids, I attempt to simultaneously prevent jetlag and get my bearings by forcing myself on an afternoon stroll. I depart my hotel and head straight for a recce of next week’s office, the Hagley Oval.

As I make my way across town, I go full Kevin McCloud. I’m drooling over the quaint timber cottages which sit adjacent to the majestic Gothic revival museums. I’m swooning at the grassy thoroughfares and art deco galleries as they effortlessly coexist alongside Georgian townhouses. I’m moved by the picture-postcard tram, juxtaposed against vast graffiti murals, giving the heart of the city a historic air with a cool and vibrant edge. But what really strikes me during my pretentious role-play is that, despite such a rich array of architectural styles, there’s an abundance of space, light and tranquillity – the city breathes. Also, the Barmy Army haven’t arrived yet. It’s peaceful and pure bliss.

As I exit the lungs of the city, the beautiful Botanic Gardens, I leave Kevin behind and emerge into Hagley Park South, where the giant floodlights guide me to its Oval. The imposing concrete towers are the only indicator, at this stage, that this could be anything remotely resembling an international sporting arena.

As I approach the boundary edge, I’m considering it’s not unlike grounds I used to play at. It’s in great nick but with no security fences, vendors or temporary structures in place it’s not far removed from Ilford, Colchester or Southend. I complete a lap and leave, wondering how on earth it will be transformed into one of Test cricket’s most beautiful venues in under a week? Spoiler alert: it is.

Before the cricket gets underway, I take advantage of the downtime and cram in as much sightseeing as possible. I tick off several galleries and museums, visit the nearby beaches, and am on a wildlife excursion in the spectacular harbour town of Akaroa, 50 miles southeast of Christchurch, when some breaking news filters through. It’s been announced that Jacob Bethell will not only replace the injured Jordan Cox in England’s XI for the first Test but he’ll make his debut at No.3 – a position he’s never batted at in any form of professional cricket.

My initial reaction, like most, is that it is absolutely bananas. However, wisden.com have been in touch and require me to produce a 1000-word opinion piece, so the words “absolutely bananas” aren’t going to cut it. It’s a timely reminder that I’ve signed up for a combination of business and pleasure, and I now need to find at least 998 more of the buggers, and quickly.

***

Over the course of the next four weeks, I learn first-hand the challenges journalists face when working in a time zone 13 hours ahead of their publications. Copy embargo dates and times can trip up even the most experienced reporters; communication with desks back home is frustratingly sporadic and deadlines have the habit of landing at unusual and inhospitable times. It is this last point which adds an extra layer of complexity to my first assignment of the tour.

With the first Test getting underway at 10pm Thursday (UK time) which is 11am Friday (NZ time), my editors need my two pennies’ worth on Bethell to go live no later than 1pm Wednesday (UK time), meaning my ultimate deadline is 2am Thursday (NZ time). Keeping up? It is Tuesday lunchtime (NZ time) when I figure all this out and just so happen to be on a boat in the Pacific Ocean looking for dolphins. The upshot – I don’t have a whole heap of time (UK or NZ).

I am on a massive high when I return to Christchurch later that afternoon. The boat trip has been a profound, almost transcendental, experience. For the first 15 minutes, so overcome by the sheer humbling beauty of the surroundings, I can’t stop crying. As each turn of the bay unveils a landscape more breath-taking and otherworldly than the last, I have to convince myself, “I am actually here. This is my Tuesday. I am not hallucinating.”

Had it been a crap movie, to really hammer home the catharsis of the moment, a montage of my recent life struggles would have appeared and dissolved into the sea against a sweeping Sigur Rós soundtrack. Instead, a fellow passenger respectfully taps me on the shoulder and enquires if I am OK. I point questioningly to my eyes. “It’s just the wind,” I lie.

I regain my composure for the remainder of the expedition, we successfully locate a pod of Hectors (the world’s smallest and rarest dolphin), a family of New Zealand fur seals and some white-flippered penguins. But now back on dry land, and with time running out, I need to quickly turn my attention to cricket and attempt to make sense of Stokes and McCullum’s latest dice-roll.

