Is Allan Border’s Cricket a proud, straight-bat classic or the weird uncle who gate-crashes every retro-sports reunion? Does it deserve a place in the Hall of Fame next to Sensible Soccer and NBA Jam, or should it be sent back to the pavilion before it’s even padded up? (Answer: both, and I’ll explain once I stop laughing at the menu music.) Released in 1993, Audiogenic’s licensed homage to Australia’s famously grumpy skipper is one of those dusty 3.5-inch floppies that sparks equal parts nostalgia and bafflement, like finding a signed cricket stump in a box of Pokémon cards. Underrated? Yes (outside Commonwealth borders). Overrated? Also yes (ask any English cousin who still insists Graham Gooch World Class Cricket was “the real one”). Foundational or throwaway? Let’s just say it’s the Duckworth–Lewis of DOS games: mathematically elegant, occasionally impenetrable, and secretly hilarious once you embrace the chaos.
Historical Context
Audiogenic had already flirted with the gentleman’s game in 1985’s Graham Gooch Test Match, a top-down slog that looked like it was drawn on graph paper by a bored maths teacher. Eight years later the studio returned armed with 256 colours, mouse support, and the gravitas of Allan Border’s moustache. The early-’90s sports landscape was fragmenting: Electronic Arts was turning American stadiums into polygon playgrounds, while in Europe Sensible Soccer was proving you could shrink an entire World Cup onto a postage stamp. Into this melee strode Allan Border’s Cricket, wearing creams two sizes too big and proudly brandishing a bird’s-eye camera that made even the MCG resemble a Subbuteo table.
Audiogenic self-published in Australia but licensed alternative box art for other territories: the UK got Graham Gooch World Class Cricket, South Africa cheered for Jonty Rhodes II World Class Cricket, and the same code-base later powered the Mega Drive’s Brian Lara Cricket. All versions shipped with identical mechanics and features. Behind that code was programmer Gary James Gray, whose credits sit in the manual’s small-print like a secret autograph.
I was fourteen, barely tall enough to bowl overarm at the local nets, but already seasoned in every cricket video-game misfire, from Audiogenic’s own clunky C64 outings to Melbourne House’s International Cricket on the NES. I first discovered the Border build on a shareware compilation whose jewel case smelled like melted VHS plastic. The moment the title screen flashed Allan’s monochrome mug, I felt the weird thrill of seeing an Australian icon on my decidedly non-European PC. That mattered in 1993; most sports games spoke fluent NFL or Serie A, and Commonwealth kids were left fielding crumbs.
Mechanics
Booting the DOS executable dumps you into a teal-and-cream menu topped by a blinking hand-cursor that looks like an insurance sales pitch. Three skill levels, Amateur, Professional, World Class, dare you to test the limits of mouse dexterity and cricketing ego. You can stage a five-day Test, a one-day slog, or the underrated “two-innings, twenty-over” Frankenstein match that makes purists scream. Team rosters include all nine Test nations plus the six Sheffield Shield sides, and yes, everything is editable: swap wicket-keepers, boost Dean Jones’s average to 99.94, or create an all-left-arm pace attack just to watch the A.I. panic.
And then there’s the Square, that little white quadrilateral which appears on the pitch during the bowler’s run-up, telegraphing where the ball will land. To teenage me it was a psychic postage stamp, a HUD-based courtesy note from the cricket gods: “Prepare thy cover drive.” But it’s also the game’s absurd gimmick, because the square never lies (unless you fiddle with swing or spin at the last second). I began treating it like HAL 9000’s red eye, conversing in whispers (“Open the off-side pod bay door, you pixelated oracle”) as I lined up hooks and sweeps. The Square quickly became my through-line of lunacy, a holy relic rivalled only by Mario Kart’s Blue Shell in cosmic unfairness potential.
Batting unfolds in two distinct beats, echoing early PC golf titles. First you shuffle left or right while the bowler steams in; then, as the ball leaves the hand, you flick the joystick (or numpad) to choose one of eight strokes, cut, drive, glance, hook, each mirrored for southpaws. Timing windows tighten as the difficulty climbs. On Amateur you can late-cut a yorker like a demigod; on World Class you’ll edge half-volleys to second slip as if possessed by a cursed 1980s Ashes VHS. When contact is sweet, the ball rockets off the bat with a satisfying “thwock” sample; when you mistime, the Square cackles silently, and the umpire’s finger shoots skyward faster than a Street Fighter uppercut.
