THE ALAN LEE COLUMN

 AGENTS… the very word sounds sinister. It conjures images of a seedy, predatory breed, getting rich on the talents of others, and it does the majority no justice. But mention the word `agent' in any county club office and the likely reaction will be a sharp intake of breath, trepidation blending with irritation. An agent turning up in the committee room for drinks and debate will be tolerated rather than welcomed, and regarded with the suspicion usually reserved for a tax inspector, a casino operator or some other character looking to extort money without menaces.

Agents have come between player and club, upsetting the traditional balance of the relationship. It would be their view, and that of many of their clients, that the balance had not hitherto been fair or healthy, but is it now being dragged too far in the other direction? Are clubs, accustomed to civilised dealings with over-compliant employees, now being held to ransom in pay negotiations conducted under the threat that their players will be hawked elsewhere? And will it go further than this – the tentacles of the money-men stretching to control and exploit every facet of the gullible young cricketer's routine? Are the agents getting too pushy, too powerful?

Plainly, agents are not universally liked, trusted or admired; equally plainly, they are not going to go away. Cricket has travelled too far down the commercial road for there to be any cosy illusions on that score. The question is whether they serve a useful purpose for the game, or simply for themselves and their clients.

The issue is not new, of course. Indeed, we were poignantly reminded of the fact that cricketing agents have been around for half-a-century only last month, by the death of Denis Compton. It was entirely appropriate that Compton should be the first player to employ such support, as he was both startlingly charismatic and hopelessly disorganised; few have ever needed management more. One of the two `agents' closely associated with him was my first employer in Fleet Street, the great and good Reg Hayter. Reg was a journalist first and last, but somewhere in between he found the time to handle the business affairs of various sporting luminaries.

Agents choose their clients in individual ways but it often seemed to me that Reg's sole criterion was that the player concerned should enjoy a drink. From Basil D'Oliveira through to Malcolm Macdonald and Ian Botham, Hayter's Agency took on the type who loved life. It made them more saleable, of course, but I was never sure that was Reg's primary concern. His soulmates came no dearer than Compo and, having enlisted the advertising skills of Bagenal Harvey to the cause after the South Africa tour of 1948–49, they got along famously, and with mutual benefit, for years. Compton was the Brylcreem Boy, a triumph of 1950s marketing. But there was no question of Hayter or Harvey involving themselves in Compton's cricket career or his arrangements with Middlesex and England. Just not on, old boy, as Denis would have said.

Reg might have longed for the incorruptible days of his sporting youth but he did not live in the past. Far from it. He had to swallow his horror when, one night in a Northampton restaurant 20 years ago, Tony Greig told the two of us of Kerry Packer and what he was planning. Greig was in beyond salvation – not that he wanted saving – and Reg, as his agent, had to go along with it. He could not avert what was to come, nor save Greig from the savage reaction, but in the succeeding weeks he worked tirelessly to soften the blow, all the while respecting his client's need for secrecy. He did not, so far as I am aware, try to claim his share of Packer's action.

 WHEN Botham was acquired for the agency, there were problems of a different sort … sex, drugs, violence – or at least allegations of all three. Hayter handled it in his eternal way, thumping out memos, charming and chivvying down the phone, calling in favours from contacts. His eventual reward was to be dumped, the fate shared by at least half-a-dozen others who, down the years, have taken on the dubious honour of managing the unmanageable.

The way we were: `Lord' Tim Hudson (centre) with his clients Viv Richards (right) and Ian Botham, whom he took to Hollywood with the intention of launching his film career

 Compton and Greig would be on anyone's shortlist of the cricketing characters of the post-war era. Yet they played at a time when certain boundaries were not crossed by their advisors and agents, when the business was kept separate from the sport. Such barriers have long since been broken down, originally by some of those attaching themselves to Botham, like the ludicrous and ill-fated Tim Hudson, who preyed on the impressionable side of the cricketer's nature and, ground-breakingly, intervened in his contract negotiations with Somerset, though with no discernible impact. The club thought him an impostor and they were right. He now lives in the unused cricket pavilion of his former, extremely stately home. The association is one of the few mistakes to which Botham will admit.

The man most responsible for moving the goalposts since then is probably Jonathan Barnett. Dapper, educated and articulate, Barnett identified a lucrative market in overseas players for English counties. He demanded a high price for Waqar Younis, Wasim Akram and, spectacularly, for Brian Lara, higher than any county had ever paid previously. But they did pay and Barnett knew he had dared and won, knew the floodgates were open.

When Barnett added the promising young Essex batsman, Nick Knight, to his client list, he proved that it could also be done with English players. Trading on Knight's dissatisfaction with his treatment by Essex, and on the burgeoning wealth and success at Edgbaston, Barnett sold his man to Warwickshire and almost doubled his salary. If you want to make a convert of a player and, importantly, all the other big-name players he chooses to take into his confidence, Barnett had gone about it in the right way. He has on his books England cricketers such as Knight, Devon Malcolm and Alan Mullally. He has as his conduit the charm of an Old Harrovian, David Manasseh, whose persuasive talent is such that he once enticed Lara to turn out for his old boys' football team in the Arthur Dunn Cup.