I spend the next 36 hours solidly watching every single Jacob Bethell innings, interview and YouTube training clip, and manage to cobble together a combination of words I feel proud of. Gratifyingly, the decision-makers are happy with my debut musings and: “Bethell at No.3: A stroke of genius or a punt too far?” goes up on the website.

It feels good, really good. Not only has work given me an intoxicating rush of adrenaline for the first time in years, but crucially, I am now armed with a link should any of the press – quite reasonably – ask, “Sorry, who the fuck are you?”.

***

Don’t get me wrong, I still felt like a charlatan. In fact, before a ball was bowled, I had a considerable wobble after losing confidence in my argument. I’d talked up the suitability and simplicity of Bethell’s “Strauss-like” technique but ultimately concluded Joe Root should bat No.3 and it was “gratuitous” to thrust the 21-year-old into the firing line.

I message Phil, tell him I think I got it wrong, went too hard, I think Bethell might actually be the real deal and have a horrible feeling he’s going to score a ton and make me look a fool. Phil replies sagely, “If he gets a few this week, it doesn’t make you ‘wrong’. And it doesn’t make you ‘right’ if he fails. The point isn’t to be the bloke in the pub who gets it right once in a while, but to explain the thinking behind the things they do.”

Now, I’ve known Phil for over 30 years, but that might just be the most sincere message I’ve ever received from him – it only took me to travel to the opposite side of the globe to receive it! Calmed by his encouragement, my angst is further assuaged when England win the toss and bowl.

During an absorbing first day I establish my viewing routine, which I stick with for the rest of the series. I observe the morning session from the press box, then mingle with the punters on the banks in the afternoon while enjoying some alternative angles and no more than two Boundary Road Hazy IPAs before returning to the media tent to see out the evening session.

The final knockings of the day see a late and dramatic narrative shift, the most dreaded hazard for even the most seasoned of reporters. As deadlines approach, the scribes are all exasperatedly hitting delete and frantically revising their copy. Shoaib Bashir has been gifted four wickets as New Zealand – in full self-destruct mode – contrive to turn a commanding 199-3 shortly after tea into a lacklustre 319-8 at the close. The ‘Toothless England Toil’ takes are hastily rearranged and upgraded to ‘Plucky England Seize Control’.

Personally, I’m insulated from the abrupt pendulum swing; wisden.com have requested that rather than a traditional on-the-whistle analysis of the action, my daily reports should instead attempt to eke out an angle from the end-of-play press conferences and be framed around key player quotes.

At stumps, the sun’s dipped, the shadows have lengthened, and the temperature has plummeted. It might be its only downside, but Christchurch is renowned for such fluctuations – one minute it’s a balmy 22°C, the next it genuinely feels like winter. Far from ideal within our essentially open-air workspace.

Another issue that comes with exposure to the elements is the arrival of the occasional unwanted visitor. Just as we’re about to head indoors to the ‘presser’, an extremely well-lubricated England fan stumbles towards our marquee.

“Athers!” he bellows in a thick northern accent. “Athers!” This chap could really do with a lesson in playing it cool. He eventually staggers to the tent’s opening, “Athers! Can I tell you a hilarious story about Nasser?” Just when I thought it wasn’t possible to like and respect my hero any more, without looking up, he gives a weary and resigned, “If you must…” from the rear of the tent. Perfection.

***

In the presser I hang towards the back. I’m a little unsure of etiquette and protocol but have enough wherewithal to figure out that starting the voice recorder app and placing my phone on the table in front of Shoaib Bashir – at the same time as everyone else – is a pretty sensible thing to do.

This is my first ever post-match presser. I’m feeling my way, so give myself a watching brief: take it all in, listen and observe – keep my head down, don’t piss anyone off.

There’s an instantly endearing and wide-eyed charm to Bashir, an authentic joy and surprise in his voice as he describes his unexpected impact. He doesn’t feel the need to censor himself when admitting to being completely overawed by Kane Williamson, and there’s genuine warmth and gratitude as he reflects on the unwavering support he’s received from his captain and coach. At times he borders on a competition winner who can’t quite believe he’s here. “Two years ago I didn’t even have a county!” he beams, “I’m just very, very thankful… learning on the job and living the dream.” You and me both pal, you and me both.

