IN the run-up to Headingley's 2001 Ashes Test, the story of its most illustrious predecessor, Botham's Test of 1981, has been told over and over again. Missing from all accounts, however, is the contribution to England's sensational victory of an unknown off-the-field tactician.

Twenty years after Mike Brearley and his men first enjoyed the glory of their immortal triumph, perhaps the moment is ripe to reveal the identity of this obscure cricket mastermind, who both anticipated and partly-orchestrated Test cricket's most amazing turnround of fortune. Overcoming the modesty which has maintained cricket's best-kept secret for the past two decades, I can reveal that the ungarlanded hero was none other than - myself.

As a spectator I was present, with my wife, throughout the whole of the now legendary game apart from the third day, Saturday, when village cricket took precedence. I recall several features of the match that have been forgotten or overlooked. The first is how it began.

Directly behind my wife and I was an American couple attending their first cricket match. As the umpires took the field the woman observed: "I guess they must be the officials."

The first over, by Bob Willis, was a maiden. Under a lowering sky, the fielders changed round and all was set for the second over, by Chris Old, when the 'officials' conferred. They offered the light to the batsmen - and everyone trooped off.

"Is that it?", gasped the American woman, incredulous. Thus, a Test Match destined to produce one of the most climactic of all finishes, with England grabbing victory by 18 runs after following on 227 behind, opened with an anti-climax.

On that first day little happened except Aussie opener Jeff Dyson accumulating a century that made the most painstaking by Boycott look positively zestful. "Good job we've got this, eh," joked the principal beer-carrier of a group near us, sauntering past with his umpteenth tray.

Botham's blitzkrieg came on Day four - Monday. Yes, it was glorious, thrilling, unbelievable - pick your own adjective. But not sufficiently noted then or since is that "Both", though already well into his assault when joined by Graham Dilley, was outscored by the No. 9 fast bowler during the early part of their 117-run partnership, of which Dilley made 56.

One stroke in particular remains in my mind's eye. First ball after tea Dilley brazenly cut a rising delivery from Dennis Lillee down to the pavilion for four. It was a stroke of preposterous arrogance. Darkening the field near us when he took up his boundary fielding place between his overs, Lillee's increasingly thunderous brow dispels forever any suspicions of wilful intent in that notorious bet he placed on England to win at 500-1.

My role in England's victory? To wind down after Botham's (and Dilley's) heroics, my wife and I went for fish and chips to Bryan's restaurant, a popular eaterie just up the road from Headingley. As we were enjoying our meal, in walked Brearley, accompanied by Graham Gooch and Peter Willey. A spontaneous ripple of applause ran round the restaurant. Very nice.

I went one better. As my wife and I left, I paused at the cricketers' table. After congratulating the trio on the great day's cricket, I said to Brearley, in these exact words: "I sense a historic victory. Botham can obviously do no wrong. I suggest opening the bowling with him." Brearley waved his hand in a slight gesture of acknowledgement. But I remember best the look on his face - that of one who must suffer fools gladly.

On the pavement outside, we passed Ian Botham going in. The thunderous din that erupted seconds later suggested a standing ovation.

Next morning, Botham took his overnight score of 145 to an undefeated 149. Except in the scorebook he topped 150, for he declined several runs to protect the last man, Bob Willis.

Soon, of course, Willis secured England's still-improbable victory - and his place in the Ashes' Pantheon alongside Botham - with his devastating 8-43. As sharp as my picture of Dilley's contemptuous cut, is the vision of Willis tearing in down Headingley's slope, knees as high as a charger, locks tossing wildly, a man visibly inspired, to shatter the Aussies like splintered stumps.

But Willis didn't open the bowling. Who did? Ian Botham. Despite that withering look, Brearley heeded my advice. And it was Botham who made the crucial first breakthrough, capturing the wicket of opener Wood, caught behind by Taylor, with just 13 on the board. His seven overs cost only 14 runs.

To hear Yorkshire cricket folk talk today of this great game, hailed as the Test match of the century, you would suppose that thousands witnessed its incredible denouement. But only a few hundred were present. Drained yet exultant, we lucky few gathered in front of the pavilion.

Strangely, I remember nothing of the doubtless ecstatic reception for Botham, Willis, et al. But I cherish the memory of a touching, sportsmanlike speech by the defeated captain Kim Hughes - another forgotten detail.

Running a magnifying glass over a picture of the "victory" crowd printed with one of the recent anniversary publications, I picked out my own face, smiling near the back.

Literally a face in the crowd, it is the face of the secret, uncelebrated match-winner of Headingley '81. My claim to cricket fame.