There is, perhaps, a fine line between plausibility and respectability in this business. Nobody, to my knowledge, has accused Jon Holmes of being less than respectable, which is quite an achievement considering the number of years he has been managing clients of the highest profile sport can provide.

Holmes, a genuine sports fan from the East Midlands, handpicks his men. They all fit a certain image – call it squeaky-clean if you insist, but it is undeniably what most major companies are seeking. And they must also be intelligent, articulate, with potential for moving into the ever-broadening field of media work for retired sportsmen. Holmes handles Will Carling and Gary Lineker. In cricket, David Gower is his prime asset, and it was Holmes who found a new avenue for both Gower and Lineker by dreaming up their hit TV show They Think It's All Over. He also represents Michael Atherton and Dominic Cork. Other current England players have applied to join his team but were politely declined. Holmes's cricketers earn handsome sums from endorsements but Holmes does not negotiate their pay, nor does he mislead them over their potential wealth. He believes a young footballer, such as Manchester United's David Beckham, could earn £50 million in a career but knows no cricketer will come within hailing distance of such sums.

Middle man: Gareth James (in beret) represents Chris Lewis (on his right) and Ben Hollioake (next to loudspeaker), among others at Surrey. When he met Lewis, James knew nothing about cricket

 AROUND THE COUNTRY, there are any number of agents with cricketing interests. Until recently, Tony Pigott, the former Sussex and Surrey fast bowler, operated among them and had enlisted Alec Stewart and Graham Thorpe as clients, with Stewart doubling as a director of the company. When Pigott was catapulted into the chief executive's chair at Hove, the business had to go. `Fortunately, I found a buyer in the city straight away,' he reports. The sports-agents' business is evidently a desirable commodity.

Into this arena has come the unlikeliest character. Gareth James is a thirty-something of Barbadian descent, whose first job on leaving school was working in a model agency. He wears his hair in a ponytail and is more inclined to dress in shorts and singlet than in the sharp suits favoured by Barnett and Holmes. He is the antithesis of the stereotype of the sporting manager and yet his list of cricket converts is swelling impressively.

James is a partner in the Jasmine Public Relations company. It operates in the music and thespian worlds – a recent signing is the actress Melissa Lloyd, daughter of Clive – and only got into cricket after a chance meeting in Australia between James and Chris Lewis.`I was living in LA at the time and didn't have a clue who Chris was,' James admits. But he signed him up nonetheless and, in subsequent years, has added names such as Philip Tufnell, Ed Giddins and perhaps half the current Surrey team, including the Hollioake brothers, Adam and Ben.

First glance indicates James goes for the maverick image. He does not entirely deny it. `I look after the characters because they need it more than the others. To me, they are all challenges but for every bad story told about one of my players, I know the real story.' James is confident, voluble and effervescent. He is also pushy. `Agents in cricket find there is not much to do unless they are pro-active,' he says, unapologetically. Recently, he achieved a coup by selling Liam Botham to the Northern League club, Windhill. `It was the most lucrative club contract ever,' is the James boast.

Earlier this spring, a broadsheet newspaper wished to include a piece about the Hollioake brothers in its pre-season supplement. Uncontroversial human-interest stuff. James intervened, refusing the paper permission to speak to Ben. He had already sold the idea elsewhere, he said. Yet what we are talking about here is a 19-year-old cricketer, not only uncapped but uncertain of his place in the county side. Is it right that an agent should deflect routine publicity of one so young? Is the game so rich in coverage that it can condone it? James sees nothing wrong. `I will control all features about my players,' he says, ominously.

He also controls pay negotiations for virtually all of his clients. As most of them play for Surrey, this means he is something of a fixture at the Oval. James expresses `joy and admiration' for Surrey and claims that his relationship with them `works brilliantly.' There are those inside the Oval who would not wholly agree, who indeed find it uncomfortable and insidious that one man should be negotiating pay deals, and claiming his percentage, for half the team. But they know there is nothing they can do about it.

Paul Sheldon, the chief executive at Surrey, is a most reasonable and accommodating man. `In principle, we would rather deal with the players than with any agent,' he says judiciously. `But if the players insist on doing it this way, we have no option.' What Sheldon and all in his position fear, of course, is that James, Barnett and others will come to operate cartels and that the horse-trading that already goes on utterly unchecked will become an inflationary transfer market, with the game the only loser.

Young players can benefit from a manager to guide them regarding their finances but will be soured by one who encourages them to mercenary ways. `We hear demands for sponsored cars from players before they have even got into the side,' says Sheldon. And Surrey are not alone in this. The trouble is that agents are almost unique among those who operate in cricket in having no responsibility to the game. South Africa, and to some extent Australia, have tackled this by employing their own agents to look after the leading players. Whether this could now work in England is debatable but there is a rising tide of resentment at the influence of the money-men and it is time the matter was fully aired between the players and the employers. A joint initiative between the PCA and ECB would be a start – but don't let's call it a working party.

Alan Lee is cricket correspondent of The Times.

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