As the days unfold, I become increasingly comfortable in my surroundings. Like most new jobs, it’s the time spent in bars and restaurants which proves to be most useful in finding my feet. Initially, I’d found it difficult to wrap up my daily reports quickly enough to make last orders but as my efficiency increases, the opportunities to socialise expand. I am starting to feel less of an intruder and more like one of the cast – Miles Jupp for the TikTok generation.

On the field – after New Zealand drop a thousand catches – England breeze to victory, and after fewer than seven days cricket, the tourists have taken a 2-0 series lead following an astonishing three-day victory in Wellington. Harry Brook rescues England from 43-4 on the first morning with one of the all-time-great counter-attacking centuries, providing yet another ‘pinch-me’ moment in an ever-expanding list. In England’s second innings, Jacob Bethell caresses a sublime 96 – an innings so good, I have to talk to Ben Stokes about it…

I hadn’t planned to ask the England captain a question, but as Head of Comms Danny Reuben is wrapping things up, “Unless anyone has anything else, we’ll leave it there…?” I notice my arm has shot involuntarily skywards. England’s skipper has been eloquently fielding questions and heaping praise on his team, but nobody has enquired about the one thing I really want to know.

So words start to tumble uncontrollably from my mouth. “Last week you mentioned for future series, Ollie Pope would revert back to No.3. Has Jacob given you a nice headache and a slightly more difficult decision?” Considering how unconscious and out of control I feel in that moment, relief washes over me. That didn’t sound too bad.

Like all good politicians, Stokes skilfully avoids the crux of the question and instead talks at length about the rationale behind Bethell’s inclusion and quietening the noise around whether he should’ve been eased into the team more gently (did he read my piece?) before lifting the lid on a dressing room exchange between the pair. The skipper tells us he attempted to play down the significance of Bethell falling agonisingly short of his maiden Test (and first-class) ton, “It’s just four runs, isn’t it?”, before informing us of the youngster’s swag-filled retort, “Yeah, but it would have been flair if I’d smacked that through the covers to bring it up!”.

The next morning, I wake to discover every media outlet has led with the ‘flair’ quote, which has been clipped-up and shared on the socials more liberally than Kim Kardashian’s champagne shelf. Having spent so much time absorbing and learning from the vastly more experienced people around me, I receive a huge jolt of confidence to feel I’ve contributed to the wider group.

We move on to Hamilton, and with the series in the bag, a carefree England capitulate to a 423-run defeat. The players’ attitude is questioned and the one-dimensional approach roundly derided. It’s hard to argue with the evidence, but I don’t want to be too critical. It was the same thrilling/kamikaze tactics that secured victory in the first two matches and besides – for the third week running – bonus tourist time has been secured.

After Christchurch’s premature finish, I’d enjoyed an impromptu day on the Waipara wine trail, where, rather curiously, I was afforded rockstar treatment by the other tour group members when they discovered I’d been writing for Wisden – a highly unexpected perk.

In Wellington it had been a day of culture, the magnificent Museum of New Zealand Te Papa Tongarewa and The Art of Banksy exhibition across the street at Tākina. I also accidentally climbed Mount Victoria. Having popped out for a stroll, I got slightly carried away and found myself looking down on the Basin Reserve from 196 metres above the city.

The extended gap between the second and third Tests allowed me to dust off my chinos and get my Portillo on to experience one of the world’s great train journeys, the Northern Explorer, a truly epic way to enjoy nine bewitchingly scenic hours between Wellington and Hamilton.

I was pleasantly surprised by Hamilton. I’d been warned by a fellow press member to lower my expectations – “It’s a bit like Peterborough hosting a Test in England.” And while the centre of town, particularly on a Friday night, does have a distinctly provincial feel (plenty of intoxicated young men and women vomiting on the street) that analysis is decidedly flattering to Peterborough.

Head out of town, just a few minutes in any direction, and you’ll discover some achingly beautiful spots. I took bus trips to the Waitomo Glowworm Caves and the spectacular Ngarunui beach, an untouched haven just west of Raglan, two of my favourite diversions of the entire tour.

