Sir John Gielgud once wryly remarked that in no other role but Hamlet does one hear members of the audience loudly whispering your lines. For cricket lovers, and particularly ones who follow England, the tale of the third Ashes Test at Headingley in 1981 is as intrinsic as the To be, or not to be soliloquy is to a Stratford-upon-Avon pilgrim or Old Vic patron, and similarly treasured. It has become part of our folk history or, in Marcus Berkmann’s astute analogy, the bedtime story a child prizes above all others, losing none of its potency or wonder in the habitual retelling. Its details are so intimate to us that it can be coherently paraphrased as a list of figures: 102, 155.2, six for 95, 174, 50, 135 for seven, 500-1, 56, 29, 149, 356, 111, eight for 43 and 18. But what those numbers cannot capture is the drama, the sheer revitalising bliss of it.

If some of the interpretations of Headingley’s significance – an allegory for a country in apparently remorseless decline regaining its fight and pride moments before it expired – seem fanciful, the hyperbole should not detract from the value of victory. Rare are the moments in a lifetime when a nation’s brow is raised. If not the architects of a new Jerusalem, Ian Botham, Bob Willis, Graham Dilley, Chris Old, Geoffrey Boycott, Mike Brearley, Graham Gooch, David Gower, Mike Gatting, Peter Willey and Bob Taylor still managed to cheer up all but the churlish.

Perhaps, though, the most appropriate line for the England team from the version of the Prayer of Saint Francis preferred by Margaret Thatcher, which has been used in documentaries about Headingley as an ironic soundtrack to images of the 1981 riots in Brixton, Handsworth, Chapeltown and Toxteth that preceded the Test, was not about discord and harmony.

It is “Where there is doubt, I may bring faith” and most of all to the players themselves, the majority of whom had booked out of the Dragonara hotel at 9am on the Monday morning. That they had to book back in again the same night after jumbo haddocks all round at Bryan’s was entirely due to the most exhilarating two and a half hour, by-the-seat-of-the-pants, intrepid and outlandish passage of play those of us fortunate to watch it unfold at the ground or on television will witness.

At the end of February 1980, Botham had returned home after taking 13 wickets and scoring 114 during England’s victory over India in the Golden Jubilee Test. In 25 Tests he had made 1,336 runs at 40.48 and bagged 139 wickets at an astonishing 18.52. By far the most influential player in the side, Botham’s appointment as captain to succeed Mike Brearley, who had announced that he would no longer be available to tour, seemed logical and was welcomed. Boycott was 39 and brought too much baggage, Gooch had played 20 Tests without yet scoring a century which meant he was barely established as a fixture, Gower was thought callow and Willis too diffident.

The honour was too great to spurn but the inheritance was dreadful, back-to-back series against West Indies interrupted only by a home Centenary Test against Australia. Judged by the context of the successive “Blackwashes” suffered by Gower in 1984 and 1986, Botham’s defeats in the first series by a rain-aided margin of 1-0 and away by 2-0 are relative triumphs but morale on the Caribbean tour had never recovered from the death of Ken Barrington, the captain’s form had slumped and at times he appeared rattled and tetchy.

Having been confirmed as captain for the three-match one-day series against Australia and the first two Tests, Botham resigned after losing the former 2-1 and at 1-0 down in the Ashes following a four-wicket defeat at Trent Bridge and the draw at Lord’s, when he had been bowled by Ray Bright to complete a pair and suffered the indignity of the members shunning him with hostile silence, averted gazes and harrumphing rustles of The Times.

In 12 Tests in charge, four lost and eight drawn, England’s formerly unflappable all-rounder, a young Henry VIII exuding athleticism, charisma and insatiable appetites for runs, wickets and fun, had made 276 runs at 13.14 and his 35 wickets had cost him 33.08 apiece. He had neither added to his six Test centuries nor his 14 five-wicket spoils but even so, the announcement by the chairman of selectors, Alec Bedser, that Botham would have been dismissed had he not pre-empted it with his resignation was at best a petty demonstration of prerogative, at worst spiteful and vindictive.

Speculation on the BBC about his successor immediately identified Boycott and Essex’s Keith Fletcher as the leading candidates but in fact Bedser already had a plan in place, having asked the Middlesex secretary, Alan Burridge, on the Sunday of the Trent Bridge Test, to ask Brearley whether he would consider a short-term reappointment should a vacancy arise.

On the night of Botham’s abdication, Bedser reversed the charges on a pub payphone to speak directly to the Middlesex captain and invited him to take charge for the remaining four Tests. On Brearley’s insistence it was agreed he would do it for three, with the final game depending on how the series had gone and whether the board wished to bed in the next captain at The Oval.

