It was a faintly ridiculous, and certainly a surreal, situation. I knew I might be less than seven hours away from opening the batting in an Ashes Test in my own backyard. I was on 99 first class centuries. Everyone was willing me to get my hundredth hundred against Australia at Headingley, and I was uptight and tense about it. And yet, when I ought to have been fast asleep, I was embroiled in a conversation with the Night Porter about the oppressive, sticky heat.

The very idea that I could reach the landmark at Headingley seemed a fanciful notion to me. A fairytale that could never come true. Hand on heart, I didn’t think I’d do it myself. One false shot, one moment of ill-luck, and the chance would be gone. As soon as I scored my 99th century at Warwickshire, just five days earlier, the hype began. Rachel, who is now my wife, told me on the ‘phone:

‘You’ve gone and done it now.’

‘What do you mean?’ I asked

‘Everyone will expect you get your hundredth hundred at Headingley.’

I kept the Post Office busy. A stack of good luck letters, telegrams (still fashionable then) and cards began to arrive immediately. On the eve of the Test I was still trying to read, let alone reply, to all of them. During our team meeting that evening, Mike Brearley noticed I wasn’t my usual self. When I asked to be excused from the general conversation, he didn’t hesitate before saying yes – and he didn’t need to ask why I wanted to retreat to my room.

I hoped I might effortlessly drop off to sleep after watching an hour or so of TV. Instead, I was awake and restless. I just couldn’t settle. Calling the Night Porter was the last, desperate resort. I liked to have eight or eight-and-a-half hours sleep. I actually got four. I took some pills – a rare thing for me – and promptly overslept. I woke up well behind the clock, rushing rather than easing into the rhythm of my normal routine. By the time I got to Headingley, I was feeling out of sorts: weary and heavy-limbed as well as a bit flustered. The 22,000 Yorkshire crowd, however, were the polar opposite. It was a strikingly beautiful morning – warm with blue skies – and there was exuberance and a sense of anticipation hanging in the air.

I always liked to have a practice knock before an innings. This time, I barely had time to strap on my pads and get into the nets. If the truth is told, I had my fingers crossed that we’d field first. I didn’t honestly feel awake enough to score runs. When Mike won the toss, and took the obvious decision to bat, I began to prepare as best I could. I knew I had to work the listlessness out of my system through force of will and concentration.

Even more responsibility rested on my shoulders when Mike was out in the opening over. But in retrospect I think his dismissal actually pushed me on. Within 20 minutes, I was a different man. I suddenly felt more relaxed and fluent. Whenever you cross the boundary rope, you’re essentially on your own. In the middle no one – the press, the public or any outside influences – can reach or touch you. You’re able to focus hard and purposefully on the job in the hand, which eases the tension. The first 10 to 15 runs were always the most difficult for me. Once I’d got those on the board, I thought I’d got a base on which to build. Soon I was middling the ball, and the tiredness began to drain away from me. It was replaced with a solid conviction about two things: this innings had to be treated like any other – and it had to be constructed around the basic principles I’d always employed. Play one delivery at a time; play at the tempo I felt was right for me; and play with a single-minded determination that blocked out extraneous thoughts. Whenever I played well, I took a long stride for someone who isn’t terribly tall. I took a long stride that day.

Naturally the Australians tried to unnerve me. I got a jaffa from Len Pascoe, which just flicked my left wrist band and went through to Rodney Marsh. You could have heard the appeal in Sheffield. Next, I went to turn an arm ball from Ray Bright off my hip. It clipped my thigh pad and there was another shout – long and intense. Bright was positively fuming when the umpire, Bill Alley, vigorously shook his head. The captain Greg Chappell had to calm him down, and Alley moved swiftly to rebuke him too. I am sure the Aussies – and especially Bright – are still adamant that I was out on at least one of those occasions. But I know that the ball didn’t get close to my bat.

In fact, I had only one moment of real trepidation. Somewhere in the 70s, I steered a short-delivery from Pascoe towards fine leg. My touch, however, was too firm. The ball went into the air and, for one awful second, I imagined Max Walker, who I knew was patrolling the area, pouching it. As I set off for the run, I waited for the crowd’s reaction. If I was out, there’d be dreadful sigh followed by a funeral silence. I heard cheers instead. The ball fell short of Walker and bounced awkwardly as he went to take it. It struck his knee and flew away for four. At lunch, I’d made 35. At tea, my score had moved on to 79. With an hour left, I was on 88. On 95, the climax building, I nudged Pascoe into the covers and took a single.

What happened next – with the shadows lengthening at 5.49pm – still amazes me. I still see it in super-slow motion. And I still feel enormously grateful and privileged that Fate destined it to be so. For the record, I believe in Fate. I’m convinced some things happen for a reason.