While those days off provided indelible memories, it was undoubtedly the time at the cricket – with the press pack – that I most cherished. Tension evaporated and anxiety drifted away as work, for the first time in forever, provided both unabated happiness and an intense sense of fulfilment. Writing about the game I love pushed me into challenging new territory but was a true privilege – I finally felt part of something meaningful as well as immensely fun.

In the press box the atmosphere was always inclusive and collegiate, and the camaraderie bounced along as it would in any other workplace, except here it was just different – better. Rather than Tina from HR boring on about The Traitors or Love Island, it was Athers telling stories about David Boon and Ian Botham. I loved being part of this tribe. I was precisely where I wanted to be, doing the very thing I needed to do.

On the final afternoon of the series, as England endured one of their worst days, I was having one of my best. My last complimentary roast lamb and rice was devoured while discussing the standard of umpiring in the DRS-age with Athers and Gower. It’s almost like that fantasy dinner party game had come to life, except the Guardian’s Ali Martin was also present and as much as I like and respect Ali, in all honesty, he probably would’ve been nudged out by Bowie or Jürgen Klopp.

About an hour later, I’m milling around outside the pavilion waiting for the post-match presentations to kick off when Sir Richard Hadlee randomly approaches, says “Hello”, shakes my hand, then disappears onto the outfield to make a speech honouring the retiring Tim Southee. He’s definitely mistaken me for someone else – or perhaps all Kiwis really are just that nice.

Later that evening, the press journalists are joined by the TV and radio teams for a farewell shindig, and I experience my umpteenth and final ‘Did that just happen?’ moment. I find myself casually shooting the shit with Steve Harmison and Jeremy Coney, you know, as you do on a Tuesday night after work. Harmy’s doing most of the talking, telling me Liverpool will never win the Premier League with Trent Alexander-Arnold playing right-back (they already have), while an understandably puzzled Coney looks on. It’s a fittingly bizarre end to what has been a truly mad and heady day.

The night draws to a close with Crowded House predictably playing us out over the bar’s tinny speakers. After a succession of high-fives, handshakes and hugs the curtain must come down and we all stagger off stage in various directions. [“Hey now, hey now, don’t dream it’s over…”]

***

Since returning home – such has been the disconnect between my London and New Zealand experience – I’ve frequently found myself staring wistfully into the grey and contemplating whether any of it actually happened. Was I really there?

Did that lunch with two of England’s greatest ever batters and broadcasters take place? Had one of the ’05 Ashes heroes genuinely tried to convince me Tino Livramento was the best defender in the world? Was I really sat in Seddon Park watching Ollie Pope trying to reverse-ramp Matt Henry with England five wickets from defeat?

To snap myself away from the darkness, I turn around and examine a freshly hung painting created by Andy Brown. In Hamilton, as he had done at every ground on each day of the tour, Andy set up on the boundary edge to capture the action and essence of the scene before him. On the third and final full day’s play at Seddon Park, he decided to immortalise, in oil on canvas, the ensemble of touring journalists as members of the crowd within the painting’s foreground.

Athers is there, wearing pads while tapping away on his laptop; the Daily Mail’s Lawrence Booth (perhaps even more symbolically) plays chess; the BBC’s Stephan Shemilt sports a headset, while Ali Martin is kicking back in his deck shoes as the i’s Chris Stocks strokes his cat; for reasons not entirely clear, PA Media’s Rory Dollard has been depicted as ‘The Backwards Man’ from cult comedy Freddy Got Fingered; Vish Ehantharajah from ESPNcricinfo sits in a Man United deckchair chatting to Guerilla Cricket’s Hector Vickers; and the Telegraph’s Nick Hoult jogs by as a fan holds aloft a cardboard cut-out of cricket’s hardest-working freelancer, Cameron Ponsonby.

I utterly adore this beautifully bonkers work of art. Every time I inspect it, I can’t help but smile. On the left-hand edge, casually leaning against the perimeter fence, looking on from the fringes – with a can of Hazy IPA in hand – is Wisden’s Jeff Thomas.

I was there, and whatever comes next, I always will be.

This article was first published under the title ‘Press Box Therapy’ in The Nightwatchman - Issue 49, Spring 2025