The Autobiography

Martin Chandler | 8:22am BST 13 August 2023

Published: 2006
Pages: 212
Author: Barlow, Eddie
Publisher: Tafelberg
Rating: 4 stars

There has only ever been one real problem with this book, and that is getting hold of a copy. For some reason that I have to confess is lost on me this story of the life of a man who was most certainly a citizen of the world has, as far as I am aware, never been widely available outside South Africa.

Fortunately for me I was tipped off about the book’s existence a few months after its publication, and therefore prior to the South African postal service becoming so unreliable as to make it unusable, so I managed to get a copy shortly after publication.

Barlow’s story is undoubtedly an interesting one. A combative all-rounder he averaged 45 with the bat in his 30 Tests and if 40 wickets (albeit at the respectable average of 34) makes him sound like an occasional bowler rather than a strike one those of us who recall his bowling for that immensely powerful Rest of the World XI in England in 1970 have always been convinced of his credentials as a genuine all-rounder.

But there was a great deal more to Eddie Barlow than simply being a key member of the highly effective South African side that, by 1970, could legitimately claim to be the best in the world. In 1976, by then 35,  Barlow decided to have a tilt at county cricket and over three summers made a huge difference at Derbyshire, and later still Barlow the coach made an impression on young cricketers the world over.

And there were many more facets to Barlow than simply cricketing ones. In his own words he loathed the policy of apartheid, and tried to make a difference. He also expended a good deal of energy on farming businesses, latterly with a vineyard. But then disaster struck and, whilst coaching the national team in Bangladesh in 2000, Barlow suffered a serious stroke.

The last five years of Barlow’s life were not easy, but for those who read this book he spent those years putting together what, a few months after his death, was published as this autobiography. He had assistance from wife Cally, and he also enlisted the assistance of sportswriter Edward Griffith, a man whose name is familiar to me as the author of biographies of Kepler Wessels and Jonty Rhodes.

In terms of what Griffiths has done I suspect that is, and this observation is certainly intended as a compliment, not a great deal. Some assisted autobiographies read so well that the reader finds it difficult to discern which, if any, of the words used are actually those of the author rather than his ghost. In this case however anyone who saw Barlow play the game will know the narrative of The Autobiography must be, subject to a bit of tweaking and no doubt an overhaul of the grammar, the work of Mr and Mrs Barlow.

As a story Barlow’s is, essentially, a happy one with a sad ending. It is one where there are some lessons to be learned, not least on the subject of the UK’s National Health Service and how much we all owe to the visionaries who set it up back in 1948. Above all however this is a story that ought to be read, so a new edition is long overdue.