Chappell was bowling. I kept telling myself: ‘Just look for the gap around extra cover or through the on side’. In case I mistimed the ball in my enthusiasm, I was determined not to hook – even if Chappell dug one in invitingly. I’d faced 231 deliveries before Chappell came running in again. I’d struck 14 fours. The 232nd ball brought my 15th boundary – and my century.

In the millisecond it took for the ball to leave Chappell’s hand, I knew the shot I’d play to it; I knew where the ball was going; I knew it would bring up my century. I saw the delivery in striking clarity, almost in High Definition. And I played it as though I was standing outside myself; actually watching myself get into position for the on-drive. I got it in the middle of the bat and I watched the ball zip past the non-striker, Graham Roope, who leapt out the way.

I remember almost instantly raising my bat and then folding my arms over my head. I remember the applause, the noise rolling down from the stands and across the pitch. And I remember realising how much it meant to me and what I’d actually achieved. I was the 18th man to score one hundred hundreds: the first to do so in a Test. The crowd came on to the pitch, wanting to pat me on the back and yell their congratulations. I can’t recall what any of them said to me. I was aware, however, that I was sharing this magical hour with them – my people, my Yorkshire. There was an empathy between us. That night I rang two friends in particular: Michael Parkinson and Brian Clough. Brian’s wife’s Barbara said that he’d been due in a board meeting at Nottingham Forest. He phoned to tell them: ‘Start without me. I’m watching my mate make history on TV’.

I might have made my 101st century in that Test too. What people tend to forget – because the hundredth hundred obscures it – is that I went on to score 191 in our total of 436 before five wickets from Ian Botham and four from Mike Hendrick bowled out the Aussies for just 103. It remains their lowest ever total in a Headingley Test. We won by an innings and 85 runs – and Derek Randall took the catch from a Rodney Marsh skier at 4.39pm on the fourth day to regain the Ashes.

We’d originally won them back on the 1970-71 tour, held on to them in 1972 and lost against the pace of Dennis Lillee and Jeff Thomson in 1975. Injury deprived me of all but two Tests in 1972, and I didn’t go to Australia in ‘75. So the other Ashes series which sticks in my memory most strongly is 1970-71, and especially the fourth Test at Sydney. I batted as well there as I’ve ever done in my life.

The series was a meandering, inconclusive affair until Sydney. The first two Tests at Brisbane and Perth were drawn. The third, at Melbourne, was abandoned on the third day without a ball bowled. But sparks from the Sydney Test set things ablaze, and enabled us to make history. In those days, I regarded the pitch at the SCG as one of the finest in the world. It was shorn of grass and consequently had plenty of pace and bounce for the quick bowlers. As matches wore on, it also had enough in it for the spinners, who got good turn.

The game was pure theatre – captivating, absorbing cricket from first to last ball. As well as my own innings, it stands out because I’d never seen John Snow bowl better or more fiercely. He made a good length ball ride up uncomfortably into the ribs. Snow was nasty and dangerous, and the Aussies couldn’t handle him. Basil D’Oliveira also made a critical half century in our second innings, which merely emphasised his unflappability under pressure. He demonstrated a cool head – a calm, easy temperament, which he exuded whenever he came down the steps and through the pavilion gate.

After winning the toss, we made 332. Johnny Gleeson and Ashley Mallett claimed eight of our wickets – a sure sign of the quality of the pitch. The Aussies replied with 236 and it was my job to build on the lead. The surface was wearing, the spinners were wily and crafty and I had to watch each ball with a hawk-like eye. I made 142 not out in our total of 319 for five declared. I felt then, as I do now, that it was technically one of my most accomplished innings. With D’Oliveira, who hit 56, we put ourselves into the box seat.

The Aussies crumbled to Snow, who claimed seven for 40 and cut the ball brilliantly off the seam. He almost single-handedly dismissed them for a paltry 116, which gave us a huge winning margin: 299 runs – the largest England victory against Australia since Freddie Brown’s tourists beat Donald Bradman and company by more than 300 at Brisbane in late 1937.

Before we left England, no one gave us much of a chance of beating Australia. Only Douglas Jardine (with Bodyline) in 1932-33 and Len Hutton in 1954-55 had returned as Ashes winning captains. Ray Illingworth joined the pantheon. To win the Ashes is one thing. To win them in Australia was truly an incredible, exhilarating feeling. We didn’t, however, come home to ticker-a-tape parades and gongs at Buckingham Palace. While the country was ecstatic, and we were lauded as heroes, I recall that our perk was being invited down to Taylor’s of London, where each of us received a bottle of vintage port with our names on the bottle.

Extract taken from ‘Fire and Ashes: How Yorkshire’s Finest Took on the Australians’ published by Great Northern Books, August 2009.

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