It was announced the next morning and two days later, on the Friday at Lord’s, Brearley met with Bedser, Charlie Elliott, Brian Close and John Edrich to pick the team. They settled fairly quickly on a XII with the only lengthy discussion concerning Willis’s flu and, having heard that he would not play in Warwickshire’s next Championship match, decided to leave him out. When Bedser called England’s strike bowler the next day to inform him before the squad was revealed on the Sunday morning, Willis said that he had recovered and would play in a John Player League match and a second XI game to prove it. Brearley’s erstwhile vice-captain was thus reprieved, a close shave of decidedly Turkish piquancy.

The squad assembled at Headingley at 3pm on the Wednesday, had nets, practised slip catching and tried to read the whiteish pitch. At 6.30pm the players discussed the opposition, analysed the batsmen’s strengths and vulnerabilities before joining the selectors for dinner 45 minutes later. Three hours of practice and three-quarters of an hour of planning – little wonder the bafflement some of that generation maintain for the laptop rigour that has prevailed for the past decade. On the morning of the match it was left to the captain to decide the team and he was settled on 10 of them, leaving him a choice between Willis and John Emburey for the last place, finally, gingerly, going for four seamers.

After the toss, which Kim Hughes won, there was a 10-minute hiatus while the Australia captain summoned Rod Marsh and Dennis Lillee for a last look at the pitch. With no little foreboding Boycott and Gooch began to pad up but when Hughes at last delivered his verdict he surprised them by taking first knock. It was a pitch tailored for doggedness with the bat and John Dyson obliged, grinding out a maiden century under a filthy sky, playing cautiously and restricting his attacking shots to the back foot. He put on 94 for the second wicket with Trevor Chappell who was diligent but almost strokeless for nearly three hours, scoring 27 off 161 balls. During the hour’s extra play invoked because of rain breaks, Dilley, who had bowled erratically, yorked Dyson for 102 at 6.40pm, bright sunshine at last replacing the chill and murk and leaving Australia 203 for three at the close.

In the previous two Tests England had been cack-handed in the field. At Leeds, Botham dropped Dyson on 57 and Chappell had two lives, Gower and Botham pardoning him. The all-rounder’s second drop antagonised a few members of the crowd, probably survivors from the one that had barracked Fletcher for the same butter-fingered sin there during the 1968 Ashes Test. On Thursday night, despite taking the wicket of Graeme Wood with a golden-arm loosener, the kryptonite appeared to still have its debilitating hold over England’s stricken Superman. Mercifully, by the following afternoon he had broken free.

Forceful shots were again rationed on the next day, Hughes taking 208 balls to make 89 with only a couple of radiant cover drives to show his engaging flair and Graham Yallop 167 for his 58. Dilley’s accuracy was idiosyncratic in his first spell, so much so that when he bowled the nightwatchman, Bright, he gesticulated at the section of crowd who had been advising him to “bowl at t’fuckin’ stumps”.

Brearley, who had watched Botham at close quarters in the field for the first time in 17 months, offered his diagnosis on the Friday, calling him “the sidestep queen” and urging him to stop floating the ball away from the batsmen and charge in as he always had before under his captaincy. Botham replied that he would find some rhythm if given a long spell and Brearley concurred.

Gradually, through a day in which he bowled 26.2 overs, the bounding, bullocking run-in began to return and his inhibition was shaken off. After tea, he took five for 35, bouncing Geoff Lawson out and castling Rod Marsh after a brief flurry from the wicketkeeper. With 20 minutes of play left and Australia 401 for nine, Hughes declared, giving Lillee and Terry Alderman an over each at Boycott and Gooch, which they survived, not without difficulty, Gooch having to fend off a good length delivery from Alderman which flew at his throat and Boycott, on his tiptoes, playing down five at chest height from Lillee in his tangerine headband.

England faded fast on the Saturday, Boycott and Gower victims of deliveries from Lawson made unplayable by illogical bounce, the others undone by the swing of Lillee and Alderman. Botham made 50 off 54 balls, hitting eight fours, his wickets perhaps giving him the licence to trust his instincts before he too took a good-length leaper from Lillee and gloved it to Marsh, a catch which elevated the man who had been derided as Iron Gloves in 1970 above Alan Knott as the most prolific of Test wicketkeepers.

The teams took tea when England were bowled out for 174 and Hughes invited them to follow on, knowing he had a rest day for his bowlers to recuperate. Only three overs were possible after the break because of bad light, England losing Gooch, but when play was abandoned the sun began to shine five minutes later and on to the field came scores of cushions chucked by spectators who felt cheated.

Before that, while the crowd was waiting for the resumption, the scoreboard flashed up Ladbrokes’ odds for the result: 1-4 Australia; 5-2 draw; 500-1 England. After failing to persuade his team-mates to put £50 of the players’ pool on England given the odds were so ludicrous, Lillee went ahead with a £10 wager placed by the tourists’ coach driver, Peter Tribe, and Marsh staked a fiver.

