I have a weakness for strange statistics and if this blog survives you will see more of them. This tale, though it may not immediately seem so, is the first of them . . .

I consider myself lucky to have been able to watch John Murray keeping wicket for Middlesex. The start and end of his lengthy first-class career coincided with the latter years of one great Kent keeper, Godfrey Evans, and the early years of another, Alan Knott.

In between them, for much of the the 60s, Murray was incomparable among English stumpers. Most striking, perhaps, was his immaculate appearance. He could, and did, fling himself miles to take the most unlikely catches but a moment later he would rise to his feet, cap at the same jaunty angle, not a speck of dust on his perfectly-creased trousers, and you were left with the impression that Murray had not moved at all but commanded the ball to come to him.


Improbably, I once saw JT open the Middlesex attack with Mike Brearley when the opposition needed only a handful for runs to win. Mike (MJ, not MJK) Smith took the gloves, I think. And Murray claimed a wicket before the dozen or so runs were knocked off.

He could bat a bit, too, but apparently not well enough. Murray was an early victim of what we might now call Prior Syndrome, a disease afflicting selectors who imagine that a specialist batsman can keep wicket and will score enough runs to atone for the ones he gives away in byes and missed chances. The Prior of Murray's time was Jim Parks, as a result of which Murray played only 21 Tests before a pair of ducks in the First Test against Pakistan in 1967 ended his England career. Knott replaced him and that was that.

There was no doubt that Murray could bat. Perhaps it was rather too sweaty a business for his liking, for he was regularly out for 20 or 30, in county as well as Test cricket. His 28 innings for England produced a couple of 50s and one unforgettable century. That came in the final Test against the West Indies in 1966. Having already lost the series 3-0, England made several changes; Brian Close replaced Colin Cowdrey as captain and Murray came back into the side in place of Parks. It looked like business as usual as the Windies made 268 and reduced England to 166 for 7. Enter Murray, who proceeded to add 217 with Tom Graveney. JT's contribution was 112. And then, wonder of wonders, England's last pair, Ken Higgs and John Snow, shared a stand of 128 before the innings ended at a mighty 52.

Like many others, no doubt, I had torn myself away from the TV screen with nine wickets down to head for White Hart Lane, where Spurs were opening their season against Leeds. At some stage in the first half came an announcement: 'latest score from The Oval: England 516 (pause)'. There was a moment of silence. I, and 50,000 other people, assumed he had said 416 and the next words would be 'all out'. Then they came: 'for nine'. The ground erupted. I suspect it was this news of English success which so enraged those two doughty Scots, Dave Mackay and Billy Bremner, that they indulged in the difference of opinion wich produced one of football's most famous photographs.

Spurs won 3-1 and England went on to win by an innings. Murray caught both openers off Snow but the decisive moment was provided by Close, who took one of the simplest catches of all time and yet one of the greatest. The mighty Garfield Sobers aimed a huge hook at his first ball but merely bottom-edged the ball into his box, from which it looped gently into the hands of Close who, typically, had posted himself a couple of yards from the bat at short-leg. All very easy. It was only later that you realised that Close, observing at point-blank range one of the world's ferocious hitters swinging into a shot that could well have buried itself in his forehead, had not flinched, nor taken his eye off the ball for a second. I don't think it was on this occasion, though it might just as well have been, that Close was asked what would have happened if the ball had hit him on the head and he replied "He'd have been caught at cover."

Close, incidentally, is another weird stat. He made his Test debut at 18, the youngest man ever to play for England, and was 45 when he represented his country for the last time. Yet,in all, he appeared in only 22 Tests.

Back to Murray. This century considerably improved his undistinguished Test batting figures. In all he scored just 506 runs for his country in 28 innings and averaged exactly 22. About right for a number eight or nine of ordinary competence, as he was.

Now, Graeme Pollock. I was also lucky enough to see him play one shortish innings as a youngster but, alas, the vast majority of his career coincided with the South African boycott. If only he'd played county cricket like so many of his contemporaries. Pollock did, however, play enough Tests to qualify for Wisden's list of top Test batsmen (20 innings being the required number). In his 23 knocks he averaged 60.97. That's the second-highest average in Test history and, as it happens, 38.97 more than John Murray. And what do you get if you add 38.97 to 60.97? Yup, 99.94. That, as the world knows, is Don Bradman's Test average. Statistics can lie but in this case I suspect they don't. The Don is as far above his nearest rival as that rival is above an average tailender.

Does that make him the greatest sportsman of all time? Well, I'll come back to that another day. But, if statistical superiority to the rest is the criterion, I reckon it's a straight fight between him and ice-hockey superstar Wayne Gretsky.