Bowling flips the perspective: you position a cursor, then click once to lock line and again to lock length, after which a second bar governs pace or spin. Fast bowlers can clock cartoonish 95 mph bouncers, while tweakers drift and dip with surprising nuance. The subtlety is key: a last-frame tweak can turn a harmless leg-cutter into a stump-shaving jaffa, and nothing beats the smug glow of shaving bails while your mate screams “pixel cheating!” at the monitor. Fielding is semi-automatic: the A.I. chases and throws, but you’re responsible for introducing suicidal relay tosses if you mash the button mid-animation. (Why would you do that? Comedy, obviously.)
The manual brags you can “save at the end of any over or innings,” a luxury after summers spent replaying entire C64 Tests because Mum called me to dinner. Still, quick-save gluttons beware: there’s no mid-ball safety net, so rage-quit after a golden duck and you’ll reload staring at the same ball about to rattle leg stump again (ask me how I know). Weather makes cameo appearances in the form of pixel rain showers that pause play, moments I used to sprint for actual snacks, further blurring lines between screen and backyard.
Comparisons? If EA Sports Cricket ’96 is the slick Nike ad, Allan Border’s Cricket is the grainy Channel 9 telecast where Richie Benaud explains silly-mid-on to insomniac Americans. It lacks the licensed stadiums of modern titles, but its hand-drawn sprites ooze personality: batsmen shadow-bat between deliveries, bowlers mop imaginary sweat, square-leg umpires channel Dad-dancing energy after a direct-hit run-out. The presentation screams “BBC Ceefax meets early Sierra adventure,” and somehow that fusion charms me more than 4K grass textures ever will.
Pop-culture cameo? The game’s mouse-swing meter borrows visual DNA from Links 386 Pro, while the scoreboard font looks suspiciously like Theme Park. I half-expect Bullfrog’s mascot to walk across the outfield selling doughnuts. And here’s my mini-rant: commentators remain mute, leaving you alone with your thoughts (dangerous) and the whir of a hard drive (soothing). Would a digitised Benaud sound-bite have bankrupted Audiogenic? Probably. But imagine the meme potential.
Control quirks? Plenty. Attempt a hook too early and your batsman pirouettes, shoulders square to cover like he’s auditioning for a forgotten Street Fighter crossover. Bowlers occasionally overstep because your space-bar tap registered twice; cue free hit, cue swearing. And don’t get me started on joystick calibration screens asking you to “wiggle vigorously” (teenage humour intensifies). Yet, once muscle memory hardens, the rhythm clicks, overs melt away, partnerships bloom, and The Square’s pale glow becomes a lighthouse guiding you toward personal bests.
Legacy and Influence
Ask any Antipodean thirty-something what their first cricket game was and nine times out of ten they’ll mumble “Border’s, mate” before recounting tales of 400-run Ashes grinds on family PCs. For a generation locked out of ESPN highlight reels, Allan Border’s Cricket was both primer and playground: it taught field placings (“Yes, gully is a real thing”) and normalised exotic swing bowling long before YouTube compilations existed.
Commercially, Audiogenic shifted respectable numbers, enough to bankroll an ambitious follow-up (Brian Lara Cricket on the Mega Drive, later ported to DOS) that streamlined controls and added voice quips. But Border’s opus remained a cult benchmark, often hailed on retro forums as “probably the world’s best cricket game until EA’s ’97 release.” Its codebase even served as foundation for late-’90s freeware mods updating rosters, an early sign of community patch culture.
Why didn’t it break beyond Commonwealth borders? Simple: cricket is still an alien language in large swathes of North America, and the overhead camera does little to demystify LBW laws. Reviewers from PC Gamer US praised the animation but confessed they “didn’t understand why matches could last five days” (I spit-take every time I read that). Contrast that with UK mags awarding mid-70s scores and applauding the inclusion of rain breaks, only Brits could celebrate weather as a feature.
Influence lives on in subtler ways. Modern titles like Big Ant’s Cricket 22 still employ Border’s split-second dual-input batting, albeit mapped to twin-analogue sticks. The notion of cursor-based bowling re-emerged in Ashes Cricket 2009 and remains genre standard. Even the Square’s honesty persists: Big Ant calls it the “pitch marker,” but I know a smug oracle when I see one.
Closing Paragraph + Score
So, should you dust off DOSBox and let Allan Border bark silently from your CRT once more? Only if you’re ready to embrace a game that’s equal parts time capsule and fever dream, where psychic squares predict yorkers and rain delays grant snack intermissions. I adore its unapologetic cricket-ness, its refusal to shoehorn commentary or fireworks, its belief that a single-frame cut-shot animation is worth a thousand polygons. That said, you’ll curse its steep learning curve, marvel at its 1993 load times, and discover new profanities when joystick drift steaks a square-cut into the hands of deep point.
Final score? 8 out of 10, a lovingly crafted niche masterpiece, forever ready to raise the umpire’s finger at bigger, flashier rivals. Now please excuse me: The Square is calling, and I have a cover drive to mistime.