It looked like money down the drain for most of Monday, though Boycott batted skilfully and determinedly and Willey aggressively, cutting brutally until that shot undid him when caught at fly slip. In the Caribbean Botham had been belligerent but easily downcast but when joined by Dilley at the fall of Taylor’s wicket with England 135 for seven, 92 behind, he was neither. At tea he had scored 39 in 87 minutes but afterwards, inspired by Dilley who had bargained for being dropped for the next match and felt he had nothing to lose by freeing his arms and playing some shots, Botham cut loose.

At first Dilley’s swinging drives seemed a brave but futile gesture of defiance, Beyond the Fringe’s Aftermyth of War sketch adapted for cricket. But very soon he began to smile and it became infectious, Botham started to beam unabashedly for the first time in months, the wounded, hunted look in his eyes replaced by merriment. He went from 39 to 103 with 14 fours, a single and a six which has married him and Alderman for all eternity to a confectionery stall.

He rode his luck, sending the ball flying over the slips when aiming for midwicket, flogging Alderman and giving Lawson such a walloping that the bowler, unforgivably, responded with two beamers. Botham, using a bat borrowed from Gooch, continued to cream the bowlers with orthodox shots, his own innovations and flukes, all hit with devastating power. When Dilley was out for a priceless 56, England were effectively 25 for eight but Old, who had scored a County Championship century in only 37 minutes in 1977, carried on where Dilley left off, smacking a tired attack around the ground while Hughes, arguably befuddled by the assault, failed to experiment and turn to his spinner.

Old contributed 29 to a stand of 67, then Willis survived the five balls he faced before the close as Botham scored 31 more, moving to 145 before returning to the pavilion where he was captured in the famous photograph, still padded up, matchbox in hand and about to light a contemplative cheroot. England were 124 ahead. “Fifty or 60 more and it could be interesting,” Botham told the BBC’s Peter West for the highlights show.

The last pair added only five more, giving Australia a target of 130 and Botham and Dilley opened the bowling, Taylor catching the opener Graeme Wood for 10 off Botham but Chappell and Dyson again dug in, moving to 56 for one, 74 short of victory with nine wickets left. Willis had bowled five overs up the hill from the Football Stand end to give Botham and Old the wind at their backs to help them swing it, but the ball stayed true.

The night before Willis, unluckily wicketless in the first innings, said to Brearley that he had been too preoccupied with length in the first innings and proposed to bowl faster and straighter. The captain told him to go ahead and after a discussion with Botham in the slips, gave way, switching him to come down the hill from the Kirkstall Lane end. With Old as his miserly foil, Willis wrote the second redemption story of the match, bouncing Chappell out, and standing and straightening Hughes up so he edged low to Botham at third slip. First he had rediscovered his bowling, then his batting and now his catching returned.

At lunch, Australia were 58 for four, Hughes gone for nought and Yallop, who took his eye off a vicious bouncer and gloved it to short-leg, followed his captain back to the hutch, also without scoring. Thirteen minutes after the break Old set Border up magnificently, dragging him across his stumps before knocking out his leg pole to make it three ducks in a row, then Willis bagged Dyson gloving a hook through to Taylor. Marsh, an impulsive hooker, was fed the bait, Dilley taking a fine catch on the hop, mindful of the rope at long leg. Seventy four for seven became 75 for eight when Lawson was caught behind.

In six overs, Willis had taken six wickets but Lillee and Bright counterattacked for the following four, adding 35, slicing, cutting and clubbing the ball to the boundary. Refuge, which had appeared to be on the horizon, began to shrink from view until Lillee, misreading a Willis half-volley that may have stuck momentarily in the pitch, chipped it up six feet short of mid-on. Gatting, quick of foot and disarmingly agile, took a graceful swan-dive of a catch, his knuckles grazing on the grass as he got his hands underneath the ball.

Twenty to get and the last man in. Botham replaced Old and gave Bright a single with Old taking the bowler’s place at third slip where he dropped two sharp, low catches off the over. Brearley’s mind began to wander to Fred Tate’s Test. Willis, though, was not in the mood to allow Old to be scapegoated and yorked Bright, uprooting his middle stump before thrusting both arms upwards and running in a circle of celebration through cover, back to the umpire. He then sprinted off the field before the invading crowd bruised his back with vehemently congratulatory pats.

Where Botham’s exoneration had eventually restored his mirth, Willis’s atonement inspired a vengefulness to which he gave full rein during the post-match interview. After taking eight for 43, debatably the match-winning performance compared to Botham’s match-saving one, he stared straight into the camera to dismiss his critics with disdain. Later he would become sardonic about his intensity that day but his anger betrayed the hurt felt about being consigned to the knacker’s yard and a righteous will to prove the executioners wrong. Union flags were waved in front of the pavilion and patriotic songs sung.

Whether it helped to revive a nation is really beside the point but it did emphasise how uplifting great sporting triumphs, especially ones that defy reason and disbelief, can be, a benefit for the public good, the common weal. More prosaically but equally significantly it rekindled affection for a team, the game and a singular hero.