Vivienne Trubshaw had never understood why people liked cricket. Watching paint dry would be more fun. Mike had tried to educate her; she had gone to watch him play at the local ground in Hull, but likeable as he was, she could not take to the game and had never visited again. Her Dad had been upset when she split up with Mike; perhaps because the two men spent all their time talking about the sport. But then Dad had been a card-carrying Yorkshireman. He had laughed and laughed when she gave him a copy of Don Mosey’s We don’t play it for fun. Not that it told him anything he did not already know about Yorkshire cricket, but it gave him plenty of reminders of what he called the ‘glory days’ of the county champions – people like Boycott, Close, Illingworth, Trueman. And Mi...

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