Ian Botham lived his cricket life like a Hollywood script written by someone who'd been told to "make it bigger, louder, and more improbable." "Beefy" was cricket's first genuine rock star, and he played the role to the hilt. His exploits included charity walks across entire countries, late-night adventures that tabloid newspapers dreamed about, and a general approach to life that suggested sleep was for the weak, moderation was for the boring, and rules were for other people.
Botham's charity walks became legendary — he would walk hundreds of miles for leukaemia research, often arriving at the start line looking like he'd been out the night before (because he usually had). He'd walk from John O'Groats to Land's End, or across the Alps, or across some other impossibly large distance, sustained by willpower, blisters, and the kind of constitution that medical science found genuinely confusing. His ability to perform at the highest level of cricket despite a lifestyle that would have destroyed lesser mortals became the source of endless amusement and admiration.
On the field, Botham's approach was equally cavalier. He would attempt outrageous shots that made coaches weep, bowl seemingly unplayable deliveries with a hangover that would have put lesser men in hospital, and take catches that defied explanation. His captaincy was described as "declaring while standing at the bar," and his tactical approach was basically "I'll bowl them out myself if I have to." This wasn't arrogance — it was a statement of fact. He usually could.
During the 1981 Ashes — "Botham's Ashes" — he played innings that were part genius, part madness, and entirely Botham. His 149 not out at Headingley, coming in with England following on and apparently doomed, was one of sport's great miracles. He transformed matches single-handedly while seemingly having more fun than anyone else on the planet. The fact that he did it all while living a life that belonged in a rock autobiography rather than a cricket memoir made it even more entertaining.