Bob Woolmer was a softly spoken cricketing philosopher with an observant, probing mind that penetrated numerous layers of the game without ever quite reaching the core. No one who met him could dislike him, yet few knew him intimately. Throughout his life, he was in love with the game of cricket, endlessly thinking about it, talking about it, and trying to find ways to improve himself and his players. He could discuss batting grips as other men discuss stocks. It was an unceasing quest that sometimes took him down blind alleys, but to stop the process was to deny himself. Woolmer lived and died a cricketing man.
By and large, the relationship was mutual, as cricket enriched and almost defined Woolmer's existence. To reflect upon his contribution is to observe its constancy and extent. In a career spanning several decades, he served in many capacities and did not fail in any of them. Had he been asked to prepare a pitch or stand as an umpire, he would have agreed. Cricket was his canvas and his laboratory. Fatefully, it also became his life. To fly too close to sport is to suffer the fate of Icarus. At the end, there was no one to tell him that his cause was doomed, that his captain was self-indulgent, that his players lacked humility, that it was not his fault, or that none of it really mattered. Alas, it mattered to him. Or what else was his life about?
Truth be told, Woolmer did not always treat the game well. In his time as coach, he presided over teams that took wrong turns, engaged in match fixing, ball tampering, and steroid taking. Somehow, Woolmer never seemed to know about these excesses. Perhaps he was too easily side-stepped. He could excite with ideas, but not control with the power of personality. Once his insights became stale, the players began to slip from his grasp. He was a fine coach and a poor manager.
Woolmer was first noticed as a buttery boy batting in the lower orders for Kent. It seemed the right county for him, a warm, well-bred club where style was appreciated. In those days, he was a modest cricketer whose strength lay in his ability to take wickets with steady medium-pace bowling. He was a serviceable professional, apparently destined for a worthy career, but unlikely to join the high flyers. But he refused to accept his typecast. Always, he could dream and think.
For several seasons, Woolmer's contributions with the bat were restricted to handy runs unhurriedly collected in the lower reaches of the order. Slowly, though, his true qualities emerged. At the crease, he had time to play the ball, and a simple, graceful way of helping it to the boundary. He batted not with anxiety, but comfort. As a bowler, he was a functionary, but with the bat, he was an experiment in white clothing.
Temperamentally, he had much in common with his county's greatest son, Colin Cowdrey. He learned to bat in the same classical style, easing the ball away, placing it between fieldsmen. Sometimes, he was teased for copying his affable predecessor, yet it was not affectation so much as admiration that motivated him. He regarded Cowdrey as the purest exponent of contemporary batsmanship, and was able to study him at close quarters. Perhaps, though, this willingness to adopt another's style hinted at the emptiness that eventually cost him his life.
Woolmer's batting kept improving. Concentration was one of his strongpoints. He could bat for long periods without apparent difficulty. Spectators sensed that he was
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